“You two fellers ain’t aimin’ to pull out soon, are you?”
Hashknife shook his head.
“No-o-o. We’re plumb stuck on your town.”
Blue grunted his unbelief. He might be ignorant, but not a fool.
“You ain’t got no puncher now, have you, Skelton?”
Skelton shook his head.
“Ain’t a lot of extra hands around this country,” observed Blue. “Well,
Doc, I reckon we better have Quinin moved into your place. Mind haulin’
him down there, Skelton?”
Skelton did not mind. He turned his team around and headed for the
doctor’s office, with several men following. Hashknife and Sleepy rode
across to a hitch-rack, tied their horses, and went into the
War-Bonnet.
* * * * *
The War-Bonnet was a large place for a town the size of Caldwell, but
it looked prosperous. There was not much activity during the day, so
the place was nearly deserted when Hashknife and Sleepy came in.
A couple of girls were on the small stage-like platform at the end of
the room, practising a few dance steps, while with one hand a pallid
young man thumped out a melody on the piano.
A bartender humped his white-clad elbows on the bar, while he deeply
perused a paper-backed novel. A “swamper” was scrubbing back of the
bar. His activities seemed to irritate the bartender, who knew that
sooner or later he would have to move and break the thread of his
story.
Hashknife and Sleepy walked up to the bar and looked around the place.
The bartender sighed, folded over a leaf of his book to mark his place,
and came down to them.
“’Smatter over there?” he indicated the street with a jerk of his
sleek-combed head.
“Feller got leaded up,” said Hashknife. “Feller named Quinn.”
“Quinin Quinn, eh? Dead? The son-of-a-gun! Whatcha drinkin’? Seen Swede
Sam over there, too. He ain’t mixed up in it, is he? Whatcha drinkin’?
Know Quinn? Never smiled. No sir, that _hombre_ didn’t know how. Ain’t
no reason for killin’ him off. Feller’s got a right to look sour, ain’t
he? I’d sure have to have a good reason before I’d kill any man.
Son-of-a-gun’s dead, eh? Well, well! Whatcha drinkin’?”
“See-gars,” said Hashknife grinning.
The bartender produced a well-worn cigar-box and disclosed a few
dried-out perfectos.
“Ain’t many cigar smokers around here,” he volunteered. “Don’t pay to
keep a big stock. Them’s real good Key Wests, y’betcha. I smoked one
oncet. Got drunk and careless. ’F you lick them outside leaves, like
you do a cigaret-paper, they’ll stick. Them Key Wests allus kinda
unravels thataway. I stuck ’em oncet, but they----”
Two very bad cigars went into a cuspidor, and the bartender looked sad.
“I didn’t lick ’em,” he explained. “I used glue.”
“Tha’s all right,” grunted Hashknife. “A cigar ain’t never good after
the first drag or two.”
The bartender turned and threw the two-bits into the till.
“Have a drink on the house?” he asked.
Hashknife shook his head.
“Feller that’d use glue on cigars is liable to put cyanid in his hooch.
Who owns this ornate parlor?”
“‘Spot’ Easton. Didja ever hear of Spot?”
Hashknife leaned against the bar and admitted that he did not know the
gentleman. Just at this moment a man came in the door, a frowsy looking
man, with drink-bleared eyes and uncertain step. He slouched up to the
bar and leered at the bartender; a leer which was intended to be an
ingratiating smile, but which missed by a wide margin.
“Nossir!” The bartender shook his head violently. “Spot said to lay off
givin’ you liquor, ‘Lonesome’.”
“Spot did?” The old man seemed surprized to hear it.
He wiped the back of his hand across his lips and stared at the mirror
on the back-bar. There was no question but what he needed a bracer; his
whole nervous system cried out for assistance.
“You get the drink, grampaw,” said Hashknife, tossing a two-bit piece
on the bar.
“Spot don’t want him--” began the bartender.
“Hooch!” snapped Hashknife. “What in ---- do I care what Spot wants?”
“He’ll get sore about it,” argued the bartender.
“Do I have to wait on him m’self?” asked Hashknife.
The bartender slid out the bottle and a glass. The old man seemed
undecided whether to take it or not, but Hashknife settled the question
by pouring the drink for him. The old man drank nervously and upset the
glass as he put it back. He steadied himself on the bar uatil the
liquor began to percolate and then sighed with relief.
A man came from the rear of the place and halted near the end of the
bar. He was rather flashily dressed for the range country. His black
hair was slightly tinged with gray. His features were narrow and he
wore a small mustache, which was waxed to needle-like points. He
scowled at the bartender, who got very busy wiping glasses.
The old man considered Hashknife and Sleepy for a moment, and began to
search his pockets. He drew out a crumpled envelop and held it close
for inspection.
“M’ name’s James B. Lee,” he announced thickly, “but ev’ybody calls me
Lonesome Lee. Now, what in ---- do you reckon anybody’d write a letter
to me for? This’n jist come on the stage.”
He handed the letter to Hashknife, or rather he started to; but the
flashily-dressed person had moved nearer and secured it. For a moment
nobody spoke. Lonesome swallowed with great difficulty and tried to
clear his throat.
“Right sudden, ain’t you?” said Sleepy.
The man ignored his question and spoke directly to Lonesome Lee.
“Nobody ever wrote to you, Lonesome.”
“Yeah, they did, Spot. I--I--” whined Lonesome.
“The envelop will show who it’s for,” said Hashknife easily.
Spot Easton turned to the bartender.
“‘Windy,’ how many times do I have to tell you not to let Lonesome have
any more whisky?”
“Lay off the bartender,” advised Hashknife. “I paid for the old man’s
drink, if you care to know.”
Spot Easton seemed to see Hashknife for the first time, and the
discovery did not please him.
“Who in ---- are you?” he growled.
“Me?” Hashknife grinned. “I’m the li’l jasper that’s goin’ to make you
give the letter back to Lonesome Lee.”
“Yeah?”
Easton’s brows lifted in surprize, as he looked Hashknife over
appraisingly.
“How are you goin’ to do it, if I may ask?”
Hashknife turned his body toward the bar. It was a disarming move.
Easton stepped in closer to Hashknife; stepped in just in time to be in
reach of the right swing that Hashknife pivoted to accomplish.
It caught Mr. Easton flush on the left ear and the force of the smash
knocked the gentleman’s feet loose from the floor. The thud of his fall
had barely sounded, when Hashknife leaned over him and took away the
letter.
Easton did not move. The piano crashed a discord and stopped. One of
the girls gave a throaty little squeak and stopped dancing. Hashknife
turned to hand the letter to Lonesome Lee, but that worthy was going
out of the front door as fast as his unsteady legs would carry him.
“Well, that kinda beats ----!” grunted Hashknife.
The bartender had dropped the glass he was polishing, but continued the
action on the bunched fingers of his left hand. He breathed on the
fingers and polished harder.
Spot Easton sat up, holding his left ear. He looked around as if
wondering what had happened. His eyes strayed to the ceiling, as if
wondering that it was still intact. Then he got slowly to his feet and
brushed the dust off his broadcloth raiment.
“You asked a question,” reminded Hashknife seriously, “but I don’t
reckon you need an answer--not now.”
Spot Easton did not express any opinion. He wadded a silk handkerchief
against his bruised ear, turned, and went to the back of the room.
“I’ve got the letter and nobody to give it to,” chuckled Hashknife, and
then to the bartender--
“Whatcha polishin’ your fingers for, pardner?”
The bartender, suddenly realizing that he did not have a glass in his
hand, recovered the one from the floor.
“What’sa matter with everybody around here?” asked Sleepy. “The old man
hummed out of here like a spike, and you got absent-minded. Ain’t the
War-Bonnet used to seein’ trouble, or is all this honkatonk only a
blind for a Sunday school?”
“That--that was Spot Easton,” stammered the bartender.
“Who’s he--the king?” asked Hashknife.
The bartender glanced keenly toward the rear of the place, where Easton
had entered one of the built-in rooms. He leaned across the bar and
whispered:
“You better look out for him, gents. Spot Easton’s a ----winder,
y’betcha. He’s quicker’n a flash with a gun, and he used to be a
middle-weight prize-fighter. Glad it ain’t me he’s sore at.”
“You don’t reckon he’s sore at me, do you?” Hashknife seemed penitent.
“Huh?” Such a foolish question amazed the bartender.
“Gee cripes! He must be touchy if he is,” observed Sleepy. “Some folks
wears their feelin’ on their sleeves.”
“Well, for ----’s sake!” wailed the bartender. “I dunno whatcha mean by
that. If you got hit in the ear----”
“Aw, come on, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “Never seen a bartender or a
sheepherder yet that had any sense.”
As they started to cross the street, a rider on a mouse-colored horse
passed in front of them, going down toward the sheriff’s office. The
man was almost as tall as Hashknife; his features were hidden by the
shadow of his low-pulled Stetson.
Bliz Skelton and the sheriff were coming away from the office, and the
sheriff hailed this rider, who swung over to the board sidewalk beside
them.
“Wears bat-wing chaps, beaded vest and a polky-dot shirt,” observed
Hashknife aloud, “rides with his stirrups a notch too short; all of
which makes me feel that I know that _hombre_, Sleepy.”
“Let’s look him over,” suggested Sleepy. “Looks a li’l gaudy to me, but
mebbe he’s all right.”
The stranger was talking earnestly to the sheriff, as they walked up,
and the conversation seemed to interest Skelton. The stranger turned
and looked at Hashknife, but continued to talk.
“I dunno,” said Skelton, shaking his head. “I’m much obliged to you,
but I ain’t made up my mind yet jist what ’m goin’ t’ do. ’F I sell out
I won’t need no hired help.”
“And if you don’t, you do.”
The sheriff was a trifle ungrammatical, but sincere.
“Yeah,” admitted Skelton.
“It don’t make me no never mind,” stated the stranger. “I’m just open
f’r engagement. Jake’ll tell you that I’m a top-hand, y’betcha.”
“All of which makes it so,” stated Hashknife.
Jake Blue squinted at Hashknife and up at the cowboy. The latter seemed
surprized that any one might doubt his ability.
“Who ’re you?” asked the cowboy.
“Names don’t mean nothin’,” replied Hashknife. “I don’t know your name,
but I ain’t inquisitive. ’Pears to me that I’ve knowed you some’ers.”
“Huh!”
The cowboy’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but no sign of recognition
crossed his features. He was not at all handsome--due partly to a
crooked nose, a split lip and a week’s growth of downy, blond whiskers.
“What are you cuttin’ in here fer?” asked Blue angrily. “Mister Hagen’s
goin’ t’ work for Skelton.”
“Zasso?” Skelton seemed surprized. “I ain’t hired nobody yet, Blue.”
“You ain’t goin’ to have work for three men, are you?” asked Hashknife,
turning to Skelton.
“Three men?” queried Blue quickly.
“T-h-r-e-e,” spelled Hashknife. “Me and Sleepy’s done hired out to
him.”
The sheriff spat explosively and looked at Skelton.
“Zasso, Skelton?”
“Well, yuh--uh--might say it was,” faltered Skelton.
“I’m goin’ to be the foreman,” stated Hashknife, “and if you got any
top-hands, you might send ’em to me, sheriff.”
“----!”
Mr. Hagen spoke very peevishly, turned his horse and rode back to the
War-Bonnet hitch-rack. There he dismounted, kicked his horse in the
belly, and went into the saloon.
“There ain’t no question but what he’s a top-hand,” agreed Hashknife.
“All top-hands kick their broncs in the belly thataway. Kinda makes the
bronc respect you.”
“Where’s the Swede?” asked Sleepy.
Jake Blue had been staring toward the War-Bonnet, deep in thought, and
Sleepy’s question seemed to jar him awake.
“The Swede? He’s in jail. Where’d you think he was?”
“In jail,” said Sleepy.
“Then what in ---- did you ask fer?” Mr. Blue growled.
“You can’t hook that killin’ onto the Swede.” This from Hashknife.
“Can’t I?” The sheriff grew very indignant. “Well, mebbe I ain’t goin’
t’ try very hard.”