Part 2

“You two fellers ain’t aimin’ to pull out soon, are you?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“No-o-o. We’re plumb stuck on your town.”

Blue grunted his unbelief. He might be ignorant, but not a fool.

“You ain’t got no puncher now, have you, Skelton?”

Skelton shook his head.

“Ain’t a lot of extra hands around this country,” observed Blue. “Well, Doc, I reckon we better have Quinin moved into your place. Mind haulin’ him down there, Skelton?”

Skelton did not mind. He turned his team around and headed for the doctor’s office, with several men following. Hashknife and Sleepy rode across to a hitch-rack, tied their horses, and went into the War-Bonnet.

* * * * *

The War-Bonnet was a large place for a town the size of Caldwell, but it looked prosperous. There was not much activity during the day, so the place was nearly deserted when Hashknife and Sleepy came in.

A couple of girls were on the small stage-like platform at the end of the room, practising a few dance steps, while with one hand a pallid young man thumped out a melody on the piano.

A bartender humped his white-clad elbows on the bar, while he deeply perused a paper-backed novel. A “swamper” was scrubbing back of the bar. His activities seemed to irritate the bartender, who knew that sooner or later he would have to move and break the thread of his story.

Hashknife and Sleepy walked up to the bar and looked around the place. The bartender sighed, folded over a leaf of his book to mark his place, and came down to them.

“’Smatter over there?” he indicated the street with a jerk of his sleek-combed head.

“Feller got leaded up,” said Hashknife. “Feller named Quinn.”

“Quinin Quinn, eh? Dead? The son-of-a-gun! Whatcha drinkin’? Seen Swede Sam over there, too. He ain’t mixed up in it, is he? Whatcha drinkin’? Know Quinn? Never smiled. No sir, that _hombre_ didn’t know how. Ain’t no reason for killin’ him off. Feller’s got a right to look sour, ain’t he? I’d sure have to have a good reason before I’d kill any man. Son-of-a-gun’s dead, eh? Well, well! Whatcha drinkin’?”

“See-gars,” said Hashknife grinning.

The bartender produced a well-worn cigar-box and disclosed a few dried-out perfectos.

“Ain’t many cigar smokers around here,” he volunteered. “Don’t pay to keep a big stock. Them’s real good Key Wests, y’betcha. I smoked one oncet. Got drunk and careless. ’F you lick them outside leaves, like you do a cigaret-paper, they’ll stick. Them Key Wests allus kinda unravels thataway. I stuck ’em oncet, but they----”

Two very bad cigars went into a cuspidor, and the bartender looked sad.

“I didn’t lick ’em,” he explained. “I used glue.”

“Tha’s all right,” grunted Hashknife. “A cigar ain’t never good after the first drag or two.”

The bartender turned and threw the two-bits into the till.

“Have a drink on the house?” he asked.

Hashknife shook his head.

“Feller that’d use glue on cigars is liable to put cyanid in his hooch. Who owns this ornate parlor?”

“‘Spot’ Easton. Didja ever hear of Spot?”

Hashknife leaned against the bar and admitted that he did not know the gentleman. Just at this moment a man came in the door, a frowsy looking man, with drink-bleared eyes and uncertain step. He slouched up to the bar and leered at the bartender; a leer which was intended to be an ingratiating smile, but which missed by a wide margin.

“Nossir!” The bartender shook his head violently. “Spot said to lay off givin’ you liquor, ‘Lonesome’.”

“Spot did?” The old man seemed surprized to hear it.

He wiped the back of his hand across his lips and stared at the mirror on the back-bar. There was no question but what he needed a bracer; his whole nervous system cried out for assistance.

“You get the drink, grampaw,” said Hashknife, tossing a two-bit piece on the bar.

“Spot don’t want him--” began the bartender.

“Hooch!” snapped Hashknife. “What in ---- do I care what Spot wants?”

“He’ll get sore about it,” argued the bartender.

“Do I have to wait on him m’self?” asked Hashknife.

The bartender slid out the bottle and a glass. The old man seemed undecided whether to take it or not, but Hashknife settled the question by pouring the drink for him. The old man drank nervously and upset the glass as he put it back. He steadied himself on the bar uatil the liquor began to percolate and then sighed with relief.

A man came from the rear of the place and halted near the end of the bar. He was rather flashily dressed for the range country. His black hair was slightly tinged with gray. His features were narrow and he wore a small mustache, which was waxed to needle-like points. He scowled at the bartender, who got very busy wiping glasses.

The old man considered Hashknife and Sleepy for a moment, and began to search his pockets. He drew out a crumpled envelop and held it close for inspection.

“M’ name’s James B. Lee,” he announced thickly, “but ev’ybody calls me Lonesome Lee. Now, what in ---- do you reckon anybody’d write a letter to me for? This’n jist come on the stage.”

He handed the letter to Hashknife, or rather he started to; but the flashily-dressed person had moved nearer and secured it. For a moment nobody spoke. Lonesome swallowed with great difficulty and tried to clear his throat.

“Right sudden, ain’t you?” said Sleepy.

The man ignored his question and spoke directly to Lonesome Lee.

“Nobody ever wrote to you, Lonesome.”

“Yeah, they did, Spot. I--I--” whined Lonesome.

“The envelop will show who it’s for,” said Hashknife easily.

Spot Easton turned to the bartender.

“‘Windy,’ how many times do I have to tell you not to let Lonesome have any more whisky?”

“Lay off the bartender,” advised Hashknife. “I paid for the old man’s drink, if you care to know.”

Spot Easton seemed to see Hashknife for the first time, and the discovery did not please him.

“Who in ---- are you?” he growled.

“Me?” Hashknife grinned. “I’m the li’l jasper that’s goin’ to make you give the letter back to Lonesome Lee.”

“Yeah?”

Easton’s brows lifted in surprize, as he looked Hashknife over appraisingly.

“How are you goin’ to do it, if I may ask?”

Hashknife turned his body toward the bar. It was a disarming move. Easton stepped in closer to Hashknife; stepped in just in time to be in reach of the right swing that Hashknife pivoted to accomplish.

It caught Mr. Easton flush on the left ear and the force of the smash knocked the gentleman’s feet loose from the floor. The thud of his fall had barely sounded, when Hashknife leaned over him and took away the letter.

Easton did not move. The piano crashed a discord and stopped. One of the girls gave a throaty little squeak and stopped dancing. Hashknife turned to hand the letter to Lonesome Lee, but that worthy was going out of the front door as fast as his unsteady legs would carry him.

“Well, that kinda beats ----!” grunted Hashknife.

The bartender had dropped the glass he was polishing, but continued the action on the bunched fingers of his left hand. He breathed on the fingers and polished harder.

Spot Easton sat up, holding his left ear. He looked around as if wondering what had happened. His eyes strayed to the ceiling, as if wondering that it was still intact. Then he got slowly to his feet and brushed the dust off his broadcloth raiment.

“You asked a question,” reminded Hashknife seriously, “but I don’t reckon you need an answer--not now.”

Spot Easton did not express any opinion. He wadded a silk handkerchief against his bruised ear, turned, and went to the back of the room.

“I’ve got the letter and nobody to give it to,” chuckled Hashknife, and then to the bartender--

“Whatcha polishin’ your fingers for, pardner?”

The bartender, suddenly realizing that he did not have a glass in his hand, recovered the one from the floor.

“What’sa matter with everybody around here?” asked Sleepy. “The old man hummed out of here like a spike, and you got absent-minded. Ain’t the War-Bonnet used to seein’ trouble, or is all this honkatonk only a blind for a Sunday school?”

“That--that was Spot Easton,” stammered the bartender.

“Who’s he--the king?” asked Hashknife.

The bartender glanced keenly toward the rear of the place, where Easton had entered one of the built-in rooms. He leaned across the bar and whispered:

“You better look out for him, gents. Spot Easton’s a ----winder, y’betcha. He’s quicker’n a flash with a gun, and he used to be a middle-weight prize-fighter. Glad it ain’t me he’s sore at.”

“You don’t reckon he’s sore at me, do you?” Hashknife seemed penitent.

“Huh?” Such a foolish question amazed the bartender.

“Gee cripes! He must be touchy if he is,” observed Sleepy. “Some folks wears their feelin’ on their sleeves.”

“Well, for ----’s sake!” wailed the bartender. “I dunno whatcha mean by that. If you got hit in the ear----”

“Aw, come on, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “Never seen a bartender or a sheepherder yet that had any sense.”

As they started to cross the street, a rider on a mouse-colored horse passed in front of them, going down toward the sheriff’s office. The man was almost as tall as Hashknife; his features were hidden by the shadow of his low-pulled Stetson.

Bliz Skelton and the sheriff were coming away from the office, and the sheriff hailed this rider, who swung over to the board sidewalk beside them.

“Wears bat-wing chaps, beaded vest and a polky-dot shirt,” observed Hashknife aloud, “rides with his stirrups a notch too short; all of which makes me feel that I know that _hombre_, Sleepy.”

“Let’s look him over,” suggested Sleepy. “Looks a li’l gaudy to me, but mebbe he’s all right.”

The stranger was talking earnestly to the sheriff, as they walked up, and the conversation seemed to interest Skelton. The stranger turned and looked at Hashknife, but continued to talk.

“I dunno,” said Skelton, shaking his head. “I’m much obliged to you, but I ain’t made up my mind yet jist what ’m goin’ t’ do. ’F I sell out I won’t need no hired help.”

“And if you don’t, you do.”

The sheriff was a trifle ungrammatical, but sincere.

“Yeah,” admitted Skelton.

“It don’t make me no never mind,” stated the stranger. “I’m just open f’r engagement. Jake’ll tell you that I’m a top-hand, y’betcha.”

“All of which makes it so,” stated Hashknife.

Jake Blue squinted at Hashknife and up at the cowboy. The latter seemed surprized that any one might doubt his ability.

“Who ’re you?” asked the cowboy.

“Names don’t mean nothin’,” replied Hashknife. “I don’t know your name, but I ain’t inquisitive. ’Pears to me that I’ve knowed you some’ers.”

“Huh!”

The cowboy’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but no sign of recognition crossed his features. He was not at all handsome--due partly to a crooked nose, a split lip and a week’s growth of downy, blond whiskers.

“What are you cuttin’ in here fer?” asked Blue angrily. “Mister Hagen’s goin’ t’ work for Skelton.”

“Zasso?” Skelton seemed surprized. “I ain’t hired nobody yet, Blue.”

“You ain’t goin’ to have work for three men, are you?” asked Hashknife, turning to Skelton.

“Three men?” queried Blue quickly.

“T-h-r-e-e,” spelled Hashknife. “Me and Sleepy’s done hired out to him.”

The sheriff spat explosively and looked at Skelton.

“Zasso, Skelton?”

“Well, yuh--uh--might say it was,” faltered Skelton.

“I’m goin’ to be the foreman,” stated Hashknife, “and if you got any top-hands, you might send ’em to me, sheriff.”

“----!”

Mr. Hagen spoke very peevishly, turned his horse and rode back to the War-Bonnet hitch-rack. There he dismounted, kicked his horse in the belly, and went into the saloon.

“There ain’t no question but what he’s a top-hand,” agreed Hashknife. “All top-hands kick their broncs in the belly thataway. Kinda makes the bronc respect you.”

“Where’s the Swede?” asked Sleepy.

Jake Blue had been staring toward the War-Bonnet, deep in thought, and Sleepy’s question seemed to jar him awake.

“The Swede? He’s in jail. Where’d you think he was?”

“In jail,” said Sleepy.

“Then what in ---- did you ask fer?” Mr. Blue growled.

“You can’t hook that killin’ onto the Swede.” This from Hashknife.

“Can’t I?” The sheriff grew very indignant. “Well, mebbe I ain’t goin’ t’ try very hard.”

He stepped off the sidewalk as if to leave, but turned and added--

“’F I was you I’d be hopin’ that it was hooked onto the Swede.”

With this parting shot, the sheriff crossed the street and went into the Paris restaurant, banging the door behind him.

“You made him mad,” observed Skelton seriously. “He was only tryin’ to git a job for this Hagen feller.”

“Who’s this Hagen?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno him. He’s been with the 88 f’r a while, but he quit, or got fired or somethin’.”

“Who owns the 88?”

“Lonesome Lee used t’ own it, but he drank it mostly all up, I reckon. Mebbe Spot Easton owns it by now. Lonesome got t’ drinkin’ and playin’ poker, and I reckon he’s lost all the money he ever had. He stays at the ranch--when he ain’t drunk--which ain’t often.”

“Big outfit?” asked Hashknife.

“Bigger’n mine,” answered Skelton.

“With two top-hands your ranch ought to grow,” stated Hashknife seriously. “You don’t mind us hirin’ out to you?”

“I dunno where your pay’s comin’ from, but I don’t mind, if you don’t. Want to go back to the ranch now?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“No-o-o. You see I knocked Spot Easton loose from the floor a while ago, and if we left now it would look like I was runnin’ away.”

“You did!” gasped Skelton. “Spot Easton? Well----”

Skelton scratched his head and squinted at Hashknife’s serious face.

“Well, I--I reckon yo’re a top-hand, Hartley. Come out to the ranch any ol’ time you git ready. Whoo-ee!”

The old man slapped his hat back on his head and bow-legged his way back to the sheriff’s office.

Hashknife took the letter from his pocket and looked at it.

“She sure belongs to Lonesome Lee, Sleepy. The epitaph proclaims it to be for James B. Lee, Caldwell, Montana, and the little doohicky in a circle says that she was sent from Boston.”

“Now, whatcha reckon Mister Easton wanted this here letter for, Sleepy?”

“Don’t glare at me!” complained Sleepy. “You act like it was my letter. How’d I know what Easton wants?”

“Where did the old man go?” asked Hashknife, paying no heed to Sleepy’s question.

“There you go ag’in! Think I’m a fortune-teller? You saw him the last time I did.”

“Well, I reckon the only way to find him is to look for him. Come on.”

They went up the sidewalk, past the Hole-in-the-Wall feed-corral, and almost bumped into Lonesome Lee, who was coming out from the narrow alley between the feed-corral and general store. The old man’s cheeks were streaked with tears and dust, and he was half-sobbing--drunkenly. He gawped at Hashknife and Sleepy and tried to avoid them, but Hashknife took him by the arm and drew him back.

“What’s the matter with you?” growled Hashknife. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to hurt you, old-timer. Here’s your letter.”

Lonesome Lee stared at the letter, but made no effort to take it. In fact he seemed afraid of it.

“You ain’t scared of Spot Easton, are you?” asked Sleepy.

Lonesome did not say, but his actions spoke volumes.

“Has that tin-horn got you buffaloed, old-timer? Snap yourself together! You’ve blotted up so much hooch that your nerves are dancin’, but you’re a ---- good man yet.” Hashknife’s voice was encouraging.

“Th-think so?”

Lonesome wiped his lips with shaking fingers and moved his feet uncertainly.

“Better read the letter,” urged Sleepy. “It might be good news; you never can tell.”

“Wh-where’s it from?” he stammered. “My eyes ain’t worth a ---- no more.”

“She’s from Boston.”

Lonesome licked his lips and stared into space.

“Bub-Boston! ----!”

He staggered off the sidewalk, almost fell in the dust, and weaved a crooked trail straight for the doorway of the War-Bonnet.

“’F that don’t beat ----, I’m a pigeon-toed fool!” grunted Hashknife foolishly.

“His ear-drums kinda shrink from Boston,” observed Sleepy, as Lonesome seemed to carom from one side of the door to the other.

“Scared plumb to death,” declared Hashknife. “It’s a danged shame for a man to get in that shape. Somethin’ has sure put the Injun sign on the old gent, Sleepy. This Easton’s a bass-drummer among these canary-birds, ’cordin’ to what I can get in my loop; so he must be somethin’ besides a card shark.”

“Let’s go over and talk to the blacksmith,” suggested Sleepy. “I’ve got to have some shoes put on my bronc’ pretty soon, and maybe I can save about four-bits by gettin’ real friendly. I have done it, by cripes.”

Barney Stout was inserting a new felly into a wagon-wheel, and swearing mournfully over the fitting. He rubbed his nose with the back of a very dirty hand and nodded to Hashknife and Sleepy. They had squatted down against the wall and were rolling cigarets.

“How’s tricks?” asked Sleepy.

“Tricks?”

Barney squinted at the rim of the wheel, as he felt of the joint with a thumb.

“There ain’t no tricks in this trade; it’s all ---- hard work and disappointment. Hear they put the Swede in jail.”

Barney rubbed his hands on his hips and, reaching for Sleepy’s sack of tobacco, squatted down beside them.

“I dunno who killed Quinin Quinn, but it’s a dead immortal cinch that Swede Sam never did.”

“Where’d that .30-30 rifle come from, do you figure?” asked Hashknife.

Barney shook his head and puffed violently.

“I never seen the gun,” he said. “Quinn tol’ me that he’d been shot at three or four times in the last year. ’S far as that’s concerned, so has old Skelton.”

“Any idea why?” asked Sleepy.

“Nope. I heard Jake Blue say that it was likely that folks hadn’t forgot what happened to their graveyard--but Quinin didn’t have nothin’ to do with that. He came here quite a while after that.”

“Folks got kinda sore about it, eh?” queried Hashknife.

“Yeap. Can you blame ’em? They sure as ---- lost track of their ancestors. Ev’body tried to relocate their dead, but it was no use. M’ wife had one of them Kodiak things that you take pictures with, and she photygraphed the graveyard one day; but it’s kinda blurred-like. They took that along to try and figure out things, but it didn’t help ’em a danged bit.”

“Lots of folks buried there, eh?” queried Hashknife.

Barney nodded.

“All them markers in Skelton’s yard indicates a body. The first corpse was old Billy Meek, who was some sanctimonious old whippoorwill; and the last one was a gambler by the name of ‘Faro’. I never did know his name.

“Spot Easton shot him over a poker-table. Folks kicked about him bein’ buried in the cemetery, and old ‘Peg-leg’ Smith refused to dig the grave; but Spot and Doc Clevis dug the grave, and I reckon Jake Blue performed the funeral oration--I dunno. Anyway, Faro never got a headstone, ’cause his grave-mound was lost with the rest.”

“Did they bury this here Faro person right in with the rest?” asked Hashknife.

“Danged if I know for sure. Seems to me that somebody said they planted him off to one side; kinda between the others and the creek. I never seen the grave.”

Came the sound of a boot on gravel, and they turned to see Doctor Clevis coming in the front door. He peered at Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Wanted to tell you that the inquest’ll be held t’morrow afternoon ’bout two o’clock,” he announced. “Likely need your testimony.”

“We’ll be here,” nodded Hashknife.

The doctor walked out, and Barney got to his feet.

“Gotta git that ---- felly fixed up, I suppose,” he groaned. “Hope I never git sick and have to call Doc Clevis. Him and Jake Blue are thicker’n two drunks in one bunk. Besides, I never like to have any truck with a doctor who is the undertaker, too.”

“Gets ’em goin’ and comin’, eh?”

“Gotta cinch,” agreed Barney. “And Jake Blue ain’t as particular as he might be, especially when the reward notice don’t specify ‘dead or alive.’”

“We’ll see you again, pardner,” said Hashknife, as he and Sleepy walked out the front door.

“Come in any ol’ time,” yelled Barney. “Mostly always I’ve got time to talk.”

Hashknife led the way past the War-Bonnet and up to the hitch-rack where they got on their horses and rode back toward the Tombstone Ranch. Hashknife looked back and saw Hagen standing in the doorway, looking in their direction; but there was no sign of Lonesome Lee nor of Spot Easton.

“Do you reckon they’ll hang the killin’ onto Swede Sam?” asked Sleepy, as they poked off down the dusty road.

Hashknife eased himself in the saddle and reached for his cigaret material.

“I’ll do everythin’ I can to hook it onto him,” he said.

“You will?” Sleepy’s surprize was genuine.

“Sure will. Me and you and Skelton have got to lie like ---- to keep out of jail ourselves.”

“But the Swede never killed him.”

“Neither did we, Sleepy. I reckon Mrs. Frosty Snow can get along without Swede Sam for a while--and Swede Sam ain’t got brains enough to mind bein’ locked up.”

“But they couldn’t put me and you in jail,” protested Sleepy.

“Thasso? They put Swede Sam in.”

Which left Sleepy without an argument worth while.

* * * * *

Hashknife locked a long forefinger around his spoon and fended it away from his right eye, while he sipped thoughtfully at his cup of coffee. Finally he nodded slowly.

“Yeah, that’s true, Skelton. Whisky does pe-culiar things to a man’s nerves; but why does ol’ Lonesome go hippety-hoppin’ like a scared rabbit when he sees that danged letter?”

Skelton helped himself to more coffee from the old battered pot and reached for Sleepy’s cup.

“Not any more, Bliz,” said Sleepy. “You ought to grind that coffee before and after makin’, ’cause she’s sure hard to chew.”

“Lonesome Lee’s sure in tough shape,” admitted Skelton, ignoring Sleepy’s insult to his ability as a coffee maker.

Hashknife took the letter from his pocket and studied it closely.

“Steam,” said Sleepy slowly. “Steam’ll cut the stickum on an envelop.”

Hashknife squinted hard at Sleepy.

“That’s a crooked thought, Mister Stevens. Sometimes you surprize me.”

“You say that Spot Easton wanted the letter?” asked Skelton.

Hashknife yawned widely and glanced around the room.

“Skelton, you ain’t got anythin’ like mucilage, have you?”

“Y’betcha, I have. Li’l bottle, with a brush attached. I dunno what it was used fer, and she’s been here since before Heck’s father went wooin’. Whatcha want it fer?”

“To make this danged letter look like it never was opened.”

Sleepy grinned joyously.

“Gimme credit----”

“Fer nothin’,” finished Hashknife. “That was a common thing before your great, great-grandfather was lynched for tryin’ to tell folks what to do.”

Hashknife held the envelop over the steam from the tea-kettle, until the flap was softened, and removed the letter. He spread out the single sheet on the table, and the three of them read it together.

Dear Dad:

I will arrive nearly as soon as this letter, but am sending it anyway. I hope that your injured arm is better now. It was very kind of your foreman, Mr. Easton, to write in your stead, and I shall thank him personally for his offer to meet me at Gunsight.