Dancing Devil range
keys and the combination, tied Weed up tight, and pulled out. They had
all night to do the job--and they shore done a complete job.”
“And he saw that turquoise ring, eh?” said Hashknife.
And Davidson nodded slowly. “He says he saw it plain.”
“Weed is honest, eh?”
“Honest as a dollar,” sighed Uncle Andy. “I’ve talked with him several
times, and he’s just about sick. Weed is pretty old, and he ain’t got
any job. Everythin’ he owned was in the bank, too.”
“I told him,” said Frawley quietly, “that if things got too tough he
could come out and live with us.”
“I told him the same thing,” said Uncle Andy, “and so did Buck Nolan.
Buck didn’t owe the bank anythin’, but he lost every dollar he had in
there.”
“Seems like we’re askin’ Weed to join us in the poor-house,” said
Frawley dryly. “I know I can’t keep goin’. I’ve got a couple good
cowpokes out at my place, but I can’t afford to keep ’em more’n a couple
weeks longer.”
“This looks like a mighty good range,” remarked Sleepy.
“There ain’t any better,” declared Uncle Andy warmly.
“Maybe they’ll offer yuh a _good_ price.”
“Why should they?” asked Frawley. “Colton didn’t suggest any price. He
said they’d naturally buy as cheap as possible, and he said for me to
figure out my lowest price. He’ll prob’ly make you the same proposition,
Andy.”
Uncle Andy stared thoughtfully at the carpet for several moments, before
he said quietly:
“We’ve been here a long time, Ed. It ain’t just like sellin’ a piece of
property--it’s home. Yuh can’t tear up roots that have gone as deep as
ours, my friend. We ain’t young men--me and you. Ed, I just can’t sell
the AD.”
“I feel the same, Andy,” replied Frawley.
“Will Nolan have to sell, too?” asked Hashknife.
“I dunno, Hashknife,” replied Uncle Andy. “It hit him hard, but he don’t
owe the bank anythin’.”
“What about Sam Hack?”
“I don’t believe he had much in the bank. Yuh see, he’s only had the
Circle H a little over a year. He bought out the NK from a feller named
Kinney. The bank had to foreclose a mortgage on the NK, and I reckon
Hack made a good deal for the spread. He’s buildin’ it up.”
“How long,” asked Hashknife, “has Colton owned the bank?”
“A little over two years,” replied Frawley. “Weed worked for the bank
for at least twenty years Harry Colton was in college when his father
bought the bank, and has only been here about a year. He’s no good.
Drinks like a fish, and gambles like a fool. He had the gall to want
Nell to marry him.”
“That,” declared Sleepy soberly, “don’t take much gall.”
“You know what I mean, Stevens,” laughed Frawley.
* * * * *
Hashknife walked out into the kitchen. Aunt Judy was working at the
stove, while Nell was on the back porch, talking with Eddie Connors, who
went down the steps and headed for the bunkhouse. Hashknife went out on
the shaded porch. Nell said, “Your ears must have burned, Mr. Hartley.”
Hashknife smiled and Shook his head.
“I haven’t felt ’em.”
“We were talking about you.”
“That’s a pretty dry topic for conversation,” he said soberly.
“Eddie didn’t think so. Oh, I didn’t want to be curious, but Uncle Andy
talked about you--and Eddie--” She hesitated.
“That’s the trouble,” he said quietly. “Somethin’ ordinary happens, and
somebody with a big imagination spins a windy about it. The next feller
enlarges it. Well, after it’s been told several times, you’ve either got
wings and one of them halos, or a forked tail and a pair of horns. But
even with all the lies, the poor devil remains a tired ol’ cowpoke, just
gettin’ along in his own dumb way, Ma’am.”
“You’re not so old,” said Nell.
“I’m old enough to know better, Ma’am.”
“I don’t like to be called Ma’am. My name is Nell.”
Hashknife smiled slowly. “I like that name. I’m Hashknife.”
“Just a poor, old, tired cowpoke,” she said slowly. “Johnny said you
just looked at him, and he decided to tell the truth, but he wouldn’t
talk to anybody before that. How did you do it, Hashknife?”
Hashknife looked at her thoughtfully. “I just asked him, Nell.”
“Do people always do what you ask?”
“Well,” Hashknife grinned widely, “I don’t ask--much. Did you know
Chiquita Morales very well?”
“Are you practicing on me?” asked Nell quickly.
“No, I just wondered if yuh knew her pretty well.”
“Not too well,” replied Nell. “Chiquita was pretty, tiny, full of life.
She liked to have a good time, wear pretty clothes. But the Morales are
poor people. I don’t believe they had much control over her. I liked
her. She was very generous, sympathetic, but very emotional.”
“Do you think she would have married Frenchy Arnett, Nell?”
“No, I don’t, Hashknife. Frenchy was too slow for her. She went to that
Mexican dance with Oren Blakely, and Frenchy didn’t know it. If Chiquita
wanted to go some place she’d ask most any man to take her--she didn’t
have any favorites, it seemed.”
“The Morales’ are pretty poor, eh?” remarked Hashknife.
“Yes, they are. I never could understand where Chiquita got money to buy
fancy clothes, but she wore plenty.”
“Maybe some cowpoke bought ’em,” suggested Hashknife.
“At forty dollars a month?”
“No, that don’t go far,” admitted Hashknife. “Did you ever know her to
go to dances with Harry Colton?”
“With the banker’s son? You amaze me, Hashknife.”
Hashknife smiled slowly. “I even amaze myself, at times, Nell.”
“No, I never have seen them together,” she said. “No reason why not.
After all, Harry Colton isn’t too good, in spite of his money. Now that
his father is broke, I don’t know what he will do.”
Aunt Judy came out on the porch to cool off.
“Who are you folks plottin’ against?” she asked.
“The forces of evil, Aunt Judy,” replied Nell.
“Well, it must have been pleasant plotting--the way you’ve been smiling.
Isn’t she a sweet girl, Hashknife?”
“Aunt Judy!” protested Nell.
“I’ve been thinkin’ that all along,” grinned Hashknife.
“How come you never got married?” asked Aunt Judy.
“Well,” replied Hashknife thoughtfully, “I don’t reckon I’ve ever had
time. My old Dad was a range-ridin’ sky-pilot up on the Milk River in
Montana. He had a houseful of kids, and mighty little money to take care
of ’em. When I was still a sprout, I got a horse and a riding rig. I had
itchin’ feet. Dad said, ‘Son, I’ve been watchin’ yuh a long
time--lookin’ at them hills. You want to see what’s on the other side.
When you was born the good Lord put a wanderin’ brand on yuh. I’ve seen
that brand growin’. You’ll never call any place home, never be held by
any ties. I’ve tried to teach yuh to shoot square--it’s the best I can
do.’”
“And you started wandering,” said Aunt Judy.
“All my life, Aunt Judy-- Dad’s prophecy was right. Sleepy is of the
same breed--we can’t stay put.”
“Helping people,” said Nell quietly.
“Who told you that?” he asked.
“Eddie Connors. I think it is wonderful. We need help, Hashknife.”
Hashknife squinted thoughtfully across the hills. After a long pause he
said, “Yeah, I reckon yuh do, Nell.”
“Johnny and me were going to get married Christmas Eve.”
“That ain’t far away, Nell, and there ain’t much to work on, but we’ll
hope that it’s all written our way in the Big Book.”
“Big Book?” queried Aunt Judy quickly.
“There is a big book, yuh know, Aunt Judy,” said Hashknife.
“I’ve never heard of it before.”
“I’ve never seen it,” smiled Hashknife. “No mortal’s eyes have ever seen
it--but the finger of Fate writes in that book. It shows what we do, how
we live, how we die--and when.”
“That’s fatalism!” exclaimed Aunt Judy. “You don’t believe in that, do
you, Hashknife?”
“I believe,” replied Hashknife, “that you’ll never die until your number
is up on the board, Aunt Judy. Bein’ careful is a human trait, but it
won’t save yuh. Men have gone through hell and high water all their
lives, only to trip over a chair in the dark and break their neck.
What’s yore argument against it, Aunt Judy?”
“Well, I--when you started, I had several--but I guess I’ve forgotten
what they were.”
“School is dismissed,” grinned Hashknife.
* * * * *
It was a wonderful supper. Aunt Judy was a fine cook, and Sleepy almost
ate himself under the table. They got back to Tomahawk Flats about nine
o’clock, and were standing in front of the Pasatiempo Saloon, when a
horse and buggy drove up. A man had just come out of the saloon, and the
driver called to him, asking directions for finding Thomas Colton’s
home. Then the buggy turned and went back up the street. The man had
leaned out of the buggy, his face full in the lights of the saloon.
Hashknife said quietly, “Did you see that feller, Sleepy?”
“No, I didn’t pay any attention. Sort of a fat man, wasn’t he?”
“Sort of--yeah. I’ve seen that face before, but I can’t quite place him.
C’mon.”
“Are yuh goin’ to try and run him down?” asked Sleepy.
“I hadn’t thought of that--but I’m curious.”
Thomas Colton’s home was only two blocks off the main street, but there
were no lights on the street, and the night was dark. They found the
horse and buggy at Colton’s front gate. There were lights in the house,
but the windows were shaded. Sleepy wanted to know why they ever came
down there, in the first place. Didn’t Mr. Colton have any right to have
a visitor.
Hashknife laughed. “That visitor,” he said, “is a man we both knew in
Wyomin’, Sleepy. His name was Slim Regan. What it is now, who knows?”
“Slim Regan?” queried Sleepy. “I ’member him. He was a gambler and a
promoter, wasn’t he?”
“That’s the person--I’m dead sure. Maybe he didn’t recognize me--my back
bein’ to the light, and we ain’t seen him for at least five years. Maybe
he’s livin’ straight now--who knows?”
They started back, when they heard footsteps on the wooden sidewalk,
coming from the opposite direction. The walker was wearing spurs. It was
too dark for them to see him, but he turned in at Colton’s gate and went
to the house. There were no lights, when the door was opened, but they
heard it close behind him.
“Maybe the Coltons are havin’ a party,” suggested Sleepy.
Hashknife didn’t offer any suggestions, but started down the road,
heading in the direction from which the spur-wearing person came. After
a short distance they cut over to the sidewalk, and went on, until they
found the horse, tied to a tree almost at the outskirts of town. It was
a tall roan animal, and with the aid of a match they were able to
decipher the Bar N brand on the animal. Sleepy said, “That’s Buck
Nolan’s mark, Hashknife.”
They sat down in the darkness and waited possibly fifteen minutes, but
no one came along.
“Even if he did come for the horse, it’s too dark to recognize him.
Anyway, there ain’t no law,” said Sleepy.
“I reckon yo’re right,” agreed Hashknife.
“No use settin’ here.”
They were almost back at Colton’s house, when they heard the rasp of
buggy-wheels, as the vehicle was turned around. A few moments later the
horse and buggy came past them, traveling fast, heading back toward
where the horse was tied. The Colton house was dark.
“Well,” remarked Sleepy, “what’s funny about that?”
“I didn’t say it was funny,” replied Hashknife.
They went up to their room at the hotel and went to bed. Sleepy said,
“Ain’t we even goin’ to try and get prices on ranches?”
“We’ll let Colton see what he can do first. After all, he knows values
better than we do.”
* * * * *
They met Thomas Colton next morning, and he asked them if they had
discussed prices with any of the ranchers.
“We’re leavin’ that to you, Mr. Colton,” said Hashknife.
“Well, that is right, Mr. Hartley. No use of both of us working on the
same idea. Are you leaving here soon?”