“Brill, you knowed Shorty Blewett?”
“Knowed him--yes.”
“What was he sent up for?”
“Venting a JHE and running a Cross L.”
“Who caught him at it?”
“Me and Ben Lober.”
“Good. Lober’s in the hospital, but he’ll be willing to talk. Now----”
“What’s the idea?” snarls Brill. “What right you got----”
“Relax,” advises Hashknife. “You’re under a strain. Trying to make us
think you’re mad at us, eh?
“Brill, I’m the best friend you’ve got. I’m going to do something for
you.”
“What’s that?”
“Let you make your getaway. Set still! You’ve got the penitentiary
staring you right in the eyes, and you dang well know it. How much of
the JHE stock do you own?”
He stares at us and wets his lips. He sure is a weak sister.
“Why--what----” he begins mumbling, but Hashknife slides a sheet of
paper and a pencil in front of him, and he stares at the writing stuff.
“Move up close to the table, Brill. That’s fine. Now I want you to take
hold of that pencil. _Sabe?_ Fine.
“Now start in the upper left-hand corner of that sheet of paper. Ready?
Good.
“Now, write us the true story of how Shorty was framed. Tell us all
about it, Brill. Use all the names and dates, and don’t get worried,
’cause nobody’s going to hurt you--unless you get cramps in your
fingers.”
“I’ll be ---- if I do!” he howls. “You ain’t----”
“Penmanship or penitentiary!” snaps Hashknife.
“You’re bluffing! If you think for a second that you can bluff----”
Hashknife takes the pencil out of Brill’s fingers and makes a few
little figures at the top of the sheet. Brill stares at ’em and then
at Hashknife.
“Think I’m bluffing?” grins Hashknife, and Brill licks his lips.
He stares at the wall for a moment and then starts writing. It took him
about half an hour to finish, and then he flips the pencil on the table.
“That’s all I know,” says he weary-like, “so help me God!”
Hashknife folds up the paper and puts it in his pocket.
“How much do we owe you for your share of the ranch, Brill?”
He tears up several cigaret-papers trying to roll a smoke, and the first
puff sort of strangles him.
“I--I-- You don’t owe me nothing. I own my own horse and rig--that’s
all.”
“Give you two hundred and fifty,” says Hashknife, hauling out the
check-book. “Shall I make it out to Brill or Jack McKee?”
Brill dropped his cigaret and stared at Hashknife.
“Knowed you all along,” grins Hashknife. “You was the key of the whole
thing, McKee. Funny; eh? Key and McKee.
“Figured out a brand myself. Cross L and Lazy U are going to combine and
call it the O Cross B. How’s that?”
He revolves it in his mind for a moment and then grins.
“Well--fine. Me and you ought to have-- Huh.
“Well, I’m much obliged to yuh, old-timer. That check looks better with
Brill on it. Thanks. Reckon I’ll drift.”
We watched him saddle up and climb his bronc. Then he turns back.
“Wasn’t you trailing a _hombre_ named Toothpick Thompson? Thought I
remembered it. Wish you all kinds of luck. _Adios_.”
“Was he a friend of yours, Hashknife--this Brill?”
“No-o-o-o, I don’t reckon so. He didn’t know me though. I knowed him by
reputation as the slickest hair-brander in the Southwest, and they tell
me he is some wise _hombre_ on brand combinations.
“One night me and three of the boys from the Hashknife outfit caught him
hair-branding a filly by the light of a camp-fire. The filly was loco,
so we tied him on her back and headed him into the Mohave Desert dressed
in a undershirt.”
“He knowed Toothpick Thompson?”
“Maybe--I don’t know. Lot of the boys knowed I was trailing Toothpick.”
We got our broncs and Hashknife headed straight for the Lazy U instead
of to Badger, and I follered--as usual. We walked right into the house
and there is Abe Spooner, big as life, talking to Molly and the old
gent. Spooner is a bit flustrated, but Hashknife shakes his hand like
he was his pal.
“This sure is luck,” laughs Hashknife. “Sure saves us trouble. Tell
you what I want you to do, Spooner; I want you to put into motion the
machinery which will release Shorty Blewett from the pen.”
“You ... do?” says Spooner with his mouth wide open like a gasping fish.
“Uh-huh. You see, Spooner, he wasn’t guilty. No, sir, he wasn’t guilty
at all. Ain’t that funny? Don’t your heart bleed for a innocent man
thataway?”
“I--I--I don’t know----”
“Indigestion?” asks Hashknife. “You ought to chaw your food more. Set
down and rest a little. Brill passed out this afternoon, and he left a
little confession.”
“Brill ... passed ... out?” gasps Spooner. “He--he----”
“Uh-huh. Owned the JHE, didn’t he, Spooner?”
“Ye--yes--that is, I think so.”
“I bought him out,” says Hashknife.
“Spooner, have you any idea of how much JHE stock is on this range?”
“Why--why--no.”
“Well, I reckon I got a bargain, anyway. How soon can you get Shorty out
of the pen?”
Spooner wets his lips and starts to get up.
“I don’t know. I--I’ll have to see the sheriff--and----”
“Well, we’ll go with you. Brill mentioned him, too. Said something about
Lober being----”
“That’s a lie!” snaps Spooner. “Brill lied----”
“About what?” asks Hashknife.
“That--that-- I’ve got to go.”
Spooner grabs his hat and starts for the door, and we’re right on his
heels. I caught Molly’s eye as we went out, and she looks like a person
who wants to be joyful but is plumb afraid.
Spooner acts plumb tongue-tied and his eyes are wild, but I reckon he’d
forgot he owned a gun--if he had one at all. Me and Hashknife rides one
on each side of him, and we fogs off down that road like we was going to
a dance.
Gray Wolf and Diablo sure can run, but they has to lay down and go some
to keep up with Spooner’s little brown mare. We skids around a hair-pin
curve, going like a bat out of ----, and all to once we tangles with
another rider and his pack-animal.
Me and Gray Wolf and that pack-horse all went off the grade in a tangle.
Gray Wolf was a born acrobat, and somehow he manages to hit on his feet
at the bottom. I got skinned up a little, but I slides my rifle loose
and climbs back up to the road.
Spooner is leaning against a tree, trying to pump wind back into his
lungs and work the lever of Hashknife’s Winchester, neither of which
seems to work properly. In the middle of the road stands the sheriff,
gore running down his homely face, and acts a heap like he was trying
to line his sights on Hashknife, who is down behind the sheriff’s
horse, sort of tangled up.
“Look out, Bill!” screams Spooner when I climb over into the road.
Ells whirls toward me and I felt the wind of his bullet whisper past my
ear. He didn’t feel the wind of mine. He just seems to sort of teeter
forward on his toes, and then buckled backward to the dirt.
I hears another shot and glances sideways in time to see Spooner slump
down on his hands and knees and slide flat on his face.
* * * * *
Hashknife drags himself out from under the dead bronc and rubs his chin.
“There goes their old court-house ring, Sleepy,” says he, grinning. “We
met the enemy and they are ours.”
I turned Spooner over and hauled him into the shade, and then we did the
same for Ells. Spooner blinks up at us and sort of remembers things.
Tears appear in his little eyes, and he tries to beg.
“Shut up!” snaps Hashknife. “Save your wind, feller.”
“I don’t want to die!” wails Spooner. “Don’t let me die!”
“He can’t last long,” says Hashknife. “But I don’t care much.”
“Don’t say that,” begs Spooner. “I’ll do anything--anything--hear me?”
Funny what a bullet will do to a man, ain’t it?
“If you lie to me I’ll let you die like a coyote,” says Hashknife, and
Spooner blinks hard.
“You hired two men to kill us as we rode in, didn’t you?”
Spooner groans and twists, but nods his head. Hashknife tears a check
out of his book, turns it face down on the book and digs out his pencil.
Then he props Spooner against a rock and hands him the stuff.
“Write out a bill of sale to Crosby & Older for the JHE outfit. Mark it
‘Paid in Full.’ _Sabe?_”
Spooner stares at Hashknife, and he seems to get convulsions.
“Go ahead,” advises Hashknife. “The sooner you do it the sooner you’ll
get to a doctor.”
“Bill of sale?” he whispers. “Who are you to-- What do I get?”
“You get help or--a harp. Decide quick.”
Spooner wet that bill of sale with bitter tears, but his life’s blood
was worth a lot to him, and he signed it all proper-like.
“Did Ells have any interest in this?” asks Hashknife.
“Let him answer,” says I. “He’s woke up.”
We has to shake him quite a lot before he gets his _sabe_ back, and
Hashknife wipes the blood out of his eyes before he can see. He reads
the bill of sale sort of dazed-like and then squints at us. Hashknife
hands him the pencil.
“Right below Spooner’s signature, Ells,” grins Hashknife, and Ells
scrawls it like a man in his sleep.
Then he stares at poor Spooner.
“Much obliged,” says Hashknife. “The sheriff’s bronc is dead, I reckon,
but Spooner’s will carry double. I’d advise the border--fast.”
“What are you talking about?” wails Spooner. “I need a doctor!”
“Like ---- you do,” whoops Hashknife. “You need a jeweler.”
He reaches down and picks out Spooner’s watch-chain. In the middle on
the string of gold-pieces is one with a big lead slug partly wrapped
in a twenty.
“That .44 slug busted into your stummick and upset your nervous system,”
whoops Hashknife. “Ells’ head was so danged hard that Sleepy’s bullet
just skidded. You fellers ain’t hurt--you’re simply shocked.”
Ells and Spooner stares at each other and then weaves to their feet. We
threw their guns over the grade, and Hashknife watched ’em until I got
Gray Wolf and their pack-animal back to the road. Then they both got on
Spooner’s mare and started away.