Part 2

Hashknife holds it while they peruses same, which takes ’em quite some time.

“Well, I’ll be ----!” snorts the tall one, scratching his head. “I reckon she’s all right, proper and O. K., and nobody can dispute the le-gality, but----”

“But what?” asks Hashknife.

“You fellers are strangers, ain’t you?” asks Ab. “Yeah, I sure reckon you are. I’m Ab Wheeler, and this party is Al Bassett. We’re distant relations of ol’ Godfrey--very distant. We’re a heap wise to this locality, and, speaking in our wisdom, I’d say to you boys: Get on your broncs and drift. Just tear up that letter and forgit it. You’d never be able to work this place.”

“Maybe we can sell it,” suggests Hashknife.

“Sell ----! Nobody but a Willer Cricker would consider such a thing, and Willer Crick ain’t got brains enough to do any considerin’.”

“Then you figures we’ve inherited a white elephant, eh?” I asks.

“Elephant!” snorts Bassett. “Boys, you’ve got a menagerie. You looks like two nice, honest boys, and we don’t want to see you drift into trouble. Naw, sir. You jist mosey along, and me and Ab will see that the old man gets planted proper, and then let the Willer Crickers fight it out.”

“I’ve always hankered to own a cow,” says Hashknife innocent-like. “I never had no playthings like that.”

“I’m just loco over copper,” says I. “All my life I’ve wanted to dig something shiny out of rocks. Seems funny that we both gets just what we’ve always wanted, Hashknife.”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Bassett, “You boys are sure funny. You’ll likely do well. If you see Jim Wells over on the Wind River range you tell him I said to give you both jobs.”

“According to society,” says Hashknife, like he was letting ’em in a big secret, “folks always leaves a card when they comes calling. Willer Crick needs better social manners, gents; so next time you come--bring your cards.”

“You’re funnin’, ain’t you?” asks Wheeler. “Sure you are. If I was you I’d leave.”

“We’ll hook onto the next cyclone that comes along,” grins Hashknife. “In the mean time you might tell folks about the old man. We’ll wait until tomorrow morning, and if somebody don’t claim the remains we’ll plant him out in the front yard.”

Bassett scratches his head, and the two of ’em walks out of the door.

“Well,” says Bassett, “all I’ve got to say is this: You ain’t showing much sense.”

“We ought to do well here then,” grins Hashknife.

We watches ’em get in the wagon and drift along. Hashknife examines that Winchester and stands it up by the door.

“Lot of shells in there on the clock-shelf,” says I.

“Uh-huh. Single-shot rifle in the kitchen. Reckon she’s a .45-70, too, Sleepy. We’ve inherited something; you know it? From what I can gather--we’re going to start a scandal.”

“You want to be a puncher or a miner, Hashknife?”

“I don’t know yet. ’Pears to me that two husky babies like me and you ought to handle between us what the old man handled alone. Don’t you think we ought to do well?”

“See what he got, Hashknife.”

“That’s so--but he was a relation, Sleepy. Let’s pesticate around a little and see what we’ve inherited.”

There’s a bunk-house down the hill from the house. About fifty feet behind that is an old stable, and built alongside of the stable is the main corral. There’s a couple of harness-marked roans hanging around the stable, and a decrepit bay mare is nosing around the corral. The animals all branded with a Bar O on the right shoulder.

There’s four bunks in the bunk-house, but no bedding, so we carries a supply down from the house. We turned our broncs into the corral and fed ’em some loose hay, and then we cooked us a meal.

* * * * * We covered the body with an old sheet, and then takes the two rifles down to the bunk-house. We swamped out the place until she’s habitable, and then sets down on the steps to enjoy a smoke. The sun has gone down and Nature seems at rest.

Hashknife leans over to give me a light off his match, when--_Zee!_ _Plop!_ A bullet slams into the log just behind him. It’s a danged good thing he leaned over.

I’d say that we hurried within, but another bullet knocked a hunk of mud from between the logs before we got under cover. Hashknife pumps a shell into that Winchester, while I loads up the old Springfield.

“Our coming has been advertised,” opines Hashknife, poking out a pane of glass in the window. “If that bushwhacker----”

Another bullet rammed into a log, and Hashknife’s rifle cracked.

“You better get your head down!” chuckles Hashknife. “That feller almost drew a harp that time, Sleepy.”

_Zam!_ A bullet came through an end window and threw splinters out of the wall. I slips over and peers out. A feller rises up out of the brush and makes a break to get the woodshed between him and us. He’s about fifty feet to run, and he sure hurried.

I knocked out part of the window and led him about three feet. I don’t _sabe_ that old cannon; so I shoots low. I reckon it took about all the sole off one boot, ’cause it knocks the feet out from under him, and he lit on his belly.

Lucky for him he falls into a low place, and all I can see is the bottom end of his suspenders and the seat of his pants. He had time to get a better place, but he didn’t know I was shooting a single-shot rifle.

“Get him?” asks Hashknife.

“Made him stumble. How you coming?”

“My pro-te-jay is silent. Maybe I hit him.”

_Zing!_ I turns to see Hashknife dancing a jig and rubbing his nose.

“You didn’t hit him very hard,” says I.

“No, dang it! Got my nose full of slivers. Never mind my man, Sleepy; you keep your fat head down!”

I lines up my sights and gets jolted. Man, that gun kicked!

“Get him?”

“Never mind me, feller. Tend to your own knitting,” and I shoots again.

“What you shooting at?” he yelps, “Ain’tcha got more sense than to waste shells thataway, Sleepy? Why don’t he shoot back?”

“Got him hypnotized. Hope the ladies stay away.”

“What has the ladies--” begins Hashknife, and then stops to shoot a couple of times, “--got to do with it?”

“Because,” says I, “I’ve not only cut his suspenders, but I’ve plumb ruined the seat of his panties.”

I turns to shoot again, but my man has turned gopher and dug himself in. Me and Hashknife sticks to our posts until it gets too dark to shoot, but the attack is over. I reckon that Willer Crick has began to respect us a little.

We hangs saddle-blankets over the windows and plays seven-up until we got tired, with two Colts, a derringer and two rifles on the table.

Hashknife is the first one to wake up in the morning.

“Wake up, Sleepy!” he grunts, kicking me in the ribs. “We’ve got company.”

Some feller’s voice is high-pitched and quarrelsome, and we can hear somebody swear pious-like. We slips into our boots and peeks out. There’s three wagons in the yard, and half a dozen saddle animals are tied to the fence.

A tall, pious-looking _hombre_ wearing a long black coat detaches himself from the main herd and comes down our way.

“Shake your gun loose, Sleepy,” advises Hashknife. “Sometimes them pious cloaks covers plenty of hardware.”

I swings the door open.

“Mornin’,” says he. “You fellers named Hartley and Stevens?”

“Said to be such,” admits Hashknife.

“I’m Sol Vane. I sort of does the lawin’ fer Willer Crick, and it has come to my ears that you two has peculiarly inherited the Bar O outfit.”

“Yeah?” drawls Hashknife. “You hear things quick.”

“Uh-huh. Would you mind showing me the paper, which is purported to be the last will and testyment of Godfrey?”

“Purported ----!” snaps Hashknife. “No, I don’t mind letting you see it.”

Sol Vane spells it all out and hands it back.

“All upright and legal?” I asks.

He scratches his chin and peers off across the hills.

“Uh-huh, I reckon she’s able to hold in court but fer one thing.”

“What does that happen to be?” asks Hashknife. “Here’s the will, and up there in the ranch-house is the body of the man who wrote it.”

“Nope,” says Sol Vane serious-like. “The body ain’t there--that’s the ---- of it.”

“Ain’t there?” gasps Hashknife. “Ain’t there?”

Sol Vane shakes his head.

“We’d admire to know where it is.”

Me and Hashknife horns right through the crowd on the steps and goes inside. There is the sofy, but the body is gone. Even the dirty sheet is gone.

An old pelican who ain’t got no front teeth cackles like a hen and enjoys himself a lot.

“That’s ---- queer!” snorts Hashknife, and then he turns to the crowd.

“Say, Bassett, you and Wheeler saw the body yesterday.”

“Naw, sir,” lies Bassett. “We jist took your word for it.”

“Didn’t think you’d lie about----” begins Wheeler, but Hashknife whirled and looked at him, and Wheeler stopped.

“Seems to me there ain’t nothing to argue about,” states a rat-faced young feller who looks like he needs a entire new set of brains to make him even half-witted. “Uncle Eb’s gone out on the range some’ers, I reckon.”

“Sure,” adds another of the same type, only this one has had his nose busted and the tip of it points at his off ear. “He’ll show up pretty soon.”

“What’s your name?” asks Hashknife, looking at the rat-faced one.

“Godfrey--Pete Godfrey. Whatcha want to know fer?”

“Your name’s Albright, ain’t it?” asks Hashknife, looking at Broken-Nose.

“How’d you know?” he grins.

“He said he’d get even with you,” grins Hashknife.

“Who did?”

“Ebenezer Godfrey.”

The crowd stares at us and then at them two. I’m nervous. There’s too much hardware on that bunch. Pete Godfrey sort of crosses his feet and leans against the wall, and I happens to look at his feet.

“Better get them boots half-soled, Pete,” says I, pointing at ’em. “A .45-70 sure does harrow a man’s material sole as well as his spiritual one.”

I misjudged Pete. He flattens against the wall and streaks for his gun. Dang the luck, I was scratching my chin when I made the remark, and wasn’t looking for no gun-play.

* * * * *

My hand hadn’t dropped halfway to my gun when my ear-drums almost got busted, and I sees Pete drop his gun and stagger against the wall hanging on to his arm.

I turns my head and there is Hashknife with that little derringer in his hand and a grin on his face.

“Sleepy,” says he slow-like, “if I ever hear you say one word against that little cannon of mine I’ll throw it away and let you take the consequences.”

Pete looks like his stummick hurt him a heap. He stares at that little two-barreled thing and licks his lips. The crowd seemed too shocked to do anything but stare.

“Everybody outside,” says Hashknife, and they went out like they was trained to it.

“Now, folks,” says Hashknife, “there has been enough dirty work done around here. I think I know who shot the old man, but that ain’t proof. We’re his heirs--me and Stevens. I can’t see why in ---- anybody would steal the corpse.

“Sol Vane, you say you’re a lawyer. Does this affect the will in any way?”

“We-e-e-ll,” drawls Sol, “I’m ’fraid she does. ’Pears to me that you and your pardner are the only ones what have seen the de-ceased, and you’ve got to prove that the old man is dead before you can collect on the will. Right now your will ain’t worth nothin’.”

That old toothless walloper cackles again, and Willer Crick began to move on. Some of ’em fixes Pete’s arm, and then him and Albright rode away together. Sol Vane watches everybody ride away and then he leads his horse up to the porch.

“You fellers better take a little advice from Sol Vane,” says he. “I’d advise you to move on. You must ’a’ been mistook about that corpse, and even if you wasn’t----,” Sol’s voice sinks to a whisper--“there might be some what has the opinion that maybe you fellers had a hand in--you know what I mean?

“Trouble means business for Sol Vane, but he ain’t no hand to see young fellers git into trouble when he can steer ’em right. What does you think?”

Me and Hashknife looks at him, and then at each other.

“Any other questions you’d like to ask?” says Hashknife.

“Yeah,” nods Sol. “I’d like to have you tell me where I can git me one of them vest-pocket guns like yours. They’re sure dingers. You hit Pete in the arm and it shook him plumb to his heels.”

“I don’t know where you can get one,” says Hashknife. “I had a hard time getting this one. Lot of fellers in my country carried ’em, but I had to kill seven men to find the caliber I wanted.”

“Seven?” says Sol thoughtful-like. “Huh! Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

We watched him ride away, all humped up in his saddle.

“Did all seven of them men have derringers, Hashknife?”

“Shucks! If you can’t run a whizzer one way, Sleepy, run it another. I didn’t want to tell him I got that gun in a pawn shop in Frisco. If it ever comes to a show-down, Sleepy, kill Sol Vane first, ’cause he’s the brains of the outfit.”

“Well,” says the voice of a mockingbird behind us, “are you fellers too scared to run or has somebody swiped your gentle little ponies?”

Leaning against the side of the porch is Glory. She was sort of grinning at us with them big blue eyes, while she slaps the side of her skirt with the barrel of a Winchester carbine.

“Heavenly angels!” gasps Hashknife. “Howdy!”

“Still wearing your mouth open, I see,” says she, walking around and setting down with us. “I came over to see the remains.”

“Whose--Godfrey’s?” I asks.

“Nope--yours. Willer Crick decided that the best thing to do was to hang you both on that old cottonwood down there.”

“My ----!” gasps Hashknife. “You--you came over to see our remains? Sorry to disappoint you, ma’am.”

“Don’t mention it,” says she sad-like, and then:

“See that magpie down on that corral post? Watch.”

She cuddles the butt of that gun to her cheek, and Mister Magpie fades to a handful of dirty feathers. She yanks another shell into the chamber, slips one out of her pocket and crams it into the magazine.

Hashknife looks at me and draws a deep breath. She’s the first female we ever seen that could shoot straight and also have foresight enough to refill the magazine.

“How does it happen that you wasn’t here with the crowd?” asks Hashknife.

“Maybe it was because I--I couldn’t do any good here.”

“You missed seeing Pete Godfrey get his arm drilled,” says I.

She sets up straight and stared at me.

“You dud-drilled his arm?”

“Not me--Hashknife.”

“Why in the name of ---- didn’t you----”

The little spitfire glares at Hashknife like he’d done her a injury.

“Now, I--I---- Why did you want me to kill him?” stammers Hashknife. “You got anything against him, ma’am?”

“Ye-yes! I’ve gug-got to marry him--darn it!”

“Oh-h-h-h-h!” gasps Hashknife. “Is that all?”

“That rat-faced--” I begins, and then asks her pardon.

“Go ahead,” says she. “When you get through saying mean things about him I’ll start in. I know more about him than you do.”

We sets there like three buzzards and contemplates the landscape.

“Ho, hum-m-m-m!” says she weary-like.

“Ever try sleeping for it?” asks Hashknife.

“If you had to think about marrying Pete Godfrey--” says she slow-like, and I changes the subject.

“Was you related to old man Godfrey?”

“Kinda. My father was a cousin to his stepson’s brother-in-law, or something like that.”

“My ----!” grunts Hashknife. “That’s figuring pretty fine.”

She nods and puckers up her forehead.

“That’s easy beside some of the relationships around here. I’ve got too ---- many relatives.”

“Glory,” says Hashknife, “tell us about it. Me and Sleepy are a pair of rantankerous buckaroos, and we’re pizen mean--but we ain’t related to you.”

“Thank--I mean, much obliged.”

She seems to think things over for a while, and then:

“Ignorance just about covers the whole thing. Years ago this range was settled by a bunch from Missouri, and they decided to make this a little kingdom of their own. They were ignorant, and in their ignorance they decided that as long as they’re all related they can keep outsiders away.

“Naturally the ranches belong to the heirs, who marry into some other branch of the family, and this has been going on for so many years that nobody knows just what relation they are to anybody else.

“I reckon I’ve got about as few relatives as anybody on the crick, being as pa sneaked outside when he was young and married a Swede girl. They almost lynched pa.”

Glory giggled and dug holes in the dirt with the butt of her rifle.

* * * * *

“Pa killed two of the worst kickers, and the rest let him alone. He shows on the records as having killed two of his cousins, one uncle, a half-brother and a brother-in-law, but he really only downed two men. That shows how we’re related.”

“My ----!” grunts Hashknife. “If a feller only had one shell he could kill a generation. Go ahead. Get down to Pete Godfrey.”

“Pete and Jim Albright are the nearest relation they can figure to Ebenezer Godfrey, so everybody agrees that they inherit this outfit. My pa and Pete’s pa figured out this marriage a long time ago, and all Willer Crick thinks it’s a cinch. Pete’s a little, ignorant, mean, crooked--Aw, rats! But I’ve got to marry him.”

“You can leave here, can’t you?” I asks. “You don’t have to marry anybody you don’t want to.”

“Where would I go? I’m not of age. I ain’t got enough education to make a living. Willer Crick don’t believe in education for women--or men either for that matter. Of course I won’t have to marry Pete until he comes into possession or part possession of this property, ’cause right now he can’t even support himself.”

“Oh!” says Hashknife. “He’s got to own this ranch before you has to marry him, eh?”

“Glory,” says I, “you’ll never be the blushing bride of Peter the Rat. This ranch belongs to us. _Sabe?_”

“Yes,” says she, “when you find the body of Ebenezer Godfrey.”

“How did you know it was missing?” asks Hashknife.

“I thought it would be,” says she, “’cause I heard Sol Vane telling somebody that you’ve got to prove that a man is dead before you can claim his property, and if there ain’t no body you can’t make no claims.”

“Ain’t you got no sensible relation?” asks Hashknife.

“Sensible? You bet I have! I’ve got one uncle who had too many brains to stay around here. He hates Willer Crick and they hate him, ’cause he told ’em all where to head in at. He’s got money, and he told me that he’d give me five thousand dollars for a wedding present if I’d defy Willer Crick and marry an outsider.”

“Well, ----’s bells!” yowls Hashknife. “Ain’t there nobody----”

“Nope.”

Glory shakes her head.

“It would make things tough for pa, and--and---- Well, I reckon I’ll be going. I’ve got my horse tied in that thicket behind the cottonwoods.”

“Sort of a front seat, eh?” says I.

She gives me a queer look, and drops her rifle into the crook of her arm.

“You saw what I done to that magpie, didn’t you?”

And she walked down the hill and into the willows. A little later we seen her ride against the sky-line of the hills.

“Hashknife,” says I, “that little kid was cached down there in the willows with that .32-40 and a lot of shells. Reckon it’s a good thing that Willer Crick changed its mind, eh?”

“Daw-w-gone, I reckon it is, Sleepy. Wonder if she’d ’a’ picked Pete first? She’s a regular little son--uh--daughter-of-a-gun! Ev-v-v-v-v-erybody loves a little lo-o-o-o-vin’, little bit o’ lovin’ is fine. To a po-o-o-o-r cowboy---- Say, Sleepy, I wonder if she likes music?”

“She’ll hate ---- out of you if she does, Hashknife. Let’s get a little breakfast.”

Ebenezer Godfrey must have been a nut on dynamite. It’s reasonable to suppose that any man who owns a mine will have some dynamite in his possession, but there ain’t no sense in a man owning half the visible supply of a county.

He’s got dynamite in the barn, more in the kitchen and three fifty-pound boxes in the woodshed. Me and Hashknife looks it over and proceeds to get scared. Suppose somebody comes along and heaves a bullet into that mess? Then Hashknife rustles a pick and shovel.

“Going prospecting?” I asks, and he hands me his regular grin.

“Hook on to that pick, Sleepy. We’re going to put this stuff where it won’t spoil itself nor us.”

Hashknife picks a place in the front yard, and we proceeds to dig. It requires some hole to plant seven boxes of that stuff, but we finally gets her all under the sod. I puts the tools back in the shed, and then I finds Hashknife with a saw and a hammer; acting like a regular carpenter.

I sets down and watches him build a cross. Then he finds some tar and an old brush, and he paints on the cross:

EBENEZER O. GODFREY. NOT DEAD BUT SLEEPING

“You going to pack that cross while you hunts for the corpse?” I asks.

Hashknife wrinkles his nose away from the smoke of his cigaret, and admires the lettering. Then I follers him out to where we planted the dynamite, and at one end of the mound he plants his cross. She sure looks like a regular grave.

* * * * *

I don’t ask any more questions. We went over and set down on the porch to rest, when here comes more company. There’s Bassett, Jim Albright, Sol Vane and another feller we ain’t seen before.

“I didn’t reckon you’d still be here,” says Sol, like he was plumb sorry for us. “We-all hoped you’d take good advice.”

“Ain’t many human beings in the market for advice, Sol,” grins the stranger, a tall, big-footed _hombre_ with a lot of grin wrinkles around his eyes. I mentally wipes him out as a prospective target.

“One of the rightful heirs is absent today,” states Sol, “but we’ve decided to take possession anyway. Mister Albright owns half of it.”

“Yeah?” grins Hashknife. “Ain’tcha just a little mistaken? This ranch belongs to us.”

“That paper don’t give you possession,” snaps Albright. “That won’t stand in no law court, ’cause you ain’t proved that the old man is dead. You better move on, if you asks me.”

“Then what in ---- are you trying to take possession for?” asks Hashknife. “Can you prove he’s dead?”

“Hm-m-m-m-m-m!” Sol Vane has throat trouble.

“What you squattin’ here fer?” wails Albright. “You got any rights?”

“Possession is nine points in the law, ain’t it, Sol? Anyway, I want to show you something.”

Hashknife leads ’em out to the mound of dirt, and each of them spells out the epitaph.

“That’s a lie!” howls Albright. “You never found the body----”

“Well, well!” grins Hashknife. “You know there is a body?”

Albright gulps and kicks a clod of dirt.

“Somebody get a shovel,” says Sol. “We’ll see about this.”

Hashknife straddles the grave and drops his hand down on the butt of his gun.

“No diggin’, folks. The epitaph shows the contents. To all intents and purposes the body of the old man is planted here, and here he stays until you produces a corpse that looks more like him than this one. _Sabe?_”

The stranger sort of grins, and darned if I don’t think he half-winked at me.

“You mean that we can’t dig up this here body?” asks Sol.

“For a lawyer,” says Hashknife, “you sure catch the meaning awful quick.”

“Wh-where did you have the body hid?” asks Albright sort of weak-like, and Hashknife grins in his face.

“We didn’t hide it, Albright, but we know who did.”

“You’re bound to buck Willer Crick, are you?” asks Bassett. “You won’t listen to sense?”

“When I hear some--yes!” snaps Hashknife.

“We-e-e-e-e-ll,” drawls the stranger, “this ain’t getting us no place. These fellers seems to sort of have us on the fence.”

“Aw ----!” roars Albright. “Part of this ranch belongs to me, and I’m going to have what’s mine!”

“Has there been any investigation over the killing?” I asks.

“No-o-o-o,” drawls Sol. “No, there ain’t yet, and I’d advise you fellers to move before it starts. Ain’t that good advice, Sillman?”

The stranger scratches his chin and sort of nods.

“Yeah, I reckon it won’t hurt ’em none, Sol, but as Glory always says:

“‘A man is either a wise man or a fool, and neither will take advice. The wise man thinks he don’t need it, and the fool knows ---- well he don’t.’”

“Girls get queer ideas,” says Sol. “I don’t like to see girls traipsin’ around, packing a rifle and----”