“How about five hundred?”
Hashknife puckers up his lips and then shakes his head.
“Apiece,” says Ells. “We ain’t pikers.”
“Pocket money,” says Hashknife. “You know what it means.”
Ells drums on his table for a moment and then turns to Spooner.
“Think we can raise the ante, Spooner?”
“If they’ll leave right now we’ll make it--one--thousand--apiece.”
“That’s a regular bet,” says Hashknife. “We’ll call yuh.”
“I’ll get it,” says Spooner nervous-like. “You set right here.”
He pilgrims out, and the three of us sets there waiting. After a while
Ells says--
“What guarantee have we got that you’ll stay away?”
“Oh, yeah,” says Hashknife. “The guarantee. Not any, sheriff, except
that we play a square game--in a square game. Me and my pardner
plays our cards off the top of the deck until we finds that it ain’t
customary.”
“The doctor don’t think that Sam Peele will pull through.”
“We don’t know him,” says Hashknife, “so his demise don’t irritate us
none.”
“Funny thing,” says Ells, “but I don’t know your names.”
“That’s all right,” grins Hashknife. “You’re going to pay cash, ain’t
yuh?”
Just then Spooner edges inside and walks over to the table. A couple of
punchers rides past, going out of town, and Spooner turns until they’re
out of sight. Then he digs inside his coat and hauls out two bundles.
“Thousand in each bunch,” says he. “Count ’em.”
“Your word is good,” says Hashknife. “Make any difference which way we
leave town?”
“Better go the way you came,” says Ells. “The JHE is the other way, and
maybe somebody turned Bennie loose by this time.”
We didn’t even tell them good-by. We shook the dust of Badger City off
our feet as fast as possible.
“John D. Vanderbilt,” says I, as we tops the first rise, “what
in ---- did we have that was worth a thousand dollars?”
Hashknife swings off the road and leads me up a little coulée for a
hundred yards off the road. Then he turns in his saddle and grins at me.
“Darned if I know, cowboy. Ain’t it romantic? But I know this much: They
don’t intend to let us enjoy it.”
“Is that so? We’ve got it, ain’t we? Why won’t we enjoy it?”
“I didn’t say we wouldn’t enjoy it, Sleepy; I said they didn’t intend to
let us. You don’t look ahead none. Didja see them two punchers what rode
out of town when Spooner came in?”
“Uh-huh. Where’s the cloud effect?”
“Down the road. Spooner and Ells ain’t giving away two thousand dollars.
If we went down there we’d stand as much show as a celluloid dog chasing
an asbestos cat through ----. One of ’em is Bennie Lober.”
“What will we do--cut across the hills?”
“Safest thing to do, Sleepy, but I hate to do it. Let’s hide out here
until Spooner and Ells ride past.”
“What makes you think----”
“Cinch. Spooner has got to have some reason for drawing two thousand.
Reckon he said he was going to buy cows or something. _Sabe?_ We holds
him up. Sheriff is with him and plugs us proper. Sheriff takes the
responsibility off the bushwhackers.”
“Too far-fetched,” says I. “You’ve got the imagination of a hop-head.”
“Yeah? Here comes Ells and Spooner.”
They swings past us and off down the road, and then Hashknife leads back
to the road and points toward town.
“We ain’t left nothing,” says I. “Why go back?”
“To leave something, Sleepy,” he grins. “Going to put two thousand in
the bank.”
“In ... the ... bank? Us?”
“Yeah. Romantic, don’t you think?”
“Romantic ----! Insanity! Absolutely the craziest idea I ever heard.”
* * * * *
There ain’t no use arguing with him. He’s good-hearted up to a certain
point, and after that he begins to get childish.
He knowed how to transact the business; so I gave him my bundle. It was
a sad affair for me.
Then we just got on to our broncs as the sheriff, the prosecutor and
the other two ride in. Man, you’d ’a’ thought we’d just robbed the
bank instead of putting money in it. Questions and answers were null
and void.
Their first offering of lead seemed to connect with Gray Wolf and he
dropped like a log. I lit flat on my back in the dust, but I got my
Winchester loose as I turned over, and proceeded to crawl close to my
supine bronc.
I seen Hashknife fading out in a cloud of dust, and then I organizes
for action. One of the punchers has got inside a saloon across the
street, another is behind a wagon in front of the blacksmith shop on
the same side of the street.
I seen Spooner duck down at the end of the board sidewalk, but I
can’t see anything of the sheriff. A bullet cuts a nice crease across
the fender of my saddle, and it makes me sore. I picks on that wagon
first, and the man behind just stands for five shots, after which he
crawls behind the shop, dragging one leg.
Spooner can’t do no shooting without exposing himself; so I transfers
my affections to the saloon window, where the other feller is shooting
at me. I sure fanned that palace of sin a-plenty.
I busted every window in the front of the place and then I proceeds to
cut my initials in the front door. All I’ve got left is the period when
I sees Spooner duck low and try to make a sneak.
I had only one shell left in the gun, and when I cut loose I seen
Spooner do a high-dive on his head.
“Hope I didn’t ruin that watch-chain,” says I out loud, and a voice
behind me says----
“Lay down that gun!”
It’s Brill. He sneaked up on me from the rear. I crawls away from my
rifle and unhooks my belt.
“Got him, Bill,” says Brill, and then Ells comes across the street.
He glares at me and then at Brill.
“I’d have killed him,” says he mean-like, “but you beat me to it.”
“You’re a nice little sheriff,” says I. “They ought to trade your jail
for a cemetery.”
“Where did the other one go?” asks Brill.
“Got away!” snaps Ells. “We’ll get him, too.”
Badger City sure comes down to escort me to durance vile. My, they sure
was brave and bold to take a chance thataway. They not only hoodled me
to jail, but they abused me considerable.
“What was the matter, sheriff?” asks a feller who looks like he might
have been inside that saloon.
“Held up Spooner and took two thousand dollars. This is one of the
fellers who bushed Sam Peele.”
“Spooner’s got a creased head,” states somebody, “and Ben Lober’s got a
busted leg.”
“That gray bronc is up again,” informs another. “Got creased. Whatcha
want done with him, sheriff?”
“Put him in my corral, Ed.”
They hustles me into a cell, and then the sheriff herds everybody
outside. He comes over to the bars and glares at me.
“Where is that money?” he asks.
“In the bank.”
“In the bank?”
He looks foolish-like at me, and I nods.
“Give me the book!”
“Whatcha think I am--a schoolhouse?”
Just then Spooner comes in. Two other fellers tries to horn in, but the
sheriff orders ’em out.
Spooner is a sorry-looking fat man. He’s got a big muffler tied around
his head, and his face is plumb gory.
“Get ’em both, Ells?” he asks, holding his head with both hands.
“Just one. You better see a doctor.”
“Oh, ---- the doctor!” he groans. “Where is the money? The boys are
talking of a lynching, and I hoped we had ’em both. Where’s the money,
I asked you?”
“What boys?”
“What’s the difference? I asked about the money, Bill.”
Just then comes a plaintive sort of a voice from near the door:
“Money ain’t everything, Spooner. Feller hadn’t ought to get to loving
money so much that he forgets to square-deal his feller men. It sure is
a nice thing to give away your money, but you spoils the whole thing
when you tries to commit murder to get it back.”
I sees Spooner and the sheriff whirl around, and then their hands go up
slow.
“Two Y’s in a row,” says Hashknife’s voice. “Where’s my pardner?”
“In the little coop on the left,” says I. “Locked up like a gate.”
“Unlock it,” orders Hashknife, “and don’t look so bilious, sheriff.”
It sure wrenched their souls to see me walk out of there, and it hurt a
lot worse when I took away their guns.
“You’ll never get away,” says Ells, and Hashknife grins.
“Thasso? Well, well! Sleepy, we’ll take their hats, and that drunken
gang won’t never know us.”
“That hat cost me twenty-five dollars,” wails Ells. “You----”
“Aw, shut up!” yelps Hashknife. “Get into that cell--both of yuh!”
Hashknife takes the keys and locks the cell door.
“There’s going to be a lynching tonight,” says I. “Them uncurried wolves
are going to get lit up proper-like and then they’re going to come down
here.”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” chuckles Hashknife. “Shall we stay and see the fun?”
“Nope. The fun will come in the morning when they discovers their
mistake.”
“Gents,” says Spooner, “upon my word of honor----”
“My ----!” gasps Hashknife. “Wouldn’t that rasp yuh? Honor! Where is
your bronc, Sleepy?”
“In the sheriff’s corral. You get him, will you? You look like Ells in
that hat.”
Then Ells began to curse me and Spooner begins to plead. Spooner was
willing to do anything or promise anything if I’d let him out, but
Ells cursed me and my ancestors from the beginning of time.
Then Spooner chides Ells for crabbing his chance of touching my heart,
and then they lays off me and practises on each other. I’m danged if I
know which is on top when Hashknife yells at me, but I didn’t have no
bets down anyway.
* * * * *
We threw the keys into the corral and rode out of town, Hashknife’s new
hat flopping in the wind, and mine--that hard-boiled thing--skidding
around from ear to ear.
“Where are we going now?” I asks as Badger City fades out of view.
“Where? I’ve got a idea, Sleepy.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Uh-huh. Going to bust up a cow outfit.”
“Well, that’s a nice thought, Hashknife. You sure do think of sweet
things to do, cowboy. Puts two thousand in the bank in a town where
we don’t never dare to go, locks the court-house inside the jail and
then opines to bust up a cow outfit.”
“Yeah, she is a little romantic, ain’t it?”
“Romantic? Good night and fare thee well! What’s the idea, Hashknife?”
“Case of getting sore, Sleepy. Don’t never let your angry passions rise.
You likely won’t, ’cause you ain’t got no imagination, which ain’t
nothing against you. _Sabe?_ I’ve got lots of imagination; therefore I
gets mad easy.
“Yeah, I’m awful mad. I’m so danged mad that I turns phil--phil-- What’s
a feller called what does things for folks without getting paid for it?”
“A ---- fool.”
“So classified, Sleepy, but knowed socially as a
phil--phil--an--thro--fist.”
“A rose by any other name don’t lose its smell,” says I.
“All right, cowboy. Now this here Crosby person has been getting the
worst of it, ain’t he? Ain’t the Cross L been getting a dirty deal,
too? The JHE loses cows, and one perfectly good puncher gets sent up
for rustling.
“Now it’s a cinch that one puncher never done it all, Sleepy. Them
cows just sort of e-vaporates as it were. Funny conditions confront
us, cowboy--very funny.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” says I. “Very funny. We sold nothing for two thousand
dollars and put the money where we don’t dare go after it. Yeah, it’s
sure funny.”
We jogs along in the gloom for a while and then Hashknife says:
“There’s a light over there, Sleepy, and like as not it’s Crosby’s
place. We want to see him.”
“Lead on, McBluff, and I’ll be danged if I’ll be first to yelp, ‘I’ve
got a plenty.’ That’s Shakespeare.”
“Where’s he now, Sleepy?”
“Been dead for years and years.”
“Aw, that’s too ---- bad. Still, we’ve all got to go when our time
comes.”
We rode into the yard of the ranch-house and dismounted. Somebody is
playing the organ, but they quits as soon as Hashknife knocks on the
door.
Hashknife starts to knock again just as the door opens and leaves him
standing there with his fist upraised in Molly Crosby’s face. She
stares at us, and then the old man walks in behind her and looks over
her shoulder.
“Come in, Spooner,” says the old man. “Howdy, Ells.”
“My gosh!” grunts Hashknife. “Take off your hat, Sleepy.”
“Well,” says Molly, “well, I--I----”
“Tha’s all right,” grins Hashknife. “We borrowed their hats and forgot
to put our own on after we got through with ’em. Can we come in?”
“I--I beg your pardon,” says Molly, “I forgot. Come right in.”
Old man Crosby is a white-haired old gent with a resigned look on his
face like he didn’t have nothing to live for and was glad of it.
“Daddy,” says Molly, pointing at Hashknife, “this is the gentleman who
hit Ben Lober.”
“That’s nothing,” grins Hashknife. “Sleepy busted Bennie’s leg and
danged near scalped Spooner.”
The old man stares at us and then at Molly.
“Spooner?” he asks, looking back at Molly; but she didn’t seem excited.
“Uh-huh,” says I. “We locked the sheriff and Mister Spooner in their own
jail, and then we wore their hats as sort of disguise.”
“God be with you,” says the old man pious-like. “I don’t understand
it at all, but I suppose it is all right. I want to thank you for
protecting my little girl.”
“Pshaw, she didn’t need much,” grins Hashknife. “She started the music
and I sung him to sleep.”
“Have you had any supper?” asks Molly.
“Not since dinner,” grins Hashknife, “but don’t you go to no
trouble----”
Molly patted her old dad on the top of the head and went into the
kitchen, smiling back at us. The old man rubs his hands and sort of
relaxes.
“What do you know about Spooner and Ells?” asks Hashknife.
“Well, I don’t quite understand your question exactly,” says the old man
thoughtful-like. “Ells seems a capable officer, although he seems unable
to stop cattle-stealing. Spooner has a very good record as prosecutor, I
think.”
“Convicted Shorty Blewett, didn’t he?” asks Hashknife soft-like, and the
old man nods.
“Yes, he convicted Shorty. I dunno. Seems to me that there’s a lot of
difference between law and justice in this world.”
“Amen,” says Hashknife. “This country ain’t what she used to be.”
“This country?”
The old man sets up straight and stares at Hashknife.
“This country is going to the dogs!”
“Yeah,” nods Hashknife. “I’ve heard ’em barking. Have you ever
considered getting outside help on this rustling proposition?”
“I have. I’ve sent letters to the Cattlemen’s Association asking for
help, but they don’t even trouble about answering. I guess we’ll have
to work out our own salvation.”
“Never answered, eh?” says Hashknife. “Why don’t all you fellers combine
and hire some good trailers?”
“We might do that, but I don’t think it would help much. Our sheriff
has been doing all he can, but it’s a blind trail. There is absolutely
no trail.”
“Does Spooner or Ells know you wanted to get help on it--outside help?”
“No-o-o-o, I don’t----”
“Daddy, you told Mister Spooner you were going to,” says Molly from the
doorway. “Don’t you remember?”
“That’s right, Molly, I did. I guess I was a little discouraged that
day, and I told Spooner I was tired of a sheriff that rode circles all
day and did no good. Yes, I remember telling him I was going to get a
couple of detectives by the first of the month. I’d forgotten it.”
* * * * *
Hashknife looks at me and sort of nods.
“What did Spooner say?”
“Seemed pleased. Offered to help all he could. Spooner is----”
“That was sure nice of him,” admits Hashknife. “Has anybody but the
sheriff ever investigated the rustling game around here?”
Molly turns and walks back into the kitchen, and the old man seems to
get very thoughtful. Then he says soft-like----
“Shorty said he had an idea how it was being done, but----”
“I know,” nods Hashknife. “They’re clever, but there’s such a thing as
being too danged clever. The JHE is the biggest outfit, ain’t it?”
“Yes. It’s the old Bar 80 outfit. Brill is said to be the owner, but we
all know it is Eastern capital.”
“Is it a bigger outfit now than it was as the old Bar 80?”
“Oh, yes. The Bar 80 was just a small outfit--smaller than mine or the
Cross L.”
“What kind of a feller is the Cross L owner?”
“Fine. Me and Jim Older came to this country together, and from the
looks of things we’ll go broke together. You’d like Jim. Now would you
mind answering a few questions?”
“Shoot.”
“You aiming to go into the cow business?”
“Nope. Don’t ask us what the trouble was in Badger City, ’cause we ain’t
so sure yet. Me and Sleepy ain’t so awful bad, and we’ll come out in the
wash.
“Pshaw, we ain’t never introduced ourselves, have we? My name’s Hartley,
knowed as Hashknife. My pardner is Sleepy Stevens, called Sleepy ’cause
he ain’t.”
The old man seems to enjoy the introduction, and then he says:
“Boys, I can’t believe you’re very bad. I can usually tell from a man’s
looks, and you don’t look bad.”
“Know what I am?” grins Hashknife. “Know what they calls a feller who
does things for folks who never done nothing for him?”
“I know,” nods Crosby. “I know what they usually calls him.”
“Well, that’s me,” grins Hashknife. “In polite society they calls me a
phil-an-thro-fist. _Sabe?_ A phil-an-thro-fist is meek and mild until
you angers ’em to a certain extent, and then--look out.
“I’m past that certain extent and going on up. I’m going to have
re-venge, or I’ll promise to go out in the hills and eat bunch-grass
with the rest of the jassacks.”
“I dunno,” says the old man, shaking his head. “It’s Greek to me, but I
feel that my ignorance isn’t going to hinder you none.”
We sets there silent for a long time. The old man acts sort of
thoughtful. I reckon me and Hashknife has used up about two cigarets
when the old man says:
“Nope, I don’t reckon I _sabe_ your mission, young feller, but I ain’t
losing my appetite over it. I think Molly has supper ready.”
She did, and I’d tell a man that Molly Crosby can cook rings around
anything that ever hit a kitchen. She could fry a dish-rag and make
it taste like a venison steak.
She ain’t beautiful, Molly ain’t, except when she smiles. She’s kinda
sad-looking, but when she smiles she’d make the Queen of Sheba look
like an Aztec idol of mud.
We’re almost through eating when somebody knocks on the door. Me and
Hashknife slips our guns loose under the table, but the visitor was a
stranger to us.
He’s a man about as old as Crosby, thin as a whisper of wind, and he’s
got a big mop of white hair over a face that might belong to a poet. It
sure wasn’t a practical cow visage.
Then we meets Jack Older of the Cross L. I looks at the faces of them
two and I can see where the rustlers have had a cinch. They’re about as
belligerent as a pair of snow-shoe rabbits. I ain’t no plaster saint,
but I’d as soon think of stealing from some widder women as them two.
“I thought the sheriff was here,” says Older. “I saw his hat in the
other room and wondered at it, because Slim told me about some trouble
in town.
“It seems that two fellows held up Spooner and took two thousand away
from him, and in the fracas Spooner was creased on the head and Ben
Lober was shot in the leg. They caught one of the outlaws. Art McFee
told Slim that it was the same two who shot Sam Peele. They’re going
to take the prisoner away from the sheriff tonight and hang him.”
“My, my!” says Hashknife. “Ain’t that awful? The poo-o-o-o-o-o-r kid!”
Molly burst out laughing, and Older looks foolish-like at us.
“I’m the one they’re going to lynch,” says I. “We plead guilty to
shooting Sam Peele--leastwise we think we did--but we didn’t steal no
money. Badger City got the wrong hunch, and some of ’em paid for the
mistake.”
“I don’t understand it, Jim,” says Crosby. “She’s some mixed. Ben Lober
tried to grab hold of Molly today and Mister Hartley knocked him down.”
“And hung him up by the heels,” states Older. “Slim told me about it.
You hit the sheriff, too, didn’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” admits Hashknife, rolling a smoke. “Seems like me and Sleepy
got off to a flying start in Badger City.”
“Slim didn’t seem to know for sure,” says Older, “but Ben Lober was
jabbering something about detectives when they loaded him on to a
wagon.”
“We’re phil-an-thro-fists--detectives with a reverse English,” grins
Hashknife.
“I dunno,” says Older. “I sure don’t. Glad to meetcha just the same.
Slim and Al both said you looked like he-men.”
“How many head of stock have you lost?” asks Hashknife.
“Well----” Older rubs his mop of white hair--“I don’t know. I had
about two thousand head in the Spring, but Slim says it won’t total
five hundred now.”
“Geemighty! Has the JHE lost that many too?”
“I don’t know how many. Of course they’re a big outfit, and they don’t
confide in us small raisers very much.”
“Not small raisers--big losers,” corrects Hashknife. “Don’t the sheriff
ever get any hunch about who does the dirty work?”
“Does all he can, I reckon, but there is no clue. The stock just fades
out.”
“Aren’t you afraid the sheriff will be after you?” asks Molly. “He might
come out here and----”
“Not tonight, ma’am. They’ll have to dynamite the jail, I reckon,” and
then he turns to Crosby.
“Get a sheet of paper and a pen.”
Molly got the required articles and put them on the table.
“Address that envelope to the Cattlemen’s Association at Helena. Fine.
Now fold up that sheet of paper, put it inside and seal it.
“What time does the stage leave Badger City? Nine o’clock? All right,
Mister Crosby; you take the letter down and post it about eight.”
“But there’s nothing inside it,” protests Crosby, staring at Hashknife.
“It’s the things you can’t read that will worry you the most. We’ll
put our broncs back of the barn and sleep in the hay-loft. Good night,
folks.”
Me and Hashknife argues up in that loft until he shoves some fox-tail
grass in my mouth, and then we goes to sleep.
* * * * *
The next morning we gets a big smile from Molly, along with ham and
eggs, and then Hashknife putters around the little blacksmith shop,
whistling some old honkatonk tune all the time. Then he takes me with
him for a ride. He ropes a sample of every brand on the range and
takes measurements.
“If you wanted to tell me what you’re doing I’d listen,” says I. “I’m
plumb tired of asking questions and getting answered with a grin. For
gosh sake, can’t yuh do nothing but grin?”
“Phil-an-thro-fists has to grin, Sleepy. Dog-gone it, that’s all they
get out of life. You ought to grin more--honest yuh had, cowboy. You’re
getting wrinkles like the Grand Cañon. Get joyful and sing a little,
can’t yuh?”
“Now whatcha want to do--add all them figures and find out how much
leather it takes to make a envelope for a cow?”
“Figures don’t lie, Sleepy.”
“But liars do a lot of figuring, Hashknife. When do we go back and hold
up the bank for our money? I’ve got a hunch that this here country is
getting too brittle to hold us. Think the sheriff and prosecutor are
going to lay down under this kind of treatment?”
“Can’t prognosticate a thing about mean folks like them, Sleepy. I’m
sure beginning to feel sorry for them. Honest to gosh, my heart bleeds
for them poor misguided officials, but like Fate I must go ahead.
“Ever read that poem which was written by a feller whose name sounds
like an answer in Chinese? Something about the moving finger writes
and having written moves on. I don’t know the rest, Sleepy, but she
means that it’s all cut and dried, and it don’t make no difference
if your gun does stick. _Sabe?_”
“I don’t,” says I. “I’m for him in that moving-on stuff, but the rest
of your discourse sounds like a gambler kissing a pocket-piece before
he sits into a game. I think you’re crazy if you asks me.”
Hashknife don’t get sore. He just grins at me sort of superior-like,
which is worse than a cussing. Slim rides past that noon, and he seems
astonished to see us setting on the top pole of the corral.
“Well, well!” says he, climbing up to us. “Never expected to see you
two out in plain sight. Don’t you know that the sheriff has a posse
after you? What do you mean by holding up the stage and then setting
out here in sight of all the world?”
“Did we rob a stage?” asks Hashknife.
“Verdict of the sheriff,” grins Slim. “That’s whatcha gets for busting
him on the jaw. Held up the stage at Dancing Fork and swiped the U. S.
mail. The driver says it was the same fellers who shot Sam Peele and
held up Spooner.”
“We’re awful mean _hombres_, don’tcha think, Slim?” asks Hashknife.
“Sure are,” grins Slim, rolling a smoke. “Ve-e-e-e-ry bad. Last night a
bunch went down to the jail to lynch a murderer. They sure took the jail
apart. Seems that Spooner and Ells put up a awful fight, but-- Say, it’s
funny.
“They danged near choked Ells to death, and Spooner got a gun bent over
his head, but the murderer got away. Ells swears that he got away in the
fight, and now he’s sore as ---- at everybody concerned ’cause this same
_hombre_ helped to rob the stage.
“Lober was on the stage, too, and swears it was you. They tried to take
him out in a wagon, but it rode too rough.”
“Reckon they’ll come out here?” I asks.
“Yeah. I heard some of ’em speak about it. Sheriff told ’em that Crosby
was a old friend of one of you; so I came out ahead. Crosby is a friend
of mine, and Molly is one hy-iu little lady, y’betcha.”
“Spooner’s kinda shining around Molly, ain’t he?” asks Hashknife.
“Trying to,” admits Slim, and just then Al Stingle rides in.
“Better get down,” says he. “Visitors coming.”
We climbs down and the four of us walks down to the house. Molly and her
dad meets us at the door, and I can see that they know what’s coming.
“Let me talk to them, boys,” says the old man. “I know what they want,
but I also know you never held up the stage.”
“Did they believe you when you said that Shorty wasn’t a rustler?” asks
Hashknife soft-like. “Did they?”
Molly’s face gets a shade whiter and she steps back against the door
when Hashknife asks that. The old man glances at her and shakes his
head.
“Wh-what do you know about Shorty?” she whispers. “What----”
“Very little--but enough,” says Hashknife. “Maybe I know more than that.
Now you folks just stand here and let ’em ride up. They’ll naturally be
ready for trouble and sort of hard to handle, but pretty soon they
relaxes and it’s hard to get up speed again. Me and Sleepy will be just
around the corner until such relaxation takes place.”
He shoves me around the corner and we stands there flat against the
wall. Believe me, I gets as thin as a cigaret-paper.
In about a minute we hears the bunch ride into the yard. Crosby calls
Ells by name, and I hears Brill say something to Slim and get a short
answer.
“Is the Lazy U in the habit of harboring outlaws?” asks Crosby.
“No,” says Ells, “but they said something about going to work for you.”