CHAPTER XXV: HASHKNIFE DOES SOME TRAILING
“That’s a sweet job to give anybody! Whatsa matter with yuh, Ben? Them two old jiggers wouldn’t hurt anybody. I suppose old Baggs asked yuh to detail me to dry-nurse ’em, eh?”
Breezy Hill rasped his spurred heel along the side of Ben Dillon’s desk, giving vent to his displeasure.
“Demanded it,” grinned the sheriff. “Whisperin’ and Sailor are over at the Oasis, fillin’ their skins with liquor, and I don’t hardly blame Baggs for demandin’ protection. If I was in his place I’d ask the Governor to send troops and proclaim martial law.”
“Aw, they wouldn’t shoot him, Ben.”
“They won’t if we can stop ’em, Breezy. You keep sober and stay close to ’em. Len’s got his kid over at the hotel.”
“Can’t I take a drink, Ben?”
“Sure, but stay sober.”
“Oh, shore. Say! What do yuh think about Baggs hirin’ Hashknife and Sleepy to run the Box S?”
“It’s the first sensible thing he’s ever done. Thank gosh, we’re rid of ’em. I’ve been wishin’ they’d land a job.”
“I liked ’em,” said Breezy.
“Thasall right, Breezy; but they got to be pests.”
“I s’pose. Well, I’ll go out and night-herd them two old pelicans for yuh, Ben. But don’t ask too much of me. I’m not so danged stuck on Amos Alexander Baggs m’self.”
Not realising that Breezy was acting in an official capacity, Whispering and Sailor welcomed him with open arms. Len had drawn their wages from Baggs, and they had already forgotten that this was their last pay day at the Box S.
They bought Breezy a couple of drinks, which was sufficient to organise the deputy to a point where he began buying.
“We’re here,” said Whispering owlishly, “to show a man the error of his ways, ain’t we, Sailor?”
“That’s right,” agreed Sailor heartily if thickly. “We’ve dug up the hatchet and we’re packin’ a red belt. Didja know we got throwed out of our home, Breezy? Didja? Well, it’s a sholem fac’. Throwed out in the cold world.”
It had been over a hundred in the shade that day, so Breezy had little sympathy with that statement. He nodded and turned his back to the bar, while he surveyed the room. Several of the games were going full blast, and at a poker table, only a few feet away, sat Amos Alexander Baggs. He shifted his eyes toward Breezy and nodded, possibly acknowledging the guardianship.
Breezy turned back to the bar. The bartender served some drinks at the poker game and when he came back behind the bar he caught Breezy’s eye, indicated the poker table with a jerk of his head and said softly:
“You’ve got a drink coming, Breezy.”
He meant that Baggs had told him to serve a drink to the deputy.
“All right, thanks,” Breezy replied. “Whatcha havin’, boys?”
“Same thing,” said Whispering, and Sailor nodded. The bartender tried to indicate that the order was for one drink, but Breezy ignored it. So they all had a drink on Amos Baggs.
Amos Baggs saw the old punchers drink and it made him so mad he almost forgot to draw cards. Breezy grinned gleefully. Unless these two old rangers got too drunk to navigate, it promised to be a big evening. Len came in, circled the opposite side of the room to escape Whispering, Sailor and Breezy, and sat down in another poker game, where Harry Cole was doing the dealing.
More cowboys drifted in, until the range was fairly well represented, and there was more or less confusion. Whispering and Sailor grew loud in their talk and just a little incoherent at times, but Breezy enjoyed it.
It was about eight o’clock when Hashknife and Sleepy rode in. They left their horses at the outskirts of the town and came in behind the east side of the main street. It was barely dark now. They came in behind the Oasis saloon and sat down against the side of an old shed.
There was a light in Harry Cole’s private office, which had a rear entrance. To the left of this entrance, twenty feet away, was the rear entrance to the Oasis.
From where the pair sat they could hear some of the noise in the saloon, the sound of people going in and out of the place. Both Hashknife and Sleepy had cultivated plenty of patience. They sat there like a couple of images, invisible in the dark.
Hashknife had warned Sleepy that they might be there most of the night and Sleepy agreed that it would be a nice night for it, not knowing what it was all about—nor caring.
There was one building between the Oasis and a Chinese restaurant, but even at that distance they could hear the Chinese rattling dishes at the rear of the restaurant.
It was after nine o’clock when Hashknife suddenly touched Sleepy on the arm. Some one was coming around from the rear of the restaurant. The figure shuffled softly to the rear door of Cole’s office and knocked gently several times. Finally the door opened and they saw that it was a Chinese, carrying a loaded tray, covered with a white cloth.
It was Harry Cole who opened the door. He took the tray from the Chinese.
“I’ll send the tray back later, Charley,” he said.
“Yessa.”
Cole closed the door and the Chinese shuffled back around the building. Hashknife sighed and relaxed.
“Some busy gambler will eat,” whispered Sleepy.
Hashknife did not reply. It was a common thing for food to be brought to a gambling house, as many players do not care to stop playing long enough to go out and eat a meal. There had been a light burning in Cole’s private room when the tray came, but a few moments later the light was turned out.
It was so dark out there that all they could see was the indistinct skyline of the building, the only window in the rear of the Oasis being the one in Cole’s room. About five minutes after the light had vanished they heard the door open and close gently. Came the sound of a man walking on the hard-packed ground. He passed to the left of them, evidently picking his way carefully in the dark. Hashknife squeezed Sleepy’s arm sharply and whispered in his ear:
“Stay where yuh are.”
Then he got to his feet, turned to the right around the shed and ran swiftly on his toes, praying that he might not kick a tin can or run into anything. He had his bearings fairly well and it was easier to see ahead as soon as he got away from the buildings.
He didn’t know where the man was, didn’t wait to investigate further, but kept on running. Ahead of him was the dark bulk of a house, and he halted just in time to save himself from running into the fence.
Over the fence he went, dropping to his hands and knees, while he figured out his bearings. Then he went cautiously ahead, his hands reaching out in front of him, until he could touch the building. Quickly he worked to the right, found the corner and moved a few feet to the corner of the unrailed porch. From where he stopped he could reach out and touch the front door of the Prentice house.
Hashknife had been there possibly a full minute when he heard the latch of the old gate click softly. He slipped his gun loose, gripping it tightly and stepped up on the edge of the porch. He could hear the soft slither of gravel as the man came down the walk.
He stopped a few feet away, and Hashknife took a deep breath. He was afraid the man could see him, but his fear was unfounded, for at that moment the man whistled three soft notes. It sounded to Hashknife like the first three notes in “Taps,” as played by a bugler. Then the man came on boldly, moving up the three or four steps to the top of the porch.
He was within reach of Hashknife now, panting slightly. He moved forward and something struck Hashknife’s left elbow. A dish rattled.
“What in hell!” grunted the man.
There was no waiting now. Hashknife jerked forward, struck in the direction of the man’s head, and almost at the same time he reached out his left hand. The swinging gun reached its mark, the man grunted foolishly, and fell forward in to Hashknife, forcing him back against the wall, and at that moment the door opened behind Hashknife.
Came the clatter of falling dishes, smashing on the porch, the rattle of the heavy tray, a sharp exclamation of wonder from the doorway, and Hashknife whirled and dived straight in through the doorway, striking his left shoulder heavily as he came in.
He went to his knees, badly off balance, while a revolver spurted a flame a foot above his body, and the windows of the house danced from the concussion. Again the spurt of orange-coloured flame licked out through the darkness low enough to have scorched him, but he had dropped flat on the carpet.
Swiftly he rolled aside, his gun ready. A chair rattled, echoed by the concussion of Hashknife’s big gun, but only a shower of plaster attested the hit. But in the flash of the exploding powder Hashknife saw the man dart through the doorway into the kitchen. Swiftly he shifted his gun and fired again through the doorway.
Then he sprang to his feet in the darkness and ran to the doorway, stepping aside quickly. Came the slam of a closing door, a man’s swift step on the back porch. Hashknife whirled and ran out the front door. His boots crushed down on scattered dishes and he almost fell off the porch, but he regained his balance and stopped short. He heard the fence creak from a weight, and then came the sound of a man running swiftly.
A few steps carried him to the fence, which he vaulted, and then he started running towards the rear of the Oasis.