Part 1

Buckaroo of Blue Wells By W. C. Tuttle

Meet Hashknife and Sleepy again in W. C. Tuttle’s New Complete Novel The Buckaroo of Blue Wells

I—BOOKKEEPERS

James Eaton Legg hooked his heels over the rounds of his high stool, stretched wearily and looked out through the none-too-clean windows to where a heavy fog almost obscured the traffic. Heavy trucks lumbered past, grinding harshly over the cobbles. Somewhere a street-car motorman did a trap-drum effect on his gong; a ferry boat whistled boomingly. And there was the incessant roar of the every-day noises of the commercial district.

James Eaton Legg was not a prepossessing person. He was less than thirty years of age, slightly beneath medium height, slender. His face was thin, rather boyish, his mild blue eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses. His mouth was wide, and when he yawned wearily he showed a good set of teeth.

For several years James had been a bookkeeper with Mellon & Co., Wholesale Grocers, San Francisco—and he was still acting in the same capacity. His slightly stooped shoulders attested to the fact that James had bent diligently over his work. Whether fortunately, or unfortunately, James was an orphan. His mother had died while he was still very young, and when James had just finished high school, his father had gone the way of all flesh.

James was cognizant of the fact that somewhere in the world he had some relatives, but that fact caused him little concern. He remembered that his mother had a sister, who was well endowed with worldly goods, and he also remembered that his father had said that his Aunt Martha would probably die with all her wealth intact.

James turned from his contemplation of the foggy street, and his blue eyes studied the occupants of the big office. There was Henry Marsh, humped like an old buzzard, his long nose close to the ledger page, as he had been the first time James had seen him. He had grown old with Mellon & Co.—so old that he worried about his job.

There were younger men, working adding machines, delving in accounts; preparing themselves for a life of drudgery. Over in the cashier’s cage was David Conley, frozenfaced, pathetic; as old as Mellon & Co. James shuddered slightly. If he lived to be seventy, and worked faithfully, he might occupy that cage.

James was being paid the munificent sum of seventy dollars a month. He happened to know that David Conley drew one hundred and fifty dollars in his monthly envelope. James shook his head and shifted his gaze back to the window. He did not feel like working. It all seemed so useless; this idea of putting down figures and adding them up; eating, sleeping, and coming back to put down more figures.

He turned from contemplation of the wet street, and looked at Blair Mellon, senior member of the firm, who had come in from his private office. He was nearing seventy, thin, stooped, irascible. Nothing seemed to please him. His beady eyes shifted from one employee to another, as he walked slowly. He had made a success of business, but a wreck of himself. The boys of the firm called him “Caucus,” because of the fact that once a week he would hold a caucus in the office, at which time he would impress upon them the fact that the firm was everything, and that nothing else mattered.

He would invite suggestions from department heads, and when an idea did not please him he would fly into a rage. James Eaton Legg mildly suggested at one of the caucuses that the firm supply each bookkeeper with a fountain pen, in order to economize on lost motions—and nearly lost his job. Not because of trying to increase the efficiency of the bookkeeping department, but because fountain pens cost money.

All the firm mail came to Blair Mellon’s office, and it was his delight to distribute it. Just now he had several letters which he was passing out. He walked past James, stopped. James was looking at the street again. The old man scowled at the letters in his hand, one of which was addressed to James Eaton Legg. It bore the imprint of a Chicago law firm.

Blair Mellon did not believe that a bookkeeper should waste his time in looking out of the window, but just now he couldn’t think of a fitting rebuke; so he placed the letter on James Legg’s desk and went on.

James Legg’s mild blue eyes contemplated the name of the law firm on the envelope. It all looked so very legal that James wondered what it might all mean. He drew out the enclosure and read it carefully. Then he removed his glasses, polished them carefully, and read it again. Then he propounded inelegantly, but emphatically—

“Well, I’ll be ——!”

Blair Mellon had come back past the desk just in time to hear this exclamation. He stopped short and stared at James.

“Mr. Legg!” he said curtly. “You evidently forget the rule against profanity in this office.”

But James Legg ignored everything, except his own thoughts.

“If that don’t beat ——, what does?” he queried.

Blair Mellon stared aghast. This was downright mutiny. He struggled for the proper words with which to rebuke this young man.

“Say, Caucus,” said James, giving Mellon the nickname he had never heard before, “where do they raise cattle?”

“Were you speaking to me, sir?” demanded Mellon.

James realized what he had said, and for a moment his face flushed.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Mellon.”

“I should think you would, sir. Such language!”

It seemed that all work had ceased in the office. Not even a telephone bell rang.

“Have you any excuse for speaking in such a manner?” demanded the old man, conscious that every one had heard.

James Eaton Legg surveyed the room. Every eye was upon him. He noticed that even the stenographers had ceased chewing their gum. Then James Legg laughed, as he drew off his black sateen oversleeves and cast them aside. He slid off his stool, almost into the irate Mellon.

“Well, sir!” the old man’s voice creaked.

“Aw, save it for somebody that’s working for you,” said James Legg easily. “I’ve quit.”

“Quit?”

“Yes. Strange, isn’t it?” James Legg smiled at the old man. “Bookkeepers don’t usually quit, do they? No, they stick to the job until their chin hits their knees, and the undertaker has to put them in a press for two days before they’ll fit a casket. I suppose the cashier will pay me off, Mr. Mellon.”

“Well—er—yes, sir! It is just as well that you do quit. This is very, very unusual for an employee of Mellon and Company to—”

“To quit?” smiled James. “Sets a precedent.”

“Ordinarily, we would offer a letter of recommendation, but in a case of—”

“Couldn’t use it, but thank you just the same, Mr. Mellon. I am through keeping books. I’m going to take a job where I can breathe fresh air, smoke a cigaret on the job and swear when I —— please.”

The old man’s lean jaw set tightly for a moment, but he said icily:

“And what are you going to do, if I may ask?”

“Me?” James Legg smiled broadly around the room. “I’m going to be a cowpuncher.”

“A—a—what?”

“A cowboy, if that makes it plain to you.”

One of the stenographers tittered. She had her own idea of a cowboy, possibly not from the real article; so she might be forgiven for seeing humor in Legg’s statement. He flushed a little, turned on his heel and went to the wash-room, every one looking after him. Blair Mellon broke the spell with—

“The incident is over, I believe, ladies and gentlemen.”

Which was sufficient to put them all back to work, while James Eaton Legg accepted his pay from the stiff-faced cashier and walked out into the foggy street. He felt just a little weak over it all. It was hard to realize that he was at last without a job.

It was the first time in years that he had been without a job, and the situation rather appalled him, and he stopped on a corner, wondering whether he hadn’t been just a trifle abrupt in quitting Mellon & Company.

But he realized that the die was cast; so he went to his boarding-house and to his room, where he secured an old atlas. Spreading out a map on the bed he studied the western States. Arizona seemed to appeal to him; so he ran a pencil-point along the railroad lines, wondering just where in Arizona he would care to make his start.

The pencil-point stopped at Blue Wells, and he instinctively made a circle around the name. It seemed rather isolated, and James Legg had an idea that it must be a cattle country. Something or somebody was making a noise at his door; so he got up from the bed.

He opened the door and found that the noise had been made by a dog; a rough-coated mongrel, yellowish-red, with one black eye, which gave him a devil-may-care expression. He was dirty and wet, panting from a hard run, but he sat up and squinted at James Legg, his tongue hanging out.

“Where did you come from, dog?” demanded James. “I don’t think I have ever seen you before.”

The dog held up one wet paw, and James shook hands with him solemnly. Came the sound of a heavy voice down-stairs, and the dog shot past James and went under the bed. The voice was audible now, and James could distinguish the high-pitched voice of the landlady, raised in protest.

“But I tell ye I seen him come in here, ma’am,” declared the heavy voice. “A kind of a yaller one, he was.”

“But no one in this house owns a dog,” protested the landlady. “We don’t allow dogs in here.”

“Don’t ye? And have ye the rules printed in dog language, so that the dogs would know it, ma’am? Belike he’s in one of the halls, tryin’ to hide.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken, officer. But I’ll go with you, if you care to make a search of the halls.”

“I’ll do that, ma’am.”

James closed his door, leaving only a crack wide enough for him to see the landlady, followed by a big burly policeman, come to the head of the stairs. They came past his door, and he heard them farther down the hall. The dog was still under the bed, and as they came back James stepped into the hall.

“We are looking for a yellow dog, Mr. Legg,” explained the landlady. “You haven’t seen one, have you?”

“Sort of yaller and red,” supplemented the officer.

James shook his head. “Must be an important yellow dog to have the police hunting for him.”

“He’s important to me,” growled the officer. “Jist a dirty stray, so he is.”

“But why are you hunting for a stray dog, officer?”

“Because he’s a dangerous dog. I threw a rock at him, tryin’ to chase him off me beat, and the dirty cur picked up the rock and brought it back to me.”

“A retriever, eh?”

“I dunno his breed.”

“But that doesn’t make him dangerous.”

“Then I took a kick at him and he bit me, so he did. He tore the leg of me pants and I had to go home and change. I didn’t no more than get back on me beat, when there he was, probably lookin’ for another chance at me legs. But I took after him and I was sure he ran in here.”

“Well, I’m sure he never did,” said the landlady. “But we’ll look in the other halls.”

James went back in the room and found the dog sitting in the middle of the floor, one ear cocked up, his brown eyes fixed on James, his tongue hanging out, as if he had heard all of the conversation and was laughing at the policeman.

James held out his hand and they shook seriously.

“Dog,” said James seriously, “you did what I’ve often thought I’d like to do—bite a policeman. I swore out loud in Mellon and Company’s office, and you bit a cop. We’re a disgraceful pair. I’m wondering if you’re a cattle dog—” James sighed heavily— “Well, anyway, you’re as much of a cattle dog as I am a cowpuncher. Sit down and make yourself at home.”

It was half an hour later that James Eaton Legg walked out of his room, carrying a heavy valise, while behind him came the dog, walking carefully, peering around the legs of his newly found master.

At the foot of the stairs they met the landlady. She stared at the dog and at James.

“That was the dog the policeman was looking for!” she exclaimed in a horrified screech. “Don’t let him come toward me! You get that dog out of here, Mr. Legg! You know we don’t allow dogs in here. Take him—”

“That dog,” said James calmly, “is very particular who he bites, ma’am. If my bill is ready—”

“Oh, are you leaving us, Mr. Legg?”

“Yes’m, me and—er—Geronimo are leaving. If any mail comes for me, forward it to Jim Legg, Blue Wells, Arizona.”

“Oh, yes. Blue Wells, Arizona. Are you going out there for your health?”

“Well,” said Jim Legg, as he paid his bill, “I don’t know just how it’ll affect me physically. It’ll probably be a good thing for Geronimo—give him a change of diet. And for the good of the police force I suppose I better phone for a taxi.”

And thus did Jim Legg, erstwhile James Eaton Legg, quit his job, adopt a dog and start for Blue Wells, just an isolated spot on the map of Arizona—all in the same day.

II—THE PREACHER’S HORSE

It was the biggest two-handed poker game ever played in Blue Wells, and when “Antelope Jim” Neal, owner of the Blue Wells Oasis Saloon, raked in the last pot, “Tex” Alden rubbed the back of his hand across his dry lips and shut his weary eyes. He had lost eight thousand dollars.

“Is that all, Tex?” asked Neal, and his voice held a hope that the big cowboy would answer in the affirmative. The game had never ceased for thirty-six hours.

“As far as I’m concerned,” said Tex slowly. “I don’t owe yuh anythin’, do I?”

“Not a cent, Tex. Have a drink?”

“Yeah—whisky.”

Tex got to his feet, stretching himself wearily. He was well over six feet tall, habitually gloomy of countenance. His hair was black, as were his jowls, even after a close shave. There were dark circles around his brown eyes, and his hand trembled as he poured out a full glass of liquor and swallowed it at a gulp.

“Here’s better luck next time, Tex,” said Neal.

“Throw it into yuh,” said Tex shortly. “But as far as luck is concerned—”

“It did kinda break against yuh, Tex.”

“Kinda, ——! Well, see yuh later.”

Tex adjusted his hat and walked outside, while Neal went to his room at the back of the saloon, threw off his clothes and piled into bed. At the bar several cowboys added another drink to their already large collection and marveled at the size of Tex Alden’s losses.

“’F I lost that much, I’d have a —— of a time buyin’ any Christmas presents for m’ friends, next December,” said Johnny Grant, a diminutive cowboy from the AK ranch.

“There ain’t that much money,” declared “Eskimo” Swensen, two hundred pounds of authority on any subject, who also drew forty dollars per month from the AK. “It takes over sixteen years of steady work, without spendin’ a cent, to make that much money. Never let anybody tell yuh that there is any eight thousand in one lump sum.”

“And that statement carries my indorsement,” nodded the third hired man of the AK, “Oyster” Shell, a wry-necked, buck-toothed specimen of the genus cowboy, whose boot-heels were so badly run over on the outer sides that it was difficult for him to attain his full height.

“There has been that much,” argued Johnny. “I ’member one time when I had—”

“Eighty,” interrupted Oyster. “Yuh got so drunk you seen a coupla extra ciphers, Johnny. I feel m’self stretchin’ a point to let yuh have eighty.”

“I votes for eight,” declared Eskimo heavily.

“Eight thousand ain’t so awful much,” said “Doc” Painter, the bartender, who wore a curl on his forehead, and who was a human incense stick, reeking of violets.

Johnny looked closely at Doc, placed his Stetson on the bar and announced—

“Mister Rockerbilt will now take the stand and speak on ‘Money I Have Seen.’”

“Misser Rockerbilt,” Oyster bowed his head against the bar and stepped on his new hat before he could recover it.

“A-a-a-aw, ——!” snorted the bartender. “I’ve seen more than eight thousand, I’ll tell yuh that. I’ve had—”

“Now, Doc,” warned Eskimo. “Seein’ and havin’ are two different things. We all know that yuh came from a wealthy family, who gave yuh everythin’ yuh wanted, and nothin’ yuh needed. But if you ever try to make us believe that you had eight thousand dollars, we’ll sure as —— kick yuh out of our Sunday-school, because yuh never came by it honestly.”

“Yeah, and yuh don’t need to say we ain’t got no Sunday-school,” added Oyster hastily. “Last Sunday—”

“I heard about it.”

The bartender carefully polished a glass, breathing delicately upon it the while.

“Lemme have that glass a minute,” said Johnny, and the unsuspecting bartender gave it to him. Johnny selected a place on the bar-rail and proceeded to smash the glass.

“What the —— did yuh do that for?” demanded the bartender hotly.

“What for?” Johnny lifted his brows and stared at the bartender with innocent eyes.

“Yea-a-ah! Why smash that glass?”

“Well, yuh can’t expect anybody to ever drink out of it, could yuh? After you yawnin’ upon it thataway, Doc. I know—well I don’t want to draw it.”

“——, that don’t hurt the glass!”

“Well, of all things!” shrilled Oyster. “As long as the glass don’t get hurt, everythin’ is all right. I’ll betcha he’s yawned upon every glass he’s got. If we was ever goin’ to drink in this place again, I’d argue in favor of smashin’ every glass he’s got on that back bar.”

And the bartender knew that the AK outfit were entirely capable of doing just such a thing. But they were not quite drunk enough to accept Oyster’s suggestion. At any rate their minds were diverted by the entrance of “Scotty” Olson, the big lumbering sheriff of Blue Wells, whose sense of humor was not quite as big nor as lively as a fever germ.

Scotty wore a buffalo-horn mustache, which matched the huge eyebrows that shaded his little eyes. He was a powerful person, huge of hand, heavy-voiced, rather favoring a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun, which he handled with one hand.

“The law is among us,” said Johnny seriously. “Have a little drink, Mister Law?”

“No.” Scotty was without finesse.

“Have a cigar?” asked Eskimo.

“No.”

“Have a chaw?” queried Oyster pleasantly.

“No. I was just talkin’ with the preacher.”

“Tryin’ to reform yuh?” asked Johnny.

“Reform? No. He wants to know which one of you punchers tin-canned his horse?”

The three cowboys looked at each other. Their expression of amazement was rather overdone. The bartender chuckled, and Johnny turned quickly.

“What in —— is so funny about it, Doc?” he demanded. “It’s no laughin’ matter, I’d tell a man,” he turned to the sheriff.

“You surely don’t think we’d do a thing like that, Sheriff.”

“I dunno,” the sheriff scratched his head, tilting his hat down over one eye.

“My ——, that would be sacrilege!” exclaimed Eskimo.

“The Last Warnin’,” corrected Oyster seriously, not knowing the meaning of sacrilege. The Last Warnin’ was an ancient sway-backed white horse, which the minister drove to an old wobble-wheeled buggy. He had a mean eye and a propensity for digging his old hammer-shaped head into the restaurant garbage cans.

“It ain’t funny,” said the sheriff. “There ain’t nothin’ funny about tin-cannin’ a horse. Louie Sing’s big copper slop-can is missin’, and Louie swears that he’s goin’ to sue the preacher. I reckon it’s up to you boys to pay the preacher for his horse and Louie Sing for his copper can. The preacher says that fifty is about right for the horse, and Louie swears that he can’t replace the can for less than ten.”

“Well,” sighed Johnny, “all I can say is that you and the preacher and the Chink are plumb loco, if you think we’re goin’ to pay sixty dollars for a—for somethin’ we never done.”

“Where’d we get sixty dollars—even if we was guilty?” wondered Oyster.

“Yuh might make it in Sunday-school,” suggested the bartender.

“In Sunday-school? What do yuh mean?”

“Well,” grinned Doc, “I hear that one of yuh put a four-bit piece in the collection plate and took out ninety-five cents in change.”

Whether or not there was any truth in the statement, Johnny Grant took sudden exceptions to it and flung himself across the bar, pawing at the bartender, whose shoulders collided with the stacked glassware on the back bar, as he tried to escape the clawing hands.

“Stop that!” yelled the sheriff.

He rushed at Johnny, trying to save the worthy bartender from assault, but one of his big boots became entangled with the feet of Oyster Shell, and he sprawled on his face, narrowly missing the bar-rail, while into him fell Eskimo Olson, backward, of course, his spurs catching in the sheriff’s vest and shirt and almost disrobing him.

With a roar of wrath the sheriff got to his feet, made an ineffectual swing at Eskimo, and ran at Oyster, who had backed to the center of the room, holding a chair in both hands. The sheriff was so wrathy that he ignored the chair, until Oyster flung it down against his shins, and the sheriff turned a complete somersault, which knocked all the breath out of him.

Johnny Grant had swung around on the bar in time to see the sheriff crash down, ignoring the perspiring bartender, who, armed with a bottle, had backed to the end of the bar. The sheriff got to his feet, one foot still fast between the rounds of the chair, and looked vacantly around. Then he grinned foolishly and headed for the front door, dragging the chair.

It tripped him as he went across the threshold and he fell on his knees outside. Then he got to his feet, tore the offending chair loose, flung it viciously out into the street, and went lurching toward his office, scratching his head, as if wondering what it was all about.

“Knocked back seven generations,” whooped Eskimo, as he clung to Johnny Grant, who in turn was hugging Oyster.

“Mamma Mine, I hope t’ die!” whooped Johnny. “Oh, don’t show me no more! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! He never even seen that chair!”

They went into more paroxysms of mirth, while the bartender smoothed his vest, placed his bottle back behind the bar and got a broom to sweep up the broken glassware. He knew that he was forgotten for a while, at least.

III—OTHER PEOPLE’S MONEY

Tex Alden had left the Oasis and sauntered down the street to where a weathered sign proclaimed the office of Lee Barnhardt, Attorney at Law. Barnhardt was a lean, hatchet-faced, keen-eyed sort of person, possibly forty-five years of age, whose eyes were rather too close together, ears small and clinging close to his bony head, and chin was wedge-shaped. His neck was so long and thin that it was the general opinion in Blue Wells that on Sunday Barnhardt wore a cuff around his neck instead of a collar.

Tex Alden and Lee Barnhardt had considerable in common, as Tex was manager of the X Bar 6 cattle outfit, while Barnhardt was legal counsel and manager for the same outfit. Tex had always born a fairly good reputation, except that he was an inveterate gambler. People admitted that Barnhardt was shrewd, even if they did not like him.

Barnhardt was busily engaged in cleaning out his old cob pipe when Tex walked in and sat down, and like all lawyers he kept Tex waiting until the pipe was cleaned, filled and lighted. Then he turned around on his creaking swivel-chair and fixed his cold eyes upon Tex.

“Well?” he managed to say, between puffs.

“Well, ——!” snorted Tex. “I just finished losing the eight thousand dollars I got for that shipment to Frisco.”

Barnhardt’s eyebrows lifted slightly and he sucked heavily on his extinguished pipe, staring steadily at Tex. Then:

“You lost it all, eh? Playing poker with Neal?”

Tex nodded wearily. Barnhardt leaned back in his old chair, squinting narrowly at the ceiling.

“That’s a lot of money, Tex,” he said thoughtfully. “It puts you in pretty bad, don’t yuh think?”

“Sure. That’s why I came over here, Lee.”

“Is that so? Thinking, of course, that I can square it for yuh,” Barnhardt laughed wryly. “It’s quite a job to explain away eight thousand dollars, Tex. I don’t know why you didn’t bring that check to me.”

“They made it out in my name,” said Tex, as if that might mitigate the fact that he had used eight thousand belonging to the X Bar 6 outfit.