“Since when did stage-robbers tell the sheriff where they were going to
look for work?”
Several men seem to laugh out loud, and the tension is gone.
“Well, he----” begins Ells, and just then Hashknife steps out with me
right at his side.
Neither of us has a gun in our hands. Hashknife seems to be fumbling in
his vest pocket for something.
That posse just sets there with their mouths open. Reminds me of a horse
caught flat-footed when the barrier went up.
“You----” begins Ells, staring at us, and then he stops.
“They wouldn’t be looking for jobs,” says Hashknife slow-like. “Outlaws
never look for jobs, but they might hold office.”
“Whatcha mean?” snaps Ells. “I arrest you----”
“When?” interrupts Hashknife, grinning. “Easy--everybody. This ain’t
no killing matter--yet. I know what the stage-driver said and I know
what Lober said and I know who told ’em to say it.”
“Who?” asks one of the posse.
“Just a minute!” snaps Ells. “I want to get this straight. Appears to
me that somebody is mistaken--maybe. Crosby, do you know where these
boys were this morning?”
“What time?” asks Molly.
“About nine-thirty.”
“Right here. Mister Hartley was working in the blacksmith shop and
Mister Stevens was sitting on that bench cleaning his gun. I think
Mister Hartley was working on a branding-iron.”
“Branding-iron?” asks the sheriff.
“Slickest thing you ever seen,” nods Hashknife. “Going to make a lot of
alleged cowmen set up and take notice.”
“Well, ----!” swears Brill, easing himself in the saddle. “All this fuss
for nothing, eh?”
Ells says something under his breath and swings his horse around.
“Sorry to have troubled you,” says he, and we stands there and watches
that posse ride away down the road.
“MY ----!” grunts Slim, staring at Hashknife. “Did you hypnotize ’em?
Think of Bill Ells standing for anything like that! Escaped prisoner
and all that, and he just says, ‘Sorry to have troubled you.’”
“Miss Crosby’s alibi changed their minds,” grins Hashknife.
“Like ---- it did!” snorts Al. “Looks to me like they was wishful to
grab any old chance to drift home, like the feller who caught the
bob-cat and didn’t know how to let loose.”
“I don’t _sabe_ it at all,” complains Crosby. “It ain’t reasonable.”
“It sure ain’t,” I agrees. “I almost had heart-failure when Miss Crosby
mentioned me cleaning my gun. I just realized that I plumb forgot to
put the shells back in, and I could see ’em shining on the bench where
I left ’em.”
“Sleepy, Sleepy, you’ll be the death of us both some day,” says
Hashknife. “Always forgetting. You’d ’a’ looked fine standing there
snapping an empty gun, wouldn’t you?”
“Aw, we had ’em buffaloed anyway. They was plumb leary of that
derringer.”
“That’s sure plumb nice,” grins Hashknife. “Yes, sir, that’s elegant.
Notice me fumbling in my vest pocket? I forgot I put it in my pants
pocket when I was blacksmithing. I reckon there’s a Providence that
looks after or over idiots and phil-an-thro-fists.”
“Aw, ----!” grunts Al, waving his arms. “It’s all loco. What would
anybody rob that mail for anyway? Nothing but reading-matter.”
“And not much of that,” grins Hashknife.
“Well, I’m going home,” states Slim. “I hankered for excitement and all
I got was a beg-your-pardon. My ----, I never saw so much politeness in
my whole life. Come on, Al.”
We watches ’em ride away and then sets down on the porch with Molly and
her dad.
“Ells never even asked for his hat,” says Molly.
“Ma’am, that _hombre_ has got so much in his mind right now that he
don’t feel the need of a cover for it,” grins Hashknife, and just then
Older rides in.
“Was that a posse that just left here?” he asks.
“No,” says Hashknife; “that was a social organization. Glad you came
over, ’cause I reckon the time is ripe to do something. Why don’t you
combine with the Lazy U? Make one good outfit.”
“Combine? What do you mean?”
“To squeeze out the rustlers. You fellers has got to do something to
bust up their party, ain’t you?”
Crosby and Older looks at each other and then at Hashknife.
“Just how and why?” asks Older. “Why are you interested, and how would a
combination of our outfits stop the rustling?”
“I ain’t interested--I’m mad; and I’ll put myself out to bring sorrow to
their wickiup. Here is the first move: Write a letter to the Cattlemen’s
Association asking that the Lazy U and Cross L brands be canceled and
that the O Cross B be registered to cover both former brands. Older and
Crosby. _Sabe?_ Brand on left hip, same as the old ones.”
The two old pelicans takes it under advisement silently, and after a
while Molly steps in and says--
“I’d take a chance, dad.”
“Wish I knew more about it,” says Older. “I hate to----”
“Columbus wished the same thing,” grins Hashknife, “but he went ahead
and they built a monument for him. He took a chance.”
“All right,” says Older. “We haven’t much to lose. Crosby, you write the
letter and I’ll post it.”
“In Divide,” says Hashknife.
“Why not in Badger?” asks Older.
“Too many hold-ups. This letter goes through.”
“I think I begin to see,” says Crosby slow-like. “That blank----”
“You’ve got it,” grins Hashknife. “Go ahead and write.”
We sets down on the porch and smokes a while. Molly is fussing with some
of that fancy-work stuff, and pretty soon she says sort of soft-like:
“You spoke about Shorty Blewett a while ago. Do you believe him guilty?”
“Nope,” says Hashknife. “Almost a cinch. What kind of a _hombre_ was
he?”
“Well----” Molly sort of bows her head over her work--“well, we were to
be married this month.”
“Excuse me all to ----,” says Hashknife sober-like, and then he stares
off across the hills for a while. “You--you ain’t turned against him
none, have you, ma’am?”
She shakes her head and smiles at something away off in the direction of
Deer Lodge, and then goes into the house.
“See that smile, Sleepy?” whispers Hashknife. “Cowboy, she’s all
woman. Somewhere up that horse-thief’s e-eventuality is a poor devil
in a suit, numbered like a box-car, and that smile was for him. He’ll
get it too, cowboy. Cement and steel and distance can’t stop a smile
like that. Likely she prays for him, too.
“I wish somebody’d love me like that. She just sets here, waiting and
waiting and smiling thataway, and up there in the pen is a feller, who
is just a number, and-- Whatcha been doing, Sleepy--peeling onions?”
“Go to ----!” says I. “I’ve got a cold.”
“Yeah, so have I. Reckon I’ll have to get Shorty turned loose.”
“Sure. All you’ve got to do is to walk up, knock on the door and say,
‘Let Shorty Blewett out, please,’ and out he comes.”
“Maybe you ain’t so danged far off at that, Sleepy. Reckon I’ll go and
finish up that iron. Want to see a regular blacksmith working?”
I sets in the doorway while he builds a fire, and then has to listen to
him sing his everlasting song about poor Toothpick. It goes like this:
“Oh, Toothpick Thompson was a son-of-a-gun,
Git along, my little dogie, git along.
He’ll meet the undertaker ’fore I git done,
Git along, my little dogie, git along.
Though the trail is rough and the cactus sharp,
An’ the cold wind blows through my ragged tarp,
He’s due to shovel coal or twang a harp,
Git along, my little dogie, git along.”
It don’t sound just like that though. You’ve got to frame your own tune
and sort of sing it through your nose mournful-like, sort of hanging on
to the words “along” until you’re out of breath. She’s some effective.
He drones out the last line and then slaps the iron into the slack-tub.
“I’m some brainy cuss, Sleepy,” says he. “You ought to brag about me a
little.”
“Yeah? You sure ain’t asthmatic in your own behalf, Hashknife. You sure
can talk above a whisper, but you has too many secrets. You won’t tell
me a danged thing, will you? No, of course not.
“I follers you just like a sheep. When you say, ‘Shoot,’ I shoot. I’m
weaned and rope-broke, Hashknife, and able to take nourishment without
getting the colic, and still you won’t tell me anything.”
He holds up the cooled iron and admires it a heap.
“Latest style on the Wind River range, cowboy. Artistic, eh?”
“Got the letter written, and Older has left for Divide,” says Crosby
from the doorway.
“Good. Me and Sleepy are going over to the JHE, and likely from there to
Badger City. We may be late getting back.”
I follers him--as usual. Molly waves at us from the house, and I feels
that she’s wishing us good luck. We need all we can get, I reckon.
“Now,” says I, “I want to know something, Hashknife. Why are we going to
the JHE, and do we go in sorrow or in anger? We’ve got all our guns, and
what I want to know is this: Do we use ’em?”
“She all depends. Did you ever see a feller packing a extra wheel on
his automobile? Well, he ain’t figuring on trouble, but he’s ready in
case something busts. _Sabe?_”
“Thanks,” says I. “You sure do give things away. Sometime you’ll bust
out and tell me why you hunts for Toothpick.”
“Why, Sleepy, ain’t I never told you?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, well! You’ve got a surprize coming, cowboy.”
“Yeah--coming.”
* * * * *
Mister Brill wasn’t looking for us. He was cinching a saddle on a rangy
roan when we rode up, and had his back toward us. He acts cautious,
letting go of that latigo, and then turns slow-like.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“Mostly everything,” says Hashknife.
“Meaning,” says Brill, sort of easing one hand toward his middle.
I sees Brill’s hand stop and then start coming up, and then I glances at
Hashknife, whose right hand is resting on his thigh, and the gun in that
hand is covering Brill’s anatomy.
“Ease your gun loose and drop it over the fence,” orders Hashknife.
Brill don’t hesitate.
“How long have you owned the JHE outfit?”
“None of your----”
“Aw, be polite,” grins Hashknife. “Take that saddle off, ’cause you
ain’t going no place, and then lead us up to the house, where we can
be comfortable. Geemighty, but you’re shy on hospitality.”
Brill acts like he was sore at somebody, but he does as he’s ordered.