The Ranch of the Tombstones

A Complete Novelette by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “The Range Boomer,” “Flames of the Storm,” etc.

Two men swung their horses through the tumble-down gateway of the Half-Moon Ranch and rode slowly toward the old, rambling ranch-house.

The man in the lead was a tall, thin, unshaven cowboy, with a long, sad countenance and a pair of bright, grin-wrinkled eyes. He rode standing straight in his saddle, with the brim of his sombrero pulled down over his eyes.

The other man was shorter, heavier, with a heavy-lined face and half-shut eyes. A few strands of roan-colored hair straggled from under the brim of his hat, which rested on the back of his head.

They drew rein and looked the place over. The tall one nodded toward the side of the house, and they both rode around to the rear, from whence came the sound of a voice raised in anger.

“Cook!” exclaimed the voice scornfully. “You? Huh! Do yuh think the Half-Moon outfit wear steel bills and digests their food through a gizzard? Why, dang yore hide, yuh can’t even burn stuff decently. Set yoreself up to cook fer an outfit, do yuh? Where’d you learn to cook? Cook, ——! Yo’re fired! No, I don’t want to hear yuh explain how yuh got drunk on one li’l drink and forgot which way home was. No sir! Pack yore war-bag and drift. I’ve got enough troubles without annexin’ a lot of bad stummicks around here. Yo’re fired; sabe? If you can’t understand English, I’ll write it out in Swedish and mail it to yuh.”

The tall cowboy’s face wrinkled into a grin, and he started to say something to his companion, but just at that moment a woman opened the kitchen-door and looked out at them.

She was a tiny wisp of a woman, dressed in faded calico. About fifty years of age, with a mild, sweet face and soft, blue eyes. She stared at the two cowboys for a moment, and a flush crept into her tanned face.

“Ma’am,” said the tall cowboy taking off his hat, “I plumb betcha that cook knows where to head in at about now.”

“Did—did you hear—me?” she faltered.

“Yes’m. I’m ‘Hashknife’ Hartley and my pardner’s name is ‘Sleepy’ Stevens. Nod to the lady, Sleepy.”

“I am Mrs. Snow,” said the lady. “‘Frosty’ Snow is my husband. He owns this Half-Moon Ranch.”

“T’ meetcha,” bowed Hashknife, and then seriously, “Ma’am, if that cook ain’t took the hint yet, I’d admire to repeat yore words to him.”

“The—there ain’t no cook here now,” confessed Mrs. Snow.

“Ain’t? Why——”

“He won’t quit, don’tcha see? His name’s ‘Swede Sam,’ and if —— ever made a more ignorant person than Swede Sam he sure kept him under cover for loco-seed.”

“Didja ever try firin’ him?” asked Hashknife.

“Sure. But he won’t quit. Every day I practise on a new style of firin’ him. And what you just heard was what I’m framing up to tell him when he shows up again. We’ve done everythin’ except kill him outright, but he just grins and says:

“‘Das goot yoke. Ay am de cook, you bet.’”

Hashknife laughed joyfully. He liked Mrs. Snow because she could see the humor of life.

“Where is he now?” asked Sleepy.

Mrs. Snow shook her head slowly.

“I dunno. A few weeks ago he cooked up a big mess of prunes and forgot where he put ’em. Yesterday he drank the result, and lit out for Caldwell; singin’ somethin’ that didn’t sound like a Swedish church-hymn. I reckon he’s asleep in Casey McGill’s saloon now. He thinks Casey’s a Swede.”

“Much stock runnin’ in this Lodge-Pole country, ma’am?” asked the practical Sleepy.

“Ye-e-es—I reckon you’d say there was.”

“We’re lookin’ for jobs, ma’am,” explained Hashknife. “Me and Sleepy are what you’d call top-hands.”

“Never seen a puncher that wasn’t,” declared Mrs. Snow. “Frosty says there’s been a epidemic in the cow-country, which has made top-hands out of every danged buckaroo what has two legs to wear chaps.”

“They do get graduated fast, I reckon,” agreed Hashknife grinning. “Me and Sleepy earned ours. Do we get the job?”

Mrs. Snow smiled and shook her head. She liked the looks of these two bronzed, practical-looking men, but the Half-Moon was full handed.

“We’re runnin’ full of help, boys. Frosty said he’d likely have to cut down pretty soon.”

“Well, that’s too danged bad,” observed Hashknife. “I’d sure like to work for you, ma’am. Know any ranch that might be honin’ for two more to feed?”

Mrs. Snow smiled and shook her head, but sobered as she squinted at them.

“Might try the Tombstone Ranch.”

“Sounds right cheerful, ma’am,” observed Hashknife. “Do they raise ’em already carved?”

“Kinda,” admitted Mrs. Snow seriously. “Place belongs to old Amos Skelton, the meanest old son-of-a-gun that ever pulled on a boot. Everybody hates him.”

“Must amount to somethin’ then,” observed Sleepy.

“What does his iron look like—his brand?” asked Hashknife, reaching for the cigaret makings.

“It’s the old 33 outfit. Folks named it the Tombstone about a year ago. Bill Wheeler owned the old 33 and he let Caldwell put their graveyard on his ranch. It was a kinda nice spot, where the grass stays green most of the time. Then old Amos comes along and buys Bill out. Amos is a danged old blow-hard and most everybody starts in hatin’ him at the drop of a hat.

“Long comes Halloween Eve and some brainless cowpunchers goes down to the graveyard, swipes the tombstones, and when old Amos wakes up the next mornin’ his front yard is set full of them epi-tafts.

“It was a good joke on Amos, don’t you think?”

“Did he laugh?” queried Hashknife.

“Not so’s you could notice it,” smiled Mrs. Snow. “He took a plow and harrer up to the graveyard, and when he got through cultivatin’ it would take a higher power than exists in the Lodge-Pole country to tell where all them tombstones belonged. Yessir, he sure did remove all the brands. Them tombstones are all in his front yard yet, and I reckon they’ll stay.”

Hashknife and Sleepy laughed immoderately. Mrs. Snow looked severe for a moment, but joined in the laugh.

“Any punchers workin’ for that outfit?” asked Hashknife, still laughing.

“One—‘Quinin’ Quinn.”

“Why for the medicine cognomen?” asked Hashknife.

“Bitter. Quinn ain’t smiled since he was born. Fact. Ain’t got no grin-wrinkles on his face—not one. Nobody plays poker with him, ’cause of his face. Him and old Amos makes a good pair—to let alone.”

“Well, we’re sure much obliged to you, Mrs. Snow,” said Hashknife. “We’ll mosey along to Caldwell, I reckon. If you can’t make your cook understand anythin’, send for me. I sure sabe one word he’ll jump for.”

“Tell it to me, will you?”

“Skoal.”

“Shucks!” Mrs. Snow laughed shortly. “I sabe that one. It’s like sayin’, ‘Here’s my regards.’”

“Yeah, that’s true,” admitted Hashknife solemnly. “But yuh might yelp it just before you hit him with the ax.”

They turned their horses and rode back around the house, heading toward Caldwell.

Ahead of them the dusty road circled through the hills, as though following the lines of least resistance.

There was little flat land in the Lodge-Pole range, but it was ideal for cattle; the breaks giving protection for feed in Summer and for stock in Winter. Cottonwood grew in abundance along the streams, and every cañon seemed heavily stocked with willow. The hills were scored with stock-trails, leading from water to the higher ground.

“Don’t like this country,” declared Sleepy after they had ridden away from the Half-Moon, “too many places to shoot from cover.”

“Sleepy, you ought to have been an undertaker,” said Hashknife. “Death sure does have a attraction for you, cowboy. To me this looks like a land of milk and honey.”

“Milk and honey, like ——! More like strong liquor and hornets.”

Hashknife laughed. He and Sleepy argued continually, swore affectionately at each other and shared the blanket of a cowboy’s joys and woes.

“Look at the doughnut,” grinned Hashknife. “Consider the rim of brown dough instead of lookin’ through the hole all the time. Nothin’ ever looks right to you, Sleepy.”

“I said ‘strong liquor’,” declared Sleepy, leaning forward in his saddle, “and here comes the proof.”

A horse and rider had topped a rise just beyond them, and there was no doubt but what the rider was sitting drunkenly in his saddle. The horse was going slowly, and in anything but a straight line, as if trying to balance its rider.

“Drunker ’n seven hundred dollars,” declared Sleepy. “Ho-old fast!” he grunted, as the rider almost toppled from the saddle.

The horse stopped as they rode up, standing at right angles to the road, snuffing at the dust. The rider swayed sidewise and Hashknife grabbed him by the arm.

“Drunk ——!” snorted Hashknife. “This man’s been shot!”

“My Gawd, yes!” gasped Sleepy, dismounting and going around to the other side.

“More ’n once, too,” declared Hashknife, “or he’s smeared himself with the blood.”

They took the man off his horse and laid him beside the road. His flannel shirt was soaked with blood, and an examination showed that the man had been shot twice. One bullet had struck him high up in the left shoulder, while the other had torn its way through his body on the right side, about midway between shoulder and waist.

He was unconscious from loss of blood and his breath came jerkily.

“There ain’t a danged thing we can do for him,” said Hashknife, getting to his feet. “Looks to me like he’d been hit with a thirty-thirty.”

Sleepy nodded as he looked up from an examination of the man’s face.

“Betcha forty dollars that this here is Quinin Quinn. Didja ever see such a sour face in your life?”

“’F you got two thirty-thirties through your carcass, I reckon you’d kinda sour, too,” retorted Hashknife. “’F we knowed where the Tombstone Ranch was, we’d take him there.”

“Must be between here and Caldwell. This feller likely headed f’r home and missed the gate. If we don’t find the ranch, I reckon we can find the town.”

“And that,” said Sleepy, as they draped the man over his saddle, “is the first danged thing I ever suggested that you didn’t argue about, Hashknife.”

“First time you ever spoke sense, Sleepy.”

“Glad you give me credit for this once.”

“I’ll give you credit, when you got it comin’. Get your lariat, Sleepy. We’ve got to tie this jigger kinda tight.”

Sleepy got his rope and proceeded to tie his end of the man to the saddle.

“Lots’a times I never get no credit,” grunted Sleepy. “Lots’a times you takes all the credit.”

“Givin’ you credit now, ain’t I, Sleepy?”

“Yeah—this time—I could tell you a lot of times——”

“Shall we set down and argue and let this man die, or would you rather shut your face and give him a chance?”

“Who’s arguin’?” demanded Sleepy, swinging into his saddle.

“’F I ever open my mouth——”

“You expose your ignorance,” finished Hashknife. “Ride on the other side and see that he don’t slip loose.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that, too,” agreed Sleepy, suiting his action to the word. “But,” he added, looking across the body of the wounded man, “don’t think you’ve got all the brains, Hashknife—nor a big part of ’em. I never did see a tall man what had any too much sabe. Caesar was a short man, and Napoleon was small and——”

“And look what happened to Napoleon,” grinned Hashknife. “They pastured him on an island all alone.”

“How about Caesar, eh?”

“I dunno a —— thing about him,” admitted Hashknife. “What happened to him, Sleepy?”

“I dunno f’r sure, but—betcha forty dollars that’s the Tombstone Ranch.”

They rode around the point of a hill and below them was a ranchhouse, sprawled in a clump of cottonwoods. A long feed-shed, its roof twisted out of a straight line, stretched from a series of pole corrals along the bank of a willow-grown stream.

A thin streamer of smoke was drifting from the crooked stove-pipe. Between the gate and the ranch-house the ground was dotted with white slabs, seemingly laid out in orderly rows.

“That’s her,” agreed Hashknife. “Graveyard and all.”

They rode down to the gate and up past the graveyard to the front door. There was no sign of an inhabitant, until Hashknife dismounted and started for the door, when the door was suddenly flung open and Hashknife faced the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun. The man behind the gun was as gray as a rabbit, slightly stooped and with a face as hard as chiseled granite.

“Hook your feet to the dirt and keep your hands above your waist!” he growled.

Then he saw Sleepy.

He peered closer and the muzzle of the shotgun came down.

“Your name Stevens?” he asked.

“Hey!” gasped Sleepy. “You’re ‘Bliz’ Skelton! Well, you danged pelican! Whatcha know about that?”

Sleepy fairly fell off his horse and bow-legged his way up to the door, where he and Skelton shook hands.

“This is Hashknife Hartley, my pardner, Bliz.”

“Ex-cuse m’ scatter-gun,” said Skelton, as he shook hands with Hashknife.

“Danged old dodo!” Sleepy grinned widely. “Ain’t seen you since you owned the O-Bar-O in Eagle River. You ain’t changed much, ’cept to get homelier ’n ——. Mrs. Snow said that Amos Skelton owned this ranch. Never heard nobody call yuh anythin’ but Blizzard.”

“Christened Amos,” grunted Skelton, squinting out at the horses.

“Plumb forgot the wounded man!” grunted Hashknife, leading the way out.

“——!” gaped Skelton. “That’s Quinin! He’s my hired man. What happened to him, anyway?”

Sleepy and Hashknife unfastened the ropes, while they told Skelton of how they had found Quinin. The old man’s face grew tense and he spat viciously, but said nothing. They carried Quinin into the house and placed him on a bed. Hashknife took hold of a limp wrist and squinted down at the man. Then he took a tiny mirror from his vest pocket and held it to the man’s lips. The surface remained unclouded.

Hashknife slowly replaced the mirror and looked at Skelton.

“He was your hired man—not is, Skelton.”

“Dead?”

Hashknife nodded and reached for the “makings.”

“Got any idea who threw the lead?” he asked.

Skelton shook his head.

“Trouble hunter, Bliz?” asked Sleepy.

“No!” Emphatically. “Quinin minded his own business.”

Hashknife lighted his cigaret and looked around the room. It contained a box-stove, a table, littered with cigaret papers, two bunks and a few chairs.

“Me and Quinin lived in here,” said Skelton. “Built our bunks in here so there’d only be one room to clean.”

“What’s the trouble around here?” asked Hashknife suddenly.

Skelton stared at him.

“What trouble?”

“Folks don’t like you, Skelton. Feller don’t get disliked for nothin’. Either you’re wrong, or folks see things wrong. Me and Sleepy are danged good listeners.”

“That’s a fact, Bliz,” nodded Sleepy.

“I’m —— if I know,” admitted Skelton. “I’ve had this ranch about a year and a half and I ain’t made a cent—nor a friend.”

“Mebbe they’re sore about the graveyard,” said Sleepy.

“I don’t blame ’em,” agreed Skelton. “It was a dirty trick, but I didn’t have a thing to do with it.”

“You plowed out the grave-mounds,” reminded Hashknife.

“I did, like ——!” snapped Skelton. “I tell you I’m gittin’ tired of denyin’ that charge.”

“Oh!” grunted Hashknife softly.

“I left them tombstones where somebody planted ’em; but I sure didn’t smooth out them mounds, y’betcha. I’m wonderin’ that somebody ain’t killed me over it, ’cause it’s sure a killin’ matter to obliterate ancestors thataway.”

“’S a wonder yuh never sold out,” grunted Sleepy.

“Been asked to.” Skelton grinned for the first time. “Yes sir, it has been hinted at considerable.”

“You’re bull-headed, Bliz,” grinned Sleepy. “I’d sure as —— sell out if I was you.”

“Yeah? Mebbe you would, Sleepy—I dunno. They laid that tombstone job on to me, and everybody hates me fer it; and m’ cattle disappears reg’lar-like, and once in a while somebody takes a whang at me with a rifle. But outside of that——”

Skelton spat and shook his head.

“What price do you hold on the ranch?” asked Hashknife.

“One hundred thousand dollars.”

“Oh ——!” gasped Hashknife weakly. “You’re old enough to know better than that, Skelton.”

Skelton nodded seriously and scratched the palms of his hands on his hips.

“Age don’t cut no ice, Hartley. This danged ranch ain’t worth more ’n eight, nine thousand, with them tombstones throwed in to boot; but I’m —— if anybody’s goin’ to run Bliz Skelton off the place! I ain’t the runnin’ kind, y’betcha. And as long as I’ve got a shell left for that old sawed-off shotgun, I ain’t goin’ t’ run; sabe?”

“Tha’s all right,” mumbled Hashknife. “You know your own capacity. What’ll we do with the dead man?”

“Take him to Caldwell, I reckon. I’ll hitch up to the wagon. I suppose Jake Blue and Doc. Clevis’ll have a —— of a lot of questions to ask now.”

“Who’re they?” asked Sleepy.

“Sheriff and coroner.”

Skelton stopped in the doorway and looked back.

“I’m —— glad yuh came along when you did. ’F I had to take him in alone I’d sure be stackin’ m’self agin’ a lot of misery.”

“I betcha,” nodded Hashknife. “As it is, we’ll split the misery three ways.”

“Takes somethin’ powerful to stir me in this —— heat; but right now I grows excited.”

“Pinch” Johnson leaned back against the doorway of Barney Stout’s blacksmith-shop and spat explosively. Barney lifted a perspiring face and ceased rasping on the hoof of a piebald bronco. His rasp fell to the floor with a clatter, and he came to the doorway, rubbing his horny hands on his leather apron.

“Ol’ Amos bringin’ comp’ny to town,” grunted Pinch.

“One’s that Half-Moon Swede,” observed Barney, “and he’s drunker ’n —— yet. Started out to walk to the ranch, and he was takin’ up both sides and the middle of the road.”

“And them ain’t all!” grunted Pinch, getting to his feet.

“They’s a pair of boots stickin’ out the end of that wagon, Barney!”

Skelton drove up in front of Shipman’s general store and tied his team to a porch-post. Several men crossed from the War-Bonnet saloon, and one of them was Jake Blue, the sheriff—a skinny, blear-eyed personage, of much self-importance and undoubted ability with a gun.

“Looks t’me like somebody done got hurt,” observed Pinch wisely.

He crossed the street with Barney hurrying along behind him.

The sheriff and the other men looked over the sides of the wagon-box curiously.

“What’samatter?” asked Blue. “Drunk?”

“Dead,” said Hashknife.

“Zasso?” Mr. Blue had a habit of speaking a whole sentence as if it were only a single word.

He moved to the end-gate of the wagon and looked at the body from that angle.

“Howdedie?”

“Quiet-like,” said Hashknife, manufacturing a cigaret.

“Huh!”

Mr. Blue seemed to discover Hashknife for the first time. He masticated his tobacco rapidly and glanced at Skelton.

“Howaboutcha?”

Skelton told in a few words, while more folks came and looked at the dead man.

“Where’d you come from?” asked the sheriff, looking at Hashknife.

“Recently?”

“Yeah.”

“Tombstone ranch.”

“I mean—before that.”

Hashknife snapped his cigaret away and leaned back in his saddle.

“I was borned in Pecos, Texas, about thirty-two years ago——”

“What in —— do I care about that?” snapped Blue.

Hashknife looked surprized at the interruption.

“Pardner, you asked where I came from, didn’t you? I’m tryin’ to tell you.”

“Zasso? Well, we’ll let that slide fer now while we talks about other things. Will somebody find Doc Clevis?”

A man from the War-Bonnet signified his willingness to find the doctor, while the crowd waited and grew to greater proportions.

Doc Clevis was easy to find, and a few minutes later he arrived on the scene, bustling with importance. He was over six feet tall, dressed in a loose-fitting, rusty-black suit and short boots. A thin fringe of hair circled his otherwise bald head and surmounted a face which was a mixture of unutterable sadness and no little evil.

He climbed into the wagon and sat humped on the edge of the wagon-box, while he examined the body. Finally he nodded sadly and looked at the circle of onlookers.

“He’s dead,” he announced solemnly.

“My ——!” marveled Hashknife. “You’re a wonder, Doc.”

“Been dead quite a while,” said the doctor.

“Wonders’ll never cease,” grinned Hashknife.

Doc Clevis squinted at him, as if wondering if this tall cowboy was in earnest or not.

“Where does the Swede figure into this?” asked Pinch.

“We found him settin’ beside the road,” explained Skelton. “He’s too drunk to know anythin’.”

“Lemme look at that rifle,” ordered the sheriff.

Sleepy handed down the rifle, and the crowd moved in to look at it. The sheriff levered out three cartridges and slipped a white cigaret-paper into the breech.

“Been shot lately,” he announced, peering down the barrel.

“It was beside the road,” said Skelton.

“Yeah?”

The sheriff looked quizzically at Skelton. “You found the Swede beside the road, too? ’Pears to me that you found a lot of things beside the road. Was the rifle near the Swede?”

“’Bout six feet from him.”

“How far from the Swede did yuh find Quinin Quinn?”

“’Bout two miles.”

“That don’t mean nothin’,” said Barney Stout. “Quinin was still pluggin’ along when they found him. Anyway, that Swede never shot him.”

“Zasso?”

Mr. Blue fastened his watery eyes upon Barney and lifted his sparse eyebrows.

“Mebbe you know who shot him,” he said.

“Well,” faltered Barney, “I dunno who shot him, but that —— Half-Moon cook was so drunk——”

“Yo’re excused!” snapped Blue, and then to Skelton:

“This here is goin’ t’ need investigatin’, Skelton. I dunno anythin’ about these two strangers who horns in on this deal—do you?”

“This’n,” nodded Skelton, indicating Sleepy. “I’ve knowed Sleepy Stevens f’r a long time; and when he takes a pardner, I kinda backs this here pardner. Know what I mean, Blue?”

“Gotcha. What do you make of it, Doc?”

“He was shot twice, and he’s dead,” replied Doc. “I ain’t advancin’ any theory who done it, sheriff.”

“It’s a —— good thing we called yuh, Doc,” said Hashknife seriously. “I used to live in a place where we didn’t have no doctor, and it sure was ——. Why, I’ve knowed times when we kept dead men propped up around town for weeks—waitin’ to be sure they were dead. Lookin’ back at them days, I’m wonderin’ what killed ’em. Mebbe they was shot—I dunno.”

“Are you plumb ignorant, or jist actin’ smart?” asked the sheriff.

“That,” said Hashknife seriously, “that is the secret of my success. Nobody ever found out, and I couldn’t tell ’em, ’cause I didn’t know m’self.”

“Thasso?”

The sheriff’s jaw muscles bulged, like twin walnuts, and he hooked his thumbs into the waist-band of his overalls, as he squinted at Hashknife’s serious face.

“You came to a —— good place for to be found out.”

“Well, that’s right nice of you, sheriff. What do you reckon I ought to do for the information—kiss you?”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roared Pinch Johnson. “I’d admire to see you do it, stranger.”

Mr. Blue’s face did not belie his name, except that it went purple from the added flood of red. He opened his mouth, as though a ready retort burned his tongue, then he shut his jaws tightly and turned to the doctor—

“When’ll you hold a inquest, Doc?”

“T’morrow, I reckon,” said the doctor, rubbing his bald head with a rotary motion, as if polishing it. “Take that long to git evidence, won’t it?”

Blue nodded and turned to Hashknife—

“You two fellers ain’t aimin’ to pull out soon, are you?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“No-o-o. We’re plumb stuck on your town.”

Blue grunted his unbelief. He might be ignorant, but not a fool.

“You ain’t got no puncher now, have you, Skelton?”

Skelton shook his head.

“Ain’t a lot of extra hands around this country,” observed Blue. “Well, Doc, I reckon we better have Quinin moved into your place. Mind haulin’ him down there, Skelton?”

Skelton did not mind. He turned his team around and headed for the doctor’s office, with several men following. Hashknife and Sleepy rode across to a hitch-rack, tied their horses, and went into the War-Bonnet.

The War-Bonnet was a large place for a town the size of Caldwell, but it looked prosperous. There was not much activity during the day, so the place was nearly deserted when Hashknife and Sleepy came in.

A couple of girls were on the small stage-like platform at the end of the room, practising a few dance steps, while with one hand a pallid young man thumped out a melody on the piano.

A bartender humped his white-clad elbows on the bar, while he deeply perused a paper-backed novel. A “swamper” was scrubbing back of the bar. His activities seemed to irritate the bartender, who knew that sooner or later he would have to move and break the thread of his story.

Hashknife and Sleepy walked up to the bar and looked around the place. The bartender sighed, folded over a leaf of his book to mark his place, and came down to them.

“’Smatter over there?” he indicated the street with a jerk of his sleek-combed head.

“Feller got leaded up,” said Hashknife. “Feller named Quinn.”

“Quinin Quinn, eh? Dead? The son-of-a-gun! Whatcha drinkin’? Seen Swede Sam over there, too. He ain’t mixed up in it, is he? Whatcha drinkin’? Know Quinn? Never smiled. No sir, that hombre didn’t know how. Ain’t no reason for killin’ him off. Feller’s got a right to look sour, ain’t he? I’d sure have to have a good reason before I’d kill any man. Son-of-a-gun’s dead, eh? Well, well! Whatcha drinkin’?”

“See-gars,” said Hashknife grinning.

The bartender produced a well-worn cigar-box and disclosed a few dried-out perfectos.

“Ain’t many cigar smokers around here,” he volunteered. “Don’t pay to keep a big stock. Them’s real good Key Wests, y’betcha. I smoked one oncet. Got drunk and careless. ’F you lick them outside leaves, like you do a cigaret-paper, they’ll stick. Them Key Wests allus kinda unravels thataway. I stuck ’em oncet, but they——”

Two very bad cigars went into a cuspidor, and the bartender looked sad.

“I didn’t lick ’em,” he explained. “I used glue.”

“Tha’s all right,” grunted Hashknife. “A cigar ain’t never good after the first drag or two.”

The bartender turned and threw the two-bits into the till.

“Have a drink on the house?” he asked.

Hashknife shook his head.

“Feller that’d use glue on cigars is liable to put cyanid in his hooch. Who owns this ornate parlor?”

“‘Spot’ Easton. Didja ever hear of Spot?”

Hashknife leaned against the bar and admitted that he did not know the gentleman. Just at this moment a man came in the door, a frowsy looking man, with drink-bleared eyes and uncertain step. He slouched up to the bar and leered at the bartender; a leer which was intended to be an ingratiating smile, but which missed by a wide margin.

“Nossir!” The bartender shook his head violently. “Spot said to lay off givin’ you liquor, ‘Lonesome’.”

“Spot did?” The old man seemed surprized to hear it.

He wiped the back of his hand across his lips and stared at the mirror on the back-bar. There was no question but what he needed a bracer; his whole nervous system cried out for assistance.

“You get the drink, grampaw,” said Hashknife, tossing a two-bit piece on the bar.

“Spot don’t want him—” began the bartender.

“Hooch!” snapped Hashknife. “What in —— do I care what Spot wants?”

“He’ll get sore about it,” argued the bartender.

“Do I have to wait on him m’self?” asked Hashknife.

The bartender slid out the bottle and a glass. The old man seemed undecided whether to take it or not, but Hashknife settled the question by pouring the drink for him. The old man drank nervously and upset the glass as he put it back. He steadied himself on the bar uatil the liquor began to percolate and then sighed with relief.

A man came from the rear of the place and halted near the end of the bar. He was rather flashily dressed for the range country. His black hair was slightly tinged with gray. His features were narrow and he wore a small mustache, which was waxed to needle-like points. He scowled at the bartender, who got very busy wiping glasses.

The old man considered Hashknife and Sleepy for a moment, and began to search his pockets. He drew out a crumpled envelop and held it close for inspection.

“M’ name’s James B. Lee,” he announced thickly, “but ev’ybody calls me Lonesome Lee. Now, what in —— do you reckon anybody’d write a letter to me for? This’n jist come on the stage.”

He handed the letter to Hashknife, or rather he started to; but the flashily-dressed person had moved nearer and secured it. For a moment nobody spoke. Lonesome swallowed with great difficulty and tried to clear his throat.

“Right sudden, ain’t you?” said Sleepy.

The man ignored his question and spoke directly to Lonesome Lee.

“Nobody ever wrote to you, Lonesome.”

“Yeah, they did, Spot. I—I—” whined Lonesome.

“The envelop will show who it’s for,” said Hashknife easily.

Spot Easton turned to the bartender.

“‘Windy,’ how many times do I have to tell you not to let Lonesome have any more whisky?”

“Lay off the bartender,” advised Hashknife. “I paid for the old man’s drink, if you care to know.”

Spot Easton seemed to see Hashknife for the first time, and the discovery did not please him.

“Who in —— are you?” he growled.

“Me?” Hashknife grinned. “I’m the li’l jasper that’s goin’ to make you give the letter back to Lonesome Lee.”

“Yeah?”

Easton’s brows lifted in surprize, as he looked Hashknife over appraisingly.

“How are you goin’ to do it, if I may ask?”

Hashknife turned his body toward the bar. It was a disarming move. Easton stepped in closer to Hashknife; stepped in just in time to be in reach of the right swing that Hashknife pivoted to accomplish.

It caught Mr. Easton flush on the left ear and the force of the smash knocked the gentleman’s feet loose from the floor. The thud of his fall had barely sounded, when Hashknife leaned over him and took away the letter.

Easton did not move. The piano crashed a discord and stopped. One of the girls gave a throaty little squeak and stopped dancing. Hashknife turned to hand the letter to Lonesome Lee, but that worthy was going out of the front door as fast as his unsteady legs would carry him.

“Well, that kinda beats ——!” grunted Hashknife.

The bartender had dropped the glass he was polishing, but continued the action on the bunched fingers of his left hand. He breathed on the fingers and polished harder.

Spot Easton sat up, holding his left ear. He looked around as if wondering what had happened. His eyes strayed to the ceiling, as if wondering that it was still intact. Then he got slowly to his feet and brushed the dust off his broadcloth raiment.

“You asked a question,” reminded Hashknife seriously, “but I don’t reckon you need an answer—not now.”

Spot Easton did not express any opinion. He wadded a silk handkerchief against his bruised ear, turned, and went to the back of the room.

“I’ve got the letter and nobody to give it to,” chuckled Hashknife, and then to the bartender—

“Whatcha polishin’ your fingers for, pardner?”

The bartender, suddenly realizing that he did not have a glass in his hand, recovered the one from the floor.

“What’sa matter with everybody around here?” asked Sleepy. “The old man hummed out of here like a spike, and you got absent-minded. Ain’t the War-Bonnet used to seein’ trouble, or is all this honkatonk only a blind for a Sunday school?”

“That—that was Spot Easton,” stammered the bartender.

“Who’s he—the king?” asked Hashknife.

The bartender glanced keenly toward the rear of the place, where Easton had entered one of the built-in rooms. He leaned across the bar and whispered:

“You better look out for him, gents. Spot Easton’s a ——winder, y’betcha. He’s quicker’n a flash with a gun, and he used to be a middle-weight prize-fighter. Glad it ain’t me he’s sore at.”

“You don’t reckon he’s sore at me, do you?” Hashknife seemed penitent.

“Huh?” Such a foolish question amazed the bartender.

“Gee cripes! He must be touchy if he is,” observed Sleepy. “Some folks wears their feelin’ on their sleeves.”

“Well, for ——’s sake!” wailed the bartender. “I dunno whatcha mean by that. If you got hit in the ear——”