_Ping-g-g--Whop!_
Skelton fell backward out of his chair, clawing at the coffee, which
sprayed all over him. Sleepy threw himself sidewise out of line with
the door, and from somewhere came the thin, whip-like report of a
high-powered rifle.
Hashknife kicked the door shut and gawped at Skelton, who got to his
feet, shook the coffee out of his eyes, and picked up the
coffee-pot--or what remained of it.
The soft-nose bullet had hit it near the bottom and there was nothing
much left to identify it as a coffee-pot, except the color and odor.
Even the ceiling was dotted with coffee-grounds.
“Anybody hurt?” asked Hashknife.
Skelton gazed ruefully at the remains of the pot, and dug inside his
collar after more grounds.
“----!” he snapped. “They didn’t miss us very far that time.”
“Common occurrence?” asked Hashknife.
“Periodical. Last week I was shakin’ some stuff out of a fry-pan
outside, and they nailed the ol’ pan, dead-center. Wrenched ---- out of
m’ wrist, too. Never even saw where the bullet came from. I dunno
whether they’re hintin’ fer me to move, or missin’ their target.”
“Got ---- good eyes, if they shot at that pot,” grunted Hashknife,
“’cause that rifle wasn’t closer than five hundred yards.”
“Cat-eyes,” added Sleepy. “Nobody could see into a house at this time
of the day. That _hombre_ wasn’t aimin’ to spill our coffee, y’
betcha.”
“Got a rifle, Skelton?” This from Hashknife.
“Dang right I have.”
He walked over to one of the bunks and threw back the blankets. He ran
his hand over them, dug under the straw-tick, and stepped back, looking
curiously around.
“What do you know about that?” he grunted. “It ain’t there!”
“Are you sure?” asked Hashknife.
“Lemme think. It was there yeste’day, ’cause I took it out when I made
the bed. I know danged well--no, I ’member leanin’ it agin’ the wall.”
He glanced around the room and shook his head.
“Don’t make a ---- bit of difference; it’s gone.”
“What kind was she?” asked Sleepy.
“Winchester.30-30.”
“That wasn’t it we found near the Swede, was it?”
“No-o-o--I’m ---- ’f I know whether it was or not. I never looked at
it. Fact is, I never used it. I’m not worth a ---- with a rifle, but I
sure do _sabe_ the old shotgun and buckshot, or a six-gun. Never liked
that idea of shootin’ a man with a mushroom bullet.”
“Does kinda unravel a man,” Hashknife agreed. “When did you buy that
.30-30?”
“I acquired it with this ---- ranch, along with the rest of the
misery.”
Hashknife nodded slowly and considered the ceiling. A question had
suddenly popped into his head and he wanted to consider it before
speaking. The coffee-grounds were beginning to loosen from the ceiling,
and some of them drifted into his eye. He dug them out thoughtfully and
turning to Skelton said--
“You got any relations, Skelton?”
“Not a danged kin,” grinned Skelton. “One of my kind is e-nough, ain’t
it?”
“’F you got killed,” suggested Hashkinfe, “who’d get this ranch?”
Skelton scratched his head violently.
“Never thought of that, Hartley. Why, I reckon the sheriff would sell
it to the highest bidder. But who would bid on it--I dunno.
“Shucks!” Skelton added. “It must be somethin’ pers’nal. Nobody’d kill
me to get a chance to buy this ---- ranch. That ain’t reasonable.”
“Human nature is a queer thing,” said Hashknife. “I knowed a feller who
was sent to the penitentiary for stealin’ Christmas presents, which
were goin’ to be given to him.”
“Why didn’t you add the fact that he knowed it?”
“I know when to quit lyin’,” said Hashknife gravely.
He got to his feet, went to the door, and peered out.
“Gets dark quick around here,” he said. “I reckon it’s plumb safe to
saddle up now. That bushwhacker likely went away as soon as he fired
that one shot.”
“Saddle up? What for, f’r gosh sake?”
Sleepy settled back comfortably in his chair.
“Me and you are goin’ to Caldwell.”
“What fer?”
“That inquest is tomorrow afternoon, Sleepy.”
“Oh, I see,” said Sleepy sarcastically. “’Fraid you’ll be late if you
don’t start now?”
“You might put it thataway,” admitted Hashknife. “We’ll be back kinda
late, Skelton, I reckon; so I’ll call m’ name when we come home.”
Skelton nodded dubiously and said:
“’S your own business, Hartley, and I reckon you can take care of
yourself. I dunno what you got on your mind, but I wish you well.”
Hashknife grinned at Sleepy’s disgruntled way of pulling on his chaps,
and went out of the door. Sleepy swore softly as he followed him.
* * * * *
Spot Easton was not in a happy frame of mind at all. His ear had
swollen to twice its normal size and had assumed the shade of a pickled
beet. It not only pained him, but it hurt his pride; he was not in the
habit of getting the worst of a personal encounter.
The evening business of the War-Bonnet was beginning to be audible to
Spot, who was sequestered in his little private room in the rear. A
half-empty whisky bottle decorated the table beside him, and his jaws
were clamped tightly over a badly frayed cigar, which smoked much from
the wrong end. He jerked it out of his mouth, cursed and hurled it
across the room where it continued to throw up a streamer of smoke.
Just then, without any warning, the door swung open and Lonesome Lee
staggered in. The old man was gloriously drunk, but tried to brace up
when he faced Easton.
“Sus-somebody said you wanted to shee me,” he muttered thickly.
“Yes; you lousy old bum!” snapped Easton, kicking a chair away from the
table.
Lonesome eased himself shakily into the chair and sprawled weakly.
“Where’s that letter?” demanded Easton.
“Tha’ letter?” Lonesome grinned foolishly. “Wha’ letter?”
“The one you got today. The letter--oh, ----!”
Lonesome had emitted a long-drawn snore and his head sank slowly until
his chin was buried in his collar.
Spot Easton shoved away from the table and, going over to Lonesome,
proceeded to go through the old man’s pockets. He shook Lonesome, but
the old man continued to snore loudly.
Spot caressed his aching ear, while he reviled Lonesome with every foul
epithet his tongue could command. Tiring of that, he drank half of the
remaining liquor, threw the bottle across the room, and sat down again.
Then came Jack Blue. He too was a privileged character and did not wait
to knock on the door. He squinted at Lonesome and sat on the edge of
the table.
“Why don’t you have Doc Clevis fix up yore ear?” he asked, noticing
that Easton was fingering the sore organ.
“That ---- veterinary!” exploded Easton.
“Doc could take out the soreness.”
“I’m ---- if he could!” rasped Easton. “Only one thing’d take the
soreness out of that ear, and that’s to notch a sight on that
long-geared misfit that hit me.”
“He’s a fresh whippoorwill, all right,” admitted Blue. “Never seen
anybody with the gall he’s got. Somebody’s due to make jerky out of his
tongue.”
“Y’betcha,” agreed Easton, “and I’m him.”