Sleepy and Breezy were playing pool at the Oasis, when the proprietor of
the livery-stable came in. He wended his way to Sleepy and informed him
that Hashknife’s gray horse had come back to the stable, sans rider.
Sleepy dropped his cue on the table and headed for the door, followed
closely by Breezy. They trotted down to the stable, where they found the
horse in a stall still saddled. Sleepy examined the horse and saddle by
lantern light, but found nothing wrong with either.
“Must have broke away,” said Breezy.
“This horse don’t break away,” said Sleepy nervously. “What do yuh
suppose happened, Breezy?”
“I gave yuh my theory, and almost got bit.”
“Saddle yore horse and let’s git goin’. Wait! You take my roan and I’ll
ride Ghost. If this horse pulled out on Hashknife, it’s the first time
he ever did. I’ll saddle the roan for yuh. He’s kinda foolish about
strangers.”
A few minutes later they rode out of the stable and headed for the Box
S. Sleepy didn’t know the road very well, but he took the lead, and they
went streaking down across the old bridge, where the hoofs of their
running horses sounded like the quick roll of a snare-drum.
Nor did they draw rein until they swept into the yard of the Box S. Len
and Sailor were in the bunk-house, but came out at the sound of their
arrival. In answer to their questions, Len told them approximately what
time Hashknife had left there.
“That should have made me meet him,” said Sailor. “I never rode fast. By
golly, that makes me wonder! After I left town and was pretty close to
the bridge, I thought I heard a shot. I wasn’t sure which direction it
was, and when I hit the other end of the bridge my bronco shied at
somethin’ in the dark. He’s in the habit of shyin’ thataway, so I yanked
him around and went on. It was so danged dark I wouldn’t know I was on
the bridge, except that I could hear it under me.”
“That don’t sound so good to me,” said Sleepy. “If somebody bushwhacked
my pardner----”
“Who in hell would bushwhack him?” asked Sailor quickly.
But Sleepy didn’t answer Sailor’s question. He swung the gray around and
said to Len:
“Lend me a lantern, will yuh?”
“I shore will, Stevens; and I’ll go along with yuh.”
A few minutes later the three riders left the ranch, carrying the
unlighted lantern.
Hashknife’s trip through space was rudely interrupted by a souse of cold
water, which brought back consciousness in a flash. He flung out his
arms weakly and encountered water on all sides. He was dazed, choked,
fighting for breath, hardly knowing what it was all about. His head
bumped something, which he instinctively grasped. It was an old stump.
He clung to this, trying to pump air into his tortured lungs, while a
heavy weight seemed to press down on his head. As yet he did not
remember anything. His past, present and future were all a blank, but
still he fought for life. After a few moments he began to get back a
glimmering of intelligence.
It seemed unnatural for him to be in the water. As he seemed to
remember, he was not an amphibian creature. If he could only get that
weight off his mind. He lowered his feet and touched bottom. After due
reflection he shoved past the stump and his groping hands came in
contact with some gnarled roots on the bank, where he managed to drag
himself out of the water.
Again the world whirled around and he lost consciousness, but in a few
moments he recovered again, his mind more clear, but his head one bunch
of thumping nerves. Nausea overcame him and he sprawled on the bank, too
sick to care about anything. He was still there when Sleepy and Breezy
rattled across the bridge, and it roused him up a little.
He felt a little better, and he was beginning to remember. The events of
the evening came back to him, although they seemed to have happened
years before.
His clothes were soaked and his boots were full of water. He managed to
remove his boots and empty them. It was rather difficult for him to get
on his feet because everything seemed to whirl around, but he gritted
his teeth and staggered ahead to the road.
Things were clearer to him now. He realised that he had been shot, but
was unable to discover the exact spot where he had been hit. He was so
wet that he could not distinguish blood from water, but he had a
suspicion that he had been hit in the head.
“Bushwhacked,” he told himself. “That’s it.”
He dimly remembered the voices he had heard, and that one had suggested
shooting him again. In spite of his condition he chuckled. Luck had been
with him once more. It seemed an interminably long time before he saw
the lights of Lobo Wells. They danced before his eyes like lanterns on
poles, but he kept bravely on.
Something prompted him to keep off the main street, and he managed to
find the rear stairs of the little hotel, where he climbed up and went
to his room without seeing anybody. After he lighted the lamp and
surveyed his features in the cheap mirror over the pine dresser, he got
an idea of the extent of his injuries.
It appeared that a bullet had knocked a chunk of flesh off just above
his left eye, and another had struck him a little farther back, behind
the left temple, and had cut a jagged furrow to the top of his head. He
mopped the gore away with a towel and examined the wounds, which did not
pain him so much now.
“Looks as though I had been caressed with a few pieces of buckshot,” he
told his reflection. “That bushwhacker misjudged his aim just enough to
slip me two outside pellets. No wonder he thought I was plenty dead.
That whole load would have torn my head off.”
He washed out the wounds, bound his head in a piece of pillow cover,
stripped off his wet clothes and went to bed. His head ached too much
for him to sleep, so he was still awake when Sleepy came in, stopped in
the doorway and stared at Hashknife’s bandaged head.
Then Sleepy shut the door carefully and came over to the bed.
“My Gawd!” said Sleepy. “What happened to you, Hashknife?”
Hashknife told him, while Sleepy whistled softly.
“How didja get home?” asked Sleepy.
“Walked, I reckon. Don’t remember much about it.”
“I’m goin’ to get the doctor,” declared Sleepy. “You lay still and don’t
try to stop me. Here’s yore hat.”
Sleepy picked the hat off the floor, where he had dropped it when he
came in.
“We found it on the bridge. And that ain’t all we found.”
Sleepy dug down in his pocket, took out an object and handed it to
Hashknife. It was a derringer, forty-one calibre, with a loaded
cartridge still in the single barrel.
“It was down in the rut on the far side of the bridge,” said Sleepy at
the doorway. “I’ll get the doctor right away.”
“Derringer, eh?”
Hashknife smiled weakly and shoved the derringer under his pillow.