The Hash Knife Outfit

by Zane Grey

  First Skyhorse Publishing edition 2014 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency

  Copyright © 1933 by Zane Grey.

  Copyright © renewed 1961 by Elizabeth Grey Grosso, Romer Zane

  Grey and Loren Zane Grey.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.

  Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.skyhorsepublishing.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Brian Peterson

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63450-782-0

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63450-793-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER

  1

  IT was a rainy November night down on the Cottonwood. The wind complained in the pines outside the cabin and whispered under the eaves. A fine cold mist blew in the open chinks between the logs. But the ruddy cedar fire in the huge stone fireplace gave the interior of the cabin a comfortable aspect and shone brightly upon the inmates scattered around. A coffee-pot steamed on some coals; browned biscuits showed in an open iron oven; and thick slices of beef mingled a savory odor with the smoke. The men, however, were busy on pipes and cigarettes, evidently having finished supper.

  “Reckon this storm looks like an early winter,” remarked Jed Stone, leader of the outfit. He stood to one side of the fire, a fine, lithe figure of a man, still a cowboy, despite his forty years and more of hard Arizona life. His profile, sharp in the fire glow, was strong and clean, in no way hinting of the evil repute that had long recorded him an outlaw. When he turned to pick up a burning ember for his pipe the bright blaze shone on light, rather scant hair, on light eyes, and a striking face devoid of beard.

  “Wal, early or late, I never seen no bad weather down hyar,” replied a man back in the shadow.

  “Huh! Much you know about the Mogollans. I’ve seen a hell of a winter right here,” spoke up another, in a deep chesty voice. “An’ I’ll be trackin’ somethin’ beside hoofs in a couple of days.” This from the hunter Anderson, known to his comrades as Tracks, who had lived longer than any of the others in this wild section, seemed to strengthen Stone’s intimation. Anderson was a serious man, long matured, as showed in the white in his black beard. He had big deep eyes which reflected the firelight.

  “I’ll bet we don’t get holed up yet awhile,” interposed Carr, the gambler of the outfit. He was a gray-faced, gray-haired man of fifty. They called him Stoneface.

  “What do you say, Pecos?” inquired the leader of a long-limbed sandy-mustached Texan who sat propped against the wall, directly opposite the fire.

  “Me? … Shore I don’t think nothin’ aboot it,” drawled Pecos.

  “We might winter down in the Sierra Ancas,” said Stone, reflectively.

  “Boss, somethin’s been eatin’ you ever since we had thet fight over Traft’s drift fence,” spoke up Croak Malloy, from his seat against some packs. His voice had a peculiar croaking quality, but that was certainly not wholly the reason for his significant nickname. He was the deadliest of this notorious outfit, so long a thorn in the flesh of the cattlemen whose stock ranged the Mogollans.

  “I ain’t denyin’ it,” replied Stone.

  “An’ why for?” complained the croaker, his crooked evil face shining in the red light. “We got off without a couple of scratches, an’ we crippled them two Diamond riders. Didn’t we lay low the last nine miles of thet fence?”

  “Croak, I happen to know old Jim Traft. I rode for him twenty years ago,” answered Stone, seriously.

  “Jed, as I see it, this drift fence of Traft’s has split the range. An’ there’ll be hell to pay,” snapped the other.

  “Do you reckon it means another Pleasant Valley War? That was only seven years ago—thereabouts. An’ the bad blood still rankles.”

  Croak Malloy’s reply was rendered indistinguishable by hot arguments of Carr and Anderson. But the little rider’s appearance seemed silently convincing. He was a small misshapen man of uncertain age, with pale eyes of fire set unevenly in a crooked face, and he looked the deadliness by which he had long been known to the range.

  Just then the sodden beat of hoofs sounded outside.

  “Ha! that will be Madden an’ Sonora,” said Stone, with satisfaction, and he strode to the door to call out. The answer was reassuring. He returned to the fire and held his palms to the heat. Then he turned and put his hands behind his back.

  Meanwhile the horses thumped on the other side of the log wall. Then the sliddery sound of wet leather and heavy packs, and the low voice of men, attested to what was going on out there. Stone went again to the door, but evidently could not see in the stormy gloom. His men smoked in silence. The rain beat on the roof, in some places leaking through. The wind mourned hollowly down the stone chimney.

  Presently a man entered the cabin, carrying a heavy pack, which he deposited against the wall, then approached the fire, to remove dripping sombrero and coat. This action disclosed the swarthy face and beady bright eyes of the Mexican whom Stone had called Sonora.

  “Glad you’re back, Sonora,” said the leader, heartily. “How about things?”

  “No good,” replied Sonora, and when he shook his head drops of rain water sputtered in the fire.

  “Ahuh,” ejaculated Stone, and he leaned against the stone chimney, back in the shadow.

  The other rider came in, breathing heavily under another pack, which he let fall with a thud, and approached the fire, smelling of rain and horses and the woods. He appeared to be a nondescript sort of man. Water ran off him in little streams. He hung his coat on a peg in the chimney, but did not remove his battered black sombrero from which the rain drops dripped.

  “Wal, boss, me an’ Sonora got here,” he said, cheerfully.

  “So I see,” returned Stone, quietly.

  “Bad up on top. Snowin’ hard, but reckon it won’t last long. Too wet.”

  “What you want to bet it won’t last?” queried Carr.

  Madden laughed, and knelt before the fire, his huge spurs prodding his hips.

  “Lemme eat,” he said. “It’ll be the first bite since yestiddy mornin’.”

  Whereupon he drew the coffee-pot away from the fire at the same moment that Sonora removed the biscuits and meat. Stone, though nervously burning to ply questions, respected their hunger, which appeared to be of a ravenous nature. He paced the cabin floor, out of the shadow into the light, and back again, ponderingly, as one who had weighty t
houghts. The firelight struck glints from the bone-handled gun which swung in a belt-sheath below his hip. The other men of the gang smoked in silence.

  The youngest of the group, a cowboy in garb and gait, rose to put more wood on the fire. It blazed up brightly. He had a weak, handsome face, with viciousness written all over it, yet strangely out of place among these hardened visages. No one need have been told why he was there.

  The returned members of the outfit did not desist from appeasing their appetites until all the drink, bread, and beef were gone.

  “Cleaned the platter,” ejaculated Madden. “Gosh! there’s nothin’ like a hunk of juicy salty meat when you’re starved. … An’ here’s a real cigar for everybody. Nice an’ dry, too.” He tossed them to eager hands, and taking up a blazing stick he lighted one for himself, his dark face and steaming sombrero bent over the fire. Then he sat back, puffed a huge cloud of white smoke, and exclaimed: “Aghh! … Now, boss, shoot.”

  Stone kicked a box nearer the fire and sat down upon it. Then from a shadowed corner limped a stalwart man, scarred of face and evil of eye, with a sheriff’s badge glittering like a star on the front of his vest. Some of the others edged closer. All except Croak Malloy evinced keen eagerness. Nothing mattered to this little outlaw.

  “Maddy, did you fetch all the supplies?” asked Stone.

  “Yep. An’ kept them dry, too. There’s four more packs out in the shed. The tobacco, whisky, shells—all that particular stuff is in the pack Sonora fetched in. An’ I’m here to state I don’t want to pack down Cottonwood any more in the snow an’ rain. We couldn’t see a hand before our eyes. An’ just follered the horses.”

  “Any trouble at Flag?” went on Stone.

  “Nary trouble,” answered Madden, brightly. “All our worryin’ was for nothin’.”

  “Ahuh. Then neither of those drift-fence cowboys we shot up died?”

  “Nope. Frost was around with a crutch. An’ Hump Stevens will live, so they told me.”

  “How did Jim Traft take the layin’ down of nine miles of his drift fence?”

  “Which Jim Traft do you mean?”

  “The old man, you fool. Who’d ever count that tenderfoot of a nephew?”

  “Wal, boss, I reckon you’ll have to count him. For he’s shore countin’ in Flag. … Of course I could only get roundabout gossip in the saloons an’ stores, you know. But we can gamble on it. That nine-mile drop of Traft’s drift fence didn’t make him bat an eye, though they told me it riled young Jim somethin’ fierce. Jed, the old cattle king, is goin’ through with that drift fence, an’ with more’n that, which I’ll tell you presently. As I got it the drift fence is comin’ more to favor with cattlemen as time goes on. Bambridge is the only big rancher against it, an’ shore you know why he is. But the fence ain’t the only thing talked about. … Boss, the Cibeque outfit is busted.”

  “No! —You don’t say?” ejaculated Stone.

  “Shore is. Most owin’ to that cowpuncher Hack Jocelyn who left the Diamond outfit an’ throwed in with the Cibeque. That split the Cibeque. It seems Jocelyn lost his head over that little Dunn girl, Molly, sister to Slinger Dunn. You’ve seen her, Jed, at West Fork.”

  “Yes. Prettiest kid in the country.”

  “Wal, Jocelyn was after her hard, an’ he double-crossed the Haverlys an’ Slinger Dunn by tryin’ to play both ends against the middle. He hatched a low-down deal, if I ever knowed one. But it fell through. He got away with the girl Molly, however, an’ thet precipitated hell. Slinger quit the Cibeque, trailed them to a cabin in the woods. Back of Tobe’s Well somewhere. Must have been the very cabin Anderson put up there years ago. Wal, Jocelyn an’ the rest of the Cibeque had kidnapped young Jim Traft for ransom. But Jocelyn meant to collect the ransom an’ then murder the boy. The Haverlys wasn’t in on this, so the story goes. Anyway, things worked to a hot pitch at this cabin. Jocelyn had a drink too many, they say, an’ wanted to drag the little girl Molly off ’n the woods. An’ she, like what you’d expect of Slinger Dunn’s sister, raised hell. Jocelyn tried to shoot young Jim. An’ she fought him—bit him like a wildcat. Wal, Slinger bobbed up, Injun as he is, an’ killed Jocelyn. Then he had it out with the Haverlys, killin’ both of them. He was terrible shot up himself. They fetched him to Flag. But he’ll live.”

  “I’m dod-blasted glad, though there ain’t any love lost between me an’ Slinger,” said Stone, forcibly. “No wonder Flag wasn’t excited over our little brush with Stevens an’ Frost.”

  “Wal, thet’s all of thet news,” went on Madden, importantly. “Some more will interest you-all. Bambridge lost his case against Traft. He had no case at all, accordin’ to the court. It seems Traft got this Yellow Jacket Ranch an’ range from Blodgett, years ago. Bambridge didn’t even know the deeds were on record in Flag. He was hoppin’ mad, they said, an’ he an’ Traft had it hot an’ heavy after the court proceedin’s. Traft jest about accused Bambridge of shady cattle deals down here. Bambridge threw a gun, but somebody knocked it out of his hand. Wal, thet riled the old cattle king. What do you think he said, boss? I got it from a fellar I know, who was in the court-room.”

  “Maddy, I’ll bet it was a heap,” replied Stone, wagging his head.

  “Heap! Reckon you hit it. Traft swore he’d run Bambridge off the Arizona ranges. What’s more, he made a present of this Yellow Jacket Ranch, which Bambridge an’ you reckoned you owned yourselves, to his nephew, young Jim, an’—but guess who?”

  “I’m not guessin’. Out with it,” rejoined Stone, hardily.

  “No one less than Slinger Dunn,” announced Madden, with the triumphant tone of the sensation-lover.

  “What?” bellowed Stone.

  “I told you, boss. Old Traft gave this ranch an’ range to young Jim an’ Slinger—half an’ half. Providin’ thet Slinger throwed in with the Diamond outfit an’ helped them clean up Yellow Jacket.”

  “Haw! Haw!” croaked Malloy, with vicious humor.

  “Slinger Dunn an’ the Diamond!” exclaimed Stone, incredulously. Evidently it was a most astounding circumstance, and one fraught with bewildering possibilities.

  “Thet’s it, boss, an’ they’re ridin’ down here after Thanksgivin’,” ended Madden, and took a long pull on his cigar.

  Stone once more leaned in the shadow, his dim profile bent toward the fire. Madden stretched himself, boots to the heat, and gave himself over to the enjoyment of his cigar. All except the leader puffed white clouds of smoke which rose to catch the draught and waft through the chinks between the logs.

  “What do you make of it, boss?” finally queried Anderson.

  Jed Stone vouchsafed no reply.

  “Humph!” grunted the hunter. “Wal, Frank, you’re the green hand in this outfit. What you make of Maddy’s news?”

  The cowboy stirred and sat up. “I reckon it can’t be done,” he replied.

  “What can’t?”

  “Cleanin’ up Yellow Jacket.”

  The hunter took a long draw at his cigar and expelled a volume of smoke, while he thoughtfully stroked his black beard.

  “Whar you from, Frank?”

  “Born in Arizonie.”

  “An’ you say thet? Wal. … Reckon it ain’t no wonder you ended up with the Hash Knife outfit,” said Anderson, reflectively. Then he turned his attention to the Mexican, who sat nearest. “Sonora, you been herdin’ sheep for years on this range?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “You’ve seen a heap of men shot?”

  “Many men, señor.”

  “Did you talk to sheep-herders in Flag?”

  “Sí. All say mucho malo. Old Traft bad medicine. If he start job he do job.”

  Whereupon Tracks Anderson, warming as to a trail, set upon the long-limbed, sandy-mustached Texan. “Pecos, what was you when you rode thet river you’re named fer?”

  “Me? Much the same as I am now,” drawled the rustler, with an easy laugh. “Only I wasn’t ridin’ in such good safe company.”

  “Safe,
huh? Wal, thet’s a compliment to Jed an’ the Hash Knife. But is it sense? … To my way of thinkin’ this——drift fence has spelled a change fer Arizona ranges. There’s a mind behind that idee. It’s big. It throws the sunlight on trails thet have been dim.”

  Croak Malloy did not wait to be interrogated. He spat as he emitted a cloud of smoke, which hid his strange visage.

  “If you ask me I’ll tell you Maddy’s talk is jest town talk,” he croaked. “I’ve heard the same fer ten years. An’ Yellow Jacket is wilder today than it ever was. There’s more cattle runnin’ than then. More rustlers in the woods. More crooked ranchers. An’ one like Bambridge wasn’t ever heard when I first rode into the Tonto. … An’ what’s a bunch of slick-ridin’ cowboys to us? I’ll kill this young Traft, an’ Sonora can do fer Slinger Dunn. Thet’ll be the last of the Diamond.”

  “Very pretty, Croak. It might be done, easy enough, if we take the first step. I ain’t aimin’ to class thet wild Diamond outfit with the Hash Knife. It ain’t no fair fight. Boys ag’in’ men. An’ this is shore allowin’ fer Slinger Dunn an’ thet Prentiss fellar.”

  “Tracks,” spoke up Pecos, dryly, “you’re plumb fergettin’ there’s a Texan in the Diamond Lonestar Holliday. An’ you can bet the Texas I come from wouldn’t be ashamed of him.”

  “Humph! —Lang, you swear you come honest by thet sheriff badge,” went on the hunter, in a grim humor. “Let’s hear from you.”

  “There ain’t no law but might in the Mogollans an’ never will be in our day,” replied the ex-sheriff.

  “Kirreck,” snapped Anderson. “Thet’s what I’m drivin’ at. Our day may be damn good an’ short.”

  “Aw, hell! Tracks, you need some licker,” croaked Malloy. “Let’s open the pack an’ have some.”

  “No,” came from Stone with sharp suddenness, showing how intent he was on the colloquy.

  “Wal, it narrows down to Stoneface,” continued Anderson, imperturbably. “But seein’ he’s a gambler, you can’t ever get the straight from him.”

  “Tracks, I’ll bet you them gold wheels you’ll be hibernatin’ fer keeps when spring comes,” said Carr, clinking gold coins in his palms.