Mavericks
“We have come jist for fun,” announced Piute. “Long time we no have fun,
eh? The rest of the outfit has gone to Newton to the dance. Aunt Ida
went ’cause the Methody church is givin’ a oyster supper. Anythin’ the
church does will draw her from far and wide. Hoddy hankered to come with
us, but he had about as much show as a snowball in hell.
“Chris Halvorsen, he’s young enough to dance and enj’y it, and Mrs. Lane
elected fer her and Ed to trip the light fantasmry. Me and Caliente,
we’ve long since wore out our welcome on the dance floor. Yessir, we’ve
lost our swing.”
“I ain’t,” denied Caliente. “I’m as young as I used to was, and don’t
you forget it, you bald headed old badger. I jist come to keep you from
drinkin’ up all the liquor in Willer Wells and makin’ a fool out of
yourself. Yes, you would, Piute; you’re irresponsible.”
“Well, you don’t need to be responsible for me. I c’n worry along by
m’self. Go on to Newton and dance, you—you damn’ infant.”
Caliente wore the conventional belt and holstered gun, but Piute tucked
a huge Colt inside the waistband of his trousers, the weight of which
kept him busy pulling them up.
They took a few big jolts of whisky and Piute essayed a clog dance,
which nearly proved disastrous when his ankle turned in his ill fitting
shoes.
“Drunk already,” said Caliente disgustedly. “Ain’t got the capacity of a
hummin’ bird.”
“You think so, do you? Huh! I c’n drink you flat on your old spinal
col’m, I’ll tell you that. No snake eater from the Modoc lava beds can
ever make me wobble. I’m a wild wolf from Snake River, that’s me.”
“You never saw no Snake River, Piute. You was borned and raised in the
Kern River hills, and you never saw more’n two people together at once
till after you was of age. Iggerant? My gawsh, you’re iggerant! You
never had no learnin’. Wild Wolf from Snake River! Where’s Snake River?”
“Colorady, you Digger Injun!”
“What part?”
“Part? Splits the State in two parts.”
“Oh! Well, what if it does—you wasn’t never on it.”
“Well, I ain’t iggerant, I’ll tell you that.”
“Let’s have another drink.”
“All right. But I’ve had as much learnin’ as you.”
“Is that so? How much is six times seven?”
“Eighty-nine!”
“Yea-a-a-a-ah! You heard me ask Chris that same question.”
“Well, I got the right answer, didn’t I?”
“Not out of your own head, you didn’t. Here’s blood pizen to you.”
“Same to you and many of ’em.”
Hashknife and the sheriff enjoyed the repartee of the two old-timers,
but refused to join them at the bar. It was doubtful whether either
could recognize his own name in letters ten feet tall. They were a pair
of hard-headed old bull whackers, ready to fight at the drop of a hat,
sarcastic, argumentive; but either of them would have given away his
last dollar to a friend.
“That,” said Piute, slamming his glass down on the bar, “is the worst
liquor I’ve had since one day in New York. Me and Cash Rawlins was
ridin’ down Main Street—”
“Ex-cuse me,” drawled Caliente, “but was that the day you bought them
rubber ankle things you wear on your hoofs?”
“It was not, dang you! These come from Washin’ton, D. C. These are
congress gaiters. Me and Cash was a-ridin’ down Main Street, and Cash
says to me—”
“Why don’tcha tie a string around your ankles, Piute. Some day a rattle
snake is goin’ to climb in with you. Haw-haw-haw-haw! New York! Do you
know where New York is?”
“I know where it was the time I was there.”
“Well, they’ve moved it from over on the Kern River.”
Piute’s eyes opened in sarcastic amazement.
“The hell they did!”
“Sho-o-o-ore! The day after you was there. They said we better move this
place before that danged liar comes back ag’in. What’ll you have?”
“I’ll take some more whisky, if the barkeep will strain it. The dang
stuff is full of tobacco leaves.”
“Leaves!” snorted the bartender.
“That’s feathers off the Old Crow.”
“Yea-a-a-ah? Tryin’ to make a piller out of me, eh? No, you don’t. I’ll
drink gin.”
“I’d jist as soon drink kerosene,” declared Caliente. “That stuff ain’t
made for human consumption.”
“What surprises me is that you ain’t been drinkin’ it all your life,
then, Caliente. You ain’t human. You don’t need to look at that label,
’cause letters don’t mean nothin’ but marks to you. _Ah-h-h-h-h-h!
Hm-m-m!_ Well, it didn’t have no feathers in it. Now, what do we shing?”
Hashknife and the sheriff went back to the office.
“They’ll both get paralyzed, have a fight, and go to sleep on the
floor,” said the sheriff. “Salt of the earth, both of ’em, but I don’t
want to be around when they get to singin’. They’ll have a good cry,
want to fight a duel and pass out. They’ve been doin’ it for years and
they’ll keep on doin’ it until they die. Why not? It’s all they git out
of life.”
“That’s true; why not?”
They found Pink asleep on a cot, snoring loudly, lying flat on his back,
his mouth wide open. The sheriff grinned, stepped in close to the cot,
drew his gun and fired a shot through the rough board floor. It made a
terrific noise in that small room.
The snore was cut short, but Pink did not open his eyes. He grinned
slowly and whispered—
“Shoot ’em again—they ain’t got no friends,” and resumed snoring.
“My alert deputy,” said Evans dryly as they sat down.
Hashknife wanted the sheriff’s version of the shooting at the Pelliser
ranch and steered the conversation around to it. The sheriff knew very
little about it. His idea was that McGowan had seen Pink.
“I know it was dark, but he _must_ have seen him, Hartley.”
They spent about an hour discussing the shooting of Edward Hart, in
which they tried to find some lead to work on. It was a blank wall, no
matter what theory they brought up. When Hashknife looked at his watch
it was eleven o’clock.
“I reckon it’s about time for me to go to bed.”
He got to his feet and yawned widely.
“Goin’ back to the ranch?”
“I reckon so. I dunno though; might get a bed at the hotel.”
* * * * *
From the street came a shrill cowboy yell, the splintering of boards,
the report of two guns spaced about five seconds apart. They ran to the
door and stepped out on the sidewalk. A man was running from the War
Paint, a riderless horse came down past them, turned around and stopped
when it stepped on the reins.
“That’s Piute’s horse,” said the sheriff. “Got drunk and fell off, I
suppose.”
“Somebody come here!” yelled a voice. It was the bartender, out in the
street, his white shirt and apron visible at that distance.
Hashknife and the sheriff ran up the street and found the bartender and
Caliente. Caliente was staggering, gun in hand, trying to break away
from the bartender.
“He shot me, I tell you!” he choked.
“Lemme go, will you? I’ve been his bes’ friend, and he shot me.”
“Who shot you?” asked the sheriff.
“Piute Jones! Lemme go, will you?”
“He got hit all right,” said the bartender. “Look at the blood on his
sleeve.”
“By golly, I believe he did!”
“Course I got shot! Don’t I know when I get shot? Been shot hunners of
times—hunners and hunners of times. Lemme go, dang you!”
“Hold still.”
“Bring him over to the light,” said the sheriff.
They led the protesting Caliente over to the saloon. The bullet had
furrowed his left arm just below the elbow. It was rather a nasty wound,
but not serious.
“Now, what happened?” demanded the sheriff.
“Look at that and ask me?”
“Aw, they got to quarrelin’ like a pair of old fools,” said the
bartender. “And then—”
“I never quarreled like any old fool!”
“Shut up! You wanted to fight.”
“That ain’t quarrelin’, is it? Ain’tcha goin’ to stop me from bleedin’
to death? How much blood am I supposed to lose in thish argument? Why
don’tcha go and apperhend m’ murderer? Is thish a debate?”
The bartender waved his arms helplessly.
“If you’ll choke him off, I’ll tell you about it.”
“Choke me! Go ahead. I’m bleedin’ t’ death, and you want to choke me.
Fine lotta cit’zens we’ve got. Murderers runnin’ loose, me bleedin’ to
death—and you want to tell ’m a story. Oh, go ahead, don’t mind me. I’m
no use to anybody. Dammit, I’m bleedin’ t’ death!”
Caliente’s voice ended in a despairing wail.
“Where’s Piute?” asked Hashknife.
“Yeah!” snorted Caliente. “Now you’re talkin’ sense. Go ahead. I’m
willin’ to bleed to death to hear one shensible thing shed.”
“They got to quarrelin’ in here and decided to shoot each other,” said
the bartender. “I told ’em to get out and they got mad at me. I got down
behind the bar, and one of ’em threw the bar bottle through the back-bar.
Look at it—all busted up! Then they went outside together, and I
don’t know what happened. I found Caliente on foot, walkin’ in a circle,
lookin’ for somebody to shoot.”
“I wasn’t lookin’ for anybody to shoot—I wanted to kill Piute.”
“And Piute shot you?” asked Hashknife.
“Ain’t I bleedin’ to death? Ain’t I? He didn’t bite me, did he? Looks t’
me like a bullet wound. I may be wrong, but I’ve lost forty gallons of
blood already, and no relief in sight. Might as well make my will, I
reckon.”
“Why did Piute shoot you?” asked the sheriff.
“Jist damn’ mean, tha’s all.”
“Shot you off your horse?”
“I wasn’t on no damn’ horse, but he was. I got on once, but I got on so
far that I went off the other side. Piute rode his horse on the sidewalk
in front of the bank, and then he shot me down—the dirty polecat!”
“Did you shoot back at him?”
“I shore did.”
“Mebbe you killed him.”
“That’d be almos’ too good to be true. Jus’ one more thing before I
shrink to rest; how bad does a man have to be hurt before he gits a
doctor? I’d crave to know, that’s what I’d crave.”
“Set down there in a chair and let the bartender put a towel around your
arm,” said the sheriff. “We’ll see if we can find Piute.”
“Tell ’m,” said Caliente weakly, “that I bled t’ death, listenin’ to a
lot of damn’ fools talkin’ about the weather. C’mon with your towel,
barten’er. You’re too late, but it’s nice of you, anyway.”
Hashknife and the sheriff crossed the street and went over to the
sidewalk in front of the bank, where they found Piute. He was sitting in
the street, with his elbows over the edge of the sidewalk. Hashknife
lighted a match, and Piute blinked up at them.
“Twinkl’, twinkl’, li’l star,” he whispered.
“Are you hurt, Piute?” asked the sheriff.
“There’s shome precincts to be heard from yet. I ain’t sure, but I think
my horsh dumped me here. How’s all your folks?”
“Mine are fine,” grunted the sheriff. “Can you walk?”
“Why not—I’ve still got legs.”
They helped him to his feet, and between them they led him over to the
saloon, where they found Caliente, one arm bound up in a towel, fast
asleep with his head resting on a card table. Piute looked him over
owlishly.
“Passed out, eh?” he grunted. “Ain’t got the capacity of a hummin’
bird.”
“Why did you shoot him?” asked the sheriff.
“Why?” Piute rocked on his heels, but grasped the table in time. “Why
didn’t I shoot him, you mean? He shot at me, tha’s what he done. Af’r my
bronc dumped me, my gun got caught in m’ pants and I couldn’t shoot.”
The sheriff managed to unhitch the gun, and looked it over curiously.
It had not been fired. He showed it to Hashknife, and they looked at
each other foolishly.
“Caliente’s a danged—danged back-biter,” declared Piute.
“You say Caliente shot at you?” queried the sheriff.
“It’s too bad he didn’t hit me,” complained Piute. “Then I’d have shome
proof. I shuppose, if he shot me through the heart, you’d be sayin’,
‘Poor old Piute—his horsh mus’ have kicked him!’”
The sheriff had Caliente’s gun, and an examination showed two empty
cartridges in the cylinder. The sheriff grinned.