Mavericks
“What business are you in, Hartley?”
“Everybody’s.”
Which was very true, in a way. Hashknife Hartley, christened Henry, was
born in Montana; on the Milk River, to be exact. His father was an
itinerant preacher, blessed with a big family. So big, in fact, that
Henry started to work at a tender age, in order to reduce expenses.
Life had given him many hard knocks before he became a tophand. He had
drifted into the Southwest, finally working on the big ranch which gave
him his nickname. Here he had met Sleepy Dave Stevens, who hailed from
Idaho, and together they started out to see the other side of the hill.
Their trails had led from Canada to Mexico. At times they worked for the
law and with the law, and on their back trails their name was anathema
to those who worked outside the law. Marked men, were these two.
Sleepy did not do much thinking. He laughed his way along, playing the
game for the love of it until Hashknife told him that the end of the
trail was near. That meant that if fate were kind, they would soon head
for another hill.
It was not a remunerative occupation. They had less money now than they
had that first day they rode away together. Their needs were few, and
they did not want to be thanked for what they did. Fate had thrown them
into Willow Valley, but there was no work for them to do, no mystery to
be solved.
It was late in the afternoon when Steve Pelliser came to Willow Wells.
Dud Evans ran into him in a store, and during their conversation Dud
told him that he had heard about Hank and Jerry quitting their jobs.
“Leaves you short handed, don’t it?” asked the sheriff.
“Sure does—but I’ll get along. Good men are scarce around here.”
“There’s a couple of strange cowboys in town. I dunno anythin’ about
’em, but they’ll prob’ly be lookin’ for a job.”
“Strangers, eh? I dunno, Dud; I’m kinda particular.”
“Well, you might talk to ’em. They seem all right. Got mixed up with
some sort of a dude over at Cinnabar and lost track of him. Feller named
McGill, or somethin’ like that.”
“Good Lord, he’s out at my place! Mary and One Hop have him in bed out
there, doctorin’ him for sunburn and blisters. Hank and Jerry and Uncle
Hoddy found him between here and the ranch. Mebbe we better tell these
boys where he is.”
They found Hashknife, Sleepy and Pink at the War Paint, playing pool.
The sheriff introduced Pelliser to the two cowboys and told them about
Bill McGill.
“Well, that’s great,” laughed Hashknife. “I’m shore glad he fell into
good hands.”
“Is he one of your outfit?” asked Steve.
“No, he ain’t part of any outfit—he’s a lone wolf,” said Hashknife. “He
loaned me four hundred and fifty dollars, and I want to give it back to
him. I’ve also got a horse that belongs to him.”
“He _loaned_ you four hundred and fifty dollars, and you’re huntin’ for
him to give it back?”
“Shore—and I want to give him his horse.”
“Are you two boys lookin’ for jobs?”
Hashknife grinned slowly, examining the tip of his cue carefully.
“Well,” he said finally, “we might work a while, Mr. Pelliser. Just at
present our finances ain’t a burden to us. When do we start?”
“You’re already started.” Pelliser grinned. “Get your horses and go out
to the ranch with me.”
“All right—shore.”
“And just what else do you know about this sunburned McGill?”
“Not enough to talk about it. He’ll prob’ly tell you as soon as his fire
dies down. Queer sort of a jigger, Bill is. William Allen McGill, if I
remember rightly, and he talks like he had swallowed a dictionary. But
you’ll like Bill. Wait’ll we shoot out this game and we’ll be with you
as thick as horseflies in May. Your shot, Pink.”
CHAPTER IX — GHOSTS
“He said his name was Smith, that he needed a job, so I gave him one.”
Thus Scotty McGowan summarized his reasons for hiring the man who had
been almost kicked to death that night at the War Paint hitch-rack.
It was a week after the arrival of Hashknife and Sleepy. Smith’s face
had healed up well, but twisted from the deep cuts, which gave him a
perpetual leering expression. The old doctor was glad to get rid of him,
and would receive no recompense from Steve Pelliser. Smith did not even
thank the doctor, which was very ungrateful on his part; but the
doctor’s only comment was that the man had soured on the world and was
not entirely responsible. Scotty McGowan could use another man at the
Diamond R, so Smith got the job.
Hashknife and Sleepy liked their places at the SP ranch, and those of
the ranch liked them. It did not take Steve Pelliser long to discover
that he had two men who were not only cowpunchers but men who knew
cattle. Thursday Adams, who was past fifty and had lived all those fifty
years in the range country, said of Hashknife and Sleepy:
“I dunno where they came from, Steve, but somebody is shy a couple good
hands. Sid Brayton told Hashknife that there wasn’t a puncher in the
State that could stay six jumps on that roan Bucket o’ Blood bronc; and
this mornin’ at daylight I seen Hashknife sneak out with nothin’ on but
his undershirt, overalls and boots.
“I wondered where he was goin’, so I peeked out the winder. Pretty soon
I sees him comin’ out with that man-killin’ roan all saddled. And you
know what a job it is to saddle that brute, Steve. Well, he cramps that
roan almost double, slips into the saddle and gives the roan his head.
“Did they go high? I’d tell a man! He bucked that animal plumb down to
the willers and back ag’in, fannin’ his ears. Then he yanked off the
saddle and came back to the bunkhouse. I asked him what in hell he was
a-tryin’ to do, and he said that all along he had suspected Sid of
stretchin’ the truth. Can you ee-magine that? Takin’ a chance alone?
Man, I wouldn’t fork that Bucket o’ Blood with a dozen men to ride herd
for me—and he sneaked out to do it all alone, jist to prove that there
was one man in the State that could ride him.”
“That’s takin’ fool chances,” said Steve.
“Not when you can ride like that. But they won’t be here long. ’Cause
why? ’Cause Hashknife is always askin’ me, ‘What’s on the other side of
that hill over there? What’s over that hill? There’s that ridge of blue
hills north of here, Thursday—what’s beyond them?
“Sleepy asks questions, too. Derndest fellers I ever seen, Steve. You
never know whether they’re serious or not. And there’s that Bill McGill!
What’re we goin’ to do with him? He’s all healed up, but he jist sets
out there on the porch with Mary.”
Steve smiled and shook his head.
“I dunno, Thursday; don’t even know why he’s here in Willow Valley. He’s
up there now, gassin’ with Mary and Aunt Ida.”
“Aunt Ida’s wastin’ her breath on that maverick—he don’t drink.”
“That’s nothin’ against him.”
“Against him—no! But it ain’t natcheral. And if he don’t quit callin’ me
Mister Thursday I’m goin’ to run him down with a neck yoke. He asked me
if I was named after one of the days of the week. I told him I was one
of a set of twins in a big family. I was born a minute of twelve, and
they called me Thursday the Twelfth. My brother was born a minute after
twelve, and they called him Friday the Thirteenth.
“He asked me if Friday had bad luck, and I said he did—he lost his voice
answerin’ damn’ fool questions. Did it stop him? Huh! He asked me why we
didn’t run numbers on the cows instead of brands. Said it would be much
easier to keep track of them noo-meeri’kly. Know what he meant?”
Steve laughed.
“Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s harmless.”
“Harmless, but irritatin’.” Thursday went away shaking his head.
Bill McGill had suffered exceedingly, was blind for two days, but came
out of it all right. The sun had poisoned him, but now his features were
back to normal, his face peeling off like an onion, as Sleepy expressed
it, and he was able to wear his boots again.
Aunt Ida had come visiting Mary, but with her ever present inclination
to plant seeds of temperance, she was glad for having Bill where she
might sound her warning.
“Really,” protested Bill, “never having indulged, I do not know anything
about the stuff. I am not what you might term a fertile field, Aunt Ida.
I may get drunk, or I may not get drunk. You say that the cowboys drink
too much, that they are ruining their health. Well—” Bill hooked his
clasped hands around one knee and leaned back in his chair—“I would like
to have seen them before they began drinking. Of all the healthy animals
I have ever seen, they are the finest.”
“And yet,” she said severely, “you say you are not a fertile field.”
“No.” Bill laughed. “Perhaps I do not understand your point of view.
Why, you even claim that a thirst for liquor is hereditary.”
“Of course it is. Did your father drink?”
Bill’s smile vanished quickly. He unclasped his fingers and rubbed his
forehead thoughtfully.
“That is a question I can’t answer—because I never knew my father.”
“He died before you were born?”
“Who knows?” He turned and looked at Mary. “Will you believe me when I
say I do not know who my mother and father were? I have the name of
McGill, but it isn’t mine. As far as I can learn, I was never legally
adopted by Dr. McGill, whose name I bear. That is why I am over here—to
find out what I can about myself.”
“Well, goodness gracious!” exclaimed Aunt Ida. “What a calamity!”
“Are you joking?” asked Mary.
“Joking? I wish I were.”
“But how—why look for information in the Valley, Bill?”
“Oh, I suppose it is a wild goose chase. I am more convinced of it all
the time. Aunt Ida, you have lived here a long time, haven’t you?”
“Almost thirty years.”
“Did you ever hear of the Willow Valley Copper Company?”
“Willow Valley Copper Company? No, I don’t believe I have. It has been
many years since the old mining boom. Hoddy might remember. He was in
the thick of it. Oh, yes, he was. And all he ever got out of it was a
broken leg. Rode his horse into a prospect hole.”
“Drunk?” asked Bill innocently.
“Not admittedly, Mr. McGill.”
Aunt Ida arose, picked up her crochet work and went into the house.
“Did I hurt her feelings?” asked Bill. “I wouldn’t do it intentionally,
you know.”
Mary sighed deeply as she shook her head.
“I don’t think so. She has quarreled with Uncle Hoddy for thirty years
over his thirst, but she resents any one else hinting that he drinks.
They are very fond of each other. Uncle Hoddy says he’s cured her of
nagging and preaching and that the cure has quenched his thirst.”
“A double cure.” Bill smiled. Then, seriously, “Did any one ever tell
you that you are pretty, Mary Pelliser?”
Mary flushed quickly, but replied—
“The men of Willow Valley are not nearsighted, you know.”
“You mean—they haven’t?”
“Don’t be foolish.”
“Is it foolish to tell a girl she is pretty? You _are_ pretty.”
“The sunburn has affected your eyes,” said Mary, getting to her feet.
“Don’t go in.”
* * * * *
Mary stopped in the doorway.
“You might ask Dad about that copper mine. He has been around here a
long time, and he might know something about it.”
“Thanks, I will— May I call you Mary?”
“That’s my name.”
“I’m not sure about mine, you know.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that.”
“It’s all right—I don’t mind.”
Steve Pelliser had walked up to the porch without either of them seeing
him.
“Don’t quarrel.” He laughed and they turned quickly.
Mary made a face at him and went into the house, while Bill walked to
the edge of the steps.
“Mr. Pelliser,” he said gravely, “I want to ask you a question.”
“And I can answer it right now,” said Steve seriously, “and the answer
is no!”
“Oh!” said Bill blankly. “I’m sorry I—you talked with Aunt Ida?”
“What the hell has she got to do with it?”
“She said she didn’t remember.”
Steve stared at him.