Part 2

“I’m buying--not selling,” says the sheriff. “Of course if the price is too high----”

“Wait a minute,” says Spooner, getting to his feet as the sheriff starts to finish. “There ain’t no use of anybody going off half-cocked. Now the question is this: How much is Crosby paying you? Or does your pay come from somebody else?”

“Whatcha want to know for?” asks Hashknife.

“If you don’t know the ante you can’t raise it, can you?”

“Got any certain price in mind?” I asks.

“No,” says the sheriff. “We didn’t figure on----”

“Talk it over,” advises Hashknife. “We’ll stable our broncs and maybe by that time you’ll be able to talk without swallering all the time.”

We walks out of there and strolls up the sidewalk.

“I hope your romantic soul is getting satisfaction, cowboy,” says Hashknife. “I’d sure hate to sell out to them two, but if the price is right I reckon we better.”

“Sell out what, Hashknife?”

“Nothing. We ain’t got nothing, have we? Well, if the price is right we’ll sell out--tha’s all.”

Just then a girl comes out of a store ahead of us and starts up the street. She’s got a lot of bundles in her arms and seems in a hurry.

The puncher who had been trying to make his dog do tricks is just tying his bronc to a rack, but when he sees her he steps up on the walk in front of her. She sort of draws away and tries to walk around him, but he seems to want to talk to her.

“Wait a minute, can’t you?” he asks, taking hold of her arm.

Man, she let one hand loose from her packages and slapped him a dandy. She started to run, but he grabbed her again and she lost her packages.

Somebody across the street laughs out loud, and I sort of estimate how high to hold to cut off his belt-buckle when Hashknife collides with Mister Puncher. I know that said puncher went to the Land of Nod in one blaze of glory, ’cause Hashknife hit me once by mistake.

Then Hashknife proceeds to pick him up by the heels and drags him over to a hitch-rack, where he takes the feller’s rope and hangs him upside down. There he hangs, sleeping sweetly, with his soles pointing at the sky. The population seems to sort of gather around wondering-like, and gazes upon this painless lynching.

One feller--a gambler by his raiment--steps up and says:

“What has Ben done now?”

Hashknife ignores the question and takes off his hat to the girl.

“Ma’am, may I walk home with you?” he asks.

“No, I hardly think so,” says she. “I live about five miles out.”

Somebody sort of snickers and then shuts up sudden-like when Hashknife turns. Then he turns back to the girl and picks up her bundles.

“I thank you just the same,” says she. “You are very kind.”

“Tha’s all right,” grins Hashknife. “I don’t reckon anybody’s going to bother you again.”

“Just the same I thank you,” says she, and we stood there and watched her climb into a buggy and pull out of town.

Then we turns back to the crowd. Bennie has woke up and is protesting considerable. The sheriff and Spooner are there, acting like they wished an explanation.

“Mind telling what you done that to Bennie for?” asks the sheriff.

“If that upside-down drunken pup is Bennie I’ll say this much: He got too fresh with a lady,” answers Hashknife.

“Who was the lady?” asks the sheriff.

“Crosby’s girl,” says somebody, “Molly Crosby.”

“I never done a danged thing!” wails Bennie. “Ain’t somebody going to let me loose?”

“I will,” says the sheriff, but Hashknife steps right into him.

“Better reflect,” says Hashknife. “I ain’t never heard of angels with flowing mustaches like yours, but so help me ----, if you let him loose until I tell you to there will be something new for Saint Peter to pass upon.”

A lot of the folks seem shocked, but they don’t lose their presence of mind enough to not get out of the line of possible fire. Hashknife has got more lines on his face than an ancient Siwash when he sets his poker face to work, and the sheriff steps back.

“You running this town?” he asks, sort of twitching his fingers.

“No-o-o-o-o. No, I ain’t running nothing--not even my legs. I tied that _hombre_ upside down because I figured he had more brains in his feet than in his head and some of ’em might trickle down. _Sabe?_”

Hashknife is a clever sort of a person, but plumb lax about small details. For instance, he forgot to take Bennie’s gun away from him.

I ain’t clever. I don’t look ahead and get all worried to ---- over what might happen, but I sure do appear to be animated in the immediate present. I hated to shoot at a man when he is standing on his shoulders, but what was there to do? A sidewinder ain’t no object of pity just because somebody is standing on its tail, is it? Answer--no. That is why I shot right at the spot between Bennie’s eyes.

I’m a rotten shot. Yeah, I missed. That bullet hit into the dust right at Bennie’s ear, and the spray of dust and gravel spoiled him for anything except the sense of touch for twenty minutes.

Bennie dropped his gun and grabbed his eyes, and I turned just as Hashknife’s derringer explodes. I saw a puncher sort of leaning over, rubbing his wrist and staring down at his gun on the ground.

“Hoss liniment is good for it,” says Hashknife. “I’ve done that to so many persons that I know the remedy. I really don’t want anybody to fool with Bennie. _Sabe?_”

“You’re going a little too far,” says the sheriff. “That man you tied to the rack is Ben Lober, foreman of the JHE outfit.”

“Pshaw,” says Hashknife contrite-like. “I apologize--to the rack.”

“Why don’t you arrest him?” asks the gambler person.

“None of your danged business! I’ll run my own office.”

“Sure you will,” admits Hashknife. “Just like a coyote running a poultry business.”

The sheriff stares at Hashknife and Hashknife stares right back at him while the crowd sort of slides back and waits for the killing. I reckon that Ells ain’t noways used to Hashknife’s kind.

* * * * * “The party is over,” says Hashknife sweet-like, “and I’ll let anybody cut Bennie down.”

“Leave him there!” snaps Ells, turning on his heel. “He’s been getting too danged smart lately, anyway.”

The crowd sort of melts away, talking to themselves, and then we sort of takes notice of the puncher with the bum wrist.

“Pick it up,” grins Hashknife, pointing at the gun. “It won’t bite yuh.”

“Much obliged,” says he. “I don’t know how in ---- you done it, stranger, but I sure knows how she feels. You slammed that bullet right in between the cylinder and the barrel, and danged near busted my wrist. Betcha you drove my wrist-bones back an inch. Some shooting.”

“Glad you appreciates it,” grins Hashknife. “You a friend of Bennie’s?”

“Well, I reckon I thought I was. I ain’t now.”

“Working for the JHE?”

“Got fired yesterday.”

“Know anything about old man Crosby?”

“Uh-huh. Runs the Lazy U. Sort of a religious old coot. Trusts his daughter and the Lord. Wonder why Spooner didn’t have nothing to say, being as he’s sort of shining around Molly Crosby.”

“Know anything about Shorty Blewett?”

“Little. Hear he was going with Molly, but they sent him up for rustling.”

“Much obliged. Now, about that Lazy U brand: Is she sort of a little stirrup-looking U, laying on her side, with the points sticking north on a cow going south?”

“Well----” the puncher scratches his head and grins--“well, I reckon she just about answers that description. Yes, sir, she’s that kind of a mark.”

“Thanks,” nods Hashknife, and I follers him off down the street, listening to Bennie’s gentle voice raised in spasmodic profanity.

“Hashknife,” says I, “was you kidding that poor devil?”

“She wasn’t such a bad-looking lady, Sleepy,” says he, looking straight ahead. “Kinda nice, I’d say. Lot of sense, y’ betcha. Slapped Bennie right in the egg-chute. Yeah, I’d say she ain’t no frail little blossom.”

“All right,” says I; “don’t answer my questions. You ignore my questions all the time in spite of the fact that I saves your life. You didn’t show a lick of sense, Hashknife, when you forgot Bennie’s gun thataway.”

“Great men all make mistakes, Sleepy. Didja just aim to dust him?”

“Did you shoot at that feller’s gun, Hashknife?”

“Think I’m crazy?”

“No,” says I, “and I don’t care to have you wish insanity on me either.”

I sees Spooner come angling across the street toward the sheriff’s office and we sort of catches a signal to foller him in.

“You ---- fool, are you going in there?” I asks. “Ain’cha got no sense?”

“Sure have and am, Sleepy. Come on.”

They was waiting for us, and we places our chairs against the wall, facing the door.

“Thought it over?” asks Ells soft-like.

“Kinda,” admits Hashknife. “You’re talking.”

Spooner leans toward us and whispers--

“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----