“’F I was you I’d be hopin’ that it was hooked onto the Swede.”
With this parting shot, the sheriff crossed the street and went into
the Paris restaurant, banging the door behind him.
“You made him mad,” observed Skelton seriously. “He was only tryin’ to
git a job for this Hagen feller.”
“Who’s this Hagen?” asked Hashknife.
“I dunno him. He’s been with the 88 f’r a while, but he quit, or got
fired or somethin’.”
“Who owns the 88?”
“Lonesome Lee used t’ own it, but he drank it mostly all up, I reckon.
Mebbe Spot Easton owns it by now. Lonesome got t’ drinkin’ and playin’
poker, and I reckon he’s lost all the money he ever had. He stays at
the ranch--when he ain’t drunk--which ain’t often.”
“Big outfit?” asked Hashknife.
“Bigger’n mine,” answered Skelton.
“With two top-hands your ranch ought to grow,” stated Hashknife
seriously. “You don’t mind us hirin’ out to you?”
“I dunno where your pay’s comin’ from, but I don’t mind, if you don’t.
Want to go back to the ranch now?”
Hashknife shook his head.
“No-o-o. You see I knocked Spot Easton loose from the floor a while
ago, and if we left now it would look like I was runnin’ away.”
“You did!” gasped Skelton. “Spot Easton? Well----”
Skelton scratched his head and squinted at Hashknife’s serious face.
“Well, I--I reckon yo’re a top-hand, Hartley. Come out to the ranch any
ol’ time you git ready. Whoo-ee!”
The old man slapped his hat back on his head and bow-legged his way
back to the sheriff’s office.
Hashknife took the letter from his pocket and looked at it.
“She sure belongs to Lonesome Lee, Sleepy. The epitaph proclaims it to
be for James B. Lee, Caldwell, Montana, and the little doohicky in a
circle says that she was sent from Boston.”
“Now, whatcha reckon Mister Easton wanted this here letter for,
Sleepy?”
“Don’t glare at me!” complained Sleepy. “You act like it was my letter.
How’d I know what Easton wants?”
“Where did the old man go?” asked Hashknife, paying no heed to Sleepy’s
question.
“There you go ag’in! Think I’m a fortune-teller? You saw him the last
time I did.”
“Well, I reckon the only way to find him is to look for him. Come on.”
They went up the sidewalk, past the Hole-in-the-Wall feed-corral, and
almost bumped into Lonesome Lee, who was coming out from the narrow
alley between the feed-corral and general store. The old man’s cheeks
were streaked with tears and dust, and he was half-sobbing--drunkenly.
He gawped at Hashknife and Sleepy and tried to avoid them, but
Hashknife took him by the arm and drew him back.
“What’s the matter with you?” growled Hashknife. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to
hurt you, old-timer. Here’s your letter.”
Lonesome Lee stared at the letter, but made no effort to take it. In
fact he seemed afraid of it.
“You ain’t scared of Spot Easton, are you?” asked Sleepy.
Lonesome did not say, but his actions spoke volumes.
“Has that tin-horn got you buffaloed, old-timer? Snap yourself
together! You’ve blotted up so much hooch that your nerves are dancin’,
but you’re a ---- good man yet.” Hashknife’s voice was encouraging.
“Th-think so?”
Lonesome wiped his lips with shaking fingers and moved his feet
uncertainly.
“Better read the letter,” urged Sleepy. “It might be good news; you
never can tell.”
“Wh-where’s it from?” he stammered. “My eyes ain’t worth a ---- no
more.”
“She’s from Boston.”
Lonesome licked his lips and stared into space.
“Bub-Boston! ----!”
He staggered off the sidewalk, almost fell in the dust, and weaved a
crooked trail straight for the doorway of the War-Bonnet.
“’F that don’t beat ----, I’m a pigeon-toed fool!” grunted Hashknife
foolishly.
“His ear-drums kinda shrink from Boston,” observed Sleepy, as Lonesome
seemed to carom from one side of the door to the other.
“Scared plumb to death,” declared Hashknife. “It’s a danged shame for a
man to get in that shape. Somethin’ has sure put the Injun sign on the
old gent, Sleepy. This Easton’s a bass-drummer among these
canary-birds, ’cordin’ to what I can get in my loop; so he must be
somethin’ besides a card shark.”
“Let’s go over and talk to the blacksmith,” suggested Sleepy. “I’ve got
to have some shoes put on my bronc’ pretty soon, and maybe I can save
about four-bits by gettin’ real friendly. I have done it, by cripes.”
Barney Stout was inserting a new felly into a wagon-wheel, and swearing
mournfully over the fitting. He rubbed his nose with the back of a very
dirty hand and nodded to Hashknife and Sleepy. They had squatted down
against the wall and were rolling cigarets.
“How’s tricks?” asked Sleepy.
“Tricks?”
Barney squinted at the rim of the wheel, as he felt of the joint with a
thumb.
“There ain’t no tricks in this trade; it’s all ---- hard work and
disappointment. Hear they put the Swede in jail.”
Barney rubbed his hands on his hips and, reaching for Sleepy’s sack of
tobacco, squatted down beside them.
“I dunno who killed Quinin Quinn, but it’s a dead immortal cinch that
Swede Sam never did.”
“Where’d that .30-30 rifle come from, do you figure?” asked Hashknife.
Barney shook his head and puffed violently.
“I never seen the gun,” he said. “Quinn tol’ me that he’d been shot at
three or four times in the last year. ’S far as that’s concerned, so
has old Skelton.”
“Any idea why?” asked Sleepy.
“Nope. I heard Jake Blue say that it was likely that folks hadn’t
forgot what happened to their graveyard--but Quinin didn’t have nothin’
to do with that. He came here quite a while after that.”
“Folks got kinda sore about it, eh?” queried Hashknife.
“Yeap. Can you blame ’em? They sure as ---- lost track of their
ancestors. Ev’body tried to relocate their dead, but it was no use. M’
wife had one of them Kodiak things that you take pictures with, and she
photygraphed the graveyard one day; but it’s kinda blurred-like. They
took that along to try and figure out things, but it didn’t help ’em a
danged bit.”
“Lots of folks buried there, eh?” queried Hashknife.
Barney nodded.
“All them markers in Skelton’s yard indicates a body. The first corpse
was old Billy Meek, who was some sanctimonious old whippoorwill; and
the last one was a gambler by the name of ‘Faro’. I never did know his
name.
“Spot Easton shot him over a poker-table. Folks kicked about him bein’
buried in the cemetery, and old ‘Peg-leg’ Smith refused to dig the
grave; but Spot and Doc Clevis dug the grave, and I reckon Jake Blue
performed the funeral oration--I dunno. Anyway, Faro never got a
headstone, ’cause his grave-mound was lost with the rest.”
“Did they bury this here Faro person right in with the rest?” asked
Hashknife.
“Danged if I know for sure. Seems to me that somebody said they planted
him off to one side; kinda between the others and the creek. I never
seen the grave.”
Came the sound of a boot on gravel, and they turned to see Doctor
Clevis coming in the front door. He peered at Hashknife and Sleepy.
“Wanted to tell you that the inquest’ll be held t’morrow afternoon
’bout two o’clock,” he announced. “Likely need your testimony.”
“We’ll be here,” nodded Hashknife.
The doctor walked out, and Barney got to his feet.
“Gotta git that ---- felly fixed up, I suppose,” he groaned. “Hope I
never git sick and have to call Doc Clevis. Him and Jake Blue are
thicker’n two drunks in one bunk. Besides, I never like to have any
truck with a doctor who is the undertaker, too.”
“Gets ’em goin’ and comin’, eh?”
“Gotta cinch,” agreed Barney. “And Jake Blue ain’t as particular as he
might be, especially when the reward notice don’t specify ‘dead or
alive.’”
“We’ll see you again, pardner,” said Hashknife, as he and Sleepy walked
out the front door.
“Come in any ol’ time,” yelled Barney. “Mostly always I’ve got time to
talk.”
Hashknife led the way past the War-Bonnet and up to the hitch-rack
where they got on their horses and rode back toward the Tombstone
Ranch. Hashknife looked back and saw Hagen standing in the doorway,
looking in their direction; but there was no sign of Lonesome Lee nor
of Spot Easton.
“Do you reckon they’ll hang the killin’ onto Swede Sam?” asked Sleepy,
as they poked off down the dusty road.
Hashknife eased himself in the saddle and reached for his cigaret
material.
“I’ll do everythin’ I can to hook it onto him,” he said.
“You will?” Sleepy’s surprize was genuine.
“Sure will. Me and you and Skelton have got to lie like ---- to keep
out of jail ourselves.”
“But the Swede never killed him.”
“Neither did we, Sleepy. I reckon Mrs. Frosty Snow can get along
without Swede Sam for a while--and Swede Sam ain’t got brains enough to
mind bein’ locked up.”
“But they couldn’t put me and you in jail,” protested Sleepy.
“Thasso? They put Swede Sam in.”
Which left Sleepy without an argument worth while.
* * * * *
Hashknife locked a long forefinger around his spoon and fended it away
from his right eye, while he sipped thoughtfully at his cup of coffee.
Finally he nodded slowly.
“Yeah, that’s true, Skelton. Whisky does pe-culiar things to a man’s
nerves; but why does ol’ Lonesome go hippety-hoppin’ like a scared
rabbit when he sees that danged letter?”
Skelton helped himself to more coffee from the old battered pot and
reached for Sleepy’s cup.
“Not any more, Bliz,” said Sleepy. “You ought to grind that coffee
before and after makin’, ’cause she’s sure hard to chew.”
“Lonesome Lee’s sure in tough shape,” admitted Skelton, ignoring
Sleepy’s insult to his ability as a coffee maker.
Hashknife took the letter from his pocket and studied it closely.
“Steam,” said Sleepy slowly. “Steam’ll cut the stickum on an envelop.”
Hashknife squinted hard at Sleepy.
“That’s a crooked thought, Mister Stevens. Sometimes you surprize me.”
“You say that Spot Easton wanted the letter?” asked Skelton.
Hashknife yawned widely and glanced around the room.
“Skelton, you ain’t got anythin’ like mucilage, have you?”
“Y’betcha, I have. Li’l bottle, with a brush attached. I dunno what it
was used fer, and she’s been here since before Heck’s father went
wooin’. Whatcha want it fer?”
“To make this danged letter look like it never was opened.”
Sleepy grinned joyously.
“Gimme credit----”
“Fer nothin’,” finished Hashknife. “That was a common thing before your
great, great-grandfather was lynched for tryin’ to tell folks what to
do.”
Hashknife held the envelop over the steam from the tea-kettle, until
the flap was softened, and removed the letter. He spread out the single
sheet on the table, and the three of them read it together.
Dear Dad:
I will arrive nearly as soon as this letter, but am sending it anyway.
I hope that your injured arm is better now. It was very kind of your
foreman, Mr. Easton, to write in your stead, and I shall thank him
personally for his offer to meet me at Gunsight.
I can hardly wait to see you. Just to think that I have never seen you
since I was old enough to remember, but we will make that all up, daddy.
I have just money enough to take me to Caldwell, and I am coming as fast
as I can travel.
Since mother passed out I have felt entirely alone in the world, and
even if you and mother could not be happy together, I am sure we can.
Loads of love and a big hug very soon.
Your loving daughter,
Jane.
P. S.--I will be with you in time to celebrate my eighteenth birthday.