Mavericks
“Back into the stall,” commanded the tall one. “Yeah—back in there.”
He obeyed, and the shorter puncher stepped in with him, his gun muzzle
jammed against the man’s ribs. The tall man walked quickly to the door,
peered out and then stepped aside, flattening himself against the wall.
A moment later two men came in, chuckling.
“Lee!” one of them called softly.
“He’s busy,” said the tall man behind them, and they turned to see the
big gun covering them. “Turn around. Hands shoulder high. Fine! You boys
know when you’re whipped.”
He threw their guns over into a manger, and his partner herded his
captive out of the stall. The three men scowled at one another, each
afraid to speak. The tall man turned to the first captive.
“Which one of these men stole that AHK roan?”
“I don’t know a thing about it.”
“You’re a liar. You knew this horse was stolen, and you knew which one
stole it. Either come clean, or I’ll take all of you back with me.”
The other two men gasped. They were a nondescript pair of cowboys. One
was anemic, with watery eyes and a pointed nose; the other was
colorless, flat-chested, broken nosed and had a deformed ear.
“Well, I don’t know which it was,” said the man, deciding that it was
best to protect his own interests.
“Lee didn’t have nothin’ to do with it,” said one of the men. “We bought
the horse from a Injun.”
“You knew it was a stolen horse?”
“No. But the Injun sold it cheap.”
“Uh-huh. And you sold it to that tenderfoot for a hundred and fifty.
Sold a horse you knew to be stolen.”
“You can’t prove it.” The statement sounded confident.
“That you sold it for that price?”
“No—that we stole it.”
“That’s up to the judge and jury. Anyway, I’m goin’ to take that horse
back to its owner. Give me that hundred and fifty for the tenderfoot.”
The man who had it looked at the level gray eyes of the tall man and
gave him the money.
“Who owns that sorrel in there?”
“That’s my bronc,” grunted the man who gave up the money.
“Lead him out and put the tenderfoot’s saddle on him.”
“What’s the idea?”
“Atonement, cowboy. You’re payin’ for your sins.”
Still a little mystified, the crooked cowboy did as he was told.
“Better get them guns out of the manger,” said the tall man to his
partner. “They might forget their manners. Fine. Now, if you’ll keep the
hole in your gun pointed at this trio, I’ll saddle our broncs.”
The tall man saddled their two horses, while the three crooks backed up
against the stable wall, watching him gloomily as he led all four horses
out of the stable.
“I don’t _sabe_ this,” complained the cowboy whose horse had been
saddled.
“Are you takin’ me back with you?”
The tall man looked them over, a humorous twinkle in his eyes.
“That’s to be settled among yourselves. One man goes back, unless you
agree that you’re both guilty. We’ll mark off this _hombre_ who tried to
play sheriff, ’cause he had nothin’ to do with stealin’ the horse.”
The two horsethieves eyed each other wonderingly.
“Which one?” asked the tall cowboy.
“Well, you took the horse,” said the broken-nosed one, accusing his
anemic partner.
“You’re a liar! Don’t try none of that!”
“Who’s a liar, you sheep herdin’ waddy?”
Partnerships were forgotten as they tore into each other. The bartender,
the cook, a frowsy waiter, attracted by the uproar, came out to see what
was going on. It was a good fight, except that neither man knew much
about fighting. They stood toe to toe and slugged wildly, until neither
man had more than strength enough to reel around and paw at the other.
Finally the anemic one, summoning up all his strength, planted a solid
punch on the broken nose’s sagging chin, scored a complete knockout,
stumbled over his foe and went flat on his face in the dirt.
The tall cowboy turned to the remaining member of the trio.
“Get on the roan,” he ordered, and the man mounted the barebacked animal
without any protest.
The cavalcade moved around past the hotel, while the bartender, cook and
waiter wondered what it was all about. The tenderfoot was sitting on the
sidewalk in front of the postoffice. He stared dumbly at the riders, and
did not move until the tall one told him to mount the extra saddled
horse. He managed to get aboard with his heavy valise, and the tall one
motioned for them to go on.
“Where the hell do you think you’re takin’ me?” demanded the one who had
tried to impersonate a sheriff.
“That all depends on how you act,” said the tall one seriously. “You
know it’s against the law to impersonate a sheriff.”
“Aw, I was only jokin’ about that.”
“Was he jokin’ you?” asked the tall man.
“I—I hope he was. You know, he accused me of stealing the horse.”
“I guess he wasn’t jokin’. Didn’t he want you to pay five hundred more
for the horse, and pay his expenses?”
“Yes, he did.”
“You’re the star witness in this case, pardner.”
* * * * *
They rode on up the sandy highway, where the sun beat down like a breath
from a furnace. The tenderfoot rode awkwardly, trying to hold his
suitcase on the horn of the saddle and balance himself at the same time.
It was too warm for conversation. The prisoner humped on the barebacked
horse, wondering what it was all about.
They were about six miles from town, when the tall one stopped.
“Get off,” he ordered the prisoner, who slid to the ground.
“I reckon the walk back on high heels is your sentence. Get goin’.”
The man gawped at him.
“What’s the idea?”
The tall one drew out a serviceable-looking six-shooter, rested it on
the horn of his saddle and said:
“See that rise back there in the road? It’s about two hundred yards from
here. Conservatively speakin’, you ought to be over that in thirty
seconds, if you hurry. You can take your time from that on, but I shore
want to see the last of you within the thirty seconds. I start countin’
right _now_!”
The cowboy did not stop to argue, but was running as fast as he could
toward that hump in the road; and the last they saw of him he was still
galloping, hat in hand. The tenderfoot, completely mystified, mopped his
perspiring forehead and stared at the tall cowboy, who seemed filled
with unholy mirth.
Finally it subsided, and the tall one handed him one hundred and fifty
dollars in currency.
“That’s what you paid for a stolen horse, young feller. Mebbe the saddle
was stolen, too. We’ll think it was, until somebody proves it wasn’t.
Now, you’ve got a plenty good bronc, fair saddle and your money back.
I’m no more of a sheriff than that feller was.”
He dismounted, took the hackamore off the blue roan, slapped the animal
with his hat and sent it bolting off into the low hills.
“You are not a sheriff?” asked the tenderfoot.
“Not a chance,” grinning.
“And you saved me from those men?”
“Saved your money; they didn’t want you.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake! I don’t know what to say. My name is William
Allen McGill.”
“Bill McGill, eh? How are you, Bill? My name’s Hartley. Folks call me
Hashknife. My pardner’s name is Stevens—knowned as Sleepy.”
“Well, I’m surely glad to have met you both. But I do not understand why
you did all this for me. How you knew what they were doing and—”
“Oh, that’s just our way of havin’ fun. It was fun, Bill. You missed the
fight. You see, I sent you over there on the street so that them two
cowboys would think you fell for this other feller’s game. Now, don’t
feel bad about gettin’ that horse and saddle for nothin’. You earned
’em. What you better get is a war-bag instead of that valise. Tie your
stuff behind your saddle, if you intend doin’ any cowboyin’ around
here.”
“I really don’t intend doing any cowboyin’, you know.”
“Then what in hell didja buy a horse for?”
“Oh! Well, I wanted to get over to Willow Valley, and they told me I
would need a horse.”
“Willow Valley, eh? That’s east of here, I think.”
“Have you ever been over there, Mr. Hartley?”
“No, I haven’t, Mr. McGill.”
William Allen McGill smiled.
“It does sound rather formal,” he said.
“Yeah, it does—in this country, Bill. Are you a drummer?”
“A what?”
“Peddler?” said Sleepy.
“Oh! No, I am not. You see—” William grew confidential—“I am going to
Willow Valley— Did you ever hear of the Willow Valley Copper Company?”
“Never did,” replied Hashknife, rolling a cigaret.
“I hope I find it. You see, they might possibly tell me who I am.”
“Uh-hu-u-u-uh,” drawled Hashknife, pausing in the wetting of his
cigarette to look at William.
“Do you have to be told?” queried Sleepy.
“Yes.”
“Well, you probably will be, if you don’t get rid of that valise and get
you some clothes that fit the country.”
“I suppose that is right. When I left San Francisco I had little idea of
what I would find out here. After what happened to me at that town—why,
they nearly robbed me of all my money!”
“Not robbed you,” corrected Hashknife, lighting his cigarette. “Scared
you out of it. Bill—” Hashknife leaned his elbow on the saddle horn and
tilted his hat farther over his eyes—“you’re a innocent pilgrim in a
hard land. Keep your money out of sight and don’t believe what cowboys
tell you. Your pink complexion makes you fair bait for lotsa folks.”
“You say you’re goin’ to Willow Valley, tryin’ to find out who you are?
That’s fine. I dunno anythin’ about Willow Valley, but I _sabe_ Arizona.
My advice to you is to stop at the first town you meet and trade your
clothes for somethin’ that looks like what we wear. Take off your hat
and let the sun scorch you. It’ll hurt a-plenty, but you’ve got to lose
that skin. And don’t talk too much until you learn to leave off _ing_ on
every word that needs it, and learn to cuss. _Sabe_ what I mean?”
“But I do not intend staying out here.”
“Go your own way, brother,” said Hashknife, dismissing the subject.
“Oh, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings—” quickly—“but don’t you see, I
don’t belong out here.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll tell you why I came, if you care to hear it.”
“Is it funny?” asked Sleepy. “This sun is too damn’ hot to set here and
listen to anythin’ worse than funny stories.”
“Shoot,” said Hashknife. “We’re listenin’.”
And William Allen McGill told them why he came to Arizona. It was quite
a long story, as William told it, going somewhat into details.
“Well,” mused Hashknife, “you’ve shore got a dim trail to foller. The
world is full of men named Ed. Twenty years ago, eh? Who knows where Ed
is now? That copper stock might lead to somethin’. But it was prob’ly
another of them defunct properties, dead for twenty years. You’d be in
luck to find a man in Willow Valley who remembers such a thing. Again,
it might still be in existence. Who knows?”
“That is exactly what I thought.”
“If I was you,” advised Sleepy, “I’d be content to pack the name of
McGill and not dig too deep. You say the old doctor was a good old coot
and respected by everybody. What better name would you want? What’s a
name, anyway? Pick any one you want; change it when you feel the need.
Lotsa good names have been vended and a new one run on in this country.”
But William shook his head.
“One would naturally like to know what kind of stock one comes from.”
“Yea-a-a-ah,” drawled Hashknife, “one would. Well, what’s your idea,
Bill? Which way do you go to hit Willow Valley?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, the next town is Cinnabar. We’ll prob’ly stop there tonight, and
you can find out how to get to Willow Valley. It’s only twenty miles.”
“That will suit me fine.”
“Feller,” said Sleepy, “since when did you ever ride a horse?”
“I never rode one before in my life.”
“Check!” grunted Hashknife. “The lad is honest. C’mon.”
CHAPTER VI — HASHKNIFE GETS DOWN TO WORK
It was nearly twenty-four hours after the accident at the War Paint