Chapter II: Part 2

“Nope, I don’t reckon I _sabe_ your mission, young feller, but I ain’t losing my appetite over it. I think Molly has supper ready.”

She did, and I’d tell a man that Molly Crosby can cook rings around anything that ever hit a kitchen. She could fry a dish-rag and make it taste like a venison steak.

She ain’t beautiful, Molly ain’t, except when she smiles. She’s kinda sad-looking, but when she smiles she’d make the Queen of Sheba look like an Aztec idol of mud.

We’re almost through eating when somebody knocks on the door. Me and Hashknife slips our guns loose under the table, but the visitor was a stranger to us.

He’s a man about as old as Crosby, thin as a whisper of wind, and he’s got a big mop of white hair over a face that might belong to a poet. It sure wasn’t a practical cow visage.

Then we meets Jack Older of the Cross L. I looks at the faces of them two and I can see where the rustlers have had a cinch. They’re about as belligerent as a pair of snow-shoe rabbits. I ain’t no plaster saint, but I’d as soon think of stealing from some widder women as them two.

“I thought the sheriff was here,” says Older. “I saw his hat in the other room and wondered at it, because Slim told me about some trouble in town.

“It seems that two fellows held up Spooner and took two thousand away from him, and in the fracas Spooner was creased on the head and Ben Lober was shot in the leg. They caught one of the outlaws. Art McFee told Slim that it was the same two who shot Sam Peele. They’re going to take the prisoner away from the sheriff tonight and hang him.”

“My, my!” says Hashknife. “Ain’t that awful? The poo-o-o-o-o-o-r kid!”

Molly burst out laughing, and Older looks foolish-like at us.

“I’m the one they’re going to lynch,” says I. “We plead guilty to shooting Sam Peele--leastwise we think we did--but we didn’t steal no money. Badger City got the wrong hunch, and some of ’em paid for the mistake.”

“I don’t understand it, Jim,” says Crosby. “She’s some mixed. Ben Lober tried to grab hold of Molly today and Mister Hartley knocked him down.”

“And hung him up by the heels,” states Older. “Slim told me about it. You hit the sheriff, too, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” admits Hashknife, rolling a smoke. “Seems like me and Sleepy got off to a flying start in Badger City.”

“Slim didn’t seem to know for sure,” says Older, “but Ben Lober was jabbering something about detectives when they loaded him on to a wagon.”

“We’re phil-an-thro-fists--detectives with a reverse English,” grins Hashknife.

“I dunno,” says Older. “I sure don’t. Glad to meetcha just the same. Slim and Al both said you looked like he-men.”

“How many head of stock have you lost?” asks Hashknife.

“Well----” Older rubs his mop of white hair--“I don’t know. I had about two thousand head in the Spring, but Slim says it won’t total five hundred now.”

“Geemighty! Has the JHE lost that many too?”

“I don’t know how many. Of course they’re a big outfit, and they don’t confide in us small raisers very much.”

“Not small raisers--big losers,” corrects Hashknife. “Don’t the sheriff ever get any hunch about who does the dirty work?”

“Does all he can, I reckon, but there is no clue. The stock just fades out.”

“Aren’t you afraid the sheriff will be after you?” asks Molly. “He might come out here and----”

“Not tonight, ma’am. They’ll have to dynamite the jail, I reckon,” and then he turns to Crosby.

“Get a sheet of paper and a pen.”

Molly got the required articles and put them on the table.

“Address that envelope to the Cattlemen’s Association at Helena. Fine. Now fold up that sheet of paper, put it inside and seal it.

“What time does the stage leave Badger City? Nine o’clock? All right, Mister Crosby; you take the letter down and post it about eight.”

“But there’s nothing inside it,” protests Crosby, staring at Hashknife.

“It’s the things you can’t read that will worry you the most. We’ll put our broncs back of the barn and sleep in the hay-loft. Good night, folks.”

Me and Hashknife argues up in that loft until he shoves some fox-tail grass in my mouth, and then we goes to sleep.

* * * * *

The next morning we gets a big smile from Molly, along with ham and eggs, and then Hashknife putters around the little blacksmith shop, whistling some old honkatonk tune all the time. Then he takes me with him for a ride. He ropes a sample of every brand on the range and takes measurements.

“If you wanted to tell me what you’re doing I’d listen,” says I. “I’m plumb tired of asking questions and getting answered with a grin. For gosh sake, can’t yuh do nothing but grin?”

“Phil-an-thro-fists has to grin, Sleepy. Dog-gone it, that’s all they get out of life. You ought to grin more--honest yuh had, cowboy. You’re getting wrinkles like the Grand Cañon. Get joyful and sing a little, can’t yuh?”

“Now whatcha want to do--add all them figures and find out how much leather it takes to make a envelope for a cow?”

“Figures don’t lie, Sleepy.”

“But liars do a lot of figuring, Hashknife. When do we go back and hold up the bank for our money? I’ve got a hunch that this here country is getting too brittle to hold us. Think the sheriff and prosecutor are going to lay down under this kind of treatment?”

“Can’t prognosticate a thing about mean folks like them, Sleepy. I’m sure beginning to feel sorry for them. Honest to gosh, my heart bleeds for them poor misguided officials, but like Fate I must go ahead.

“Ever read that poem which was written by a feller whose name sounds like an answer in Chinese? Something about the moving finger writes and having written moves on. I don’t know the rest, Sleepy, but she means that it’s all cut and dried, and it don’t make no difference if your gun does stick. _Sabe?_”

“I don’t,” says I. “I’m for him in that moving-on stuff, but the rest of your discourse sounds like a gambler kissing a pocket-piece before he sits into a game. I think you’re crazy if you asks me.”

Hashknife don’t get sore. He just grins at me sort of superior-like, which is worse than a cussing. Slim rides past that noon, and he seems astonished to see us setting on the top pole of the corral.

“Well, well!” says he, climbing up to us. “Never expected to see you two out in plain sight. Don’t you know that the sheriff has a posse after you? What do you mean by holding up the stage and then setting out here in sight of all the world?”

“Did we rob a stage?” asks Hashknife.

“Verdict of the sheriff,” grins Slim. “That’s whatcha gets for busting him on the jaw. Held up the stage at Dancing Fork and swiped the U. S. mail. The driver says it was the same fellers who shot Sam Peele and held up Spooner.”

“We’re awful mean _hombres_, don’tcha think, Slim?” asks Hashknife.

“Sure are,” grins Slim, rolling a smoke. “Ve-e-e-e-ry bad. Last night a bunch went down to the jail to lynch a murderer. They sure took the jail apart. Seems that Spooner and Ells put up a awful fight, but-- Say, it’s funny.

“They danged near choked Ells to death, and Spooner got a gun bent over his head, but the murderer got away. Ells swears that he got away in the fight, and now he’s sore as ---- at everybody concerned ’cause this same _hombre_ helped to rob the stage.

“Lober was on the stage, too, and swears it was you. They tried to take him out in a wagon, but it rode too rough.”

“Reckon they’ll come out here?” I asks.

“Yeah. I heard some of ’em speak about it. Sheriff told ’em that Crosby was a old friend of one of you; so I came out ahead. Crosby is a friend of mine, and Molly is one hy-iu little lady, y’betcha.”

“Spooner’s kinda shining around Molly, ain’t he?” asks Hashknife.

“Trying to,” admits Slim, and just then Al Stingle rides in.

“Better get down,” says he. “Visitors coming.”

We climbs down and the four of us walks down to the house. Molly and her dad meets us at the door, and I can see that they know what’s coming.

“Let me talk to them, boys,” says the old man. “I know what they want, but I also know you never held up the stage.”

“Did they believe you when you said that Shorty wasn’t a rustler?” asks Hashknife soft-like. “Did they?”

Molly’s face gets a shade whiter and she steps back against the door when Hashknife asks that. The old man glances at her and shakes his head.

“Wh-what do you know about Shorty?” she whispers. “What----”

“Very little--but enough,” says Hashknife. “Maybe I know more than that. Now you folks just stand here and let ’em ride up. They’ll naturally be ready for trouble and sort of hard to handle, but pretty soon they relaxes and it’s hard to get up speed again. Me and Sleepy will be just around the corner until such relaxation takes place.”

He shoves me around the corner and we stands there flat against the wall. Believe me, I gets as thin as a cigaret-paper.

In about a minute we hears the bunch ride into the yard. Crosby calls Ells by name, and I hears Brill say something to Slim and get a short answer.

“Is the Lazy U in the habit of harboring outlaws?” asks Crosby.

“No,” says Ells, “but they said something about going to work for you.”

Al Stingle laughs and then says--

“Since when did stage-robbers tell the sheriff where they were going to look for work?”

Several men seem to laugh out loud, and the tension is gone.

“Well, he----” begins Ells, and just then Hashknife steps out with me right at his side.

Neither of us has a gun in our hands. Hashknife seems to be fumbling in his vest pocket for something.

That posse just sets there with their mouths open. Reminds me of a horse caught flat-footed when the barrier went up.

“You----” begins Ells, staring at us, and then he stops.

“They wouldn’t be looking for jobs,” says Hashknife slow-like. “Outlaws never look for jobs, but they might hold office.”

“Whatcha mean?” snaps Ells. “I arrest you----”

“When?” interrupts Hashknife, grinning. “Easy--everybody. This ain’t no killing matter--yet. I know what the stage-driver said and I know what Lober said and I know who told ’em to say it.”

“Who?” asks one of the posse.

“Just a minute!” snaps Ells. “I want to get this straight. Appears to me that somebody is mistaken--maybe. Crosby, do you know where these boys were this morning?”

“What time?” asks Molly.

“About nine-thirty.”

“Right here. Mister Hartley was working in the blacksmith shop and Mister Stevens was sitting on that bench cleaning his gun. I think Mister Hartley was working on a branding-iron.”

“Branding-iron?” asks the sheriff.

“Slickest thing you ever seen,” nods Hashknife. “Going to make a lot of alleged cowmen set up and take notice.”

“Well, ----!” swears Brill, easing himself in the saddle. “All this fuss for nothing, eh?”

Ells says something under his breath and swings his horse around.

“Sorry to have troubled you,” says he, and we stands there and watches that posse ride away down the road.

“MY ----!” grunts Slim, staring at Hashknife. “Did you hypnotize ’em? Think of Bill Ells standing for anything like that! Escaped prisoner and all that, and he just says, ‘Sorry to have troubled you.’”

“Miss Crosby’s alibi changed their minds,” grins Hashknife.

“Like ---- it did!” snorts Al. “Looks to me like they was wishful to grab any old chance to drift home, like the feller who caught the bob-cat and didn’t know how to let loose.”

“I don’t _sabe_ it at all,” complains Crosby. “It ain’t reasonable.”

“It sure ain’t,” I agrees. “I almost had heart-failure when Miss Crosby mentioned me cleaning my gun. I just realized that I plumb forgot to put the shells back in, and I could see ’em shining on the bench where I left ’em.”

“Sleepy, Sleepy, you’ll be the death of us both some day,” says Hashknife. “Always forgetting. You’d ’a’ looked fine standing there snapping an empty gun, wouldn’t you?”

“Aw, we had ’em buffaloed anyway. They was plumb leary of that derringer.”

“That’s sure plumb nice,” grins Hashknife. “Yes, sir, that’s elegant. Notice me fumbling in my vest pocket? I forgot I put it in my pants pocket when I was blacksmithing. I reckon there’s a Providence that looks after or over idiots and phil-an-thro-fists.”

“Aw, ----!” grunts Al, waving his arms. “It’s all loco. What would anybody rob that mail for anyway? Nothing but reading-matter.”

“And not much of that,” grins Hashknife.

“Well, I’m going home,” states Slim. “I hankered for excitement and all I got was a beg-your-pardon. My ----, I never saw so much politeness in my whole life. Come on, Al.”

We watches ’em ride away and then sets down on the porch with Molly and her dad.

“Ells never even asked for his hat,” says Molly.

“Ma’am, that _hombre_ has got so much in his mind right now that he don’t feel the need of a cover for it,” grins Hashknife, and just then Older rides in.

“Was that a posse that just left here?” he asks.

“No,” says Hashknife; “that was a social organization. Glad you came over, ’cause I reckon the time is ripe to do something. Why don’t you combine with the Lazy U? Make one good outfit.”

“Combine? What do you mean?”

“To squeeze out the rustlers. You fellers has got to do something to bust up their party, ain’t you?”

Crosby and Older looks at each other and then at Hashknife.

“Just how and why?” asks Older. “Why are you interested, and how would a combination of our outfits stop the rustling?”

“I ain’t interested--I’m mad; and I’ll put myself out to bring sorrow to their wickiup. Here is the first move: Write a letter to the Cattlemen’s Association asking that the Lazy U and Cross L brands be canceled and that the O Cross B be registered to cover both former brands. Older and Crosby. _Sabe?_ Brand on left hip, same as the old ones.”

The two old pelicans takes it under advisement silently, and after a while Molly steps in and says--

“I’d take a chance, dad.”

“Wish I knew more about it,” says Older. “I hate to----”

“Columbus wished the same thing,” grins Hashknife, “but he went ahead and they built a monument for him. He took a chance.”

“All right,” says Older. “We haven’t much to lose. Crosby, you write the letter and I’ll post it.”

“In Divide,” says Hashknife.

“Why not in Badger?” asks Older.

“Too many hold-ups. This letter goes through.”

“I think I begin to see,” says Crosby slow-like. “That blank----”

“You’ve got it,” grins Hashknife. “Go ahead and write.”

We sets down on the porch and smokes a while. Molly is fussing with some of that fancy-work stuff, and pretty soon she says sort of soft-like:

“You spoke about Shorty Blewett a while ago. Do you believe him guilty?”

“Nope,” says Hashknife. “Almost a cinch. What kind of a _hombre_ was he?”

“Well----” Molly sort of bows her head over her work--“well, we were to be married this month.”

“Excuse me all to ----,” says Hashknife sober-like, and then he stares off across the hills for a while. “You--you ain’t turned against him none, have you, ma’am?”

She shakes her head and smiles at something away off in the direction of Deer Lodge, and then goes into the house.

“See that smile, Sleepy?” whispers Hashknife. “Cowboy, she’s all woman. Somewhere up that horse-thief’s e-eventuality is a poor devil in a suit, numbered like a box-car, and that smile was for him. He’ll get it too, cowboy. Cement and steel and distance can’t stop a smile like that. Likely she prays for him, too.

“I wish somebody’d love me like that. She just sets here, waiting and waiting and smiling thataway, and up there in the pen is a feller, who is just a number, and-- Whatcha been doing, Sleepy--peeling onions?”

“Go to ----!” says I. “I’ve got a cold.”

“Yeah, so have I. Reckon I’ll have to get Shorty turned loose.”

“Sure. All you’ve got to do is to walk up, knock on the door and say, ‘Let Shorty Blewett out, please,’ and out he comes.”

“Maybe you ain’t so danged far off at that, Sleepy. Reckon I’ll go and finish up that iron. Want to see a regular blacksmith working?”

I sets in the doorway while he builds a fire, and then has to listen to him sing his everlasting song about poor Toothpick. It goes like this:

“Oh, Toothpick Thompson was a son-of-a-gun,
Git along, my little dogie, git along.
He’ll meet the undertaker ’fore I git done,
Git along, my little dogie, git along.
Though the trail is rough and the cactus sharp,
An’ the cold wind blows through my ragged tarp,
He’s due to shovel coal or twang a harp,
Git along, my little dogie, git along.”

It don’t sound just like that though. You’ve got to frame your own tune and sort of sing it through your nose mournful-like, sort of hanging on to the words “along” until you’re out of breath. She’s some effective.

He drones out the last line and then slaps the iron into the slack-tub.

“I’m some brainy cuss, Sleepy,” says he. “You ought to brag about me a little.”

“Yeah? You sure ain’t asthmatic in your own behalf, Hashknife. You sure can talk above a whisper, but you has too many secrets. You won’t tell me a danged thing, will you? No, of course not.

“I follers you just like a sheep. When you say, ‘Shoot,’ I shoot. I’m weaned and rope-broke, Hashknife, and able to take nourishment without getting the colic, and still you won’t tell me anything.”

He holds up the cooled iron and admires it a heap.

“Latest style on the Wind River range, cowboy. Artistic, eh?”

“Got the letter written, and Older has left for Divide,” says Crosby from the doorway.

“Good. Me and Sleepy are going over to the JHE, and likely from there to Badger City. We may be late getting back.”

I follers him--as usual. Molly waves at us from the house, and I feels that she’s wishing us good luck. We need all we can get, I reckon.

“Now,” says I, “I want to know something, Hashknife. Why are we going to the JHE, and do we go in sorrow or in anger? We’ve got all our guns, and what I want to know is this: Do we use ’em?”

“She all depends. Did you ever see a feller packing a extra wheel on his automobile? Well, he ain’t figuring on trouble, but he’s ready in case something busts. _Sabe?_”

“Thanks,” says I. “You sure do give things away. Sometime you’ll bust out and tell me why you hunts for Toothpick.”

“Why, Sleepy, ain’t I never told you?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, well! You’ve got a surprize coming, cowboy.”

“Yeah--coming.”

* * * * *

Mister Brill wasn’t looking for us. He was cinching a saddle on a rangy roan when we rode up, and had his back toward us. He acts cautious, letting go of that latigo, and then turns slow-like.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“Mostly everything,” says Hashknife.

“Meaning,” says Brill, sort of easing one hand toward his middle.

I sees Brill’s hand stop and then start coming up, and then I glances at Hashknife, whose right hand is resting on his thigh, and the gun in that hand is covering Brill’s anatomy.

“Ease your gun loose and drop it over the fence,” orders Hashknife.

Brill don’t hesitate.

“How long have you owned the JHE outfit?”

“None of your----”

“Aw, be polite,” grins Hashknife. “Take that saddle off, ’cause you ain’t going no place, and then lead us up to the house, where we can be comfortable. Geemighty, but you’re shy on hospitality.”

Brill acts like he was sore at somebody, but he does as he’s ordered.

We all sets down and then Hashknife says----

“Brill, you knowed Shorty Blewett?”

“Knowed him--yes.”

“What was he sent up for?”

“Venting a JHE and running a Cross L.”

“Who caught him at it?”

“Me and Ben Lober.”

“Good. Lober’s in the hospital, but he’ll be willing to talk. Now----”

“What’s the idea?” snarls Brill. “What right you got----”

“Relax,” advises Hashknife. “You’re under a strain. Trying to make us think you’re mad at us, eh?

“Brill, I’m the best friend you’ve got. I’m going to do something for you.”

“What’s that?”

“Let you make your getaway. Set still! You’ve got the penitentiary staring you right in the eyes, and you dang well know it. How much of the JHE stock do you own?”

He stares at us and wets his lips. He sure is a weak sister.

“Why--what----” he begins mumbling, but Hashknife slides a sheet of paper and a pencil in front of him, and he stares at the writing stuff.

“Move up close to the table, Brill. That’s fine. Now I want you to take hold of that pencil. _Sabe?_ Fine.

“Now start in the upper left-hand corner of that sheet of paper. Ready? Good.

“Now, write us the true story of how Shorty was framed. Tell us all about it, Brill. Use all the names and dates, and don’t get worried, ’cause nobody’s going to hurt you--unless you get cramps in your fingers.”

“I’ll be ---- if I do!” he howls. “You ain’t----”

“Penmanship or penitentiary!” snaps Hashknife.

“You’re bluffing! If you think for a second that you can bluff----”

Hashknife takes the pencil out of Brill’s fingers and makes a few little figures at the top of the sheet. Brill stares at ’em and then at Hashknife.

“Think I’m bluffing?” grins Hashknife, and Brill licks his lips.

He stares at the wall for a moment and then starts writing. It took him about half an hour to finish, and then he flips the pencil on the table.

“That’s all I know,” says he weary-like, “so help me God!”

Hashknife folds up the paper and puts it in his pocket.

“How much do we owe you for your share of the ranch, Brill?”

He tears up several cigaret-papers trying to roll a smoke, and the first puff sort of strangles him.

“I--I-- You don’t owe me nothing. I own my own horse and rig--that’s all.”

“Give you two hundred and fifty,” says Hashknife, hauling out the check-book. “Shall I make it out to Brill or Jack McKee?”

Brill dropped his cigaret and stared at Hashknife.

“Knowed you all along,” grins Hashknife. “You was the key of the whole thing, McKee. Funny; eh? Key and McKee.

“Figured out a brand myself. Cross L and Lazy U are going to combine and call it the O Cross B. How’s that?”

He revolves it in his mind for a moment and then grins.

“Well--fine. Me and you ought to have-- Huh.

“Well, I’m much obliged to yuh, old-timer. That check looks better with Brill on it. Thanks. Reckon I’ll drift.”

We watched him saddle up and climb his bronc. Then he turns back.

“Wasn’t you trailing a _hombre_ named Toothpick Thompson? Thought I remembered it. Wish you all kinds of luck. _Adios_.”

“Was he a friend of yours, Hashknife--this Brill?”

“No-o-o-o, I don’t reckon so. He didn’t know me though. I knowed him by reputation as the slickest hair-brander in the Southwest, and they tell me he is some wise _hombre_ on brand combinations.

“One night me and three of the boys from the Hashknife outfit caught him hair-branding a filly by the light of a camp-fire. The filly was loco, so we tied him on her back and headed him into the Mohave Desert dressed in a undershirt.”

“He knowed Toothpick Thompson?”

“Maybe--I don’t know. Lot of the boys knowed I was trailing Toothpick.”

We got our broncs and Hashknife headed straight for the Lazy U instead of to Badger, and I follered--as usual. We walked right into the house and there is Abe Spooner, big as life, talking to Molly and the old gent. Spooner is a bit flustrated, but Hashknife shakes his hand like he was his pal.

“This sure is luck,” laughs Hashknife. “Sure saves us trouble. Tell you what I want you to do, Spooner; I want you to put into motion the machinery which will release Shorty Blewett from the pen.”

“You ... do?” says Spooner with his mouth wide open like a gasping fish.

“Uh-huh. You see, Spooner, he wasn’t guilty. No, sir, he wasn’t guilty at all. Ain’t that funny? Don’t your heart bleed for a innocent man thataway?”

“I--I--I don’t know----”

“Indigestion?” asks Hashknife. “You ought to chaw your food more. Set down and rest a little. Brill passed out this afternoon, and he left a little confession.”

“Brill ... passed ... out?” gasps Spooner. “He--he----”

“Uh-huh. Owned the JHE, didn’t he, Spooner?”

“Ye--yes--that is, I think so.”

“I bought him out,” says Hashknife.

“Spooner, have you any idea of how much JHE stock is on this range?”

“Why--why--no.”

“Well, I reckon I got a bargain, anyway. How soon can you get Shorty out of the pen?”

Spooner wets his lips and starts to get up.

“I don’t know. I--I’ll have to see the sheriff--and----”

“Well, we’ll go with you. Brill mentioned him, too. Said something about Lober being----”

“That’s a lie!” snaps Spooner. “Brill lied----”

“About what?” asks Hashknife.

“That--that-- I’ve got to go.”

Spooner grabs his hat and starts for the door, and we’re right on his heels. I caught Molly’s eye as we went out, and she looks like a person who wants to be joyful but is plumb afraid.

Spooner acts plumb tongue-tied and his eyes are wild, but I reckon he’d forgot he owned a gun--if he had one at all. Me and Hashknife rides one on each side of him, and we fogs off down that road like we was going to a dance.

Gray Wolf and Diablo sure can run, but they has to lay down and go some to keep up with Spooner’s little brown mare. We skids around a hair-pin curve, going like a bat out of ----, and all to once we tangles with another rider and his pack-animal.

Me and Gray Wolf and that pack-horse all went off the grade in a tangle. Gray Wolf was a born acrobat, and somehow he manages to hit on his feet at the bottom. I got skinned up a little, but I slides my rifle loose and climbs back up to the road.

Spooner is leaning against a tree, trying to pump wind back into his lungs and work the lever of Hashknife’s Winchester, neither of which seems to work properly. In the middle of the road stands the sheriff, gore running down his homely face, and acts a heap like he was trying to line his sights on Hashknife, who is down behind the sheriff’s horse, sort of tangled up.

“Look out, Bill!” screams Spooner when I climb over into the road.

Ells whirls toward me and I felt the wind of his bullet whisper past my ear. He didn’t feel the wind of mine. He just seems to sort of teeter forward on his toes, and then buckled backward to the dirt.

I hears another shot and glances sideways in time to see Spooner slump down on his hands and knees and slide flat on his face.

* * * * *

Hashknife drags himself out from under the dead bronc and rubs his chin.

“There goes their old court-house ring, Sleepy,” says he, grinning. “We met the enemy and they are ours.”

I turned Spooner over and hauled him into the shade, and then we did the same for Ells. Spooner blinks up at us and sort of remembers things. Tears appear in his little eyes, and he tries to beg.

“Shut up!” snaps Hashknife. “Save your wind, feller.”

“I don’t want to die!” wails Spooner. “Don’t let me die!”

“He can’t last long,” says Hashknife. “But I don’t care much.”

“Don’t say that,” begs Spooner. “I’ll do anything--anything--hear me?”

Funny what a bullet will do to a man, ain’t it?

“If you lie to me I’ll let you die like a coyote,” says Hashknife, and Spooner blinks hard.

“You hired two men to kill us as we rode in, didn’t you?”

Spooner groans and twists, but nods his head. Hashknife tears a check out of his book, turns it face down on the book and digs out his pencil. Then he props Spooner against a rock and hands him the stuff.

“Write out a bill of sale to Crosby & Older for the JHE outfit. Mark it ‘Paid in Full.’ _Sabe?_”

Spooner stares at Hashknife, and he seems to get convulsions.

“Go ahead,” advises Hashknife. “The sooner you do it the sooner you’ll get to a doctor.”

“Bill of sale?” he whispers. “Who are you to-- What do I get?”

“You get help or--a harp. Decide quick.”

Spooner wet that bill of sale with bitter tears, but his life’s blood was worth a lot to him, and he signed it all proper-like.

“Did Ells have any interest in this?” asks Hashknife.

“Let him answer,” says I. “He’s woke up.”

We has to shake him quite a lot before he gets his _sabe_ back, and Hashknife wipes the blood out of his eyes before he can see. He reads the bill of sale sort of dazed-like and then squints at us. Hashknife hands him the pencil.

“Right below Spooner’s signature, Ells,” grins Hashknife, and Ells scrawls it like a man in his sleep.

Then he stares at poor Spooner.

“Much obliged,” says Hashknife. “The sheriff’s bronc is dead, I reckon, but Spooner’s will carry double. I’d advise the border--fast.”

“What are you talking about?” wails Spooner. “I need a doctor!”

“Like ---- you do,” whoops Hashknife. “You need a jeweler.”

He reaches down and picks out Spooner’s watch-chain. In the middle on the string of gold-pieces is one with a big lead slug partly wrapped in a twenty.

“That .44 slug busted into your stummick and upset your nervous system,” whoops Hashknife. “Ells’ head was so danged hard that Sleepy’s bullet just skidded. You fellers ain’t hurt--you’re simply shocked.”

Ells and Spooner stares at each other and then weaves to their feet. We threw their guns over the grade, and Hashknife watched ’em until I got Gray Wolf and their pack-animal back to the road. Then they both got on Spooner’s mare and started away.

I reckon I know how they felt, giving up everything thataway.

“Thy sins have found thee out,” grins Hashknife. “I hope mine never find me in.”

“Now,” says I, “you Egyptian Spinks, speak up and tell your little bunkie the secret. How did you know they rustled them cows?”

Hashknife rolls a smoke and leans back.

“McKee. As soon as I seen that pelican I says to myself, ‘Brands is the answer.’ I got to wondering why they changed the old Bar 80 to JHE.”

Hashknife takes a stick and makes a Cross L in the dust. Then he makes a Lazy U.

“See them two brands, Sleepy? Now watch.”

He makes an E out of the L, and draws a J ahead of it. Then he grins at me.

“See how they made a JHE out of Cross L without any trouble? Now, all you have to do is to finish up that Lazy U into an E, and add the J Bar to make it JHE. _Sabe?_

“Now if these pelicans had made any yelps about making good I was going to rebrand everything on the range with the O Cross B, the same of which fits right over the top of the JHE. _Sabe?_”

CROSS L ..... [L brand] ........ [JHE brand]
LAZY U ...... [U brand] ........ [JE brand]
J H E ....... [JE brand] ....... [JHE brand]
O CROSS B ...................... [O+B brand]

“Hashknife,” says I, “don’t teach me any more. That’s penitentiary bait.”

“Uh-huh. I suppose I ought to ’a’ sent Spooner and Ells to the pen, but what’s the use of doing that? I wouldn’t pen up a coyote.”

Just then a wagon comes rattling around the curve, and in it is Older, Crosby and Molly. They stares at the dead bronc and then at us. Hashknife grins and hands them the bill of sale, and they sure gets interested.

“Wh-what does it mean?” stutters Crosby. “Everything on the JHE?”

“Uh-huh. That ain’t all either. I’ve got a confession that will bring Shorty Blewett out of the pen--whiter than snow.”

Molly sort of sways in her seat and stares at him.

“Absolutely, ma’am,” grins Hashknife. “Soon as I can find a judge.”

“Oh!” says she, and that’s all.

I reckon there are times when a person’s tongue gets handcuffed.

“Let’s go, folks,” says Hashknife. “We’ve got to see the judge.”

We looked back after we got started, and sees Molly setting there in the bumpy old wagon with her hands folded in her lap, but she wasn’t feeling the jolts of that old dead-ex wagon.

Old Judge Stevens was plumb receptive. The whole gang of us enters his office, and after he reads that confession he goes straight up.

“Get him out?” he howls. “Will I? Of all the rotten deals----”

“Come on, Sleepy,” says Hashknife, taking me by the sleeve. “Let’s get out before the old coot dies from apoplexy.”

Crosby grabbed us at the door and he’s trembly all over.

“Where you going?” he asks. “Me and Older want you to take third interest in the new outfit. No, no, you can’t refuse! Why, man alive, we’ve----”

“Just a minute,” grins Hashknife. “Me and Sleepy has got to see a man.”

We manages to get away before he kissed us, and then we met the man. He asked us what we’d have, and we told him. We bathed our souls in it, and we grew light-hearted and gay.

“Sleepy,” says Hashknife, “we’ve got seventeen hundred dollars and a third interest in a cow outfit. Do we settle down to a ripe old age?”

“And give up our hunt for Toothpick Thompson, Hashknife?”

We looks at each other and both shakes our heads at the same time.

“Tell you what we’ll do: We’ll give Molly and her feeance seven hundred and fifty to start housekeeping on, eh? Fine! A thousand is plenty for us.”

We talked to the man again, and later on we finds Molly and her dad and Older. Hashknife makes an elaborate bow, forgets the speech we framed up, but gives Molly the check. He orates in favor of giving Molly and her man the third interest and keeping the cow outfit in the family.

I starts in where Hashknife left off and talked so danged fast that they can’t refuse. Molly kissed both of us, and I think I kissed Older and Crosby. Hashknife says I did, but I don’t remember kissing Older.

Next thing I remember is meeting the restaurant person with the long lock of hair and ancient cigaret.

“The sheriff sloped,” says he. “Hope he never comes back.”

“Whyfore he sloped?” I asks.

“Shot a feller who didn’t have no gun. I hope they catch him and hang the son-of-a-rooster. Know what he done--him and Spooner? They arrested Shorty Blewett just when he was going to pay me the seventeen dollars he owed me.”

“Who did he shoot?” asks Hashknife.

“Brill. Betcha the JHE outfit will make him hard to catch.”

“Kill him?”

“Not dead. They sent him to Divide on a buckboard. Brill took a few drinks and met the sheriff. Nobody knows why Ells shot him, but Brill was unarmed and--that’s bad business. The sheriff packed a horse and lit out.”

Hashknife writes him out a check for seventeen, and we both shakes hands with the feller. Then we went on. In the saloon where we had our first run-in with Ells the bartender sets ’em up to us and acts real friendly.

“Got a note for you,” says he, handing Hashknife a slip of paper. “Brill wrote it after he was shot. Said to slip it to the tall one.”

Hashknife leans against the bar and reads it over several times. Then he digs down inside his shirt and pulls out a little buckskin sack, which he turns around and around in his fingers. Pretty soon he says:

“Sleepy, will you take this and give it to Molly? Tell her it’s a Christmas present to her and Shorty from Hashknife Hartley. Tha’s all, cowboy.”

Molly didn’t know what to say, and I went away before she said it. I had to hunt all over town to find Hashknife, and then I meets him coming out of the bank. We gets on our broncs and as usual I follers Hashknife out of town.

We rides along quite a while in silence and then Hashknife starts singing, “If I ne-e-e-e-ver had ’a’ met you, I ne-e-e-e-ver would ’a’ loved you, git along my little dogie, git along my little dearie----”

“Did you get that thousand dollars, Hashknife?” I asks.

“Minus seventeen dollars,” says he. “No, but it’s safe, Sleepy.”

“Where?”

“In a church.”

“Go ahead and talk.”

“I was in the bank to get it, Sleepy. Little old coot comes jigging in, and lays down a dollar and eighty cents. Funny little coot, Sleepy, with eyes like a tired dog. Says to the cashier----

“‘Here is a little more--very little; but each cent brings us nearer to a church in Badger City.’

“You building a church?” I asks, and he smiles--not grins, Sleepy--and says----

“‘We are not building yet, brother, but we have hopes.’

“I hands him the check and says to him----

“‘If every dollar brings a hope, pardner, have nine hundred and eighty-three hopes on us.’”

We drifts along for a while, and then Hashknife turns to me.

“Sleepy, you ain’t sore, are you?”

“Yeah, I am; sore that we gave two hundred and fifty to Brill when the church business is so hopeless. I ain’t asking much, Hashknife, but I’d admire to know what that present was which I gave Molly?”

“A bullet, Sleepy--just a old lead bullet.”

“Merry Christmas,” says I. “You’re a regular Santa Claus.”

“Once upon a time,” says Hashknife, “there was two jiggers, who--well, one of them says public-like----

“‘I’m going to shoot Hashknife Hartley.’

“Hashknife rises up on his hind legs and orates--

“‘If you do I’ll dig out the bullet and make you eat it if I have to foller you the rest of my life.’

“That was the bullet, Sleepy. I didn’t make good.”

We rides along for a while, and then Hashknife turns in his saddle and hands me back the note which the bartender had given him. It read:

DER SIR--Shorty Blewett is a nice feller, but maybe you
like to know he is Toothpik Tomson just the same but
diferent name. Yours truly, BRILL.

I stares at Hashknife’s homely, sober face, and all to once he breaks into a big grin.

“Aw, I ain’t mad at nobody, Sleepy. She’s a great old world.”

“Uh-huh, and few of us ever get out of it alive, Hashknife.”

“Yeah, that’s a fact, cowboy, but she helps a lot if we can help here and grin when we leave for the hereafter--ho, hum-m-m-m-m. Git along my little dogie, git along my little dogie; we’re going to Montana on the old Lo-Lo trail.”

And that was whatever.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 18, 1920 issue of Adventure magazine.]