The Hash Knife Outfit

by Zane Grey

  “I just wanted to ask. … Do you like her?”

  “Like! —I shore fell in love powerful deep. She’s—she’s—” But Molly could find no adequate word to express herself.

  Jim darted his head downward to give her a quick kiss. “Darling, I’d gamble my soul on you,” he whispered, gratefully. Then louder, “Did your mother like Glory?”

  “Shore. But she was aboot scared stiff. … An’, Jim, me too—a little.”

  “Well now, you mustn’t be. Glory said some mighty sweet things about you.”

  “Oh, Jim—tell me,” she begged, breathlessly.

  “Not much. I’ll keep them until I want something special out of you. Ha! Ha! —But they’re awfully nice. … Good night, Molly.”

  Jim found his uncle dozing before the living-room fire. “Wake up and tell me what I’m to do?”

  “Huh?” grunted Uncle Jim.

  “Wake up and talk to me,” replied Jim. “Did you like Glory? What on earth am I to do with two such girls on my hands? How can I keep the cowboys from murdering each other? Tell me what——”

  “One at a time, you Missouri rooster. … Wal, Glory is the most amazing girl I ever saw. Bright an’ smart as beautiful! She’s got a haid on her, Jim. An’ only nineteen. I reckon she’ll be a bitter pill for Molly. But Molly is true blue. She’ll be Western. In the end she an’ Glory will be sisters. Not soon, but you can bet on it. An’ your part is goin’ to be harder’n buildin’ the drift fence. Shore, Glory will upset the cowboys. Because she’s sweet, she’s nice, she’ll be interested in them—an’ the poor dumbhaids will reckon they can win her. At that she could do worse than be won by Curly or Bud or Jackson Way.”

  “I’ve come somewhere near that conclusion myself,” rejoined Jim, thoughtfully. “Confidentially, Uncle, I want to tell you Gloriana has come West for good.”

  “Fine!” ejaculated the rancher. “Is she thet sick? Or what——”

  “She’s not so sick as it appeared. Only run down. She got involved in an unfortunate affair back home. Took up with some flashy fellow—thought she loved him when she didn’t—and he turned out bad. Borrowed money from her and cheated money out of Dad. It hurt Glory with her crowd, which she was pretty sick of, anyhow, I guess. She’s the proudest of the whole raft of Trafts. … So she has turned to me, poor kid.”

  “Ahuh! —Wal, dog-gone! … Jim, you ain’t implyin’ some scoundrel ruined your sister?”

  “No, thank God,” returned Jim, fervently. “But he ruined her reputation, at least. Fellow named Ed Darnell. And Glory is sure he’ll show up out here.”

  “Wal, if he does I reckon it’ll be aboot the last place he ever shows up,” replied the cattleman, grimly.

  “I said as much. … So, Uncle, we’ve got the happiness and future of two wonderful girls to make. I swear I’m stumped. I’m scared. I’m struck pretty deep.”

  “Wal, it’s a problem, shore. But you’re young an’ you want results too quick.”

  “I can be patient. I’ll do everything under the sun. But suppose Molly gets upset by Glory? Scared of my family, so to speak.”

  “Wal, in thet case I’d put Glory up against the real stuff out heah. An’ have Molly with her. Thet’ll square the balance. Then they’ll learn from each other.”

  “It’s a good idea,” agreed Jim, almost with enthusiasm. “You mean put Glory up against rough outdoor life—horses, cowboys, camp, cold, heat, rain, dust and hail? Hard beds, poor feed, privation—danger—and so on?”

  “Shore, an’ so on. Put her up against everythin’ thet Molly knows.”

  “It’s risky, Uncle. Glory is not strong. It might kill her.”

  “Wal, you’d have to go slow an’ easy till she could just aboot stand it, an’ thet’s all.”

  “But, if it didn’t kill her—” mused Jim, fascinated by the memory of how terrible and wonderful the raw West had been to him. It was that which had won him for Molly Dunn; and now he regarded the stronger and primitive in him more desirable than any development he might have had in the East. The thing had to be gone through to be understood. Gloriana would succumb to it sooner than he had done, despite or probably because of her sensitive, feminine nature. And during this transition of his sister he was going to have trouble holding on to his sweetheart. Jim regretted that he had not persuaded Molly to marry him before Gloriana had come out. Could he do it yet? His mind whirled and his blood leaped at the suggestion. But it would not do, because Molly might suspect the reason. All of a sudden he realized that his uncle was talking.

  “Beg pardon, Uncle, I was lost.”

  “Wal, I was changin’ the subject,” replied the rancher. “Locke was in awhile ago an’ he’s got wind of Bambridge shippin’ steers tomorrow from Winslow. We was figurin’ thet it might be a good idea for you to run down there an’ look ’em over.”

  “Gee! In this weather?”

  “Wal, you forget we’re up high heah on the mountain slope. Winslow is down in the desert. Reckon there won’t be any snow. Anyway, weather never phases this Bambridge cattleman, thet’s shore.”

  “What’s the idea, Uncle?” asked Jim, soberly.

  “Bambridge doesn’t know you, nor none of his outfit, so Locke reckons. An’ you’ve never been in Winslow. You could look them steers over without bein’ recognized. An’ for thet matter it wouldn’t make a whole lot of difference if you were. … Whatever is comin’ of this Bambridge deal is shore comin’.”

  “Uncle Jim, you expect trouble with him?”

  “Son, I’ve seen a hundred Bambridges come an’ go. I know the brand. I’ve been forty years raisin’ steers. … Ten years ago a fine-spoken most damn likable fellow named Stokes drifted into Flag. Had money. Began to buy stock an’ sell. Soon was operatin’ big. Everybody his friend. But there was somethin’ aboot Stokes thet stuck in my craw. An’, Jim, I seen him hangin’ to a cottonwood tree—by the neck.”

  “Queer business, this cattle-raising,” mused Jim, darkly.

  “Wal, so long’s there are big open ranges there’ll be rustlers. An’ I reckon when the ranges are fenced the cattleman of my type an’ Bambridge, an’ Jed Stone, too, all will have passed. It’s a phase of the West.”

  “You regard Jed Stone as a cattleman?” queried Jim, in surprise.

  “Shore do. He’s a factor you’ve got to regard. Yellow Jacket belongs to you, legally, because I bought it, an’ gave it to you. But Stone shore thinks it belongs to him,” replied Traft, with a dry laugh.

  “Humph! And for what reason?”

  “He’s just been ridin’ it for years, thinkin’ it free range, same as the rest. But it’s a ranch, an’ two sections of land, twelve hundred acres, have been surveyed. The best water—an’ by the way, Jim, Yellow Jacket Spring is the wonderfulest in Arizona—an’ level ground are in thet surveyed plot. The corners were hid pretty well by the man who first owned the ranch. I haven’t been down there for years. But Locke has an’ he’s seen them. So we can prove our claim.”

  “Good heavens, Uncle!” exclaimed Jim. “Do you mean we may have to prove to an outlaw that we have a right to a piece of land you bought?”

  “Not Stone. You’ll have to prove it to him with guns. Haw! Haw! … But Bambridge, an’ mebbe thet cattleman who’s in with him—I forget the name—may want to see our proofs. Of course, son, nothin’ but a little fight may ever come of this. But I’ve a hunch Yellow Jacket will catch your eye. It did mine. It’s the wildest an’ most beautiful place to live I ever seen in Arizona. Yellow Jacket isn’t a valley, exactly. Really it’s a great wide canyon, with yellow walls. Protected from storms. Best place to hunt in Arizona. Bear, deer, turkey just thick. An’ very few hunters ever get in there, because it’s a long way an’ there’s plenty good huntin’ ranges closer. Lots of beaver left in Yellow Jacket an’ where there’s beaver you bet it’s wild.”

  “Well, I’ve set my heart on Yellow Jacket, Uncle Jim Traft,” declared Jim, forcefully. “And Slinger Dunn has a half interest in the stock running
there. That was the deal I made with him, you know, to get him into the Diamond.”

  “Shore, an’ you don’t know how good a deal it was. Wish Dunn could go to Winslow with you. … An’ come to think of it, Jim, you take Curly along.”

  “Fine. We’ll hop the early train.”

  In the nipping frosty dawn, Jim, clad in jeans and boots, and heavy leather jacket, stamped into the bunkhouse, and yelled, “Curly Prentiss!”

  Not a sound. The bunks might have been empty, only they were not. Jeff, the cook, stirred out in the kitchen, and asked through the door, “Boss, is the ranch-house on fire?”

  “No. I’ve got to go to Winslow. Fix some breakfast for two, Jeff. And rustle … Curly.”

  “I’m daid.”

  “Get up and into your jeans.”

  “Aw, Jim, I was oot late last night.”

  “Hurry, or I’ll ask Bud,” returned Jim, tersely.

  That fetched a lithe clean-limbed young giant thudding to the floor, and in the twinkling of an eye, almost, Curly was in his clothes. He stalked into the kitchen. “Water, Jeff, you sleepin’ cook, an’ if it’s not hot I’ll shoot at your toes.”

  Bud poked his cherub face above the blankets and blinked at Jim.

  “Funny how this reminds me of camp,” he said. “What’s wrong, Boss?”

  “I’m going to Winslow. Bambridge is shipping cattle, and I want to look over the bunch.”

  “Dog-gone-it, Jim, don’t go,” rejoined Bud, seriously.

  “I’m not stuck on going, but Uncle says go, and that settles it. … What do you know, you mum little geezer?”

  “Me? Aw, hell, I don’t know nuthin’ this early in the mawnin’. … Let me go along?”

  “I reckon I can’t, Bud. Uncle said take Curly.”

  “An’ why thet hombre especial? Looks ain’t everythin’ in a cowpuncher.”

  “Well, Bud, I think Uncle is worried about you and the other boys. You need sleep and rest, he says.”

  “Like hell he does! … Jim, I don’t like this hyar deal atall,” complained Bud.

  “I asked you what you knew.”

  “Sure, I heerd you,” replied Bud, innocently. “Jim, are my eyes pore or is thet a gun you’re packin’?”

  “Yep. I’ve got in the habit, you know, since I bossed the Diamond.”

  “But some of these days you’ll be throwin’ it, sure. Jim, you’ve got a rotten temper. An’ you oughtn’t be trusted with a gun, onless the outfit was around.”

  Curly came in, his tawny hair damp and tousled, his cheeks rosy as a girl’s.

  “Shet up, you little monkey,” he admonished, glaring at his bosom friend.

  “All right,” said Bud, sinking back in his blankets. “It shore won’t be on my haid. But I’m tellin’ you, Boss, Curly has been plumb crazy since——”

  Bud narrowly escaped a well-aimed bootjack, which thumped hard on the wall, and he succumbed. But the noise awoke other of the cowboys.

  “Injuns! We’re attacked,” ejaculated Uphill Frost, still half asleep.

  “I smell ham,” said Lonestar Holliday. “What’n’ll’s goin’ on around heah?”

  Jim and Curly went into the kitchen, shutting the door, and they warmed their palms over Jeff’s fire until breakfast was ready. Curly was not his usual bright self, which might have been owing to the night before, of which he had hinted, but also it might have been the portent of Jim’s early call. They had breakfast and hurried out into the snow. The morning was still, with the frost crackling, and the fence posts glittering with sunshine on the snow. Curly had little to say until they reached the station.

  “Ring Locke was in last night,” announced Curly, “an’ he shore had bad news.”

  “Thought you were out late?” queried Jim, gruffly.

  “Wal, I wasn’t. Ring got wind of this heah Bambridge shippin’. Dog-gone-it, Ring’s always gettin’ tipped off aboot things we don’t want to heah. He has too many friends.”

  “Wait till we’re on the train,” replied Jim, tersely. The station-room and platform were not the places just then for indiscriminate speech. Cowboys, cattlemen, Mexican laborers, and other passengers for this early train, were noisily in evidence.

  When they got into the train, to find a seat somewhat isolated from those occupied, Jim whispered, “What did Locke hear?”

  “Some darn fool sent him word there were Diamond steers in thet bunch of stock Bambridge is shippin’.”

  “So that’s it? Uncle didn’t tell me Locke said that. … The nerve of this Bambridge! … Curly, what’re you growling about?”

  “Locke ought to have kept his big mouth shet. … We shore cussed him last night.”

  “And why?”

  “’Cause we all knew what’d come off pronto. Old Traft would send you down there, an’ if you saw any steers with our brand you’d go right to Bambridge an’ tell him.”

  “I should smile I would.”

  Curly threw up his hands, an expressive gesture of his when he was helpless, which in truth was not often.

  “Why shouldn’t I tell him, cowboy?” queried Jim, somewhat nettled. How long it took to understand these queer cattlemen!

  “Wal, we reckon Bambridge oughtn’t know we’re suspicious, till we’ve had a spell at Yellow Jacket.”

  “But, Curly, surely Locke and Uncle Jim know more what is best than you cowboys.”

  “Hellyes. But they don’t have to do the fightin’.”

  The way Curly spat out those words, as well as their content, gave Jim a breath-arresting moment. Indeed it was true—Locke was an aggressive superintendent, and the old rancher a stern and ruthless dealer with crooked cattlemen. No more was said then, and Jim gazed out at the speeding white and black landscape. The pines had given place to cedars and piñons, and these soon made way for sagebrush. The snow thinned out, and when the train got down on the open desert the white began to give way to the yellow of grass and occasional green tuft of sage or grease-wood.

  CHAPTER

  7

  THE Hash Knife were back from a drive, the nature of which showed in their begrimed, weary faces, their baggy eyes, and the ragged condition of their garb.

  “Home!” croaked Malloy, flinging his crooked length down before the fire Stone was building.

  “My Gawd!” ejaculated Stone, staring at the little gunman. And his men simulated his look if not his speech. The idea of Croak Malloy giving expression to such a word as home was so striking as to be incongruous, not to say funny.

  “Did you ever have a home?” added the outlaw leader, more curious than scornful.

  “Aw, you can’t gibe me,” replied Malloy, imperturbably. “What I mean is hyar’s rest an’ comfort—after a hell of a job.”

  “It shore was,” agreed Pecos.

  “An’ ain’t it good to be down out of the snow an’ thet damn Tonto wind,” said Madden. “Like spring down hyar at Yellow Jacket. It smells different.”

  “Wal, we’ll sit tight till spring, you can gamble on thet,” spoke up the gambler, Carr.

  “Mebbe we will,” interposed Jed Stone, sarcastically, yet not without pathos.

  “Aw hell!” bit out Malloy. “Jed, don’t begin your belly-achin’, now we’re home. We’ve got supplies till spring, plenty of drink an’ money to gamble with. Let’s forget it an’ be happy.”

  Sonora came in dragging a pack, and young Frank Reed followed. Lang, the ex-sheriff, also appeared heavily laden. It was about midday, and outside the sun shone brightly warm. The air was cool and sweet with sage and cedar, and had a hint of spring, though the time was early December.

  “Reckon Jed built thet fire ’cause he’s so absent-minded,” remarked some one.

  “No, I want a cup of coffee. I’m soured on whisky. … At that it ain’t bad to be back in the old cabin. … ——Bambridge anyhow!”

  “He shore pulled a rummy deal,” said Pecos, his tone harmonizing with Stone’s.

  “Wal, no one much ain’t a-goin’ to connect the Hash Kn
ife with thet winter shippin’ of stock. So what the hell?” replied Malloy. “But it wasn’t a slick trick to turn.”

  For Malloy to show disapproval of a cattle-steal seemed to prove it was the last word in bold and careless rustling.

  “Bambridge will skip Arizona pronto,” put in Anderson, wagging his shaggy head. “I’d have give my pipe to see thet young Traft call him.”

  “So would I—an’ some more,” said Stone, thoughtfully. “Nervy youngster. … Frank, tell me about it again.”

  “Boss, I told you twice,” complained Reed.

  “Sure. But we was on the trail an’ it was cold an’ windy. You made it short an’ sweet, too. … Here’s a cigar.”

  Thus importuned the young cowboy rustler lighted the cigar, smiling his satisfaction, and settled himself comfortably.

  “I was in Chance’s saloon after the shippin’, an’ I heard a man say, ‘damn funny about thet Bambridge cattle-drive. I went by the railroad stockyards late last night, ’cause I live out thet way. There wasn’t no cattle there. An’ next mornin’ at daylight the pen was full of bawlin’ steers.’”

  “Haw! Haw!” croaked Malloy, gleefully, rubbing his thin brown hands.

  “Laugh, you frog!” exclaimed Stone, darkly. “Thet drive was another blunder. We ought to have left the cattle at Bambridge’s ranch, which I wanted to do. But he got sore. … An’ well—Frank——”

  “We drove the stock in at midnight, as you-all ain’t forgettin’,” resumed Reed, puffing his cigar. “It was a slick job fer any cowpunchin’ outfit. An’ next mornin’ at ten o’clock them steers was all on a stock train, ready to move. Thet was another slick job. … I stayed at Chance’s, sleepin’ in a chair, an’ went out to the yards after breakfast. Already the railroad men was movin’ the cars to the pen. There wasn’t no cowboy in sight ’till thet mornin’ train from Flag come in. Then I seen Curly Prentiss. Used to ride under him when he had charge of the U Bar. He had a young fellar with him thet turned out to be Jim Traft. They watched the cattle fer about two minutes. No more! An’ young Traft jumped right up an’ down. You could see Prentiss talkin’ turkey to him. I made it my business to foller them back to the station. An’ you bet your life Curly Prentiss seen me. There ain’t much thet hombre doesn’t see. But it was safe, I reckon, ’cause nobody knows I’m with the Hash Knife. Prentiss an’ Traft went in the freight office, an’ I ducked in the station. As luck would have it, Bambridge came in with a dark-complected fellar, sporty dressed, an’ good-Iookin’. I edged over an’ heard Bambridge ask: ‘Where you from?’ The fellar said St. Louis. ‘What do you know about cattle?’ He said nuthin’, but he happened to know a stock-buyer in Kansas City who told him to hunt up George Bambridge, if he was goin’ to Arizona. ‘An’ who’s this stockman?’ asked Bambridge, quick like. He said, ‘Darnell’—I got thet name straight. ‘Come to my office up town later in the day. I’m busy now with this cattle shipment.’ … He was shore goin’ to be damn busy in a minnit, only he didn’t guess it. Just then Prentiss an’ Traft come in. They was both packin’ guns, which was funny only for Traft, I reckon. Prentiss sleeps in a gun. They looked kinda fire-eyed, an’ Traft stopped Bambridge right in the middle of the station, an’ he was in a hurry, too.”