Part 7
“Skelton did not wipe out your graveyard. He had nothin’ to do with it. Accusin’ him of that was a ---- good scheme to git rid of him. It’s a wonder that folks didn’t lynch him for it. It was a good joke to plant them tombstones in his front-yard. Sure it was. It gave a ---- good reason for him to go out and wipe out the graveyard and to stop any more buryin’ there.”
Hashknife stopped for a moment. Jake Blue had gone gray as ashes, but his eyes flashed wickedly. Doc Clevis hunched in his saddle, his face set in lines of wonderment and fear.
“Skelton told me he didn’t do it,” continued Hashknife softly, “and I believed him. I knew that somebody wanted to force him away from this country. Them white tombstones”--Hashknife pointed at the yard--“were only an effect.
“The last man to be buried in that graveyard up the road was Faro, a gambler. Jake Blue, Doc Clevis and Spot Easton buried him, ’cause the other folks didn’t want him buried there.
“They dug his grave near the little creek. Right after that burial this graveyard joke was pulled off. Do you know why?”
Hashknife leaned closer to the crowd and his eyes flashed wickedly.
“No? You don’t? Well, I do! Two feet deep, where that gambler was buried, is the cropping of a ledge of quartz that is so danged rich in gold that it scared me. Jake Blue, Easton and Doc Clevis moved your graveyard for fear they might never own that gold. They killed Quinin Quinn, either because he knew too much, or to try and scare Skelton into sellin’ ’em the ranch!”
As Hashknife was finishing Skelton and Sleepy stepped out onto the porch beside him. Behind them came Lonesome Lee.
For a moment there was absolute silence, broken only by the slap of Jake Blue’s palm against the butt of his gun.
* * * * *
But, swiftly as he drew, Hashknife shaded him by a second and fired ---- from his hip. Blue spun off the porch, splintering one of the porch-posts with his misdirected bullet.
Spot Easton had thrown himself sidewise and fired across his horse’s neck, but his horse threw its head wildly, and the bullet buzzed through the doorway--doing no damage. A second later one of the cowboys crashed his horse into Easton’s mount, knocking Easton from his saddle.
Doc Clevis, insane from the disclosures, and knowing what it would mean, drew a heavy pistol from under his coat and spurred straight at the porch, only to meet Skelton’s riot-gun at close range. He was literally blown out of his saddle.
From the ground, among the milling horses, Spot Easton shot wildly at Sleepy, who was churning up the dirt around Easton’s head with bullets. Hagen fired once, and his bullet ripped along Hashknife’s forearm just as Hashknife shot. The jar of the bullet threw Hashknife’s gun far enough aside to miss Hagen but caught his horse, which whirled wildly, unseating its rider. Hagen’s foot hung in the stirrup.
Bucking and kicking, the bronco whirled into the tangle of tombstones where Hagen fell free. Easton’s gun was empty and he tried to fight his way out of the milling horses, but Sleepy dove after him and, locked together, they rolled into the open.
Dell Blackwood forced his horse to the porch and held up his hands.
“I’m out of it,” he yelled. “I’m admittin’ that I stole some 33 calves for Easton, but I never shot nobody.”
He tossed his reins to the ground and slid out of his saddle.
Came the rattle of a wagon, and Mrs. Frosty Snow and Jane drove into the yard. Two cowboys helped Sleepy rope Spot Easton, and then all eyes turned to the two women in the wagon.
“Lonesome Lee, here’s yore daughter!” called Mrs. Snow.
Lonesome went slowly out to the wagon to meet Jane and held up his arms to her. The crowd watched them silently.
“I been waitin’ for you, Jane,” said Lonesome slowly as she climbed down over the wheel.
He held her in his arms for a moment and turned to the crowd.
“Hashknife, I want you to meet my daughter; you and Sleepy Stevens.”
“Why, I know them!” exclaimed Jane. “They ----”
“Know us?” grinned Sleepy. “My ----, I sung all night to her once.”
A grizzled cowman leaned over the shoulder of his horse and said to Hashknife--
“You can prove all the things you said?”
“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife. “I sure can.”
“What about him?”
The man pointed at Blackwood, who stood beside the porch, guarded by another cowboy.
“Him?” Hashknife squinted at Blackwood seriously. “Pardner, I--I dunno. He kept out of this. He admits that he mis-branded calves for Easton, and we could likely send him--” Hashknife shook his head slowly. “Lookin’ at it from a cold-blooded angle, suppose we give him his horse and tell him to git to ---- out of here.”
“But he’s a rustler!” exclaimed another cowman.
“That’s a fact,” nodded Hashknife. “That sure is a fact. He admits it, don’t he?”
Hashknife looked around at his listeners.
“How many of us would admit the truth?”
Somewhere in the crowd a man laughed and smiles began to appear. Hashknife had won his point. He turned to Blackwood, who could scarcely believe his ears.
“Blackwood, you’re free to drift. I ain’t preachin’ to you, but kinda remember what might ’a’ happened.”
“You mean--” Blackwood licked his dry lips. “You mean, I’m free to--go?”
“You’ve got good ears, old-timer.”
Blackwood swung into his saddle, looked at Hashknife for several moments as though wanting to say something, but was unable to begin. Then as he turned slowly and rode out of the yard, unbelieving that any man or men could be so generous.
The cattlemen roped Easton to a horse, picked up Doc Clevis and Jake Blue, and strung out in a long cavalcade toward town.
“What happened here?” asked Jane wonderingly.
“Well, ma’am,” said Hashknife slowly, looking back at the tumbled tombstones, “you see, a front-yard ain’t no place for a cemetery, so we held a meetin’ today to start a new one some’ers else.”
“And that ain’t such a big lie, at that,” said Mrs. Frosty Snow slowly. Then to Lonesome and Jane, she said:
“Pile in here and go back to the ranch for supper with me. I hope that danged Swede cook don’t take the things to heart that I told him today, ’cause I need him for one more meal. You fellers better come along, too, ’cause I want you to tell me all about it.”
“Please do,” Jane pleaded. “Perhaps Mr. Stevens will sing for us.”
Mrs. Frosty Snow turned the team around and headed for the gate, while Hashknife, Sleepy and Skelton stood together and watched them disappear around the bend. Hashknife went over to the porch and kicked loose the pegs and broken wires.
“Do we go over to Snow’s to supper?” asked Sleepy.
“Uh-huh,” grunted Hashknife. “I’d like to get used to Jane Lee, ’cause she’s sure as ---- got a wide streak of humor in her system. You goin’, Skelton?”
“After what you’ve done for me? My ----, I’d even do a little singin’ m’self, Hashknife.”
“Thassall right,” said Hashknife hastily as he wound a handkerchief around his scored forearm, where Hagen’s bullet had left its mark.
“Your appreciation is accepted--but don’t sing. There’s such a thing as carryin’ humor to excess, Skelton.”
Skelton grinned widely and put his hand on Hashknife’s shoulder.
“Cowboy, you shore made history in Lodge-Pole County today, and jist t’ show you how much I appreciates it, I’m splittin’ the 33 into three parts right now. From this here date, me and you and Sleepy own this place. No arguments a-tall--no sir. She ain’t worth a ---- of a lot for cows, but if there’s a gold mine--anyway, we’re pardners; the three of us.”
Hashknife looked closely at the old man and at Sleepy, who was busily rolling a cigaret. It was very quiet now. A string of dusty-looking cattle were coming down past the corner of the ranch-house fence, heading for the creek.
A magpie flew past the house, swerved sharply at sight of the three men, and perched on a corner of the corral, scolding earnestly. Fleecy clouds flecked the blue sky beyond the timbered ridges; from the hillside came the whistling bark of a ground-squirrel; down in the willows a cow bawled softly for her calf.
Hashknife turned slowly and took a deep breath, as he said--
“Whatcha say t’ havin’ a song by the Tombstone trio?”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the December 30, 1922 issue of Adventure Magazine.]