“That’s a sweet job to give anybody! Whatsa matter with yuh, Ben? Them
two old jiggers wouldn’t hurt anybody. I suppose old Baggs asked yuh to
detail me to dry-nurse ’em, eh?”
Breezy Hill rasped his spurred heel along the side of Ben Dillon’s desk,
giving vent to his displeasure.
“Demanded it,” grinned the sheriff. “Whisperin’ and Sailor are over at
the Oasis, fillin’ their skins with liquor, and I don’t hardly blame
Baggs for demandin’ protection. If I was in his place I’d ask the
Governor to send troops and proclaim martial law.”
“Aw, they wouldn’t shoot him, Ben.”
“They won’t if we can stop ’em, Breezy. You keep sober and stay close to
’em. Len’s got his kid over at the hotel.”
“Can’t I take a drink, Ben?”
“Sure, but stay sober.”
“Oh, shore. Say! What do yuh think about Baggs hirin’ Hashknife and
Sleepy to run the Box S?”
“It’s the first sensible thing he’s ever done. Thank gosh, we’re rid of
’em. I’ve been wishin’ they’d land a job.”
“I liked ’em,” said Breezy.
“Thasall right, Breezy; but they got to be pests.”
“I s’pose. Well, I’ll go out and night-herd them two old pelicans for
yuh, Ben. But don’t ask too much of me. I’m not so danged stuck on Amos
Alexander Baggs m’self.”
Not realising that Breezy was acting in an official capacity, Whispering
and Sailor welcomed him with open arms. Len had drawn their wages from
Baggs, and they had already forgotten that this was their last pay day
at the Box S.
They bought Breezy a couple of drinks, which was sufficient to organise
the deputy to a point where he began buying.
“We’re here,” said Whispering owlishly, “to show a man the error of his
ways, ain’t we, Sailor?”
“That’s right,” agreed Sailor heartily if thickly. “We’ve dug up the
hatchet and we’re packin’ a red belt. Didja know we got throwed out of
our home, Breezy? Didja? Well, it’s a sholem fac’. Throwed out in the
cold world.”
It had been over a hundred in the shade that day, so Breezy had little
sympathy with that statement. He nodded and turned his back to the bar,
while he surveyed the room. Several of the games were going full blast,
and at a poker table, only a few feet away, sat Amos Alexander Baggs. He
shifted his eyes toward Breezy and nodded, possibly acknowledging the
guardianship.
Breezy turned back to the bar. The bartender served some drinks at the
poker game and when he came back behind the bar he caught Breezy’s eye,
indicated the poker table with a jerk of his head and said softly:
“You’ve got a drink coming, Breezy.”
He meant that Baggs had told him to serve a drink to the deputy.
“All right, thanks,” Breezy replied. “Whatcha havin’, boys?”
“Same thing,” said Whispering, and Sailor nodded. The bartender tried to
indicate that the order was for one drink, but Breezy ignored it. So
they all had a drink on Amos Baggs.
Amos Baggs saw the old punchers drink and it made him so mad he almost
forgot to draw cards. Breezy grinned gleefully. Unless these two old
rangers got too drunk to navigate, it promised to be a big evening. Len
came in, circled the opposite side of the room to escape Whispering,
Sailor and Breezy, and sat down in another poker game, where Harry Cole
was doing the dealing.
More cowboys drifted in, until the range was fairly well represented,
and there was more or less confusion. Whispering and Sailor grew loud in
their talk and just a little incoherent at times, but Breezy enjoyed it.
It was about eight o’clock when Hashknife and Sleepy rode in. They left
their horses at the outskirts of the town and came in behind the east
side of the main street. It was barely dark now. They came in behind the
Oasis saloon and sat down against the side of an old shed.
There was a light in Harry Cole’s private office, which had a rear
entrance. To the left of this entrance, twenty feet away, was the rear
entrance to the Oasis.
From where the pair sat they could hear some of the noise in the saloon,
the sound of people going in and out of the place. Both Hashknife and
Sleepy had cultivated plenty of patience. They sat there like a couple
of images, invisible in the dark.
Hashknife had warned Sleepy that they might be there most of the night
and Sleepy agreed that it would be a nice night for it, not knowing what
it was all about--nor caring.
There was one building between the Oasis and a Chinese restaurant, but
even at that distance they could hear the Chinese rattling dishes at the
rear of the restaurant.
It was after nine o’clock when Hashknife suddenly touched Sleepy on the
arm. Some one was coming around from the rear of the restaurant. The
figure shuffled softly to the rear door of Cole’s office and knocked
gently several times. Finally the door opened and they saw that it was a
Chinese, carrying a loaded tray, covered with a white cloth.
It was Harry Cole who opened the door. He took the tray from the
Chinese.
“I’ll send the tray back later, Charley,” he said.
“Yessa.”
Cole closed the door and the Chinese shuffled back around the building.
Hashknife sighed and relaxed.
“Some busy gambler will eat,” whispered Sleepy.
Hashknife did not reply. It was a common thing for food to be brought to
a gambling house, as many players do not care to stop playing long
enough to go out and eat a meal. There had been a light burning in
Cole’s private room when the tray came, but a few moments later the
light was turned out.
It was so dark out there that all they could see was the indistinct
skyline of the building, the only window in the rear of the Oasis being
the one in Cole’s room. About five minutes after the light had vanished
they heard the door open and close gently. Came the sound of a man
walking on the hard-packed ground. He passed to the left of them,
evidently picking his way carefully in the dark. Hashknife squeezed
Sleepy’s arm sharply and whispered in his ear:
“Stay where yuh are.”
Then he got to his feet, turned to the right around the shed and ran
swiftly on his toes, praying that he might not kick a tin can or run
into anything. He had his bearings fairly well and it was easier to see
ahead as soon as he got away from the buildings.
He didn’t know where the man was, didn’t wait to investigate further,
but kept on running. Ahead of him was the dark bulk of a house, and he
halted just in time to save himself from running into the fence.
Over the fence he went, dropping to his hands and knees, while he
figured out his bearings. Then he went cautiously ahead, his hands
reaching out in front of him, until he could touch the building. Quickly
he worked to the right, found the corner and moved a few feet to the
corner of the unrailed porch. From where he stopped he could reach out
and touch the front door of the Prentice house.
Hashknife had been there possibly a full minute when he heard the latch
of the old gate click softly. He slipped his gun loose, gripping it
tightly and stepped up on the edge of the porch. He could hear the soft
slither of gravel as the man came down the walk.
He stopped a few feet away, and Hashknife took a deep breath. He was
afraid the man could see him, but his fear was unfounded, for at that
moment the man whistled three soft notes. It sounded to Hashknife like
the first three notes in “Taps,” as played by a bugler. Then the man
came on boldly, moving up the three or four steps to the top of the
porch.
He was within reach of Hashknife now, panting slightly. He moved forward
and something struck Hashknife’s left elbow. A dish rattled.
“What in hell!” grunted the man.
There was no waiting now. Hashknife jerked forward, struck in the
direction of the man’s head, and almost at the same time he reached out
his left hand. The swinging gun reached its mark, the man grunted
foolishly, and fell forward in to Hashknife, forcing him back against
the wall, and at that moment the door opened behind Hashknife.
Came the clatter of falling dishes, smashing on the porch, the rattle of
the heavy tray, a sharp exclamation of wonder from the doorway, and
Hashknife whirled and dived straight in through the doorway, striking
his left shoulder heavily as he came in.
He went to his knees, badly off balance, while a revolver spurted a
flame a foot above his body, and the windows of the house danced from
the concussion. Again the spurt of orange-coloured flame licked out
through the darkness low enough to have scorched him, but he had dropped
flat on the carpet.
Swiftly he rolled aside, his gun ready. A chair rattled, echoed by the
concussion of Hashknife’s big gun, but only a shower of plaster attested
the hit. But in the flash of the exploding powder Hashknife saw the man
dart through the doorway into the kitchen. Swiftly he shifted his gun
and fired again through the doorway.
Then he sprang to his feet in the darkness and ran to the doorway,
stepping aside quickly. Came the slam of a closing door, a man’s swift
step on the back porch. Hashknife whirled and ran out the front door.
His boots crushed down on scattered dishes and he almost fell off the
porch, but he regained his balance and stopped short. He heard the fence
creak from a weight, and then came the sound of a man running swiftly.
A few steps carried him to the fence, which he vaulted, and then he
started running towards the rear of the Oasis.