the Hash-Knife Outfit (1985) Page 16

  "Aw, you gotta hang on to the cattle," rejoined Bud. "I've known many a rancher who'd made his pile--if he could only have hanged on."

  "Wal, it's lucky fer Jim thet the Hash-Knife is peterin' out."

  "Shore... Say, did you fellars heah a rifle-shot?" Curly threw up his head like a listening deer.

  "By gum, I heerd somethin'," replied Bud. "What's strange about it--if you did?" queried Jim, uneasily.

  "Get back under the porch," ordered Curly, sharply. "We made one mistake aboot buildin' this cabin. A good rifle could reach you from thet cliff."

  "Wal, it's a safe bet Hump heerd some-tin'. Look at him."

  The cowboy designated by Bud's speech and finger appeared hurrying under the pines toward the cabin.

  "Shot came from high up," observed Curly, warily. "Back a ways from the rim. I wonder would Slinger be up there?"

  "Slinger'd be anywhere he ought to be," said Lonestar.

  They waited for Hump.

  "Fellars," he said, sharply, running up on the porch, "I heerd a forty-four crack up on the rocks."

  "We heahed a rifle-shot, Hump. But I couldn't swear to it's bein' a forty-four... Thet would be Slinger."

  "Mebbe shot a deer on the way to camp."

  "An' pack it around an' down? Not much. Somethin' wrong. You could hear it in thet shot."

  The Diamond waited, with only one member absent; and every moment increased speculation. When Slinger appeared down the trail there was only one exclamation, which was Curly's "Ahuh!"

  They watched the backwoodsman glide along. He had the stride of the deer-stalker.

  But there seemed to be force and menace, something sinister, in his approach.

  "Packin' two rifles," spoke up the hawk-eyed Curly. "An' what's thet swingin' low?"

  "Pard, it's a gun-belt," declared Bud.

  "By Gawd! so it is!" ejaculated Curly, and then, as they all watched Slinger come on, he sat down to light a cigarette. "Boss," he said, presently, now with his lazy drawl, "I reckon you have one less of the Hash-Knife to contend with."

  "Wal, it's been some time comin'," added Bud, as if excusing a flagrant omission.

  Slinger soon reached the porch. His dark face betrayed nothing, but his glittering eyes were something to avoid. He laid a shiny worn carbine on the ground, muzzle pointing outward. It was the kind of rifle range-riders liked to carry in a saddle sheath.

  "Wal, Slinger, what'd you fetch it heah thet way fer?" demanded Curly, sharply.

  "Dog-gone if it ain't cocked!" exclaimed Bud. Jim, too, had just made this discovery.

  "Jest the way he left it," replied Slinger.

  "I wanted to show you-all how near somethin' come off."

  He went over to touch the trigger, which action discharged the rifle with a spiteful crack.

  "Funny it didn't go off up there," observed Slinger. "Hair trigger, all right." Then he laid a gun-belt full of shells, and also burdened with a heavy bone-handled gun, at Jim's feet on the edge of the porch. But Jim did not have any voice just then. He sensed the disclosure to come.

  "Slinger, whose hardwear are you packin' in?" demanded Curly.

  "Belonged to thet Hash-Knife greaser, Sonora," replied Slinger, who now removed his cap and wiped his wet face. "I struck his fresh track this mawnin' down the trail, an' I followed him. But I never seen him till a little while ago, up heah on the rim. He was lyin' flat on his belly, an' he shore had a bead on Jim. Pretty long shot for a greaser, but I reckon it was aboot time I got there."

  Jim stood stricken, as he gazed from the porch steps where he had been sitting up to the craggy rim. Surely not a long shot! He could have killed a deer, or a man, at that distance. He suddenly felt sick. Again a miraculous accident, or what seemed so to him, had intervened to save his life. Would it always happen? Then he became conscious of Curly's cold voice.

  "You----!" cursed that worthy, red in the face, and with a violence that presupposed a strong emotion. "Heah I've been tellin' you to keep under cover! Is it goin' to take a million years of Arizona to teach you things?... My Gawd! boy--thet greaser shore would have plugged you!"

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  Ed Stone regarded his Texas confederate with a long, unsmiling stare of comprehension.

  "Shore, Jed," repeated Pecos, "you're goin' to draw on Croak one of these days. You cain't help yourself... I'd done it myself if I hadn't been afeered of him."

  "Pecos, you tell me thet?" queried Stone, harshly. "You know then? He's got you beat on the draw? You're not hankerin' to see?"

  "Not a damn hanker, Jed," drawled Pecos. "I'd shore like to see him daid--the crooked little rattlesnake--but I still love life."

  "Ahuh... An' thet's why you're leavin' the Hash-Knife?"

  "Not by a long shot, Jed. I'd gone with Anderson, but for you. An' I'd gone when Malloy killed thet cowboy Reed, who throwed in with us. But I stuck on, hopin' Malloy had spit out his poison. I'm goin' because I reckon the Hash-Knife is done. Don't you know thet, too, Jed?"

  "Hell! If we are done, what an' who has done us?"

  "Reckon you needn't ask. You know. Malloy was the one who took up Barn-bridge. Arizona will never stand a cattle thief like Bambridge. She shore hates him most as bad as Texas. It's Bambridge's pretence of bein' honest while makin' his big cattle deals thet riles Jim Traft, an' other ranchers who are the real thing. Mark my words. Bambridge won't see out this summer."

  "Huh! If he doesn't fork over the ten thousand he owes me he shore won't, you can gamble on thet," returned Stone.

  "Wal, all those deals thet have brought us up lately were instigated by Bambridge. Runnin' off the Diamond brand up at Yellow Jacket an' shippin' the stock from Winslow--of all the damn-fool deals, that was the worst. We could have gone on for years heah, appropriatin' a few steers now an' then, an' living easy. No, Malloy has done us. These last tricks of his--they make me sick an' sore."

  "You mean thet cattle-drive in April, without me knowin'?"

  "Not thet particular. I mean buildin' this heah cabin, fer one thing. Shore it's a fort. An' only twenty miles from Yellow Jacket!"

  "Ha ha!--Croak runs up this cabin, he said, because he liked the view down over the brakes, an' the wall of the Mogollans standin' away there so beautiful."

  "Wal, I ain't gainsayin' the view. But to take Malloy serious, except regardin' life an' death, is sheer nonesense. He aims to hang on heah whether you like it or not."

  "Mebbe he will hang--an' from a rope," muttered the outlaw.

  "Not Croak Malloy! He'll die with his boots on, sober an' shootin'. Don't have vain hopes, Jed... Malloy will run the Hash-Knife--an' run it to hell. Take, for instance, these two hombres he's lately rung in on us. Just a couple of town rowdies, drinkin' up what they steal. No stuff for the Hash-Knife!"

  "I had the same hunch when I seen them," said Stone, pacing to and fro.

  "Wal, heah's Lang an' Madden, both scared of Croak, an' they'd double-cross you any day. An' Sonora, he's Croak's man, as you know. Right now, Jed, the Hash-Knife, outside of you an' me, is done."

  "I reckon so. It's been keepin' me awake nights."

  "Wal, then, shake the onery outfit an' come away with me?"

  "Where you goin', Pecos?"

  "Reckon I'll lay low fer a spell."

  "Shore. But where? I want to know."

  "Jed, I'll ride straight for the haid of the Little Colorado. I told you I had word last fall from an old Texas pard who's layin' low up there."

  "Uh-huh, Pecos, have you got any money?"

  "Shore. Malloy hasn't won all I had."

  Stone turned with a jerk of decision. "All right, Pecos, if I don't join you up there before the snow flies, you can reckon Malloy's done fer me, as he has fer the Hash-Knife."

  "Jed, shore there's no call fer you to risk an even break with Croak," said the Texan, gravely. "He's no square gunman. He'd have murdered young Traft over there at Yellow Jacket thet day."

  "Yes, I remember. An' my kickin' his gun up made him hate me... Honest t
o Gawd, Pecos, the only reason I'd ever risk an even break with Croak--if I did--would be just to see if he could beat me to a gun."

  "I savvy. I had the same itch. It's the one weakness of a gunman. It's plain vanity, Jed. Don't be a damn fool. Come away with me now."

  Stone thought for a long moment. "No, not yet. I'm broke. I want thet money from Bambridge. An' I want to--" His pause and the checking of his thought suggested an ominous uncertainty of himself rather than meaning not to confide in the Texan. "But, Pecos, I'll promise you, barrin' ordinary accidents, thet I'll meet you at the haid of the Little Colorado sometime before the summer's over."

  "Thet shore sounds good," replied Pecos, rising to his lofty statue. "Shake on thet."

  Stone gripped his lieutenant's hand, and their eyes locked as well. It was one of the moments that counted with men of the open. Then Pecos strode out to his horse, and while he mounted Stone untied the halter of the pack-mule.

  "Reckon you'd better work out through the woods," he said casually. "If Croak happened to meet you on the trail he'd be curious. He took Anderson's desertion as a slap in the face... Good luck, Pecos."

  "Same to you, Jed. I'll shore be countin' the days."

  Malloy had certainly selected this site for a cabin with more than its superb view in mind. It stood high up, above a long fan-shaped bare slope of grass, and had been built in a notch of the great wall of rock. It could only be approached from the front, facing downhill. The spruce logs, of which it had been constructed, had been cut right on the spot. They were heavy, too green to burn for a long time, and significant indeed were the narrow chinks left open between the logs, some close to the floor, others breast high, and not a few in the loft. A spring of clear cold water ran from under the cliff, and the cabin had been erected right over it. The wall above bulged far out, so far that neither avalanche nor bullets from any point above could reach the cabin. With store of meat and provisions a few vigilant and hardened outlaws could hold that cabin-fort indefinitely. No Arizona posse of sheriff's sworn-in deputies, or any reasonable outfit of cowboys, were going to rush that retreat, if it sheltered the Hash-Knife. Stone conceded Malloy's sagacity. But it was a futile move, simply because he and his new accomplices would spend very little time there. They had made three cattle-drives already this spring, one of which was as bold and as preposterous as the raiding of the last of the Diamond stock on Yellow Jacket. Bambridge, with his new man, Darnell, was back of these. Stone had not needed to meet Darnell more than once to get his status. Darnell would hardly bother the Hash-Knife long. He was too sharp a gambler. Presently, if he won too much from Croak Malloy, very suddenly he would turn up his toes.

  But it was Malloy who stuck in Jed Stone's craw. Jed had never before admitted even to himself that he meant to kill the gun-thrower. When, however, he had intimated so much to Pecos, he realised the grim thing that gripped him. He did mean to kill Malloy. It had been in his dreams, in that part of his mind which worked when he was asleep, and now it possessed him. How and when to do the deed were matters of conjecture; the important thing was the decision, and Stone imagined he had arrived at it. Nevertheless, conscience awakened a still small voice. Bad as Malloy was, he trusted Stone, had fought for him, would do so again at the drop of a card, and that meant, of course, he stood ready to die for him. Stone faced the issue uneasily.

  "An' the little cuss likes to set here fer the view," soliloquised the outlaw.

  Stone took satisfaction in convincing himself that the Hash-Knife had no more need of concern about the Diamond. Still, an afterthought was that he no longer controlled the Hash-Knife. Suppose that doughty old cattleman, Jim Traft, did throw a few thousand head of steers down into Yellow Jacket! He was fool enough, and bull-headed enough, to do it. And if he did, nothing but death could ever prevent Croak Malloy from stealing them. Wherefore the ghastly idea of death for Malloy again held sway over Jed Stone.

  Stone's quick eye, ever roving from habit, detected movement of grey down in the foliage. He thought it was a deer until he saw brown and heard a distant thud of hoofs. Horses! Probably Malloy was returning. But Stone took no chances with suppositions, and his hand went to the rifle leaning against the bench.

  When three horses emerged from the green below he recognised the first of the riders to be Madden, but they were halfway up the hill before he made out that the second was Bambridge. The outlaw's thought changed, and conjecture that was not friendly to this visit took the place of hard vigilance. Bambridge riding down into the Black Brakes must certainly have something to do with Malloy. It was unwise, especially for this pseudo rancher. Stone arose and walked to the high step.

  The dusty horses limped wearily up the hill, to be halted before the cabin. The men were travel-stained and tired. Bambridge's big face appeared haggard, and it did not express any pleasure.

  "Hullo, Boss! I fetched a visitor," called out Madden, busy with saddle packs.

  "So I see... Howdy, Mr. Bambridge!" replied Stone, coolly.

  "Mornin', Stone. I expect you're surprised to see me," said Bambridge, bluntly.

  "Shore am. Glad, though, for more'n one reason," answered the rustler.

  Bambridge unstrapped a coat from his saddle, and mounted to the porch, heavy of step and dark of eye. He flopped down on the bench, dropping his coat and sombrero. Evidently he had not slept much, and it was plain his sweaty and begrimed apparel had not been changed for days. He packed a gun, which Stone had taken note of first.

  "Malloy failed to show up," he said, sourly.

  "Ahuh. It's a way Croak has. But he'll show up when you least expect him an' don't want him. Where'd you go to meet him?"

  "Tanner's out of Winslow," returned Bambridge, shortly, his dull grey eyes studying the outlaw, as if he was weighing that remark about Malloy.

  "Tanner's. So Malloy meets you there, eh?--Wal, I reckon he might as well go into Winslow or Flag," said Stone, dryly.

  Bambridge seemed uncertain of his ground here, but was indifferent to it. Stone grasped the fact that the cattle dealer did not take him for the dominant factor in the Hash-Knife.

  "You can bet I'd rather he had. Eighty miles' ride, without a bed, an' practically nothin' to eat, is enough to make a man bite nails."

  "What's the reason you undertook it?"

  "It concerns me an' Malloy," said the other.

  Whatever sense of fair play Jed Stone felt toward this man--and he confessed to himself that it was little--departed here.

  "Any deals you make with Malloy concern me. I'm boss of this Hash-Knife outfit."

  "Not so anyone would notice it," rejoined Bambridge, with scant civility.

  The man was on dangerous ground and had no intimation of it. Steeped in his absorption of his greedy sordid plans, if he had the wit to understand Jed Stone he did not excercise it. Stone paced the narrow porch, gazing out over the brakes. For the moment he would waive any expression of resentment. Bambridge was in possession of facts and plans that Stone desired to know.

  "Wal, mebbee you're right aboot Croak bossin' the outfit pretty generally," he said, at length. "But only in late deals that I had little to do with. What I don't advise I shore don't do. Thet deal of Diamond cattle last winter--thet was an exception. I've kicked myself often enough... By the way, you can fork over thet ten thousand you've owed me on thet deal. I sent Madden in to get it."

  "Man alive! I gave the money to Darnell, with instructions to hand it to Malloy for you," ejaculated Bambridge, in genuine surprise.

  "You did? When?"

  "Weeks ago. Let's see. It was the ninth of April that I drew that ten thousand. Next day Darnell was to ride out to Tanner's. He met Malloy there and delivered your money."

  "Not to me," declared Stone.

  "Why!--the man is reliable," replied Bambridge, in exasperation. "Are you quite--honest about it?... Have you seen Malloy since?"

  "Wal, Bambridge, I've seen Malloy several times since then. He never mentioned no money--for me. Appeared to be pretty flush himsel
f, though... An' much obliged for the hint about my honesty."

  Bambridge let the caustic rejoinder go by without apology.

  "Honesty is not your trade, Stone. I'll say, though, you've kept your word to me, which is more than Malloy has... You suspect this new man of mine, Darnell?"

  "No, I don't suspect him. I know him to be a Mississippi gambler, run out of St. Louis--accordin' to his own statement. I've seen a few of his kind hit the raw West. They didn't savvy us Westerners an' they didn't last. Darnell has double-crossed you. He'll try it on Croak Malloy, which will be bad for his health."

  "No wonder Darnell can't savvy you Westerners. Who the hell can, I'd like to know?"

  "Wal, not you, thet's shore."

  "Give me proof Darnell has done me dirt?" demanded the other, impatiently.

  "Wal, I saw him right here after the tenth of April--along aboot the twentieth, I reckon, for it was after Malloy made a raid on Blodgett's range... Darnell did not give me any money. He had a big roll, for I saw him flash it when he was gamblin' with the men... Thet was the day Croak shot young Reed."

  "Aw, I'd want more proof than that," returned Bambridge. "You might have been drunk when Darnell gave it to you."

  "Shore. I might have been anythin'. Us outlaws are pretty low-down, I reckon. But I, for one, am not as low-down as some who call themselves cattlemen... Barn-bridge, am I to hold you or Darnell responsible fer thet ten thousand?"

  "Not me, you can bet. Or Darnell, either. Malloy is your man. He seems to be runnin' your outfit now, an' no doubt appropriated your money."

  "Nope. Croak is square aboot money," said the outlaw, meditatively.

  "Bah!--What you givin' me?" retorted Bambridge, harshly. "Stone, you talk queer for a rustler. Here you are, hidden down in this God-forsaken wilderness afraid to go near any town--with a price on your life, yet you talk of honesty in yourself an' men. Thet's a joke about honour among thieves."

  "Wal, we needn't argue aboot it," replied Stone. A Westerner would have gauged something from the cool quality of his voice and the averting of his eyes. "I've served your turn. An' now thet Malloy is doin' it, why, you've no call to get nasty. What I'd like to know is--how'd you come to ride out here? Shore is a long hard ride fer anyone."