Hashknife

“ Hashknife and Sleepy left the jail and went to the livery-stable, where they had left Hashknife’s horse that morning. Hashknife had nothing to say about his trip to Encinas, and Sleepy knew that questions were useless. Hashknife always worked on the theory that a secret is safe only with one person.
It was about ten o’clock when they approached the Double Bar 8, riding silently. There was a light in the ranch-house window, and as they drew closer they heard Jimmy’s and Marion’s voices blended in “After the Ball,” accompanied by the old upright organ. The two cowboys drew rein and listened. ”

“ That’s why I like Hashknife. I’m kinda scary, myself, and I need moral support as I trail through life. When Hashknife smiles, every dog within half a mile begins to wag its tail. Hashknife calls me and him, “cowpunchers of disaster.”
He turns and smiles at me.
“Sleepy, I see by the almanac that she’s goin’ to be awful cold in Alaska this Winter. Mebbe we better pick out one of their warm Winters.”
“I think,” says I, kinda mean-like, “I think you’re going into Willer Crick to see somebody—and she ain’t no preacher.” ”

“ And would they commit murder merely to get Len out of the way? That was hardly reasonable, Hashknife decided. Did they want to close Prentice’s mouth, and at the same time dispose of Len? That sounded reasonable. Drunken men might talk.
For at least two hours the tall cowboy sprawled on the bed, his gray eyes blinking at the bare ceiling, until Sleepy came up and demanded to know whether Hashknife was playing a joke on his stomach or had he forgotten that it was past supper time. ”

“ And on this same ranch was Dave Stevens, nicknamed Sleepy, a cowboy with an itching foot. Together they rode the range of the Hashknife, bunking together, sharing what they had, until the horizon called them and they rode away together, for ever ordained by Fate to keep on going, always looking to see what was on the other side of the hill.
Hashknife was the son of a range preacher, who propounded the gospel of life in bunk-house or in the open; teaching men how to live rather than how to die; and Hashknife had absorbed much of his philosophy as a foundation. ”

“ Likely got a lot of smart gunmen, too.”
“Well, old pessimist, we won’t even stop at the Hawkworth ranch,” decided Hashknife seriously. “If yo’re so scared of trouble, we’ll go right on. My rheumatism is a lot better, yuh know.”
“No, we won’t. We’re goin’ to get yuh fixed up, if we have to throw lead at every man in Hawk Hole. Just what do yuh reckon is wrong around here?”
Hashknife grinned under the shade of his wide sombrero and shook his head. He knew that Sleepy was not afraid of anything, and that he merely wanted an alibi to point back to, in case they got into serious trouble. ”

“ C'mon, Hashknife.”
“Its Hartley!” panted Jack Hartwell's voice. “Yoo-hoo, Hartley!”
“Yeah—all right!” yelled Hashknife.
Eph King and Jack ran up to them, questioning, panting from their run.
“Here he is,” said Sleepy, lighting a match.
They gathered around a man, who was lying on his face in the sage, where he had fallen from his horse. A few feet away was his rifle. They turned him over. It was no one that Hashknife and Sleepy had ever seen; a man of about thirty years of age, with a thin face, large nose and a mop of black hair. ”

“ After he and Sleepy Stevens had joined forces and left the Hashknife outfit, fate seemed to throw them into troubled waters. Hashknife was either blessed or cursed with an analytical mind. A range mystery was food and drink to him. Sleepy’s mind ran in normal channels, but he loved to roam, and his love of adventure, fearlessness in the face of danger, made him a valuable ally to Hashknife.
So for a number of years their trail had led them where the cattle roamed, working on mysteries; more often than not, working for the sheer love of the thing, rather than for pay. ”

“ Goode looked curiously at Hashknife, his lips pursed thoughtfully.
“Well, it hadn’t ought to,” he said slowly.
Hashknife nodded. He liked Goode for that remark.
“We might as well go down to the ranch-house,” suggested Hashknife. “I reckon the shootin’ is all over.”
“I hope t’ gosh it is, Hartley. That’s nasty business.” ”

“ He went out, and Hashknife turned to Sleepy.
“How about yuh, cowboy? It ain’t over three miles to town. Suppose we walk over and find a dentist?”
“I’d do anythin’ to stop this ache, Hashknife!”
“All right.”
Hashknife went down the car, where he picked up their war-bags and brought them back.
“You ain’t pullin’ out for keeps, are yuh?” asked one of the crap-shooting cowboys.
“Nope,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll meet yuh in Pinnacle City. Only a fool walks away and leaves his war-bag. Yuh never know what’s ahead of yuh.” ”

“ The two men were running now, and Hashknife expected them to come through the broken wall past him, but instead they went out the south entrance of the patio, possibly with the intention of keeping the ranch buildings between them and the approaching posse, and circling back to their horses.
Disregarding the fact that the odds were two to one, Hashknife ran swiftly along the wall, coming out within fifty feet of the two men, who were humped over, running as low as possible. There was no time for them to turn; nothing to do but fight or surrender. ”

“ Jack turned and crossed the room to Molly, while Hashknife faced King across the two bodies.
“I’m not tryin’ to pry into yore affairs, King,” said Hashknife coldly, “but a while ago you said you didn’t know this man. Lyin’ ain’t goin’ to help things, yuh know.”
The sheepman’s jaw tightened perceptibly, but his eyes turned away from Hashknife’s steady gaze, as he said:
“What right have you got to call me a liar?”
“I don’t need any right, King. I’ve always been able to back up what I say. Come clean, King; it’s always the best thing to do.” ”

“ Hashknife peered around the corner and stepped out, with Sleepy beside him. Jake Blue and Doc Clevis were on the porch arguing through the open door with Skelton, while the rest of the men were still mounted. The nearest man to them was a grim-faced person, with a heavy red mustache. Just beyond him was a heavy-set cowboy, with an enormous nose.
“Horse-thieves from the Hashknife!” snorted Hashknife loudly.
Every one turned quickly, and just as quickly they realized their disadvantage. ”

“ Hashknife borrowed Sleepy’s tobacco and rolled a cigaret. “What happened to Jim Wheeler?”
“Horse dragged him to death the other day.”
Hashknife shuddered. The thought of a man’s hanging by one foot to a stirrup never failed to rasp his nerves. He had seen men die that way, and once when he was but a youngster he had been thrown from a wild horse and had hung from a stirrup. Luckily the horse had whirled into a fence corner, where another cowboy was able to hold the animal and extricate Hashknife.
“Tough way to die,” said Hashknife.
“Y’betcha,” nodded Honey. ”

“ Ike and Cleve came down past them, going to the stable, and Big Medicine told them to take things easy until he decided what he wanted them to do today.
“Hawkworth,” said Hashknife, after the boys had gone, “there’s somethin’ wrong around this country.”
Big Medicine looked at Hashknife, but did not reply.
“You lost five hundred dollars in that holdup,” continued Hashknife, “and a man was shot without visible cause. Last night someone tried to kill me with a knife. Sleepy killed a man who was lookin’ me over, and his own friends didn’t ask many questions. ”

“ Hashknife dove forward, grasped the old man in his arms and fairly fell through the doorway with him. Another bullet bit into the door-casing, and Skelton and Sleepy dove in behind Hashknife. Another bullet pinged in through the door and ricocheted off the cook-stove before Skelton kicked the door shut.
Hashknife picked Lonesome Lee off the floor and laid him on the bed. The old man’s face was a mass of gore and he was cursing wickedly, deliriously; fighting to get back to his feet. ”

“ Our bullets sure have carved our trade-marks in their furniture and walls. Willer Crick wails when they see me with their books.
“Good stuff!” grunts Hashknife. “Now, maybe they’ll sign my little paper.”
I never seen folks so anxious to sign anything. Hashknife held the paper on the brim of his hat so that Sim Sellers can sign. I unloads all them guns and then throws the whole works under the sidewalk, where nobody can get one quick. ”

“ Sleepy protested against this, but Hashknife usually had his way in matters of this kind. He rode straight to the Circle Spade, where he found Chuckwalla Ike just starting to cook breakfast. The old man looked Hashknife over quizzically, but invited him to eat with them.
“Ridin’ early, ain’tcha?” he asked.
“It’s nice to ride early,” smiled Hashknife. “Ain’t nobody liable to bushwhack yuh early in the mornin’.”
“Are you expectin’ to be bushwhacked, Hartley?”
“Somebody killed Ed Corby at the Half-Box R last night.”
Chuckwalla frowned heavily and caressed his mustache. ”

“ And he’s from Black Wells, Hashknife.”
“I sabe that,” smiled Hashknife. “But I don’t think he did fire that shot. He don’t look like a hired killer, and it’s a cinch he ain’t got no personal reason for killin’ any of us.”
“Ain’t he?” Sleepy smiled wisely. “Just suppose Mr. Goode is one of that gang of train robbers? He knows what we done in the Modoc country. Figure it out for yourself.”
Hashknife nodded seriously.
“Yeah, that might be true. Mebbe he thinks we’re here to work on that case. I hate to get fooled on humanity, Sleepy. That feller may be awful slick. ”

“ My name’s Hashknife. Now, that yuh know me well enough to call me Hashknife, I’d say that I’d let about four X’s equal the missin’ bandits, and work out the problem from there. We’ve got the dog. Workin’ backwards from a dog, yuh ought to get quite a lot.
“In the beginnin’, I’d like to ask yuh what yuh know about a feller who is workin’ for the AK outfit who is named Jimmy Legg-”
“James Eaton Legg,” said Marion solemnly. “He said it sounded like a cannibal. I don’t know a thing about him, except that he came to Blue Wells the night of the robbery. ”

“ Hashknife gets to his feet, takes out his six-shooter for close work and walks to the door end of the cabin, with me on his heels. The door is shut. Hashknife gives it a kick and it swings open. Inside it is dark, being as there’s only one window, and that dirty.
We steps inside, and looks around, and as soon as our eyes gets used to the dusk we sees that there’s a man laying on the bed.
It’s the old preacher that rode the mule, and he’s sure hog-tied to a fare-thee-well, and has a rag shoved between his teeth. ”

“ Hashknife’s rifle jerks to his shoulder and shoots twice.
“My ——!” yelps Windy. “You’ve hit him! Some shootin’!”
“Come on,” snaps Hashknife.
We went down off that rock like three squirrels and went ducking and dodging straight for where we seen Snag, but there ain’t a bullet coming our way. We’re halfway across to the rock when we hears a gun, but Hashknife don’t stop.
The three of us went around the corner of that cliff, and there stands Snag Thorn with his back to us, and he’s nursing his right hand. ”

“ The deputy was asleep on the cot, sleeping off his jag.
“What do you know?” asked Roaring.
“Not very much,” replied Hashknife. “I wish you’d take me to the spot where they found Joe Mallette.”
“Yea-a-ah? What for, Hashknife?”
“Curiosity, I suppose.”
“Uh-huh. Will you stay here, Sleepy? Got to keep somebody around here. Wind River ain’t much use right now.”
“Go ahead,” laughed Sleepy.
Roaring led Hashknife through the alley between the Black Horse Saloon and the restaurant, out past the rear of the judge’s home, to a spot between there and the end house of the redlight district. ”

“ Musical, Cleve, Ike, and Sleepy went horse-hunting, while Big Medicine watched Lucy draw most of the swelling from Hashknife’s injury. The hilt of the knife had bruised the scalp a little, but it would not be noticeable after the swelling was out.
“Torres probably threw that knife, saw you fall, and headed for the border,” said Big Medicine. “It isn’t often that he misses. Possibly he hurried his throw and misjudged the distance in the dark.”
“Always somethin’ to be thankful for,” grinned Hashknife. “It always seems that things might ’a’ been worse.” ”

“ While the sheepmen are recovering from the battle, they’re not liable to try and drive their sheep.”
“No, that ain’t the idea,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinkin’ lately, and the success of my idea hinges on one thing. I can’t tell yuh what it is now, and it may look to you like I’m crooked, but I’m takin’ that chance.
“Go right ahead with yore dynamite idea. If I’m wrong, I’ll throw a few hunks of it myself, but don’t throw any until yuh hear from me. C’mon, Sleepy.” ”

“ Too lazy.”
“And that’s the most perfect alibi I ever heard,” laughed Hashknife. “Nanah, I’ll bet any jury in Blue Wells would turn him loose on that kind of evidence.”
“What do you think of the case?” asked Marion.
Hashknife shook his head.
“I dunno, Miss Taylor. It kinda looks to me as though the sheriff had kinda gone off half-cocked. That old judge ought to be restin’ in a cemetery. I dunno how any community could stand for an old mummy like him. He ain’t human. There ain’t nothin’ against ’em, except that darned dog, and the fact they were not home that night.” ”

“ After Dawn had ridden away, Hashknife met Franklyn Moran. He had attended the trial and he told Hashknife much of what had happened. He was cheerful over the rapid recovery of Moses Conley, but he was curious to know who had shot Sleepy.
“You know as much as I do,” said Hashknife.
Ryker came from the courtroom and gave them a curt nod as he went past, carrying papers and several books. The sheriff and the judge were close behind him; the sheriff walked home with him.
“Scared to death,” said Moran, after the sheriff and judge were out of hearing. “The man is positively on edge. ”