The Hash Knife Outfit

by Zane Grey

  “Wal, pack up fer tomorrow mawnin’.”

  “Not till after Thanksgiving. Three weeks yet. And now listen.” Whereupon Jim related all the late news and rumors about the Hash Knife outfit.

  “Shore, I’d expect thet of Jed Stone,” said Dunn. “An’, Boss, if you want to know, I’ve long had a hunch Bambridge is back of the Hash Knife.”

  “No!” ejaculated Jim, aghast at so definite a statement from this backwoodsman.

  “Slinger, we reckon you mean Bambridge ain’t above buyin’ a few haid of stock from Stone now an’ then?” queried Curly, slow and cool, but his blue eyes flashed fire.

  “Hellno! Buyin’ a few steers nuthin’,” drawled Dunn, forcibly. “Bambridge’s outlayin’ ranch is across the divide from Yellow Jacket. Thirty miles around by road. But by the canyon—Doubtful, we call it—there’s less’n ten miles. An’ Bambridge is gettin’ stock through Doubtful an’ drivin’ it to Maricopa.”

  Curly whistled his amazement. Jim simply stared. This was getting down to hard pan. It did not occur to either of them to question Slinger Dunn.

  “Shore, I cain’t prove it, Jim,” he continued. “But it’s what I reckon. An’ my hunch is fer us to keep our traps shet—an’ go down to Yellow Jacket to make shore.”

  “Right, you bet,” agreed Curly. “But if it’s true, the Hash Knife will stop operations until either they or the Diamond are settled.”

  “We’ve got to find out,” interposed Jim, emphatically. “Ring Locke advised against Uncle sending the Diamond on that job. Said we could do easier and more important work. He’s afraid Bambridge might shoot Uncle.”

  “Wall, there’s shore risk of thet,” rejoined Dunn. “But Traft could keep out of the way. When we get the trick on these fellars we can do a little shootin’ ourselves. … You know, Boss, there ain’t no other way oot of it.”

  “So Uncle says,” assented Jim, gloomily. “Slinger, you don’t think it’ll be another Pleasant Valley War?”

  “Lord, no,” declared Dunn, showing his white teeth. “Thet war hed hundreds of sheepmen an’ cattlemen behind it, with rustlers on the side of the sheep fellars. This heah deal is a matter of a little gun-play.”

  “Slinger, you’ve got a lot of time to think it over,” said Jim. “Do so, and I’ll come in after a few days. I’m a little upset just now. My sister is coming today. She’s ill. They say the climate will agree with her.”

  “Thet’s too bad, Boss. But mebbe it’ll all turn oot right. … Molly never told me you hed a sister. I reckon I know how you feel.”

  “Here’s her picture, Slinger,” said Jim, producing the photograph and handing it over.

  Dunn bent his piercing eyes upon the likeness of Gloriana May. He was not a volatile cowboy. His expression did not change. Only he gazed a long time.

  “Wal, I never before seen any gurl or a pictoor of one thet could beat Molly. But this heah shore does.”

  “Molly is totally unlike Gloriana. Just as pretty in her way, I think,” he said, stoutly.

  “Boss, you’re loco. Molly is a slick, soft, pretty little woodmouse. But this sister of yourn is like the sun in the mawnin’.”

  Jim felt a surprise he did not betray. The compliment to Gloriana at Molly’s expense did not find great favor with him. Receiving the picture back, he took a look at it, somehow seeing Glory differently, and then he returned it to his pocket.

  “It was taken a year ago,” he explained. “And if Gloriana has improved in looks since I’ve been gone as much as she did the year before—whew! but she’ll be something to look at. I hardly expect improvement, though, since she has been ill.”

  “Huh! Thet gurl couldn’t be ailin’,” returned Dunn, positively.

  Conversation reverted to other channels then—the Diamond, the incompleted drift fence, winter, horses, until finally Jim rose to go, with Curly following suit.

  “Slinger, I’m awful glad you’re doing so well,” said Jim.

  “Wal, you fellars have cheered me right pert. Come again soon. … An’, Jim, would you mind lettin’ me borrow thet pictoor fer a spell? I get hellsrattlin’ lonesome—an’ it’d be good to look at.”

  “Why, certainly, Slinger,” declared Jim, hastily producing it. “I’m sure Glory will be flattered.”

  “Thanks, Boss,” drawled Slinger. “Your havin’ a sister, too, kinda makes us closer, huh? Wal, adios.”

  All the way out Jim heard Curly growling under his breath. This ebullition came out in force once they reached the street.

  “Jim, what’n hell did you want to let Slinger Dunn borrow Gloriana May’s picture fer?” demanded Curly.

  “Why, cowboy, I never thought not to. What could I say? It was a perfectly innocent request of Slinger’s.”

  “Shore. It was innocent enough. But cain’t you see straight? The dam’ backwoodsman was shot plumb through the heart.”

  “What! By Glory’s picture?”

  “Shore. It did the same fer me. An’ I’ve no call to kick. But, my Gawd! Boss, I couldn’t stand for a rival like Slinger Dunn. Now aboot Bud an’ the rest of the Diamond, I’m not carin’. But Dunn is darned handsome, an’ shore fascinatin’. Any girl would lose her heart to him—if he let himself go. … I’d hate to have to shoot it out with Slinger.”

  “Ha! Ha! Ha! I should think you would,” replied Jim, after a hearty laugh. “But, Curly, don’t be a jackass. Let me give you a hunch. Glory will be sweet to you cowboys—let you saddle her horse or carry something for her. And she might dance with you. But she could never see one of you seriously, even through a microscope.”

  Curly looked crestfallen, yet sustained a little dignity.

  “Jim, you’re her brother an’ you fell in love with Molly Dunn.”

  The remark was thought-provoking, but Jim could not keep it before his consciousness.

  “True, Curly, old boy. But I’m not Glory. Wait till you see her!”

  “I’m a-waitin’ best I can,” averred Curly, “An’ I’ll bet a handful of gold eagles against two bits, thet Bud an’ Up an’ Jack are waitin’, too, right now at the station. Let’s rustle.”

  For a cowboy who had been born on a horse and who had spent most of his life in a saddle, Curly Prentiss could certainly walk. He might have had on seven-league boots. In quick time they arrived at the station, to find Zeb there with the buckboard; Bud, Jackson, Lonestar Holliday, Cherry Winters, and Uphill in a state of vast excitement, that seemed strange in their plain business suits, at least three of which were brand new; and lastly that the Western Special was two hours late.

  Curly groaned. Jim did not know whether this expression of pain was due to the lateness of the train or the presence of the cowboys. Probably it was for both.

  “Zeb, drive over to the stable and keep the horses there till you hear the train whistle,” directed Jim. “And, boys, what do you say to a game of pool at Raider’s?”

  “I ain’t dressed fer thet,” objected Bud, eyeing his nice clean cuffs. “You-all go an’ I’ll hang around here. Mebbe the train will make up some time.”

  “Wal, you’re a rotten pool-shot,” remarked Curly, “an’ you cain’t be missed.”

  “Say, rooster, I beat you last time we played,” retorted Bud.

  “Cowboy, you couldn’t beat a carpet,” put in Jim, knowing full well how to work Bud.

  “Got any money with you, Boss?” asked Bud, sarcastically.

  It was noticeable that when the company reached Raider’s, Bud was following along. This Raider place, a saloon, gambling-den, as well as pool-hall, did not bear a very respectable name. But as the other places were uptown, Jim thought he could take a chance on it.

  “No drinks, boys,” said Jim.

  “What?” demanded Curly, who was edging toward the bar.

  “Not a drop of anything. You’re meeting my sister,” replied Jim, sharply.

  “You big hunk of cheese,” added Bud, scornfully. “All dressed up as for a rodeo, an’ now you want to soak in a gallon of licker.”
/>
  “Curly, jest because you’re a good-lookin’ cuss you cain’t meet the boss’s sister with a whisky breath. Why, you plumb ought to be ashamed!” said Uphill Frost.

  “Where’s your manners, Curly?” asked Cherry Winters. “You get wusser every day.”

  Jim was inclined to revel in the situation. Never would he recover from the innumerable and infinitely various tricks these boys had perpetrated upon him when he had come to them a tenderfoot. They were still capable of the same, if he was not sharp enough to detect them. Molly had helped him circumvent them—had given him something of revenge. And Gloriana May would surely fill his cup to the brim. They were such a devilishly lovable lot.

  “Nope. There’ll be no more drinking for the Diamond,” said Jim, simulating cheerful satisfaction. “Glory hates drink. And I want her to be happy out here. She’s a sick girl, you know.”

  “Aw!” breathed out Bud Chalfack, enigmatically. He might have been profoundly impressed or only regretting the ban on liquor.

  “Haw! Haw! Haw!” roared Curly Prentiss, in derision of something or somebody.

  “Laff, you dressed-up kangaroo,” shouted Bud. “Fine chanct you’ll have!”

  “Shut your faces, you cowboys,” ordered Jim, genially. “Now let’s see. There are seven of us. … Reckon Uphill can’t play, with his game leg. We’ll——”

  “The hell I can’t. I can beat any of you with only one leg,” remarked Frost, speaking for himself.

  “Ex-cuse me, Up. … We’ll each put in a dollar. Play rotation pool. Every time one of us misses his shot he puts in two bits. And whoever gets the most shots takes the pot.”

  “Great stuff!” agreed Curly, who imagined he divided honors with Jim in pool.

  “Turrible stiff game,” said Bud.

  “You might jest as well stick your hands in my pockets,” added Uphill, derisively.

  “I’m game, but it’s highway robbery,” put in Cherry Winters.

  “Suits me. I can jest aboot pay fer these heah new clothes,” said Lonestar Holliday.

  So the game began. Probably it never could have been started but for the state of mental aberration the boys were in. Not often had Jim prevailed upon them to play, after they had a sample of his game. They were atrocious shots. With fifteen balls on the table, all numbered, it was no easy task sometimes to hit the number called for, and Bud never did it once during that whole game. He had to produce nine two-bits, two dollars and a quarter in all, and he was perfectly furious. Jim won the game and pocketed the cash. Then they began another. Curly appeared to be next to Bud in poor playing. In fact, he was away off in his game, a fact the other boys soon made much of. Jim won this time also.

  “Might as well steal our wages and be done with it,” said Bud.

  But in the third game, when Bud started off by pocketing three balls in succession and Curly began to miss, he changed his tune. This time Jim deliberately made poor shots, which, playing along with other retarding chances of the game, prolonged it. Bud played beyond his actual ability and altogether got nine balls, which won him the money and recovered his good humor.

  “Curly, I told you I could beat you all holler,” he said. “Same in poker. An’ likewise in affairs of the heart.”

  “Bah, you little bow-legged runt,” scoffed Curly.

  “I can lick you, too,” concluded Bud, belligerently.

  Jim consulted his watch. “Whoopee! she’s due in two minutes. Don’t forget to pay the bill, you losers.” He ducked out of the hall and ran across to the station, thrilling at the whistle of the train. And he found the boys at his heels, except poor Uphill, who had to labor behind on his crutch. Jim knew perfectly well that his partners in the pool game had not tarried to pay their score.

  The Special roared into the station, all ice and snow, with the steam hissing and the smoke obscuring the platform lights. It was almost dark. When the engine and mail and baggage cars passed the air cleared, and the bright lights shone again. In his excitement Jim quite forgot his comrades. The second coach stopped opposite his position and he was all eyes. A porter began sliding bags and suitcases off the step. Then a slim form emerged from the car upon the vestibule. The furs proclaimed it feminine. But there was too much shadow. Then she stepped down and paused in the bright light. It was Gloriana, Jim said to himself, conscious of inward tumult. The tall slim shape, with its air of distinction, the cut of the long fur coat, the set of the stylish little hat, would have been enough. But Jim stared a moment longer. Gloriana’s face shone like a white flower out of the black furs, and her great eyes, dark in that light, strained eagerly to and fro, and then fixed on him.

  “Jim!” she cried in a rapture. When had she ever called to him with a voice like that? He ran to the steps and lifted her down in a bearish hug. She did not appear as substantial and heavy as he remembered his sister.

  “Glory! —Dog-gone, I’m glad to see you!” he said, and certainly returned the warm kiss she gave him, which struck him even more unusual than the poignant tone of her voice. Something had changed Jim Traft’s value in the eyes of his sister.

  “Jim, you can’t be—half as glad—as I am to see—you,” she panted, gayly, clinging to him. “Is this the—North Pole? Who are these young men? … Jim, I thought Arizona was desert—sunny, hot—all golden ranges and pine trees.”

  “Hey, boys, grab the bags,” ordered Jim, with a laugh. “Fetch them into the waiting-room.” Then he led Gloriana into the station, where it was light and warm. “The rig will be here in a minute. … Gosh! … I just don’t know you, Glory. Your eyes, maybe.”

  No one, not even a brother, would ever have been likely to forget Gloriana May’s eyes. At this moment they were traveling over Jim, brilliant with amaze.

  “I know you and I don’t. You great big handsome man. Oh, Jim, you’re so wonderfully different. Arizona has improved you. … I’ll bet you’ve fallen in love with some Western cowgirl.”

  Jim should have said she had guessed right the very first time, and he would have done so but for the something familiar and disconcerting that was merely Gloriana. Then the cowboys came bustling in with bags and suitcases. Even Uphill carried one with an air of importance. Curly disengaged himself from the excited group and strode forward. Sight of him filled Jim with glee, and a quick glance at Glory took in her eyes, fixed and beautiful. Now it was a natural function of Glory’s eyes, even in her most casual glance, to shine and glow and give illusion of a thousand thoughts that were not in her head at all. They were so alive, so speaking, so eloquent, so treacherously lovely, that Jim sustained a second thrill at sight of them.

  “A cowboy!” she whispered. “Jim, I believe you now.”

  It probably was a magnificent moment for Curly, but he did not betray that in the least.

  “Boss, Zeb is heah with the buckboard,” he announced, in his cool lazy way.

  “Gloriana, this is Curly Prentiss, one of my cowboys—and quite a cattleman in his own right,” introduced Jim. “Curly—my sister.”

  Curly doffed his sombrero and made a gallant bow that, though easy and slow like his voice, was as singularly pleasing.

  “Miss Traft, I shore am glad to meet you-all,” he said.

  “How do you do, Mr. Prentiss. I’m pleased to meet you,” she replied, with a dazzling smile. “You are my very first cowboy.”

  Gloriana May probably did not mean she had taken possession of Curly at first sight, but Jim saw that this identical circumstance had come to pass.

  “Wal,” drawled Curly, not in the least knocked off his balance, “I’m shore happy to be the first an’ I’ll see to it I’m the last.”

  “Oh,” laughed Glory, merrily, and turned to Jim with her first appreciation of a cowboy.

  The other boys lined up, with Uphill Frost hanging a little behind to hide his crutch. They presented a bright-eyed, shiny-faced coterie, at the moment devoid of any trace of devilment or horns and hoofs.

  “Boys, this is my sister Gloriana,” announced Jim. “Glory
, meet the rest of the Diamond, except two that are laid up for repairs. … Bud Chalfack.”

  Bud took a step out and his smile was cherubic. “Miss Gloriana I reckon there ain’t no one any gladder to welcome you to Arizonie.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chalfack. I’m happy to meet you,” replied Gloriana.

  “And this is Lonestar Holliday,” went on Jim. Lonestar in his eager confusion stepped on Bud’s foot and could not find words to answer Glory’s bright acknowledgement.

  “And Jackson Way … and Cherry Winters … and Uphill Frost. … There, Glory, you’ve made the acquaintance of most of the Diamond, which, according to Uncle Jim, is the most terrible cowboy outfit in Arizona.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Uncle Jim is wrong,” said Gloriana, sweetly. “They look very nice and mild to me—except Mr. Prentiss—who is quite terrifying with his gun and those awful spurs.”

  Somehow Jim got the impression from Glory’s speaking eyes that she meant Curly’s handsome presence was something calculated to stop the heart of a girl fresh from the East.

  Bud looked disgustedly at Curly, as if to say he had gone and done it again. If there was anything a cowboy hated it was to be thought nice and mild.

  “Miss Glory,” he spoke up, most winningly, and Jim made certain that the next time Bud addressed her it would be Glory minus the prefix, “there’s some cowpunchers who pack hardware all the time an’ sleep in their spurs. But they ain’t the dangerous kind.”

  Thus Jim saw with delight a new species of men and life dawn upon his bewildered sister. Likewise he perceived with fiendish glee that he was going to get even with the Diamond.

  “Carry the baggage out, boys,” he said. “We’ll go home to the ranch. … Curly, you can ride with us, so in case we meet any desperadoes or Indians they won’t get Glory.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  ON the way out Jim did not say anything to Glory about the room he had fixed up for her. In fact, he did not have much chance to talk, for Glory addressed her curiosity to Curly. Jim drove fast, so the wind would pierce through his sister, furs and all. It did.