Part 2

“You, I’m talkin’ to,” says Hashknife. “You dirty centipede. Set your eyes on me, feller. I’m the hombre you spoke about. Reach for your gun, you cross between a polecat and buzzard. Make good, can’t yuh?”

I never seen Hashknife like that before. This is once that he ain’t laughing. Maybe he knows that one shot will spill the whole works, and the odds are all against us.

* * * * *

The feller licks his lips but don’t speak. His face looks kinda funny—like he was scared to breathe. Hashknife walks up to him, slow, but this feller don’t move. The rest of the crowd seems hypnotized, but I wasn’t taking no chances. I sets the butt of my .45 against my hip and waits for the break to come.

Hashknife takes this feller’s gun out of its holster and tries to make him take it in his hand, but all this feller does is look like a dog that has been caught doing wrong. Hashknife takes the feller’s belt off, takes him by the shoulder and turns him around.

“Go home,” says Hashknife kinda hoarse-like. “Go home and be glad you’re alive.” I never seen anything like it. That feller walked away, kinda slouching, and Hashknife turned back to face the bunch.

It was Hashknife’s face and eyes that froze that bad _hombre_. He was hypnotized, but the minute Hashknife turned his back this feller came to. He swung sideways, grabbed his vest and flashed another gun.

I was looking for just that. He was about fifty feet from me, but I took a chance and shot twice.

Man, I was just in time. His bullet cut the dirt at Hashknife’s feet. He looks down at his pistol and then kinda tosses it away from him, like he was all through with it, and then turned as though he was going away—but he didn’t. I glances at the bunch and then at Hashknife, who was facing them with a gun in his hand.

“Hashknife,” says I, “you do take the worst chances. These Willer Crick rattlers has more than one set of fangs. Little more and that Alaska trip would ’a’ been all off.”

“You’re the little snake-hunter, Sleepy,” he grins. “Much obliged.”

Then he faces the bunch and they’re sure one uneasy crowd. Me downin’ that feller don’t mean nothin’ to them—much. Hashknife glances from face to face, and finally looks straight at Sillman.

“Eph Sillman was your son, wasn’t he?”

Sillman don’t speak: just shifts his feet.

“That dead woman in there was your daughter-in-law, Sillman. You folks denied her a doctor and then yuh killed her husband when he was man enough to try and get medicine for her. We seen that killin’. Bassett and three other men saw it; now yuh tried to throw the deadwood on me and Stevens.”

“You fellers try your dangdest to stir up trouble, don’t yuh?” wails Sol Vane. “I didn’t think you’d ever come back here, I didn’t.”

“I came back to see if your hair growed out, Sol,” says Hashknife. “If yuh want another hair cut, I’ll bury the dynamite.”

Nobody had a word to say, but finally Sol Vane spoke—“The feller you gunned up over there is Lem Sellers. He’s a brother to Sim Sellers.”

“I don’t care if he’s his own uncle and brother-in-law,” says Hashknife. “Who is Sim Sellers?”

“Head of the council,” says Sol, like he’d sprung something on us. “Sim’s the head man of Willer Crick.”

“I hope he’s got more guts than Lem,” says Hashknife. “I like to do my own killin’.”

Just then that little kid kinda sneaks up beside Hashknife and Hashknife looks down at him. The little feller looks up at Hashknife with them big eyes, and then he just slips in closer, like a pup does when he likes yuh.

“Come here, Buddy,” says Glory, but Buddy’s hanging on to a rosette on Hashknife’s chaps and don’t even look at her.

“Buddy kinda inherits this ranch, don’t he?” I asks.

“That’s a question,” says Sol Vane. “A question for the council to decide.”

“And they’ve already decided,” says Glory.

Hashknife looks down at Buddy and then at the bunch of men.

“The kid’s goin’ to get a square deal, ain’t he, Sillman? He’s your grandson.”

The men all looked at Sillman, but Sillman don’t speak.

“Your grandpaw’s goin’ to see that you gets a square deal, Buddy,” says Hashknife, patting the kid on the head.

One of the men kinda snickers and then turns away.

“Who’s goin’ to keep the kid now?” I asks. “His family ain’t in no shape to take care of him.”

Sol Vane clears his throat. The son-of-a-gun looks like a gobbler with something stuck in his neck.

“Well that’s a question. He ain’t a Sillman and he ain’t nothin’ else—much. It’s a question, I reckon. Nobody on the Crick is beholdin’ to his folks that I knows on.”

Sol Vane swallers hard and begins to chaw again.

“He’s your kid, Sillman,” says Hashknife soft-like.

“I’d like to—” begins Glory, but Sillman stops her.

Then he says to Hashknife:

“Hartley, you ain’t got no business hornin’ in like this. Willer Crick can handle its own affairs, and Willer Crick will decide what is to become of the kid.”

“And you’re his gran’paw,” says Hashknife, “gran’paw to a nice little harmless kid like this. And you say that Willer Crick will tend to him. Why—” Hashknife teeters on his toes and hooks his thumb over the belt above his gun—“why, you herd of mangy curs! You pack of gutter pups! Go ahead, you chinless maverick—reach for your gun! No? Then listen to me, you lousy cowards! You, Sillman! I thought you was an inch or two above this carrion, but you ain’t. You’re all alike. You’ve married your own relations until your brains are warped and shrunk so badly that you ain’t above eatin’ your own kind. The cannibal will protect its own blood, but you coyotes won’t.”

Them Willer Crickers never made a false move. Maybe they’d ’a’ nailed us, bein’ about five to one and all armed, but we’d ’a’ sure give the buzzards a feed, and them men knowed we would.

“I wish,” says Hashknife, “I wish I had education enough to tell folks what I think of yuh. There’s a lot of words I don’t know, dang the luck.”

The old man steps down from the doorway and moves in beside Hashknife.

“Brother,” says he, “you’ve done well. If I can help yuh out in any way, I’d be plumb willin’. I’m a preacher of the gospel, but there is times when a good cuss word does come in handy.”

“Are yuh through?” asks Sillman meek-like.

“No, I ain’t!” snaps Hashknife. “I’ve got to think of somethin’ new to call yuh. Ain’t there nothin’ I can say that will make yuh mad? Ain’t yuh got enough decency left to accept a insult?”

“Mebbe,” says Sol Vane, “mebbe you’ll find out—later.”

“Thanks,” says Hashknife dry-like. “I’m glad to have somethin’ to look forward to. I had a open, runnin’ shot at you once, Sol, and I was fool enough to shoot low. Next time I’m goin’ to cut you off above the collar.”

“You cain’t threaten me, Hartley!”

“I ain’t threatenin’ yuh. No, you buzzard, I’m statin’ a fact.”

“There’s fifty men on Willer Crick,” states another one of the bunch.

“Pass the word,” says Hashknife. “There’s just that much difference between us and you. Me and Sleepy are square shooters and we’d love to have yuh come and bring all your friends. Only twenty-five apiece. Sleepy, there don’t seem to be much chance for us to get action here.”

“Who’s goin’ to take the kid?” I asks.

“I am,” says Hashknife. “He’s too good to live with Willer Crickers.”

“He, he, he,” cackles Sol Vane. “He, he, he.”

“Sol Vane, you’re goin’ to choke to death some day,” states Hashknife. “Right in the middle of one of them laughs you’re goin’ to quit seein’ the funny side of serious things. Now, you snake-hunters, pick up that would-be assassin and drift. I don’t want him clutterin’ up the scenery. Tell your friends that we’re receivin’ company at any time.”

They files past us and picks up Lem Seller. I don’t reckon Lem’s plumb dead, but he ain’t in no shape to help himself much. They loads him up and drifts, while me and Hashknife and the little kid stands there and watches ’em go.

* * * * *

Glory is inside the house. After they drifts out of sight I steps up to the door and peers inside. I see Glory standing by the front window. Then she turns and leans a Winchester rifle against the wall. Hashknife looks over my shoulder and sees her place the gun, and then he looks at me kinda queer-like.

Glory wasn’t takin’ no chances on Willer Crick smoking us up. The little kid hangs on to Hashknife.

“I like you,” says the little jigger, looking up at Hashknife.

“Well, for gosh sakes!” gasps Hashknife. “Whatcha know about that. Buddy, me and you are goin’ to bunk together for quite a spell.”

“You play wit’ me?” he asks.

“Well, my gosh!” says Hashknife foolish-like. “Well, whatcha know about that?”

“Brother,” says the old man, “was you serious about takin’ Buddy?”

“You’re a preacher,” says Hashknife, “and I admire preachers a heap, but just you try takin’ him away from me. Ain’t nobody sayin’ I can’t take him, is there?”

Glory looks at Hashknife and then down at the kid.

“I’m glad for Buddy,” says she.

“Buddy glad,” says the kid.

“Well, my gosh!” gasps Hashknife. “Don’t this beat —— and high water?”

Willer Crick never made no foolish breaks when we went up with Eph Sillman’s old wagon and team and brought Eph’s body back with us. Me and Hashknife went up there and took it—that’s all. They’d moved him off behind the sidewalk and put a old blanket over him. The store was closed and there wasn’t man, woman nor child in sight.

Glory said they wouldn’t bury him, and I reckon she was right. Me and Hashknife dug two graves and Hashknife built two boxes. It’s awful to have to plant folks thataway, but we done our dangdest to make it look right.

The old man kind a broke down over the sermon, which was natural, and Hashknife finished it up. Glory was there. It was her brother, and I reckon she thought a lot of him. Buddy didn’t know what it meant, but he bawled anyway, which made a real pleasant party all the way around. I reckon the old man was kinda loco over it all, ’cause he went out, got on his mule and pulled his freight.

Glory didn’t have much to say after it was over. She kissed the kid, and then got on her horse.

“I ain’t had much chance to talk to you two,” says she, “but I want you both to know I’m obliged to you. Maybe they won’t let me see you again, but I hope you’ll take Buddy and get away—which I know you won’t do.”

“Glory Sillman,” says Hashknife, “you’re welcome—and we won’t.”

She smiled at us and rode away, and we stood there with our hats in our hands, like a pair of fools until she’s out of sight.

“Well,” says I, “we’ve met Willer Crick.”

“Not all, Sleepy; there’s forty more, so they say. Glory left her rifle. It’s standin’ in there, and hangin’ to it is a belt plumb full of shells. She likely didn’t know we had a pair of rifles.”

“She did,” says I, “but she wanted to have an extra one here when she showed up.”

We cooks supper, but neither of us has any appetite. Buddy wants to get on Hashknife’s knee all the time, and Hashknife ain’t got no conversation in his system, except, “My gosh!” They’ve got the house fixed up kinda nice inside. There ain’t much furniture, but it’s clean, which is something in Willer Crick.

“Don’t yuh never have no little boys to play with?” I asks.

“Li’l boys?” says Buddy, “I’m li’l boy.”

“This country ain’t human, Sleepy,” says Hashknife. “This here family must ’a’ been ignored complete, the same of which would drive anybody loco. Honest, I thought Jim Sillman was half-human, but he ain’t. Glory’s a humdinger, but she’s sure handicapped. Think of these _hombres_ spyin’ on her to see if she ever comes to see her sister-in-law. Ain’t they the meanest, sneakinest bunch of pariah dogs yuh ever seen? It ain’t hard to see who slammed that bullet into Tug Wilson. Too bad she shot high.”

I’m leaning against one of the front windows, looking down the road, and I sees a man coming. It’s almost dark, but I _sabe_ that pelican.

“Here comes Sol Vane,” says I.

He rides up to the front gate, gets off his horse, takes out a white rag. I opens the front door.

“Can yuh see me?” he asks, waving the rag.

“Come ahead,” I yells back at him, and he shuffles up to the door.

“I packed a flag,” says he, masticating real fast and looking at Hashknife with the kid on his lap, “I ain’t got no gun on me.”

“Yuh didn’t need to deprive yourself of a gun,” says Hashknife.

“I ain’t comin’ to talk mean,” explains Sol. “We held a council uptown, and I just comes down here to let yuh know some of the things we argued out.

“Some was in favor of bustin’ down here and puttin’ yuh on the run, but I’m plumb in favor of goin’ kinda soft.”

Sol grins and takes a fresh chew.

“They wasn’t hard to convince that your way was the best, was they?” I asks.

“I does the lawin’ fer Willer Crick, and they accepts my judgment—mostly. I comes to talk to yuh about th’ brat.”

“Boy, yuh mean,” says Hashknife. “In speakin’ of this offspring, Sol, use the boy’s name or just speak of him as ‘the boy.’”

The little jigger knows that Hashknife is sticking up for him, I can see that, and he kinda leans back against Hashknife.

“This here ranch,” says Sol, “belongs to—well, I reckon it’s a question. Jim Sillman owns part of it and the rest of it’s to be settled by the council.”

“Meanin’ that Buddy gets gipped out of his ranch, eh?” asks Hashknife.

“Under the circumstances, the br—Buddy don’t own nothin’. His folks was just suffered to kinda live here.”

“Suffered,” nods Hashknife. “Go ahead.”

“I reckon that’s all.”

“All for you,” amends Hashknife, “but I ain’t started yet. For one thing, Sol Vane, I’m goin’ to do this: I’m goin’ to the county seat, find a regular lawyer and make Willer Crick jump over the moon. I’m goin’ to see that this here baby gets a square deal and I’m goin’ to——”

“Now, now,” grunts Sol Vane. “Don’t git excited. Willer Crick ain’t goin’ to beat nobody out of nothin’—not if they owns anythin’, y’understand.”

“This here Buddy is exhibit A,” says Hashknife. “Willer Crick took away his folks but they don’t take away nothin’ more. This ranch ain’t much, but it’ll be somethin’ for him to live on.”

Hashknife gets up and steps over beside Sol Vane.

“You tell your —— council that Buddy owns this ranch, will yuh?”

“’Pears to me,” says Sol, “that you’re kinda anxious to—the kid bein’ a minor and you grabbin’ him thataway, it kinda looks like you was sort of——”

Sol Vane made one awful mistake when he hinted that Hashknife was trying to feather his own nest. I seen Hashknife swing his body sideways, and Sol Vane landed flat on his face on the little dirt walk. It was a beautiful smash. We stands there and watches him twitch back to life, like one of them animated toy things. He managed to get to his feet and start for the gate, but ran into a tree and fell down again.

Then he got up and found his horse, but he didn’t take time to mount; just went staggering down the road, leading the horse.

“Good!” says Buddy, and his eyes were like saucers. “Sol Vane bad mans, my daddy says.”

“My gosh!” gasps Hashknife. “Did yuh hear that? He said it was good. This feller ain’t no Willer Cricker, y’betcha.”

* * * * *

Not bein’ wishful to take any chances of a night attack, the three of us slept in the open. We took bedding from the house and rolled up under the trees. Buddy thought it was a picnic. The next morning we finds a notice on the front door, which reads:

GIT OUT THIS IS THE LAST WARNIN

“Well,” observes Hashknife, “we’ll just about take that advice. Not that Willer Crick is runnin’ any whizzer on us, Sleepy, but we’ve got to kinda look out for this little Buddy, eh, Bud?”

“Betcha,” nods Buddy. “But we ain’t scared, are we?”

“It’s a wonder to me that this here kid ain’t cleaned up on that bunch before this, Sleepy. He’s got plenty of nerve. Did yuh ever shoot a gun, Buddy?”

“No, but I betcha I could.”

“He’s got it, Sleepy,” grins Hashknife. “Natcheral born terrier. Let’s pack up.”

We saddled our broncs and packed up all the clothes we can for the kid, which ain’t much. We took a little grub and then pulled out, with the kid riding in front of Hashknife. We took Glory’s rifle and belt with us, figuring on going past Sillman’s place and leaving it there.

There’s another road angling off the one to town, and the kid tells us that it goes past Glory’s place. We ain’t got nothin’ to take us through town; so we swings off onto this road. About a mile farther on Hashknife pulls up his horse and squints off down into a brushy coulee.

“Sleepy, there’s the old’ man’s mule there, ain’t it?”

“It’s the mule all right; feeding around in the brush.”

We swings our horses around and rides along the edge of the coulee, which leads down a deeper ravine.

“Anybody live around here—close, Buddy?” asks Hashknife.

“Mitch Ames lives down there,” says Buddy, pointing down the ravine.

“Fine!” grins Hashknife. “I dunno Mitch, but we’ll go down and see him.”

“You seen him yesterday,” says Buddy. “He was to my house with them men.”

“Oh, is that a fact? Well, he called on us, Buddy, and it ain’t no more than fair that we calls on him. Sleepy, did yuh notice that the mule was wearin’ a piece of pocket-rope. Likely broke loose.”

Mitch Ames’ cabin was cached away in that ravine, like he was scared somebody would find it, but Buddy knowed right where it was. We swung down the hill above it. Setting beside the cabin, tilted back in a chair, is two men. One of the horses steps on a round rock and sends it bumping down the hill and it hops into the bushes right near ’em.

Jump? Man I’d say they jumped! One of ’em had a rifle across his knee, and when he seen us he started to throw it to his shoulder, but the other feller grabbed him and yanked him around the corner.

Me and Hashknife drops out of our saddles and slips our rifles loose. We didn’t come there hunting for trouble, but if it showed up we’d be ready.

“Buddy, you get down in the brush,” orders Hashknife, pointing to a thick clump. “You get down low and wait for us.”

“Betcha,” says Buddy. “Me wait.”

The little jigger dives down into the brush like a rabbit and then me and Hashknife separates a few feet apart and slips down to the cabin—or rather toward the cabin, ’cause just about the time we hit the flat ground a hunk of lead whispers so close to my head that I heard what it said. We flops down and waits awhile.

The brush is kinda thick and we can only see one side of the cabin. We lay there quite a while, but there ain’t no more shots. We kinda snakes along until we works up beside the cabin, where we listens for a while, but can’t hear a thing. Hashknife gets to his feet, takes out his six-shooter for close work and walks to the door end of the cabin, with me on his heels. The door is shut. Hashknife gives it a kick and it swings open. Inside it is dark, being as there’s only one window, and that dirty.

We steps inside, and looks around, and as soon as our eyes gets used to the dusk we sees that there’s a man laying on the bed.

It’s the old preacher that rode the mule, and he’s sure hog-tied to a fare-thee-well, and has a rag shoved between his teeth.

Hashknife takes out his knife and starts to cut the ropes, but stops and listens. Then he jumps for the door, with me behind him.

“The horses!” gasps Hashknife. “I heard them rollin’ rocks. There they go!”

Up over the peak of a hogback goes our two horses, with a man in each saddle, and one of ’em is packing Buddy. Hashknife throws up his .45-70 Winchester.

“Buddy’s on that bay!” I yelps. “Look out, Hashknife!”

* * * * *

The rifle cracked and the gray horse swung sideways as the bullet fanned past its ear and the rider throws himself kinda sideways. It’s only a jump more to get out of sight and the range is about two hundred yards. I glances at Hashknife just as he shoots again.

I seen the rider of the gray horse slump sideways and go down on the left side of the gray. I reckon he must ’a’ tangled in the reins, ’cause it swung the gray plumb around on the hogback and it stops with its head down.

We went up there as fast as we could, but the bay horse and its two riders were out in the breaks. That bay horse could outrun anything in the cow-country, even packing weight; so we know it ain’t going to do us any good to try and run him down with that hammer-headed gray.

This feller has got one foot twisted in the stirrup and has the reins twisted around his hand and elbow. That big bullet had lifted part of his scalp and the top of his right ear, but he wasn’t dead.

“Worst shootin’ I’ve done in a age,” complains Hashknife. “Kinda had buck-fever, I reckon. Shame to waste two shots thataway.”

We hung the feller over the saddle and went back down to the cabin, where we cut the old man loose. It took him quite a while to recognize us and also to get his vocal cords to working again.

“How did yuh happen to be in this shape, old-timer?” asks Hashknife.

He shakes his head.

“I don’t know, brother. I went to the town, after I left you, and I—I asked a man where I could find the sheriff. He wanted to know what I wanted him for and I said I wanted to talk to him on business. I left there, and in a few minutes some men overtook me and brought me here. They tied me up and left two men to guard me. One of the men told me that if I ever seen the sheriff it would be after the sheriff had died and joined me.”

We led the old man outside and showed him the wounded man.

“He’s the one what told me that,” says he. “What happened to him?”

“He stayed too long,” grins Hashknife. “We’ll tie him up in your place.”

This hombre has commenced to talk to himself, so we ties him to the bunk, where he won’t get loose for a while.

“You take the horse and round up the mule, Sleepy,” says Hashknife.

That wasn’t no job, being as the mule had sore feet. I took it back to the cabin and turned it over to the old man. Me and Hashknife doubles up on the bay horse and the three of us cut back to the main road again.

About a mile or so farther on we comes to the Sillman ranch. Hashknife points down the road and says to the old man:

“Keep on this road, pardner, until yuh come to the sign where we first met yuh, then yuh turn to the left. Silverton is about twenty miles.”

“I wants to thank yuh, son,” says he. “Wants to thank both of yuh for what yuh done fer me. I’m gettin’ kinda old and so forth—but——”

“A man ain’t no older than he feels,” says I.

“Then I’m a million. Got rheumatics and them ropes didn’t he’p it none. _Adios._”

“Now,” says Hashknife, “I hope he gets out free of charge, ’cause I ain’t got no more time to monkey with him.”

We swung into Sillman’s gate and rode up to the house. I reckon Glory seen us ride into the place, ’cause she comes out the front door to meet us and the first thing she says is—

“Where’s Buddy?”

It don’t take Hashknife long to tell her what happened to Buddy and how we found the old preacher.

“Where’s your pa?” I asks.

“In town, I reckon. Council meeting called, I think. They met here last night, but I didn’t get any chance to hear what was said. They’re all suspicious of me. Sim Sellers wants me to be punished for assisting Eph’s wife, and him and dad had a run-in over it. Sim growled at me when they came and I told him that Lem was a growler and look what he got.

“Sim ain’t no better than a savage, and he said he’d eat your heart out if he got a chance. I told him he better get some extra teeth ’cause he might lose what he’s got. I thought that dad would give me —— for sayin’ it, but he didn’t. He asked me where I left my rifle, and I told him I left it in a good cause.”

“Glory,” says Hashknife, “do yuh know why I didn’t marry yuh that time?”

“No, I—I don’t,” says Glory, turning red, “but it wouldn’t ’a’ worked any way, ’cause Willer Crick showed up in force. Me and Dad and uncle Luke thought you seen ’em coming.”

“Your Uncle Luke was the sheriff of Yolo, wasn’t he, Glory?”

“He was once—yes.”

“When he was here?”

“No-o-o—not hardly. He got in bad with the Vigilantes down there.”