Author of “Ike Harper’s Historical Holiday,”
“When the Pilgrims Hit Piperock,” etc.
I don’t know who “Toothpick” Thompson was or is, but he must ’a’ been a
miserable sort of a whippoorwill to incur the enmity of a smiling soul
like “Hashknife” Hartley.
Hashknife is what you’d call a lovable character with a purpose in
life, said purpose being the finding of said Toothpick. With this one
exception Hashknife loves everybody, but packs his gun handy for those
who might misconstrue his devotion.
Hashknife never did tell me what Toothpick done to him, but it must
’a’ been something gosh-awful. I can get a rise out of Hashknife any
old time by asking him for a toothpick, but he never has said what he
intended doing to this splinter-named individual.
“Going to hang his hide on the fence?” I asks.
“Whatcha reckon I’m going to do--kiss him?”
I’ve got so I keeps my eyes open for anybody which might fit the
description, which consists of a he-human, a heap generous from end
to end, but skimpy in circumference. Added description don’t help
much, ’cause Hashknife is likely prejudiced and anyway nobody’d print
it. I never antagonizes Hashknife and I never intentionally starts
any argument, but at times I foolishly makes some sort of a remark,
and this is what happens:
“Aw shucks, ‘Sleepy,’ you’ve got the wrong idea entirely. Romance means
meeting some female, making love to her by the old mill-stream, and
eventually marrying her.
“I know, I know, cowboy; you’re thinking of the days men wore iron
panties and went around with a cant-hook in one hand and a skewer in the
other. Uh-huh--sure. They was on the prod most of the time according to
books, but you’ve got to figure that they had to do a little work once
in a while.
“Yeah, they was romantic, Sleepy, but they must ’a’ had toothache,
bald heads and corns the same as me and you. You never reads no tales
of cow-land wherein the buckaroo is ever troubled with them ailments
or has to get up at five o’clock in the Winter to shovel hay at a lot
of bawling cows. Romance is a great thing, Sleepy, but yuh can’t be
hungry or broke and be romantic at the same time.”
Hashknife gasps with delight over that discourse. I marvels exceedingly
that any human being can hold its breath so long.
“Hashknife,” says I, “Bill Bryan never had anything on you except his
platform. I wasn’t kicking about there not being any romance left, but
I was just remarking that nothing ever happens to us. Honest, we’re
getting in one awful rut.”
Hashknife reins in his bronc and stares at me.
“Oh, yeah. Well, well. Me and you just got the powder-smoke out of our
noses, and here you goes yelping about being in a rut. What would you
advise?”
“No advice. I was just hoping that something would happen to
us--something we ain’t to blame for. _Sabe?_”
“Oh, yeah. Uh-huh. You’d like to have this grade slide off into the
river or have a rattlesnake rise up and bite you or----”
_P’wee! P’wee-e-e-e-e!_
One of them bullets makes a merry-go-round out of my hat, and the other
one makes Hashknife grab his nose.
_P’wee-e-e-e-e-e! Splat!_
Another one flattens on a rock behind us as we whirled our broncs off
the road into a willow thicket. Then we hit the ground with our rifles
in our hands and stares at each other.
“Somebody must ’a’ heard you, Sleepy,” grins Hashknife. “You talk too
loud. Keep your head down.”
“Take care of your own head,” says I. “I never hired you as a
head-guard.”
We sneaks in behind some rocks and brush, and takes a look across the
river. I reckon we’ve been there half an hour when we sees two men on a
rock across the river. They appears to be a heap interested in the spot
where we left our broncs. After a while one of ’em takes a shot in that
direction.
Just then Hashknife’s rifle cracks. I seen the shooter stumble to his
knees, and his rifle comes skyhootin’ plumb down into the river. The
other feller ducks down and hauls his incapacitated friend out of
sight.
“Whatcha laying there with a gun for, Sleepy?” asks Hashknife. “All you
had to do was line up on the other feller and we’d got ’em both.”
“Sure,” says I, “and then we’d have to go over there and nurse ’em to
some town. As it is one takes care of the other and we ain’t under
obligations to nobody.”
“My ----!” he grunts. “You sure do look into the future. Won’t shoot a
man ’cause you’re too lazy to bury him. My, my, you’ve got a heart.”
Then we sneaked back to our broncs and went on. We ain’t got no more
idea of where we’re going than a Piegan has of the pyramids.
Me and him goes along until circumstances causes us to stop, and then
we eventually goes on again. We can ride anything you can hook a hull
on to or rope to a certain extent, and are so danged peaceful that
we’re willing to cut one cinch off our saddles when we ride into a
single-rig country.
Soldiers of fortune? Naw, sir, cow-punchers of disaster. Fortune never
smiled at us. At times she’s busted out laughing when we’ve doubled on
our trail and left some anxious sheriff barking up a tree, but otherwise
she’s had her back turned to us.
Right now our combined wealth won’t total over seventeen dollars. We’ve
got two Winchesters, a .41 and a .44 Colt, and Hashknife packs a .44
derringer in his vest pocket.
Under us we’ve got two jug-headed broncs and two good saddles. My
bronc’s name is Gray Wolf and Hashknife’s was christened El Diablo.
Their mission in life is to pile somebody.
Our consciences are clear--enough to suit us, and we’ve got sense enough
to go inside when it rains.
“Regular town,” observes Hashknife as we tops a hill and gets a look
at the settlement below us. “Got a main street, hitch-racks, houses,
et cettery. Somebody’s wagon must ’a’ broke down here and so they
decided to start a town.
“Court-house, jail and lots of saloons. Cause and effect, Sleepy. I see
a café-sign, cowboy.”
“Bar 80 on shoulder and Cross L on the hip,” says I as we drift past two
broncs at a rack. “Where did we hear anything about the Bar 80?”
“Wasn’t it the Bar 80 that Pete McCool bragged so much about? Said it
was the toughest outfit that Gawd ever let live. Remember it, don’tcha,
Sleepy?”
“Uh, huh. Betcha forty dollars that this is Badger City. According to
Pete, New York is a deserted sheep-camp beside Badger City.”
“She’s that same li’l’ place,” agrees Hashknife as we swings down. “I
see the name on the bank window. Let’s see if their eggs are fresh.”
We leaves our broncs and starts for the door.
* * * * *
Two fellers comes out of the hash-house as we starts in. One of ’em is a
tall individual with the longest mustache I ever seen. He packs his gun
almost to his knee and he’s got hair an inch long on his wrist.
The other one is a pig-headed-looking _hombre_ with little round eyes
and a little belly that sort of folds over the band of his pants. He’s
wearing store clothes and a hard hat, but you don’t notice him so much
as you do his watch-chain, which is made of twenty-dollar gold-pieces
linked together. I counts ten of ’em, and his coat must hide that many
more.
They steps to one side and stares at us. I never had anybody stare at me
so hard before. We walks right past ’em and lands at the nearest table.
We glances outside and see them two meet another feller in the middle
of the street. This third person starts talking with both hands, but
the tall feller grabs him by the arm and the three of ’em crosses the
street.
“What do you think, Sleepy?” asks Hashknife.
“About four hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Where?”
“In that watch-chain.”
“I didn’t figure that, Sleepy. I was watching the tall feller’s hands.
Honest to gosh, they itched to grab a gun.”
“Hunting boogers, eh?” says I. “Looking for tiger’s teeth in a canary.
Some of these days, Hashknife, you’ll get bit by a chickadee.”
Just then a feller comes out of the kitchen to take our order. He’s a
meek-looking _hombre_ with a long lock of hair hanging down over his
forehead, and an ancient cigaret is glued to the corner of his lower
lip. He takes a look all around and then comes over to us.
“Pardner,” says Hashknife, “can you deliver us about two dollars’ worth
of ham and eggs?”
“And fried spuds and coffee?” I adds.
“Yeah,” says he. “Uh-huh; sure.”
“Confirmed three times,” grins Hashknife. “Hurry it along, will you?”
“Yeah,” says he, brushing back the hair. “Uh-huh, sure.”
“Man of few words--all meaning the same,” says Hashknife.
He delivers us the feed and then ducks back into the kitchen. He comes
out in time to collect, and Hashknife asks him who the feller with the
gaudy chain is.
“That’s Abe Spooner, the prosecuting attorney, and the other one is Bill
Ells, the sheriff. I hope they both die before their time comes.”
He shuffles back to the kitchen, and me and Hashknife looks at each
other.
“My ----!” says Hashknife. “This is awful! Abe Spooner and Bill Ells!
Well, well!”
“You know who they are?”
“No, but they must be awful, Sleepy. They’ve scared the cook.”
“You scared?”
“Y’ betcha. Got a notion to sneak out the back way and run like ----!
You scared too, Sleepy?”
“Yeah--scared I won’t inherit that chain.”
Somehow them two _hombres_ seems to be waiting for us in that saloon.
The sheriff is leaning against the bar, while the prosecutor sets on a
card-table sort of fussing with his watch-chain nervous-like.
A couple of punchers are playing pool, and a third one--the feller who
met them out in the street--is trying to make a little yellow dog do
tricks. This last puncher is about seven-eighths drunk.
Me and Hashknife braces up to the bar and calls for cigars. We took
hooch in a strange town just once; now we takes cigars.
“Nice weather we’re having,” says Hashknife pleasant-like.
“Up to now,” admits the sheriff.
He don’t look bad to me. Any time yuh find a _hombre_ who ties his
holster down--well, anyway, they don’t live long.
“Dang fool dawg won’t do nothin’!” complains the puncher, flopping his
arms nervous-like. “Want to show him off and he won’t do a darn thing.
Teached that dawg myself. Want to see him play dead?”
“Shut up!” snaps the sheriff. “Dog’s got more sense than you have.”
“Thasso?”
The puncher gets woolly.
“Well, well! Let’s have a drink. Still got money left and more where
that comes from; eh, sheriff?”
“Shut up!” howls the sheriff, yanking him around and shoving him out on
the sidewalk.
They has a few words and then the puncher weaves back across the street.
Then the sheriff comes back in.
“My, you sure know how to razoo a feller, don’tcha?” applauds Hashknife.
“You’re the sheriff, ain’tcha?”
“I am. Why?”
“Nothing much, but being as you’re the sheriff I thought maybe you’d
like to know that somebody shoots at me and my pardner as we rides up
the road.”
“Did, eh?”
The sheriff shows interest and so does Spooner.
“Somebody shot at you?” asks Spooner wondering-like.
“Right at us,” grins Hashknife. “Whatcha know about that?”
“Did you--uh--see either of them?” asks Spooner.
“Did I say it was two men? Now, maybe I did.”
Spooner swallers hard and scratches his chin.
“Seen ’em both,” nods Hashknife, plastering down the loose wrapper on
his cigar. “Shot one. Left the other intact to bring in the body. Funny
thing; you know it? Feller ought to know how to shoot before he tries
such didoes as that, don’tcha think?”
“You telling me the truth?” asks the sheriff.
Hashknife grins into his eyes for a moment and then half-turns away. I
knew what was coming ’cause I’ve seen it before--a pivot punch.
It caught the sheriff at the butt of his left ear, and for the next
half-minute that sheriff was as dead to the world as if he had spent
seven million years in a cemetery.
Spooner almost falls off the table, and the two pool-players stops their
game sudden-like.
“He doubted my word,” says Hashknife, rubbing his knuckles. “He didn’t
show good judgment.”
I was watching things--me. I seen the bartender, who is standing sort
of behind Hashknife, reverse a bottle in his hand, and my bullet sure
ruined one good quart of corn-juice.
“Aw-w-w-w-w-w!” wails the bartender, wiping his eyes. “Whatcha do that
for?”
“Put your hands on the bar,” says I. “Next time you might remember that
the top end of a bottle is the neck--not the handle.”
* * * * *
The sheriff heaves a big sigh and then sets up. He moves his head like
one of them mechanical doll things, and then he squints up at us. Man,
I hankered for a chance to tie his mustache behind his neck. He sort of
masticates slow-like, and gets to his feet.
“You ... hit ... me?” he asks, gawping at Hashknife.
“Yeah. It pains me to have my word doubted.”
“I didn’t doubt your word, stranger.”
“My, I’m glad,” says Hashknife.
“Honest I am. I sure accepts your apology, and I feels that we’re going
to get along fine. I ain’t never had a sheriff for a friend.
“I kinda like your friend here--this one with the visible watch-chain.
Name’s Spooner, ain’t it? Nice name. What does he do for a living?”
“I am the prosecuting attorney,” says Spooner.
“Well, well! I thought you owned the mint. I apologize--to the mint.”
“You looking for trouble?” asks the sheriff. “’Cause if you are----”
“I should say not,” says Hashknife. “Not us. Me and Sleepy are two
little doves setting on an olive-branch. Live and let live, say we.
“Yuh see, Sleepy just busted that bottle on general principles. He’s so
strong for temperance that he just has to bust booze.”
“Yeah?” says the sheriff, feeling of his jaw. “Yeah?”
He walks to the door and looks back.
“About a mile below here,” says Hashknife. “They was across the river.”
The sheriff grunts something and walks out, and behind him goes Spooner,
looking back all the way. One of the punchers puts down his cue and
walks over to us.
“Gents,” says he, “I’ll buy. I never seen anything better in my life. I
just needed one ball to beat ‘Slim,’ and when you hit Ells I picked up
the ball and put it in my own pocket. I’ll buy you a drink and a cigar
for your pardner.”
“I’ve backslid,” says I, “so we’ll cancel the cigar.”
“Something with ‘U. S. Revenue’ stamped on the cork,” says Hashknife,
“and I’ll open it myself.”
“You’re the doctor,” says the bartender.
“I ain’t suspicious, you understand,” grins Hashknife, “but I’ve got to
stick in this vale of tears a while. You know a _hombre_ by the name of
Toothpick Thompson?”
The bartender shakes his head, and so does the two punchers.
“Never heard of him,” says one of the boys. “I’m Al Stingle, and this is
Slim Smith. The best thing Slim does is play pool.”
“You skin me every danged time,” complains Slim.
“Me and Slim works for the Cross L outfit. In fact we’re about all that
is left of the outfit; ain’t we, Slim?”
“That’s awful true,” nods Slim sad-like. “Wouldn’t be surprized to
wake up any morning and find that we’ve been stolen. Cows just sort
of e-vaporate--why not punchers?”
“That tells it,” nods Al. “E-vaporation. You fellers looking for jobs?”
“Know anything about the Bar 80?” asks Hashknife.
“Bar 80?” asks Slim. “Oh, yeah, we know something about ’em. It ain’t
Bar 80 no more--it’s the JHE outfit. About a year ago they changes the
brand.”
“Anything wrong about that?” asks Hashknife.
“----, no. They lets us alone and we lets them alone, but they don’t
get any love-notes from us, being as they’re the snake-hunters what
sent Shorty Blewett to the pen. Didn’t know Shorty, did you? No? Well,
they grabbed Shorty and sent him up for five years--on JHE evidence.”
“Shorty worked with you fellers?”
“Uh-huh. Shorty got a idea he could find out how the cows were being
rustled, and he--well, the darn fool got caught.”
“That’s what they said,” corrects Al. “Shorty wasn’t no rustler. It was
a dirty deal, if you asks me.”
“Where did they get the idea for the JHE brand?”
“Eastern outfit, I reckon. Brill is supposed to own it.”
“Brill?” asks Hashknife.
“Yeah. He’s a cowman all right,” says Slim. “They brands all the Bar 80
stuff over again. Me and Al has a couple of Bar 80 saddle-horses.”
“Cross L loses a lot of stock?” asks Hashknife.
“About all they’ve got,” says Slim. “Every month is like a hard Winter.
The old man--Jack Older, our boss--has lost about thirty-five hundred
head.
“I’d ’a’ killed somebody a long time ago if it belonged to me. Why, he’s
just set around and let somebody annex all his wealth. How the ---- it’s
done I dunno, but she’s being done, stranger.”
“Anybody else losing stock?”
“Yeah. The Lazy U has lost about all they owned, and the JHE has been
hoodled out of a lot. It’s some system, I’d tell a man.”
“Whatcha reckon them fellers shot at us for?” asks Hashknife.
“Told anybody you was coming?” asks Slim.
“Didn’t know it ourselves.”
“This is one peculiar country,” admits Al. “If I was you I’d look out
a little when you’re around the sheriff. I know you fellers are plumb
weaned from milk, but Ells is a bad _hombre_ to cross.”
“How about Spooner?” I asks.
“Coyote,” grins Al. “Never packs a gun. Only thing that saves him. Run
out to the Cross L and visit us. Old man likes company--the kind you
don’t have to keep your gun handy for. So-long.”
“Now,” says Hashknife, “I wonder what that feller over in that doorway
is staring at us for? Lordy, a side-show would coin money in a place
like this, where they gawps so hard at an ordinary he-man. Now he’s
coming over to see us. Maybe he’s nearsighted, Sleepy.”
* * * * *
The feller is a tall, rangy-looking _hombre_ with mouse-colored hair
and a slight limp in his left hind leg. He pilgrims up in front of us
and stares at Hashknife.
“Howdy,” says Hashknife. “Nice weather.”
“Uh-huh. You wishin’ to get jobs?”
“Have to wish for ’em?” asks Hashknife innocent-like.
The feller fingers his chin and glances across the street.
“I need a couple of good men. I own the JHE outfit.”
“All of it?”
“I said I was the owner.”
“I’m kinda hard of hearing,” says Hashknife. “Didn’t that used to was
the Bar 80?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Whatcha say your name was--is?”
“My name is Brill.”
“Brill? Used to be a feller down Pecos way by that name. You related to
him?”
“I don’t know--for sure.”
“You don’t know much of anything for sure--do yuh?”
He stares at Hashknife, and I can see Brill’s ears get red.
“I reckon you don’t want them jobs,” says he soft-like.
“Not if we has to wish for them. Didja ever hear the story about the
old couple and the fairy? The old lady was having a hard time trying
to make the old coffee-mill work. Fairy shows up and tells ’em she’ll
grant three wishes. The old lady ain’t very far-sighted; so she up and
wishes for a new coffee-mill.
“That makes the old man sore as ---- to think of wasting one whole wish,
and he up and says:
“‘That’s a ---- of a wish! I wish you had it hanging on the end of your
nose!’
“See what he done? Well, they had to use up the third wish to get that
coffee-mill loose.”
“What has a fairy-tale got to do with me?” asks Brill.
“Thisaway,” explains Hashknife. “Somebody--it wasn’t no fairy--says to
you--
“‘I wish you to give them two pelicans some jobs on the JHE.’
“That’s one wish. _Sabe?_ Then you asks us to wish for them jobs, which
accounts for wish number two.
“Now supposing we all gets our wish? There’s still one wish coming,
ain’t there?
“Sure is, and I want to tell you this: Me or you or your fairy-friend is
going to use up that third wish--wishing to ---- that they hadn’t never
wished. See what I mean?”
“I sure don’t,” states Brill. “Do you or don’t you want them jobs?”
“We ain’t wishing today, Mister Brill.”
“Of course you _sabe_ your own business,” says he, making a toothpick
out of a match and picking his yellow teeth. That toothpick makes
Hashknife sore.
“Do we?” he snaps. “Well, by the horns on the moon, we never came to
this hay-wire hamlet to ask anybody about it. I reckon we’ll wiggle
along in spite of our business.”
“In spite of it,” nods Brill. “Some business is a handicap.”
“Not when she’s your own and you mind it!” snaps Hashknife.
We seen Spooner just inside the door of the building across the street
as Brill went inside.
“I hope you’re getting satisfaction, Sleepy,” grins Hashknife. “It
appears that things are happening--things we never started. Beginning
to feel romantic, cowboy. What do you think?”
“I think I’d like to play a game of pool to settle my nerves.”
We plays a few games, but it ain’t much fun when you’ve got to keep one
eye on a hostile bartender and the other on a pool-ball, so we finally
decides to stable our broncs and find a place to hive up. We meets the
sheriff at the door, and he steps to one side to let us out.
“Still here, eh?” says he, trying to appear friendly.
“Yeah,” admits Hashknife. “We can’t deny it, sheriff.”
“Figure on staying long?”
“Let me see.”
Hashknife counts on his fingers.
“July, August, September, October, Nov-- Election is in November, ain’t
it?”
“Going to run for office?”
“No-o-o-o-o, I just wants to vote for a candidate.”
“Who?”
“The man who runs against you.”
“Say, what in ---- are you driving at?” he snaps. “Seems to me that
you’re mixing into things that don’t concern you. You can’t run this
town. _Sabe?_”
“Naw, sir,” grins Hashknife. “You’ve got the wrong idea. She don’t need
running, but she sure does need cleaning. Whatcha want us to go to work
for the JHE for?”
“Whatcha talking about?”
He glares at us and hooks his thumbs into his belt.
“What do I know about the JHE and your jobs?”
“Some mustache,” says I, thinking out loud. “What do you do when you
want to eat? Pin ’em to your ears?”
“None of your ---- business! If I was you I’d drift real sudden.”
“You would,” nods Hashknife; “but we ain’t that kind of whippoorwills.
There ain’t no hay-wire about us. Let’s go and see what the stage drug
in.”
There’s a crowd around the stage. The sheriff horns right in behind us,
and everybody seems to be talking at once. There’s a wounded man and a
tale of how some bushwhacker shot from the top of the hill. They gets a
doctor and fusses over him.
“Going along nice as you please when somebody shoots down at us and Sam
keels over,” explains the driver.
“Shooting from above you?” asks Hashknife, turning away from looking at
the wounded man.
“Said so, didn’t I? I seen the smoke from his gun.”
“Must ’a’ had a long-barreled gun with a crook at the end,” grins
Hashknife.
“What do you mean?” asks the driver mean-like.
“Bullet went in low and comes out high. You should have said you was on
top of the hill and the bushwhacker was below.”
“Sheriff, will you herd this crowd outside?” asks the doctor. “I can’t
do a danged thing with all this shoving around.”
There’s plenty of talk out there on the sidewalk, but the driver sort of
shuts up since Hashknife called him. The wounded man ain’t very popular,
being as he’s sort of a gunman.
“Going after the bushwhacker, sheriff?” asks somebody.
The sheriff is looking at me and Hashknife, and don’t answer the
question. Pretty soon he jerks his head sideways and starts up the
sidewalk, and we saunters along behind him.
We walks into his office, and he nods toward a pair of chairs. We places
’em against the wall and ain’t no more than got seated when here comes
Spooner. He peers back up the street and eases himself into a chair.
* * * * *