“After what you’ve done for me? My ——, I’d even do a little singin’ m’self, Hashknife.”
“Thassall right,” said Hashknife hastily as he wound a handkerchief around his scored forearm, where Hagen’s bullet had left its mark.
“Your appreciation is accepted—but don’t sing. There’s such a thing as carryin’ humor to excess, Skelton.”
Skelton grinned widely and put his hand on Hashknife’s shoulder.
“Cowboy, you shore made history in Lodge-Pole County today, and jist t’ show you how much I appreciates it, I’m splittin’ the 33 into three parts right now. From this here date, me and you and Sleepy own this place. No arguments a-tall—no sir. She ain’t worth a —— of a lot for cows, but if there’s a gold mine—anyway, we’re pardners; the three of us.”
Hashknife looked closely at the old man and at Sleepy, who was busily rolling a cigaret. It was very quiet now. A string of dusty-looking cattle were coming down past the corner of the ranch-house fence, heading for the creek.
A magpie flew past the house, swerved sharply at sight of the three men, and perched on a corner of the corral, scolding earnestly. Fleecy clouds flecked the blue sky beyond the timbered ridges; from the hillside came the whistling bark of a ground-squirrel; down in the willows a cow bawled softly for her calf.
Hashknife turned slowly and took a deep breath, as he said—
“Whatcha say t’ havin’ a song by the Tombstone trio?”
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the December 30, 1922 issue of Adventure Magazine.