CHAPTER XI—A HORSE TRADE
It was early morning in the town of Welcome; the cold gray dawn of a fall morning, with a brisk breeze, which caused the livery-stable keeper to slap his hands violently against his thigh, as he watered a team of horses at the trough in front of the stable.
On the rough porch of a saloon a swamper swept away an accumulation of playing-cards, cigarette-butts, and other litter of a gambling-house and saloon. The cards slithered away in the breeze like autumn leaves. From a blacksmith shop came the musical clank of a hammer on anvil, as the smithy tuned up for his morning task.
Two cowboys came from the doorway of a small hotel, pausing for a moment on the edge of the sidewalk, before crossing the street toward a cafe. They walked with the peculiar rolling gait of men who wear high-heeled boots, their elbows held closely to their sides, as is the habit of men who spend most of their lives in the saddle.
One cowboy was well over six feet tall, thin, angular. His features were heavily lined, nose rather large, wide mouth, and gray eyes. The other cowboy was less than six feet tall, broad of shoulder, with a square face, out of which beamed a pair of blue eyes, now slightly clouded with sleep. His face was grin-wrinkled and his eyes were nested in a mass of tiny lines, caused from their owner’s propensity for seeing the funny side of life.
The tall one was “Hashknife” Hartley, and the other was “Sleepy” Stevens, strangers to Welcome town.
“The wind she blow, pretty soon we have snow, and what will poor robin do then, poor thing?” grinned Sleepy.
“Yu-u-uh betcha!” grunted Hashknife. “She’s gettin’ a long ways north for summer clothes.”
They entered the restaurant and sat down. Just behind them came Bill Warren, former dealer for Angel McCoy at Red Arrow. Warren nodded to them and sat down at their table.
“Been dealin’ all night,” he said briskly. “Some fellers never know when to quit playin’. Strangers here, ain’t yuh?”
“Came in late last night,” said Hashknife.
“Goin’ to stay?”
“Prob’ly not.”
They ceased the conversation long enough to order their breakfast.
“Do they play pretty heavy around here?” asked Sleepy.
“Well, pretty good. Welcome ain’t as good as Red Arrow, but we get a pretty fair play here. I’ve only been here a few days. I’m from Red Arrow. That’s northwest of here, less than twenty miles. Pretty good place.”
“Good play up there, eh?”
“You bet. Say, you boys don’t happen to be lookin’ for an investment, do yuh?”
“All depends,” said Hashknife seriously.
“I see. Well, what made me ask was the fact that there’s a bargain in Red Arrow. Feller by the name of McCoy has kinda broke his pick up there. Owns the Eagle Saloon and gamblin’-house. Pulled a funny deal on his own father, and aced him out of a lot of money. Queered his own game. Fact. I hear he’s had to close the place. And he sure had a big play.”
“Would he sell cheap?” asked Hashknife, attacking his ham and eggs.
“I’ll bet he would. Somewhat of a fool, this McCoy. His father is a tough old gunman, and they never got along. Oh, it’s a salty place up there. Some lone wolf held up the train the other night and got away with a fortune.”
“They did, eh?”
Hashknife paused and stared at Warren. Sleepy snorted softly, gazing disconsolately at his platter of food.
“Yuh bet they did,” said Warren. “One man pulled it all alone. Broke the train at Curlew Spur, took the engine and express car up the track a ways and blew the safe. I don’t know how much he got, but they say he got plenty.”
“Prob’ly,” nodded Hashknife, stirring his coffee with the handle of his knife.
“And they won’t catch him,” declared Warren. “Too many places to hide—and one man don’t talk, except to himself.”
“Prob’ly not,” said Hashknife absently.
“But that Eagle Saloon would be a mint if it was run right. Angel McCoy is all through. The fixtures are all first-class, and I could help yuh—yuh know what I mean. I know most everybody up there.
“Me and Angel always got along good. He had to turn me loose, because business was pretty bad. Not that I care a damn about Angel. He’s salty. His old man ain’t very well liked either. Got a bad reputation. Him and Angel never got along, And there’s a girl—sister of Angel’s. Name’s Lila. She just got back from school, I understand. She’s about twenty years old. I ain’t never met the lady, but I can say she’s a mighty pretty girl. I heard a rumor that she wasn’t Angel’s sister, and that she just found out that old Rance ain’t her father. Anyway, she had quit the ranch and was livin’ in town when I left there. They say Angel is stuck on her, but she’d be a fool to marry him. He’s crooked; and it don’t pay to play crooked in that town. Them cattlemen sabe poker, and they sure declare an open season on yuh the first time yuh make a break.”
“Pretty near time for the fall roundup, ain’t it?” asked Hashknife.
“Sure. If you go up there, look into that proposition. I’ll bet you could buy Angel out for a song. He’s all through in that country.”
They finished their breakfast and walked out to the main street of Welcome.
“Well, we might as well start, I suppose,” said Sleepy dolefully.
“Start where?”
“Don’t try to be funny, Hashknife. Yore neck stretched a foot when he mentioned that holdup.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Oh, yeah,” mimicked Sleepy. “Now, don’t tell me you’re interested in their fall roundup.”
“With twenty dollars between us—I ought to.”
“And you talkin’ about investin’ in a saloon.”
“I didn’t. He asked me if we was lookin’ over the place, and I intimated we was interested enough to invest what we had in a payin’ proposition. He didn’t need to know we had only twenty dollars, did he? And yuh learn a lot more about conditions if they think you’ve got money.”
“That may be true, but just the same I don’t know of any good reason why we should go to Red Arrow. It’s only a little range, Hashknife. It won’t be long before the old snow will be cuttin’ across this country, and it’ll shore catch two unworthy punchers with thin seats in their pants, if them two punchers don’t do somethin’. We started out for Arizona, if yuh remember. It’s summer down there, cowboy. I want to read about my snow this winter. And as far as that train robbery is concerned—nobody got hurt.”
Hashknife leaned against a post and rolled a cigarette, a half-smile on his thin lips, as he glanced at the serious face of Sleepy Stevens.
“Sleepy, I’m goin’ to foller you this time. You’ve always trailed my bets, and for once in our lives I’m goin’ to foller you. Head for Arizona, cowboy; and I’ll rub knees with yuh. C’mon.”
“My God!” exclaimed Sleepy. “I’ll betcha you’re sick. Don’tcha feel kinda faint? Any spots in front of yore eyes? Kinda ache all over? No?”
“I feel normal,” grinned Hashknife.
“Yuh shore don’t act it. Huh! Well, mebby I’m dreamin’. After while I’ll wake up and find myself bein’ shot at by somebody you’re trailin’. Let’s go, before yuh suffer a relapse.”
They went down to the livery stable, where an unkempt, sleepy-eyed stable-man met them. He squinted at Hashknife, spat violently, and glanced back along the row of stalls.
“We’re pullin’ out,” said Hashknife. “What’s our bill?”
“Oh, about fo’ bits. Say”—he squinted at Hashknife—“one of you fellers was a-ridin’ a tall, gray bronc, wasn’t yuh?”
“I ride him,” said Hashknife.
“Uh-huh. Well, I shore wondered about it. Seemed to me I remembered yuh did, but I wasn’t sure. I don’t like to say too much, but I’m plumb scared that somebody got color-blind early this mornin’.”
“What do yuh mean?” asked Hashknife quickly.
“C’mere and take a look.”
He led them farther down the stable, halting behind Sleepy’s sorrel gelding. On the left was an empty stall and on the right stood a rough-looking, dark bay horse, with one cropped ear and a hammer-head. It turned and looked at the men, an evil glint in its eyes.
“That’s where yore gray stood,” declared the stable-man. “I put yore broncs together. Early this mornin’ I heard somebody ride in and put up a horse. I didn’t git up. Folks usually take care of their own bronc at that time in the mornin’. But when I got up I didn’t find no extra horse in here, and when I went to feed ’em, I shore noticed that yore horse has turned color quite a bit.”
“That’s not my horse,” said Hashknife.
“Shore it ain’t. And it’s lame, too. Picked up a stone. I dug it out a while ago and filled the place with some axle-grease.”
“What’s the brand on it?”
“Half-Box R.”
“Who owns that brand?”
“Feller by the name of Reimer—Butch Reimer. His ranch is about eight miles from here, between here and Red Arrer. Yuh can’t tell who owns the horse now, of course.”
“He’d probably know who owns it,” said Sleepy.
“Prob’ly might.”
“What kind of a feller?” asked Hashknife.
“Plumb forked, Butch is, and he hires a forked crew. Honest, as far as I know, though. That ain’t such a bad animal, at that. Betcha he’d stand a lot.”
“Betcha he’d give a lot, too,” smiled Hashknife. “Is he too lame to travel?”
“Might be. Be all right t’morrow.”
Hashknife and Sleepy went outside, sat down on the sidewalk and considered the situation. While Hashknife voiced no complaint, Sleepy knew that the tall cowboy would go through fire to get that gray horse back again.
“We’ll wait until that bronc is able to travel, Sleepy. One more day won’t make nor break us.”
“You mean to say you’d pull out and leave some danged thief to own Ghost?”
“Well, it—it can’t be helped, Sleepy. It would take a long time to hunt down a horse-thief in this country. We’ll rest up until tomorrow and then head for Arizona.”
“We will like hell! We’ll head for the Half-Box R ranch and find out who owns that crowbait.”
Hashknife smiled thoughtfully at Sleepy. “You ain’t just tryin’ to play the game back at me, are yuh?”
“Not a bit.”
“Well, I’m really glad, Sleepy. It’s time we quit foolin’ around. We’re gettin’ old, me and you; kinda mellow. Why, a few years ago, I’d ’a’ started out after that horse-thief on foot. But I’m slowin’ up, I tell yuh.”
“Yea-a-ah, I’ll betcha. You’ll prob’ly kiss him when we find him. Trade yore gun for a cane, grandpa. Let’s go and get us a drink.”
Welcome was a smaller town than Red Arrow, and it did not take the stable-man long to spread the news that somebody had stolen a horse from one of the strange cowboys.
A number of people went down to look at the Half-Box R horse, but none of them seemed to be able to tell who owned it. Butch Reimer was well known in Welcome, and as far as Hashknife was able to find out, he bore a fairly good reputation as a cattleman.
The thief had been thoughtful enough to take his own saddle, which was something for Hashknife to be thankful for, as his saddle had been made to order. There was no further news of the robbery, although they heard several people discussing it during the day.
They spent the day playing pool, which was a favorite diversion with both of them. During one of the games Sleepy grew thoughtful, which was unusual with him.
“I was thinkin’ about that big robbery,” he said, when they were in their room that night. “They ought to pay a good reward for the return of that much money.”
Hashknife’s indifference nettled Sleepy.
“Oh, ... all right!” he snorted. “For once in our misguided lives, let’s show a little sense.”
“I’m with yuh—if I never see the back of my neck.”
“Then you’re a changed man,” declared Sleepy.
“Gettin’ old, I reckon.”
Hashknife stretched wearily, but his thin lips were smiling as he stripped off his thin, much-washed blue shirt, disclosing a lean, muscular torso. He had long arms, big hands; and his muscles rippled under his bronzed skin, as he snapped his arms back and forth in short arm punches which would have floored a man.
His waist was narrow, hips long and lean, and with his high-heeled boots off he moved with the grace of a cat.
Sleepy watched him admiringly.
“Too bad yuh didn’t take up prize-fightin’, Hashknife.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” smiled Hashknife. “How about you?”
“I don’t think fast enough.”
“And I’d probably sit down to think, durin’ a fight.”
“I’ll bet yuh would. If somebody mentioned a mystery, it’s a cinch you’d forget what yuh was doin’, Hashknife.”
“It’s a failin’, I suppose. Ho-o-o-hum! We better hit the hay if we’re startin’ early.”
And Sleepy knew that it was not a job at the roundup that was calling Hashknife. The moment the gambler had mentioned the train robbery Sleepy knew what would happen. He had been Hashknife’s partner long enough to know the inner workings of that long cowboy’s mind, and he knew the mention of that holdup to Hashknife was like a spur to a bronco.
It meant a chance to pit his mind against crime and criminals; not so much because he disliked criminals, but because of the dangerous game.
Hashknife had never studied psychology, nor had he ever tried to analyze crime. Born of poor parents—his father had been an itinerant minister in the Milk River country, in Montana—he had had little schooling. At an early age he had started out to make his own way in the world, working as a cowboy, the only profession he knew.
But he had a receptive mind, and in the years that followed he had picked up a varied education, absorbing the things that are often overlooked by other men, more fortunate in their earlier years; studying human nature, but always analyzing things. He wanted to know the why of everything.
Drifting one day to the ranch, the brand of which gave him his nickname, he met Dave Stevens, another wandering cowboy, who became “Sleepy” because he seemed always wide awake, and these two mounted their horses one day, strapped on their war-bags and bed-rolls, and started out to see the other side of the hill.
And since that day they had seen many ranges and the other side of many hills; but there were always more ranges ahead—more hills to cross. It had not been a profitable partnership as far as money was concerned. Right now they had less money than they had the day they left the old Hashknife ranch; but behind them were memories that money could not buy; memories of people who prayed that some day these two cowboys might come back and help enjoy the happiness their work had wrought.
Life had made them fatalists. Death had struck at them many times, but missed. Sometimes it was very close. They both bore scars of conflict, and they fully realized the danger of their work; realized that some day the pendulum of fortune might swing the wrong way.
In many localities they were marked men. Their reputation was well known, and among those who worked outside the law, they were spoken of as something to be avoided. Neither of them was a split-second gunman, nor were they of the dead-shot variety; but many times had they walked out of a powder-smoke haze unscathed, while gun-men had to be carried out feet-first.