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Title: A whizzer on Willer Crick

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: May 4, 2026 [eBook #78602]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1920

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78602

Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WHIZZER ON WILLER CRICK ***

A WHIZZER ON WILLER CRICK

By W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Alias Whispering White,” “Hashknife—Philanthropist,” etc.

The longer I inhabits this vale of tears, the more I believe in the saying, “Honesty is the Best Policy.” A feller may get awful lonesome and all that, but he don’t have to wear his holster tied down and take his drink with his back to the bar.

I don’t want you to get the idea that me and “Hashknife” Hartley are bad hombres, ’cause we ain’t—not so awful. We don’t make a practice of throwing rocks at cripples and we haven’t a single mortgage on anybody’s old homestead.

Taking it by and large, there ain’t many folks who can point their finger at “Sleepy” Stevens and Hashknife Hartley and say—

“You’re wanted some place.”

But at that it don’t take many pointed fingers to make you feel that you should have growed up according to the Golden Rule, went to Sunday-school more than one week before Christmas and educated yourself to be a harness drummer or a hotel clerk.

Hashknife is just a long, thin, angular, hatchet-faced hombre with a perpetual grin on his face. Some time or other he’s been red-headed and freckled, but the desert sun, Dakota blizzards and Montana alkali has faded it until he’s just a roan. I won’t brag about myself, ’cause I’m telling the story. Sabe?

I found an old newspaper one day when me and Hashknife are working for the Triangle A outfit over on the Flathead.

I’m digging under a bunk after a short piece of rope when I unearths this old sheet, and something thereon seems to catch my eye.

It shows some pictures of bucking broncs and fellers bull-dogging steers, and the center picture shows a silver-mounted saddle, all scrolled up with fancy jiggers. The top of the page shows this line:

WHERE DID THEY GO?

RIDERS BUCK OUT OF SIGHT AND

LEAVE COVETED TROPHY

I takes the paper out where Hashknife is putting a new hondo on his rope and sets down beside him. His cigaret sizzles his mustache before he gets through reading it, and then he nods his head and goes back to work.

“She must ’a’ been some hull,” I observes.

“Yeah. Cost a hundred and eighty bucks, Sleepy. Saddle-maker told me that he didn’t make a cent on it. You’ve got to pay big for all that fancy scroll stuff, and there must be a heap of silver in all them ornyments.”

“Nobody knows where they went,” says I. “Just bucked out.”

Hashknife scratches his nose and peers at that hondo.

“Thank ——! What folks don’t know won’t hurt ’em, Sleepy.”

Just to wise you up a little, I’m going to let you in on a little happenstance. The towns of Yolo and Pecos ain’t far apart. Yolo is the county seat, the same of which is the place where the sheriff holds forth. Pecos holds such a wayward reputation that the sheriff stations a deputy there to keep as much peace as he can get his hands on to.

A feller inhabits Yolo for a few days—feller who rides a pinto horse. He’s wishful to buck a game of chance, but soon finds out that they’re cinch games. He rises in his wrath and proclaims he’s been gypped by said crooked pastime. Naturally there’s a few interested parties who objects to having their morals paraded, and they rises to the occasion—too late.

The rider of a calico bronc relieves ’em of their visible supply of worldly goods, exchanges lead compliments with the sheriff and fades out of Yolo with the sheriff on his trail.

Simultaneously a rider of a calico horse goes into a bank in Pecos and takes what’s in sight without leaving any security, and he fades out with the festive deputy in pursuit.

Now, these pinto riders don’t know each other, but they meets in the mesquite, asks and answers a few questions, sends a few hunks of lead on their back trails, and fades down a coulée while the over-anxious sheriff and his hired killer lays out there in the brush and heaves lead at each other.

It’s natural that the sheriff holds a grudge against them two after a dirty trick like that. In due course of time them two bad, bad men gets rid of their pinto broncs and decides to go the straight and narrow way. They works honest-like to get enough money to buy a pair of horses and gets them lifted from the corral the first time they rides to the town of Wisdom. Said thieving operation leaves them on foot, and they casts around for another chance to be good—if possible.

The town of Pemberton is pulling off a round-up show; so me and Hashknife ships our rigs up there. Hashknife can ride anything you can cinch a hull on to, and what he can’t ride he turns over to me. Uh-huh, I sure can ride.

If my head was as educated to the twists of business as my legs are to the twists of a bronco I’d be packing the Standard Oil company for a pocket-piece.

Me and Hashknife circulates around until we finds an Easterner who is willing to pay two hundred and fifty dollars for the prize saddle, and then we enters the bucking contest. It is supposed to be for the world’s championship, the same of which she ain’t—not by several good riders who are too poor to come that far.

Anyway, they handed us some regular outlaw broncs, and we got all the jolts that buckaroos are heir to, and the crowd seems to appreciate it a heap.

Things goes along for three days with a lot of perfectly good riders dragging their saddles back to the stable. The top riders are getting fewer and fewer and the broncs tougher and tougher, until we sudden-like realizes that we’re all that’s left.

Hashknife and Sleepy rides for the championship. It don’t make no difference who wins, ’cause we splits that two hundred and fifty anyway.

They decides to have us ride the finals together. Hashknife draws El Diablo, a roan outlaw from Wyoming, and I gets Gray Wolf, a hammer-headed man-eater from Idaho. They’re a educated pair, if you asks me. They’ve got just one idea in their empty heads, and that is to have nothing on their backs but hair.

It takes four men to keep Gray Wolf’s feet on the ground long enough to cinch the hull—even with a blind over his eyes. Hashknife’s helpers are having the same kinda trouble.

We’re saddling in front of the grand stand, where the crowd can see all the fun. I steps in beside my animal, slips my foot into the stirrup, and for a moment I looks at the crowd.

Man, I plumb forgot that I was going to ride for the championship. I swung into that saddle all humped up, catches that other stirrup, yanks the blind and slams the spurs into Wolf before he has a chance to get set.

He just makes one whale of a hop, and lights running. I seen Hashknife go high and handsome, and then my animal bucks right into him. Lucky for us that neither horse went down. As we came together I yelps one word at Hashknife, and then set my spurs into that gray outlaw.

I don’t know what the crowd thought. Gray Wolf sailed across the rail of that race-track like a bird, took a slant at the outside fence and tore down about fifteen feet of it. The boards are still in the air when I looks back, and here is Hashknife right at my heels, and that Diablo animal is running like its namesake was hanging on to its tail.

There’s one nice thing about an outlaw bronc—he don’t quit. We just set there and rode. It took about five miles for either bronc to grab a deep breath, and then they just grabbed it and started all over again.

We must be about ten miles from Pemberton before we stopped. There ain’t nobody behind us. It would take airships to find us in that hump-backed country, so we relaxes on the backs of the two worst horses in the world—supposed to be—and rolled smokes.

“You sure it was him?” asks Hashknife.

“Think I don’t know that long, stoop-shouldered, wolf-faced hombre?”

“Well, well!” says Hashknife. “Who’d a thunk he’d be there? But I reckon it’s a good place to look if you’re hunting for some certain puncher, Sleepy. Did he know you?”

“Well, he didn’t wave at me—if that’s what you mean. He was right in the front row, and I seen him stand up to let somebody pass.”

“Quite a ways from Yolo,” observes Hashknife. “Yes, sir, she’s quite some ways. I don’t know how we ever made our getaway on these buckers. Ordinary-like we’d still be in that arena, wishful but ashamed to pull leather. I reckon it’s just luck that we got a pair of outlaws that felt it was their day to race instead of buck.”

“Uh-huh,” says I. “Come what may, Hashknife, we’re horse-thieves, and may the Lord have mercy or our luck hold out.”

“Amen. Where do we go now?”

“Well,” says I, “they tells me in school that a straight line is the shortest distance between two points. Pemberton is due west; so if we goes due east we will eventually arrive at the longest distance from Pemberton, which contradicts the theory, but which is a glaring fact. What do you think?”

“My ——, don’t ask me, professor. We better cinch up a little, ’cause these broncs are liable to get back to their original ideas, and I ain’t no pe-destrian—me.”

Hashknife is musical. When he’s thinking deep-like he often raises his voice in song, which goes like this:

Everybod-e-e-e loves a little lo-o-o-vin’,

Little bit o’ lovin’ is fine.

To a poor cowboy in a cactus lan’

Little bit o’ lovin’ is simply gran’.

Chasin’ dogies, bustin’ broncs,

Drinkin’ up his money in honkatonks;

To a tough ol’ rooster, no good a-tall,

Little bit o’ lovin’ is heaven, that’s all.

“Lot of truth in that song, Sleepy,” says he. “Love keeps everybody moving, old-timer.”

“All but two of us, Hashknife. Love let out that contract to the sheriff of Yolo.”

“That’s true, Sleepy, but love laughs at blacksmiths, you know.”

“Locksmiths, Hashknife. I reckon love laughs at punchers, too. She sure always gives me the merry ha, ha. You ought to get married, Hashknife. You’re homely as ——, but you’ve got a face that nobody ever gets tired of. Yes, sir, that face of yours can be looked upon and mistaken for lots of things.

“Now, if you was married, Hashknife, and the sheriff showed up at your teepee, he’d say:

“‘If there ain’t Hashknife, the son-of-a-gun! Married, too! Well, well! He can’t take a drink without asking his wife. She’s packing his Bull Durham and lets him have half enough cigarettes, and she won’t let him have enough money at one time to set into a four-bit jack-pot game.

“‘He’d be tickled to death to have me arrest him, but I won’t. Naw, sir. Dawgone him, he’s got to suffer for his sins.’”

“As a prophet, Sleepy, you’re a total loss,” says he. “Never mind my face, ol’-timer. I ain’t pretty to look upon, but I’ve sure got a heart in my bosom.”

“According to the laws of anatomy,” I admits; “but females don’t hanker to marry a man just because his insides are all in their proper places. You’ve got gall on your liver, too, Hashknife, and she shows a lot more externally than your heart does.”

“All right; all right, Sleepy. You knows so danged much about physiology that I wonders why you ain’t a doctor with a diplomy on the wall instead of being a common puncher with a price on your head.”

We points east until midnight, and then stakes out our broncs and grabs a little sleep. The next day about noon we hits a ranch. There ain’t nobody there but the Chink cook, but he’s plenty for our needs. He’s one good cook, you bet your life, and he don’t roll his eyes when me and Hashknife consumes eight eggs per each and a pound or two of ham.

“John,” says Hashknife when we’re filled, “where do we come to if we rides straight up that way?”

The Chink considers it for a minute.

“Maybeso you find Willow Cleek lange. Bimeby you find Wind Liver lange. Too far, I no sabe.”

“Wind River range good place, John?”

“Pletty good, you sabe? Willow Cleek dam bad!”

“Willow Creek bad, eh? What’s the matter—rustler?”

“Maybeso. Evelybody clousin. You sabe? Maybeso bloodah, sistah, clousin. All ’lated. You sabe? No good.”

“All related, John?”

“Betcha life! Allee time fam’ly fight. Too much clousin, dam bad!”

“All same Chinamen; eh, John?” grins Hashknife.

“Allee same ——!” grunts the Chink, which shows he’s range broke. “China boy maybeso have plenty sistah, bloodah, clousin, yessah. China boy no hate ’lation. China boy he say:

“‘I please hope you make plenty money. I plenty glad you get litch.’ Yessah, you betchum.

“Willow Cleek he say—

“‘Go to ——! I hope you get lynch fo’ stealum cow.’”

“How about outsiders, John?” I asks. “No relation folks?”

“Ver’ bad place. You sabe? No ’lation—last quick. Evelybody makeum hard to catch. You sabe? Dam bad lange, you betchum.”

“Much obliged, John,” says Hashknife.

“All lite, you fin’ out. Goo’-by.”

“My gosh!” grunts Hashknife as we rides away. “Don’t never tell me that a Chink can’t read human nature. He knowed there wasn’t no use warning me and you.”

“We ain’t got no use for Willow Creek, Hashknife.”

“Sure not, Sleepy, but she must be some queer layout. Any time a Chinaman opines a place to be hyas cultus, she must be worse and more of it.”

We cuts across the hills until about four o’clock, when we strikes a road. Just about that time we meets a saddled bronc with reins dragging, and we sets there and watches it swing around us; never offering to stop it. All to once our ears gets this salutation:

“Of all the ignorant, imbecilic know-nothing punchers I ever seen, you’re the worst. Why in thunder don’t one of you imitation punchers hang a rope on that animal?”

We looks up. She’s standing in the middle of the road, a hand on each hip, and glares at us. She’s a frail-looking little maid, with a big mop of gold-colored hair and a freckled nose. Man, I’ve seen blue eyes in my time, but they’re all faded looking beside hers.

Mad? Holy mackinaw, that girl is madder than a bob-cat with its tail caught in a trap.

“Your hoss?” asks Hashknife. “Belongs to you?”

“Do you see any other animal around here?” she snaps. “What in the name of ossified owls do you think I was yelling about? If that don’t answer your question, Mister Long-Legs, I’ll add this much—y-e-s! Now, if you’re too lazy to toss a rope——”

“How’d he get away from you?” asks Hashknife, shaking out his loop.

“I was playing the piano and left the parlor door open,” says she; and all you’ve got to do is look at them blue eyes to know she’s telling the truth.

“Wait!” says she, “Maybe you’d like to know more. My name is Glory and the horse’s name is Beans, and I’m seventeen and Beans is six, and the saddle was bought in Ranger. I’ve got a sister who married a preacher, and my pa came from Missouri, and ma is originally a Swede, and Beans was bought from ‘One-Eyed’ Olson, and if you don’t get busy he’ll be back home before you get your mouth shut.”

She stops all out of breath.

“My ——!” grunts Hashknife, “My ——! Yes’m.”

Hashknife is a good roper. That long boy can heave the hemp as far as the best of ’em, but Diablo ain’t educated to no rope, and when Hashknife drops the loop over that runaway bronc Diablo won’t stay right end to.

No, sir, that fool outlaw whirls right around and went the other way, which is against all rules. It was a good rope. She sure seen her duty and done it right. Hashknife’s latigo busted, and he sets up there in the air with nothing between his legs but the saddle.

He comes to earth in a tangle of mesquite, and Beans gets stopped so quick he turns a flip-flop. I drops my loop on Diablo as he comes past, and when the rope tightens I gets treated to some of the fanciest bucking I ever experienced. Gray Wolf came back to life and done just what the Pemberton audience figured he’d do.

I reckon he’d be bucking yet, but the rope got looped around his front legs, and we comes down in a heap. Anyway we stay with Diablo, and when I got back to the road I finds Hashknife setting there on a rock, with his head in his hands.

“What became of the lady fair?” I asks.

Hashknife squints at me and points off up the road.

“She—she said to tell you it was worth paying to see. Said we ought to lose our ropes and join P. T. Barnum, Sleepy.”

“Yeah?” says I. “Wonder if she knows that Barnum is dead?”

“Is he?”

Hashknife gawps at me and scratches his head.

“Well, I reckon maybe she does, Sleepy. Daw-w-gone!”

We fixes Hashknife’s latigo and pilgrims on up the road. Hashknife acts a heap thoughtful.

“I never in all my danged life——”

“Neither did I,” says I, and Hashknife grins.

“Rampagin’ little bob-cat.”

“Name’s Glory. Pa’s from Missouri; ma’s a Swede.”

“Keeps Beans in the parlor,” adds Hashknife. “Lucky bronc.”

Then Hashknife bursts into song:

“Chasin’ dogies, bustin’ broncs,

Drinkin’ up his money in the honkatonks;

Tough ol’ rooster, no good a-tall——

“Say, Sleepy, that love thing is mighty queer. She’s a heap like electricity. You don’t know what it looks like or where it comes from, but she sure can jolt —— out of a feller. There’s the first signpost I’ve seen since I left Kansas.”

It’s an old board dangling on a drunken post at the forks of the road. The words are partly faded out, but she’s still readable.

THERE IS A CLICK ON WILLER CRICK

THE WORST IN ALL THIS NASHUN.

THE HITE OF THEIR AMBISHUN-IS

TO BEAT THEIR OWN RELASHUN.

“Hashknife,” says I, “we are at the turning of the ways. Yonder lieth the road to Willer Crick; ahead of us lies the road to —— knows where. The Chink warned us.”

Hashknife reads the poem over again.

“She speaks fluently of ‘their own relation,’ Sleepy. Being as me and you ain’t blood brothers to the ‘click’, maybe—What do you think?”

“Anyway,” says I, “the Stevenses never did believe in signs, and taking advice from a Chink never was our motto.”

“Pshaw! Your folks and mine belongs to the same church, Sleepy.”

Some gentle buckaroos leave their six-guns hanging in the barn or the house when they goes out to ride buckers, but me and Hashknife never imitated that dangerous custom; therefore we’re still heeled.

Hashknife packs a .41 Colt on his hip and a .45 derringer in his vest pocket, but I takes a chance with a ordinary .44 Colt on my hip. I carried a bowie-knife once, but I was always afraid I’d cut myself, or that somebody’d take it away from me and start carving, so I threw it in the river.

I chides Hashknife a heap over that derringer. Little two-barreled cannon, which is liable to knock a finger off when it roars. I don’t like ’em.

Me and Hashknife are just ordinary shots. I never seen but two punchers that was what you’d call good shots. A prospector killed one of ’em with a pick handle, and the other shot himself accidental.

We comes to a ranch-house pretty soon. A feller is setting on the steps, cleaning a rifle; so we went on. Willer Crick ain’t what you’d designate as being a land of milk and honey.

Away back in the dim and distant past she got shook up and pawed over by a mighty power, which left her hump-backed to a startling degree. She’s a place that’s had her ups and downs, and it don’t take no scientist to point out that fact.

“’Pears to me that I hears shots,” observes Hashknife, stopping his bronc. “There she goes again!”

“Hashknife,” says I, “you’re getting nervous like a old widder woman. Ain’t folks got a right to shoot?”

“I—I reckon they has, Sleepy. Oh, sure. Just wondered—that’s all.”

We rides down around a curve, and ahead of us we sees a ranch-house. She’s sort of a tumble-down affair with a swaybacked roof. Taking it by and large, she needs a heap of fixing to be up-to-date in any respect.

We’re beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, so we swings off the main road, goes through the open gate and rides up to the house. There’s something beside the steps, sort of like a heap of clothes; so we rides up closer.

“Holy henhawks!” grunts Hashknife. “Corpse!”

It’s a human being and Hashknife wasn’t shooting very wide when he pronounced it a corpse. It’s an old feller with white hair and whiskers, and he’s laying there sort of doubled up over a Winchester. There’s a dozen empty shells scattered around, which shows that he threw some lead before he quit. Hashknife tears open his shirt and feels of his heart.

“Flickerin’,” pronounces Hashknife. “Let’s take him in out of the sun.”

The inside of the house is on a par with the outside. We lays the old feller on a worn-out sofy, and then rustles some water. He appears to have stopped a lot o’ lead, but after we sluices him a little he opens his eyes.

He stares at us for a few seconds, and then he busts loose. Talk about profanity! Man, he could sure handle it proper. Make a feller sort of feel queer to hear a man, skidding West as fast as his heart can pump blood out of bullet-holes, cursing like a mule-skinner. Sure he was conscious.

“Who in —— are you?” he asks when his supply of words seems to run short.

We tells him who we are, an’ he actually grins.

“Find me a pencil and paper,” he croaks. “—— me if I don’t get even! Kill me for my money—will they! —— murderers!”

“Who shot you?” asks Hashknife.

“None of your —— business! Find me that paper and pencil! I can’t live long, but I’ll stick long enough to get —— good and even with Albright.”

I rustled a sheet of paper and a pencil, and handed him a book to hold it on.

“Now hold me up, so I can write, ——it!”

He sure wrote a wabbly hand. He asks us to spell our names for him, and he chuckles to himself as he writes.

Once I thought the old boy was gone. He dropped the pencil, but I gave it to him and he cursed his weak fingers. He managed to sign a name at the bottom, and then dumped book and all off his lap.

“They lose!” he whispers. “I don’t know you fellers, but by —— I’ve got to chance it! I wouldn’t die fast enough to suit ’em; so they——”

“Well,” says Hashknife soft-like, “he didn’t suffer none. Barring his tongue, I wouldn’t mind having him for a gran’paw. He sure had the constitution of a grizzly.”

Hashknife picks up the paper and squints at it. It reads:

To anybody concerned:

I hereby states that everything I own in this world is hereby given to Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens. This means everything.

I don’t want anybody but them to get anything that belongs to me.

Yours very truly,

Ebenezer O. Godfrey.

Me and Hashknife walks to the door and looks around. A magpie cackles from the tumble-down corral, and from the side of the hill comes the whistle of a prairie-dog.

“Well, Ebenezer,” says Hashknife, “we don’t see nothing, but we’ll take it. Ain’t it queer, Sleepy?”

“Queer as the egg of a whangobbler,” says I. “We’ve got something that ain’t visible, Hashknife.”

A wagon and a pair of mismated horses comes drifting along through the dust and stops at the gate. Two men climb down from the seat and come up towards us. They’re a tough-looking pair of barber-boycotters.

“Ol’ Godfrey around?” asks one of ’em.

Hashknife looks ’em over and then motions inside.

“Ain’t sick, is he?” asks the other feller.

“Not now,” says Hashknife.

The two men looks over the remains and then at us.

“I don’t know who done it,” states Hashknife. “We rode in just after the show was over.”

“Did he say who done it?”

“Told me it was none of my —— business.”

“Uh-huh,” nods the taller one. “He’d jist about say that.”

And then he turns to the other.

“I reckon Pete and Al will inherit this place, Ab, but as per usual there will be several folks to consider.”

“Worth anything?” asks Hashknife.

“Considerable,” nods the one called Ab. “Got a few cows and he owns a copper-mine, the same of which ain’t so bad. I’d take the copper fer mine.”

“I’ve got a little paper here,” says Hashknife. “You sabe the old man’s writing?”

He folds it so all they can see is the signature.

“That’s the old man’s John Hancock,” nods Ab. “Know it any old place. What’s the idea, stranger?”

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

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

“But what?” asks Hashknife.

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

“Maybe we can sell it,” suggests Hashknife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See what he got, Hashknife.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get him?” asks Hashknife.

“Made him stumble. How you coming?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Get him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I swings the door open.

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

“Said to be such,” admits Hashknife.

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

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

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

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

Sol Vane spells it all out and hands it back.

“All upright and legal?” I asks.

He scratches his chin and peers off across the hills.

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

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

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

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

Sol Vane shakes his head.

“We’d admire to know where it is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’d you know?” he grins.

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

“Who did?”

“Ebenezer Godfrey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whose—Godfrey’s?” I asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She sets up straight and stared at me.

“You dud-drilled his arm?”

“Not me—Hashknife.”

“Why in the name of —— didn’t you——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

We sets there like three buzzards and contemplates the landscape.

“Ho, hum-m-m-m!” says she weary-like.

“Ever try sleeping for it?” asks Hashknife.

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

“Was you related to old man Godfrey?”

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

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

She nods and puckers up her forehead.

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

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

“Thank—I mean, much obliged.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope.”

Glory shakes her head.

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

“Sort of a front seat, eh?” says I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EBENEZER O. GODFREY. NOT DEAD BUT SLEEPING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Albright gulps and kicks a clod of dirt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The stranger scratches his chin and sort of nods.

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

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

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

“Glory is my gal!” snaps Sillman. “I don’t need advice about her, Sol Vane.”

“Don’t get touchy, Jim,” soothes Sol. “Everybody likes Glory.”

“Aw ——!” snorts Albright. “We came here on business, and gets into a woman argument. Sol Vane thinks he’s a lawyer! Lawyer ——! Leave it to me and we’d settle this danged quick.”

“That’s a fact,” grins Hashknife; “but you better keep your head down, Albright, ’cause a .45-70 makes a goshawful corpse.”

They gets on their horses, grumbling among themselves, and we watches ’em drift away up the road. As soon as they’re out of sight Hashknife races for the corral and throws his saddle on Diablo.

“You stay here and watch the ranch, Sleepy,” he yelps at me, and him and that roan outlaw went down the hill and off up that gully like a streak, while I stands there with my mouth wide open.

It’s about two hours later when Hashknife shows up. He’s got his big grin working overtime, and when he sees me he laughs out loud.

“I knowed Albright was worried about that grave,” says he, “so I cut across country and watched him leave the rest of the bunch. He sorts of loafs along, with me keeping out of sight in the washouts.

“Once he stops and watches things for quite a while and then points straight for an old prospect hole on the side of a hill. I’m where he can’t see me, so I shoots into the air. He swung his bronc the other way and rode plumb to the next ridge before he stopped.

“He sets there for a long time and then starts back. I shoots again, and he sneaked over the hill. I got up on the hill and watched him disappear. He didn’t know who was around there, and he was afraid to make any bad breaks. Sabe!”

“Well, Angel Face, what was it all about?” I asks.

“Old Godfrey, you ignoranamous! Albright and somebody—likely Pete—swiped the corpse, and when we showed ’em that grave—blooey! He wanted to get away as soon as possible to see if we lied.

“Sure, I found the body. They hid it ’way back in that old tunnel. I removed same, hung it on my bronc, and I’m betting that if they ever find it they’ll have to go some. Whoo-o-o-ee! I sure had some time, Sleepy.

“Now he’ll sneak out there to see what we done, and when he don’t find the body—— Well, Sleepy, we may not be able to keep this danged outfit, but right now we’ve sure run a whizzer on Willer Crick.”

“Glory’s paw ain’t a mean-looking hombre,” says I. “I thought that him and the law shark was going to have words.”

“I reckon he can take care of himself, Sleepy. Mind staying here tonight and guarding the place? I’m going up to see Glory.”

“Is that a fact?” says I. “Well, well! Ain’t it funny that we both gets the same idea at the same time?”

“We can’t both go, Sleepy. Somebody has got to watch the place.”

“All right,” says I. “We’ll cut cards.”

Hashknife cut a jack and I got the seven of clubs. That pot-hooked card with the seven puppy-tracks always was a Joner to me.

“God be with you, Hashknife,” says I. “But remember this: Me and you ain’t in no position to marry anybody. Neither one of us could buy a breakfast for a hummin’-bird, and also remember that we’re liable to have to mosey along any old time.”

“Yeah, I know, Sleepy. Still, you’d never think to tell me that if you drawed the jack and me the seven.”

I sets there on the porch and watched him drift away, and hopes I never see another seven of clubs.

Then I glances out towards the gate and here comes Glory.

Man, I kissed that seven-spot and put it in my hat.

“Where’s your pardner?” she asks as she ties her bronc to the porch.

“Said he was going to call on you. Left a while ago.”

“On me? Ossified owls! Does he know where I live?”

“I don’t reckon he does, but he’ll find it, Glory.”

“Did he go up the road?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Saddle your horse quick!” she snaps. “He mustn’t go there! They’re— Willer Crick is holding a meeting at my home. Don’t you sabe? They’re going to come down here and— Say, are you going to get that horse or will I have to?”

That fool Gray Wolf ties himself in a knot, and I has a hard time riding straight up with a loose Winchester in my hand, but I made it. I got him lined up the road and away we went.

“Never pulled leather!” I yells at her proud-like.

“Fool!” she shoots back at me. “Never take a chance unless you’re paid for it.”

Right then I figures that she can boss me any time she wants to. No girl who rides like that, talks like that and can pick off a magpie at seventy yards is a clinging vine, but in this country—vines don’t do well a-tall.

We hammered off up that road for about two miles, and then swung down a lane off the main road to a clump of trees. We slips off our broncs and ties ’em to the fence. We can see the dark outlines of the buildings, but there ain’t a light showing on that side.

A loose bronc tries to pass us, but I threw my hat at it, and it swung in beside my horse. It’s Hashknife’s El Diablo.

Then Glory led me in behind the main building. From there we can see a light through an open window.

“I’ve done all I can,” says Glory. “Them folks in there are relatives of mine, but remember this: I didn’t pick ’em. Also remember, Willer Crick will shoot.”

“Glory,” says I, “I’ll remember. Much obliged.”

The window is only about waist high; so I gets almost as good a view as though I was inside. Reminds me of the big Injun councils that my dad used to tell me about. Hashknife is setting against the wall roped to a chair, and he sure shows signs of having made things unpleasant for somebody.

Pete Godfrey is there with his arm in a sling, and he looks mad enough to do most anything. Sol Vane is doing the talking, which is the natural thing for a lawyer, I reckon.

There is about twenty men in the place. Sillman is standing with his back against the door, smoking a long pipe.

“I can’t see any reason fer taking a vote,” states Pete. “We’re all agreed on it anyway. It’s a dead open and shut that they killed the old man and hid his body. I moves that we surround the place, smoke the other killer out and hang ’em both.”

Just then Albright comes in. He’s pale as a ghost, and I feels that he’s come straight from that prospect hole. He sees Hashknife and his lips curl like he was going to snap at him.

“Well, what’s been said and done?” he asks.

“We’ve decided to go after the other feller, Jim, and hang ’em both,” states Pete.

“Now you’re beginning to show sense,” grins Albright. “What you waiting fer?”

“Just a moment, boys,” says Sillman. “This ain’t a civilized way of doing things. This feller ain’t had no say a-tall. ’Pears to me we ought to hold some kind of a court.

“All this talk of hanging ain’t no good unless a man’s guilty, and they sure never had no cause to kill old Eb. How could they kill him and still have a signed will?”

“Likely scared the old man into it,” explains Sol Vane. “They just rode in, forced him to write it and then shot——”

“Just a moment,” says I, and the bunch whirls towards the open window.

They can’t see nothing but the muzzle of that .45-70.

“Mister Sillman,” says I, “will you please cut my pardner loose? The rest of you stand plumb still.”

They never made any move while Hashknife gets cut loose.

He stretches his arms and grins at the crowd.

“Sol,” says I, “give him back his derringer.”

Poor Sol wanted to keep that little gun, but he also wanted to keep his being; so he handed it over.

“I’ll take my Colt if you don’t mind, Bassett,” grins Hashknife, and Bassett gave it up like a little man.

Then Hashknife turns to Albright.

“You and Pete Godfrey had better hustle out of this country. Just as soon as I can get hold of a U. S. marshal I’m going to cinch you two for murder. Sabe?”

“If you ain’t got no corpse—” begins Wheeler.

“But I have,” crows Hashknife. “Ask Albright if I haven’t.”

I had sort of eliminated Pete from the crowd, being as his right arm is in a sling, and I didn’t see him pull a gun with his left hand, but anyway he was slow and awkward with it and it gives me time to shift the muzzle of my gun.

Honest to grandma, I didn’t aim to make no stage-play. I sure meant to cut him plumb in two, but the bullet hit the cylinder of Pete’s six-shooter, yanked it out of his hand and drove it square into Bassett’s stummick. Bassett dropped flat.

Funny how a little thing like that will start things. Bassett don’t no more than hit the floor when Willer Crick takes a chance. I saw a flash of Hashknife’s hand, the roar of that derringer, and the oil lamp went out, and with the same flash I saw Sillman throw the door wide open.

I dropped flat and let a handful of lead pass over me, and then I hopped up and raced for the horses. Hashknife whistled to me and we untied our animals while Willer Crick shot up their furniture.

We sure rode high and handsome out of there. We went straight to the bunkhouse, where we got our blankets and the single-shot rifle and then we crossed the creek to the bunch of willows. We haven’t said a word yet, but when we gets our cigarets going I says:

“Have a nice visit, Hashknife?”

“Uh-huh. Nice folks, Sleepy. I reckon they hated to see me go. I had one —— of a time. I saw Sillman ride down that lane yesterday; so I figured it to be his place down there. It was kinda dark when I rode up. There’s a feller in the yard, and I yells at him—

“‘Is this Sillman’s place?’

“Blooey! Somebody took a shot at me. Never touched me though, but I was setting loose in the saddle, and that fool bronc threw me over the fence. I sure got the wind all knocked out of me, and when I woke up I was swamped with Willer Crickers. How did you happen to come up there?”

“Glory. She told me what was going on.”

“Heavenly angels! She did? I—I’d admire to marry her.”

“So would I, Hashknife, but me and you’ve got to forget all this love stuff.”

We ain’t afraid what Willer Crick will do in the night, but we ain’t going to be in them buildings in the morning. We slept well. I dreams that I’m chasing that whole bunch across the hills with nothing but a handful of rocks, when all to once my blanket seems to shake out from under me, and I rolls into the brush.

Rocks and gravel seems to rain all over me. I’m still half-dreaming; so I went hunting for more rocks to throw, when I hears Hashknife chuckling like a fool.

“Hashknife,” says I, “did you kick me off my blanket?”

“Nope.”

“Hit me with a rock?”

“No-o-o-o-o.”

“Well, somebody did—dang it!”

It is just beginning to get daylight. Hashknife is setting there on his blanket, grinning like a fool.

“Ha, ha, ha!” says I. “Funny, ain’t it?”

“Come on, Sleepy. I think something has happened.”

We crosses the gully and climbs up to the bunk-house.

“Look at the house!” gasps Hashknife.

“Every window is busted, and she seems sort of squeegeed. The roof is about three feet out of plumb, and she has a general look of distress.

“When you gets through admirin’ the arky-tecture, you might come and take a look at this, Sleepy.”

Where the dynamite had been buried is a hole about ten feet deep and fifteen feet across. We looks at it and then at each other.

“My gosh!” says I. “They sure dug something up, Hashknife!”

Hashknife is peering down towards the corral, and as I turns my head he says:

“Holy horned-toads! Wouldja look at that, Sleepy!”

I took one look and then we pilgrims down to the corral. The apparition is setting on the top pole of the fence, gazing into space. It used to be a man, but right now she don’t assay a trace. It’s still got on part of a pair of pants and one boot, but the rest of it is shucked clean and black as ink. It ain’t got a hair left on its head, but it still moves and has its being.

“Thing,” says Hashknife, “who or what did you used to be?”

“Sol Vane,” it croaks. “I—does—the—lawin’—fer—Willer—Crick.”

“Uh-huh,” says Hashknife. “You sure look like you’d been mixed up in dirty business. Mind talking a little?”

He shakes his singed head and then nods. He’s been hit so hard that he don’t sabe things—much.

“Who done the digging, Sol?”

“Ju—Jim. Me and Pete looked on.”

“You was looking for the corpse?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where’s Pete and Jim?”

Sol seems to consider the question, and then looks up at the sky.

“Ain’t come down yet?”

“I—never—seen—’em,” he admits. “Mebby—they—ain’t.”

Just then Sillman rides into the place. We nods to him, but he’s too busy looking at Sol Vane. Pretty soon he grins and nods to us.

“That grave had dynamite in it,” explains Hashknife. “The one in the front yard. Pete and Al and the lawyer of Willer Crick came down to dig up the body.”

“Oh!” croaks Sol. “Al—must—’a’—picked—into—it.”

“I found Pete’s hat up the road,” says Sillman. “That is, I found the brim.”

“He likely got blowed right up through it,” says Hashknife, and then he turns to Sol. “Can you walk?”

Sol thinks it over for a while and then nods.

“Can you run?”

“Mebby.”

“All right,” grins Hashknife. “We’ll find out, Sol. See that rise in the road up there? I’m going to make allowances for your shocking condition; so I’ll count thirty. If you ain’t over that hump by that time—you’ll never get over. Sabe? One—two——”

“——!” grunts Sillman as Sol’s head disappears. “You gave him too danged much!”

“Uh-huh,” admits Hashknife sad-like. “I only got to twenty-seven.”

“Maybe it’s just as well,” says Sillman. “He’ll be able to tell the rest of the folks where Pete and Al went.”

“If Willer Crick knowed ’em like they ought to—they don’t need to be told,” says I.

Sillman nods and crooks one leg around his saddle-horn.

“Willer Crick is sore this morning. They didn’t all see you go out that door, and they sure mingled some lead. Some of ’em are plumb sore at me for opening the door.”

“They ought to give you thanks,” grins Hashknife, “’cause I’d have started a little cemetery myself if the door hadn’t been open.”

“Yeah, that’s so, but Willer Crick only has one idea at a time. It sure put me in bad. The way she is with me is this: Everything I’ve got in the world is here. No outsider would give me a ’dobe dollar for what I own, and nobody on the crick would buy me out. Glory was going to marry Pete——”

“That’s done busted off,” says Hashknife.

“Yeah; but, figuring from the standpoint of Willer Crick, she’s got to marry up here, and the rest of ’em ain’t one hop better than Pete.”

“We’ve met her,” nods Hashknife. “Nice little girl.”

“She guided me to your place last night,” says I.

Sillman stares at me and then grins.

“Well, that makes it easier or harder. Here’s the proposition: You fellers ain’t the marrying kind, are you?”

“Nope,” says I. “We can’t afford it.”

“That’s good. Now I’ll tell you what I want one of you to do: But first I wants to tell you something: Bassett went after the sheriff this morning to investigate the killing of the old man.

“Now, Willer Crick will sure swear you into the pen. Sabe? You ain’t got as much chance as a celluloid dog chasing a asbestos cat through ——. I’m telling this as a friend.

“Glory is slated to marry some Willer Cricker, but if she happens to marry an outsider—well, I’ll likely have to kill somebody, but we’ll manage to wiggle along, I reckon.

“My brother showed up last night. He’s got money and he hates Willer Crick up one side and down the other. Him and me has a talk about Glory. I told him about you boys, and here’s the proposition: He’ll give one of you five hundred dollars to marry Glory if you’ll agree to leave right away. Sabe?

“That plumb ruins the chances for anybody here to marry her, and gives her an excuse to leave here. If I let her go outside with her uncle—well, Willer Crick would make life so danged miserable for me and the rest of the family—— But if she’s married they can’t say much. Sabe?”

“What does—uh—Glory think?” asks Hashknife.

“Naturally she bucks, but we’ve talked her into it. She don’t want to marry anybody she don’t love, and she says she don’t love either of you fellers.”

“Five hundred!” says Hashknife thoughtful-like. “Well, which one of us will be the bridegroom, old-timer?”

Sillman turns in his saddle and whistles like a steam-engine.

“You talk it over with Glory,” says he. “She’s waiting over there.”

He pilgrims up to where the excavating had been done and gets off his horse. In a minute she shows up, coming over the same rise where Sol Vane had disappeared. She rides up to us and looks back at her pa.

“Sol Vane told me about it,” says she, sort of shuddering. “Nothing left?”

“Pete’s hat,” says Hashknife. “Your pa broke the news to us; so you might as well pick your choice.”

She looks at the two of us and then busts out crying. Honest, I didn’t think her kind had a bawl in their system, but I reckon most women have.

“Aw, ——!” groans Hashknife. “I—I wish all of Willer Crick had owned a pick and a desire to dig up corpses.”

“You—you must think I’m a fool and pa’s a fool and——”

“Me and Hashknife goes fifty-fifty with you,” says I. “Ain’t you got no choice?”

She shakes her head and mops her eyes.

“I’m the best lookin’,” says Hashknife, “but of course that don’t mean nothing, as you’re going to be a grass widder. I’ve got a lovin’ disposition, too, but——shucks!”

“The Stevenses are good folks,” says I.

“Stevens is a good name.”

“For a single-shot rifle,” says Hashknife.

“We’ll cut cards,” says I. “Suit you, Glory?”

She nods and I gets the old deck.

“Ace high, deuce low?”

Hashknife nods and cuts the ten of spades.

“Ten-spot!” he grunts. “Dang the luck!”

I takes my card between my first two fingers and sailed it straight for the bunkhouse door, where she sticks in a crack for all to see—that pot-hooked Joner, with seven puppy-tracks!

“When does this marriage come off?” asks Hashknife when Sillman rides down to us.

“Preacher is at my house by this time, I reckon. Gives you a few hours’ start of the sheriff.”

“Sleepy,” says Hashknife, “if you don’t want to go along I’ll meet you at the forks of the road.”

I stands there and watches ’em move off up the road, and then I slams the hull on to Gray Wolf. I took a canteen of water and some grub. We ain’t had no breakfast, but that don’t matter. That hammer-headed brute bucks plumb across the gully with me, but has to quit when he hits the steep going.

I’m about half-way up that hill when I hears a yell. Two men, one on a roan and the other on a gray, are coming past the house. I recognizes Bassett, and I opines that the other is the sheriff.

I sinks the spurs into Wolf, and I just beat a bullet over the top. I sure was glad I wasn’t on any ordinary bronc. That brute’s middle name was Run. They hung on well, but I kept ’em going too fast to shoot straight.

I’m swinging along the side of a hill when I happens to see some riders cutting across to head me off. Appears to me that maybe some Willer Crickers were on their way to visit us. Anyway, they seemed pleased to see me.

I swings off to the right and went down a hill at a mile-a-minute clip, turns sharp at the bottom and follers an old washout for a few hundred yards. Then I swings out and rides in behind a big pinnacle of rock. I climbs on to the rocks and gets ready to make mourners in Willer Crick.

I sees Bassett and the sheriff angling down the side of the hill, going slow. Then I gets a glimpse of that other bunch. They’ve got around the butte and are coming up to cut in ahead of the sheriff and Bassett.

All to once it strikes me about the color of them broncs. A gray and a roan—the same color as mine and Hashknife’s.

It don’t no more than strike me when I hears a shot, and I sees Bassett go clawing out of his saddle. The sheriff’s bronc whirled sideways and went into the washout backwards, with its rider clawing like thunder to stay on.

Things are quiet for a minute or two, and then I see two of them fellers sneak out of the mesquite and start for where the sheriff went down.

Whang! Whang! I sees one of them, I think it was Wheeler, go bow-legged all to once, and I sees the other feller’s hat flip off his head. They both fell back into the brush. That sheriff wasn’t hurt any to interfere with his shooting.

I rolls me a cigaret and got my bronc. It wasn’t none of my business what they done to each other.

I took my time after that. I rode a long ways around, ’cause I wasn’t sure where that road forked.

I didn’t no more than reach that signboard when here comes Hashknife. Diablo is one mass of lather, and Hashknife is covered with dust. He stops his bronc and looks back.

“How does she seem to be a Benedict?” I asks.

Hashknife turns and looks at that sign.

THERE IS A CLICK ON WILLER CRICK

THE WORST IN ALL THIS NASHUN.

THE HITE OF THEIR AMBISHUN IS

TO BEAT THEIR OWN RELASHUN.

“Sleepy,” says he, “that’s the truest poetry ever written.”

“Being related, you ought to know.”

Hashknife grins and looks back again.

“Two cousins of Glory’s was to have been at the wedding, but they was late, I reckon. Anyway they held me up for that five hundred, Sleepy. Said they heard Sillman tell about it.”

“What did you do, Hashknife?”

“Nobody told ’em about that derringer, Sleepy. Handy little old weapon.”

Hashknife slides off his bronc and kicks his boots against the post.

“Cold feet?” I asks.

“Cold ——! I’m shaking the dust of Willer Crick off my feet.”

“Uh-huh, I see. But you can’t shake relationship, Hashknife.”

He climbs back on his bronc, and we points up the road.

“That’s true, Sleepy, but they ain’t no relation to me.”

“Didn’t you marry her?”

“No-o-o-o.”

“Didn’t you get that five hundred dollars?”

“No-o-o-o.”

“Well, ——!”

“Uncle Luke was in the yard, Sleepy,” he explains.

“Oh-h-h-h-h!” says I. “I see. Well, well! Uncle Luke was in the yard, eh? That makes it seem different, Hashknife. My, my! What in —— has Uncle Luke in the yard got to do with it?”

“Uncle Luke is the sheriff of Yolo, Sleepy.”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August 3, 1920 issue of Adventure magazine.

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A WHIZZER ON WILLER CRICK

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