Dancing Devil range · OmniClassics

DANCING DEVIL RANGE by W. C. Tuttle Hashknife Wasn’t Exactly the Size and Shape to Play Santa Claus; Still and All, Peace on Earth Was a Long Way from Dancing Devil Valley That Particular Season A long, dusty freight train rattled and clanked through the desert hills, seemingly in no hurry to anywhere. Outside it was almost dark, and there were no lights inside the caboose, where Hashknife Hartley sprawled on an uncomfortable seat and gazed wearily through a dusty window. Across the aisle was Hashknife’s partner, Sleepy Stevens, stretched out on the seat, his head pillowed on his war-sack. Hashknife was inches over six feet tall, of slender, steel-muscled manhood, his sombrero pulled low over his gray eyes. Sleepy Stevens was less than six feet tall, broad of shoulder and beam, slightly bow-legged. Sleepy had a grin-wrinkled face, wide mouth and innocent-looking blue eyes, which seemed amazed at the world. In garb they were merely a pair of drifting cowboys; well-worn Stetsons, colorless shirts, stringy vests, little more than a depository for tobacco and papers, faded overalls and high-heel boots. There was nothing fancy about these two cowpokes. Their gun-belts were home-made, form-fitted by wear, and even their Colt guns, tucked into short holsters, had plain wooden butts, blackened by wear. A sleepy-eyed brakeman climbed down from the cupola and wiped a grimy forearm across his dusty eyes and lighted his lantern. He said, “We’re pullin’ into Northgate, boys.” Sleepy swung around on the seat, yawned widely and picked up his war-sack. The train was slowing down, as they came out on the platform. Each one of them picked up a heavy saddle and stepped down. There were few lights in Northgate, the railroad point for all of the Dancing Devil range. There were huge loading corrals along the tracks, indicating that much livestock was shipped from Northgate. The train stopped, with the caboose close to the depot, and the two men swung down. The conductor crossed in front of them, going into the depot, where a kerosene lamp yellow-lighted the windows. A man came from the near corner of the depot, walking swiftly toward the rear platform of the caboose. He had just reached the steps and was about to enter the caboose, when a shotgun blasted from down behind the loading platform. The man twisted around, tried to grasp the doorway, but missed, and went backwards off the platform, falling in the middle of the tracks behind the caboose. Hashknife and Sleepy dropped their impedimenta and ran over to the caboose. There was no sign of the shooter. The conductor, depot-agent and a brakeman came running. They picked the man up and placed him on the platform while Hashknife told them where the shot came from. There was no one in sight. The victim had stopped a dozen buckshot, and was beyond any medical assistance. There was no law officer in Northgate, the sheriffs office being at Tomahawk Flats, thirty miles south, center of the Dancing Devil range. Someone summoned a doctor, and other curious people arrived. A cowboy said, “I know who he is--he’s Oren Blakely. I think he worked for the Circle H, down at Tomahawk Flats.” Hashknife and Sleepy secured a room at a little hotel, and, after considerable haggling, bought two horses from the man who owned the livery-stable and feed corral. They told him they were leaving for Tomahawk Flats in the morning. He said, “if yo’re lookin’ for work down there--” “What about it?” asked Hashknife quickly. “I just meant that they prob’ly ain’t lookin’ for cowpokes. Yuh see, the bank went busted and that busted most of the cowmen, makin’ things kinda bad down there. If a feller was lookin’ for work-- But that’s yore business.” “Much obliged,” said Hashknife, but he didn’t say whether it was for the advice or the information. * * * * * Over at the hotel they heard a man say that they had sent for the sheriff and the coroner. Another man said, “It ain’t goin’ to be a very merry Christmas down there this year.” In their little room, Hashknife sprawled on the bed, smoking a cigarette, while Sleepy looked moodily from a dusty window. Sleepy said, “I just hope we ain’t playin’ Sandy Claws for Bob Marsh.” Hashknife laughed shortly. “Where’d yuh get that idea?” Sleepy sat down and began manufacturing a cigarette. “Distrust of Bob Marsh,” he replied. “Bob sets there at his desk, his big, brown eyes as full of honesty as a coyote pup is full of fleas, and explains that all on earth he wants us to do is come down here, get the best possible price on three, four cattle spreads, and let him know.” “Well?” suggested Hashknife curiously. “That’s all we’ve got to do,” sighed Sleepy. “No rustlers, no horse-thieves--just a couple real estate men on horseback.” “Sounds all right to me,” said Hashknife. “We get paid so much for the job, and if the deals go through we get more money. It’s an honest job, Sleepy. Bob Marsh, as secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association, can’t afford to be mixed up in a crooked deal.” “Yeah, I know but--well, a man was murdered tonight.” “Men,” remarked Hashknife quietly, “are murdered every day.” “Yeah, I know, but--you heard that man at the livery-stable, sayin’ that everybody in the Dancin’ Devil country are broke. The bank went busted--” “Are you lookin’ for boogers, Sleepy?” “No, I’m tryin’ to figure out why Bob Marsh got us down here. If he can’t get us into trouble one way, he’ll--well, all right.” “I’ve just thought of somethin’ else,” said Hashknife soberly. Sleepy looked sharply at him and said, “Yeah? What?” “It ain’t long until Christmas, pardner.” “I heard that mentioned tonight, High Pockets. Christmas! Heat and dust. Yuh know, I’d like to spend a Christmas in the snow agin, Hashknife. It ain’t Christmas down here, except on the calendar. We had real Christmases in Idaho.” “We had ’em in Montana, too,” said Hashknife. “My old man, bein’ a range preacher, was strong for things like that. I ’member the church trees decorated with popcorn in strings, popcorn balls, and little, red sacks of mosquito-nettin’, full of hard candy, with a tired-lookin’ orange in the bottom. They’d read telegrams from Santa Claus, showin’ that he was comin’--and then he’d come, all in a bear-skin coat, sleigh-bells, whiskers--” “Bringin’ a pair of skates for little Hashknife,” suggested Sleepy. “They called me Henry,” smiled Hashknife, “but I never got any skates. A range preacher didn’t make money enough--and we had a whopper of a family. We was poor folks, Sleepy.” “Poor folks in Tomahawk Flats, too, they say. Be a bad Christmas down there--and we’re goin’ down to try and buy ’em out as cheap as possible.” Hashknife nodded slowly. “That’s life, Sleepy.” “It’s a tough life for busted folks. Yuh know,” Sleepy began rolling a cigarette, “I’ll bet yuh a dollar agin a doughnut that we don’t buy any spreads.” “Anythin’ to base that bet on?” “Bob Marsh. Listen, tall-feller; Bob Marsh used that as an excuse, or my original name ain’t Stevens. He wanted us to come here and let Nature take her course. Yuh can’t fool me, feller; I’m wise to Bob Marsh. No, I don’t say that Bob’s crooked, but he’s allus been a connivin’ critter.” “He told the idea as straight as a string, Sleepy.” “And here we are,” added Sleepy. “We get off the train--and what happens? A man is blasted down with a load of buckshot, that’s what happened. He poked cows for one of them poverty-stricken outfits at Tomahawk Flats.” Hashknife grinned. “A coincidence, Sleepy. Prob’ly a grudge between two men--nothin’ to do with us.” “No? Nothin’ t’ do with us, sez he. Huh! And yore long nose has been wigglin’ and sniffin’, like the nose of a bloodhound, ever since that poor devil done a hooligan off the end of that caboose. Nothin’ to do with us, eh? Let’s go to bed, before yuh get me all riled up.” Hashknife laughed. It was like Sleepy to complain of things that might happen. They had been together a long time, these two drifting cowboys, always trying to find out what was going on over the next hill, only working long enough to suffice for their few wants, and then going on, always looking, helping some under-dog, asking nothing for themselves. * * * * * Hashknife, with his ability to solve range mysteries, could have sold his services to the law, and made money. But neither law nor money meant anything to them. They had seen the law miscarry too often. They loved justice--which is not necessarily law. At rare times they worked for the Cattlemen’s Association, asking only that they be given a free hand and not be hampered by rules. But neither of them enjoyed nor appreciated the work. Bob Marsh would have almost given his right hand to have them work for his organization. In fact, he used every sort of ruse to get them on certain jobs, knowing that Hashknife, confronted by a problem, would never give up, until it was solved. That was why Sleepy mistrusted Bob Marsh’s casual suggestion that they make some money for themselves by asking prices on some cattle ranches. They found the depot-agent in the little restaurant next morning, eating breakfast with Nick McGarvin, the sheriff, and his deputy, Frenchy Arnett. The agent recognized them, and told the sheriff that these were the two men who had just arrived on the freight train, and were present when Oren Blakely was shot. Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy, and sat down at their table. He was unable to tell them any more than they already knew about the shooting. Nick McGarvin was a big, two-fisted sort of person, and Hashknife mentally listed him as a much better man with his fists or gun than with his brains. Frenchy Arnett was small, dark, hatchet-faced, with a sour disposition and need of sleep. The agent went back to the depot, and the sheriff remarked: “You two came in on the freight, packin’ saddles, bought two broncs from the feed-corral, and said you was headin’ for Tomahawk Flats tomorrow morning--that bein’ today.” “The corral man told yuh,” said Hashknife. “Did he also tell yuh what else we said?” “No, he didn’t. What else did yuh say?” “I don’t remember,” replied Hashknife. “It was prob’ly just as important as what he told yuh.” The sheriff nodded, but Frenchy grinned and looked sideways at the sheriff. Frenchy said, “It’s allus best to write it out. Things like that require study.” “What are you talkin’ about?” asked the sheriff. “Nothin’, Nick.” “Tells us some more about us,” suggested Sleepy soberly. “It’s shore interestin’.” “We don’t know any more,” replied the sheriff. “It’s my duty to know things.” “Yuh mean--findin’ out about everybody’s deep, dark past?” asked Sleepy. “Askin’,” corrected Frenchy. “Nick’s good at it.” “Any idea who shot the man, Sheriff?” asked Hashknife. “No. He’s worked for the Circle H for over a year, and I ain’t never knowed him to have trouble with anybody. ’Course, I’ll have to check up with Sam Hack--he owns the Circle H. Sam might know who Oren was feudin’ with--I dunno.” They finished breakfast, and Hashknife and Sleepy decided to ride to Tomahawk Flats with the two officers, who had, so far, failed to find out why Hashknife and Sleepy were going there. As they were saddling at the livery-stable, a rider, on a very tired horse, swung off the street and into the stable: The sheriff said, “Hello, Jim.” Jim Bailey swung off his saddle and came over close to the sheriff. He said, “Nick, I got here as quick as I could. Somebody shot and killed Chiquita Morales last night!”