The Hash Knife Outfit

by Zane Grey

  Reed leisurely drew on his cigar, and puffing out a white cloud of smoke he looked at Stone and Malloy and Lang and Pecos and the others, as if to note if his story was having any effect. Malloy had a sardonic grin. Lang was pale for a weather-beaten outdoor man. Anderson wore an intent anxious expression.

  “Talk, an’ come to the point,” ordered Stone, in cold, testy voice.

  “Not much more,” replied Reed, casually. “Traft asked, ‘Are you George Bambridge?’—an’ he got a short answer.

  “‘You’re shippin’ some of my steers,’ snapped Traft.

  “Bambridge turned red as a turkey gobbler’s comb. The hell you say, my young cowpuncher! An’ who may you be?’

  “‘My name is Traft,’ said thet young cowpuncher, an’ he said it loud.

  “Bambridge went white now. ‘Jim Traft’s nephew?’

  “‘Yes, an’ you’re shippin’ steers with my brand.’

  “‘What brand is thet?’ jerked out Bambridge, sort of husky. He was madder’n hellsfire.

  “‘Diamond brand.’

  “‘Ahuhm, I see.’ … Bambridge sort of pulled himself together. ‘Sorry, Mr. Traft. Mistakes happen. This is a rush order. An’ them Yellow Jacket steers of yours overrun my range. An’ I’m runnin’ some new cowhands. Send me a bill.’

  “‘No, Mr. Bambridge, I’ll not send you a bill now, but I’ll send a telegram East to have a count made of the Diamond steers in this shipment,’ said Traft, an’ he shore looked a lot.

  “‘You call me a liar—an’ a cattle thief?’ busted out Bambridge, movin’ a hand back.

  “‘No. An’ don’t pull a gun. This gentleman with me is Curly Prentiss. … I didn’t say you was a liar an’ a thief. But this shipment has a queer look an’ I’ll not be satisfied till it’s been counted over.’

  “‘I tell you if there’s Diamond steers on that train it’s only a mistake. Any rancher makes mistakes when he’s rushed,’ yelled Bambridge.

  “‘No, any rancher doesn’t make such mistakes!’

  “‘Every cattleman drives stock sometimes thet ain’t his.’

  “‘But not branded stock.’

  “‘Your Uncle does it. An’ fer thet matter he’s as much of a cattle thief as Blodgett, or Babbitt, or me—or any—’

  “‘Don’t you call my uncle a thief,’ broke in young Jim. An’ he cracked Bambridge square on his ugly mug. You ought to have heard thet fist. Sounded like hittin’ a beef with an ax. Bambridge fell all over himself—damn near knockin’ down the stove, an’ he didn’t get up. It was a good thing he was knocked out, fellars, for when I looked at Traft again there he was waitin’ with a gun, an’ Prentiss was standin’ far over to one side.”

  “Pretty,” croaked Malloy, with relish.

  “Is thet all?” asked Stone, tersely.

  “Jest about. Some men got around Bambridge an’ helped him up. I seen Prentiss eyein’ me sort of sharp, so I ducked back to Chance’s an’ hid there till early next mornin’.”

  “Bambridge is a damn fool,” burst out Stone. “An’ I was the same for dealin’ with him.”

  “Looks like young Traft has done us a good turn,” said Anderson, with satisfaction.

  “It shore does, Boss,” added Pecos, quietly. “He throwed the light on Bambridge.”

  Others of the group attested to the same conviction.

  “Well, yes, I reckon—mebbe,” agreed the leader. “But it’ll only make old Jim Traft sorer.”

  “Jed, the fact that you once rode fer Traft an’ stood well with him sticks by you like a fish-bone in the throat,” observed Anderson. “We’ve all seen better days. We was all different once—onless mebbe Croak there, who hasn’t changed a damn iota since he was born.”

  “What’s a iota?” inquired the subject of this remark. “Sounds somethin’ like I-O-U, which you’ll all be doin’ pronto.”

  “Men,” said Stone, “I’ll split this money I got fer this last job, an’ let myself out.”

  “Thet ain’t fair,” objected Malloy, who was strict in regard to shares of spoil. He had been a bandit at an earlier stage of his career. “You did thet last time.”

  “An’ spoiled my settin’ in for you an’ Carr to fleece? It’s jest as well. I’d be broke soon, anyhow.”

  “Reckon thet four-flush rancher owes you quite a wad?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “— — —!” cursed Malloy, in consternation. “Jed, he’s goin’ to do you. Sure as shootin’!”

  “He’d better not, or there’ll be a little shootin’,” declared the chief, grimly. “But I don’t mind admittin’ thet the Hash Knife has struck a snag in this same high-talkin’ crooked cattleman.”

  Stone left his men to their profanity and humor, both of which expended some force over the debt Bambridge owed him, and he went outside to walk around the familiar grounds.

  December was on the way, but it was like spring down here in this protected spot. The air was crisp and full of tang. Blue jays were squalling and black squirrels chattering. A faint sound of wind from the pines above came down, and was almost drowned by the mellow roar of the brook that ran through the boulder-strewn, sycamore-lined glen just below the cabin. There were gold and green leaves still on the sycamores, which was another proof of the peculiar climate of Yellow Jacket.

  Stone strolled under the great checker-barked junipers. Bear signs not yet old showed on the brown matted earth, and gave him peculiar satisfaction with its suggestion of the loneliness of this canyon. That feeling did not survive long. He had a premonition that the race of the long notorious Hash Knife was about run. None of his men shared that with him, and not improbably the big ranchers of the Mogollans and the Little Colorado Range would have scouted the idea. But Stone knew better than any of them; and this home-coming, as he bitterly called it, back to Yellow Jacket, had made him pretty sick. He was weary with the toil, the devious crooked ways, the sweat and blood, and, yes, the ignominy of the Hash Knife. He confessed it to himself for the first time, and realized it as a factor that would lead to something drastic.

  He walked under the pines and spruces, across the log bridge over the brook, where many a time he had angled for trout in the amber water, and under the vine-covered, fern-fringed walls. In places he waded through leaves up to his knees, brown, dry, rustling oak leaves that gave up an acrid dust. And he went back and along the high bank to the beautiful glen where Yellow Jacket Spring poured its amber flood from under huge mossy rocks. From that high point he surveyed the gray-green valley, with its rock walls, its open range of bleached grass, silver in the sunlight, its many groves of cedar and pine, its numberless slopes of shaggy oaks, which the bear and deer and turkey haunted in the early fall, its black timber belt along the rims. All these features presented the isolated confines of the canyon itself. Below, the gray-walled gateway opened into the wildest and most rugged range in Arizona, a wilderness of rock and brush and forest, grassy ridges, brawling streams, thickets of manzanita and mescal, towering cliffs and canyons where no sunlight entered—altogether a big country which only the Apaches had ever thoroughly explored.

  Toward the lower end of this country, perhaps forty miles as a crow flies, it was barred from the open range by Clear Creek Canyon. Beyond lay the Little Colorado Range, where the rich cattlemen operated.

  Yellow Jacket possessed a very singular feature. High and isolated and inclosed as it was, it yet looked down, at least through that narrow gateway, upon the desert which sloped away into purple infinitude. For that country it had the right altitude, neither too high nor too low, and its walls held back the winds and reflected the sunlight.

  Some years back Stone had indulged in the illusion that he was going to own Yellow Jacket. Bambridge had promised to give it to him. But Bambridge had failed to get possession, and Stone’s dream of quitting the outlaw game and settling down to honest ranching had been dispelled. He hated Bambridge for that, though he blamed himself for indulging in dreams. Hunted man as he was, the plan co
uld have been carried out. Arizona was quick to recognize a cattleman whose shady dealings were in the past.

  From that hour Jed Stone was more than ever a preoccupied man, wandering around the canyon during sunny hours, sitting in favorite places, or smoking by the camp fire. His gambling comrades, intent on their daily gains or losses, saw nothing of the almost imperceptible change in their leader. Anderson hunted every day, supplying the camp with fresh meat, while he stuck to his trade of trapping fur, even though he had been an outlaw for years. Sonora was the trusted scout of the band, always watching the trails. Pecos, the Texan, dreamed away his life. The rest of them staked their ill-gotten gold on the turn of a card.

  Stone had something on his mind, and it was not only the slow disintegration of the once virile Hash Knife outfit, and therefore the decline of his leadership, but a realization that for the first time in his life he leaned toward betrayal of those who trusted him. And loyalty was the predominating trait of his personality. It was loyalty to a friend that had lost him his place among honest cattlemen.

  One afternoon, Jed, returning from a walk up the brook, heard a shot. Rifle-shots were not rare around camp, but this came from a small gun of heavy caliber. It had a dull, ominous sound that echoed from the walls. Upon reaching the cabin he saw some of his men standing in a group—the kind of group he had seen so often and which suggested so much.

  “Croak jest shot Carr,” said Pecos, coolly and slowly; but there was a glint in his eyes.

  “What for?” demanded Stone.

  “Ask him.”

  Stone hesitated at the threshold of the cabin door. He did not trust Malloy, or was it that he did not trust himself? Then he entered. The little outlaw sat at the rude table, smoking a cigarette and shuffling a deck of cards. Carr lay humped over a bench, his head resting on the floor.

  “Is he dead?” queried Stone, asking a superfluous question.

  “Thet’s funny,” replied Malloy, with his little croaking laugh.

  “Not so damn funny!” retorted the leader. “What’d you shoot him for?”

  “Boss, he cheated at cairds,” returned Malloy, almost plaintively.

  It was Stone’s turn to laugh. Malloy’s statement was preposterous, if not in fact, then certainly in significance.

  “Sure he cheated. But you all turn a trick when you can. Carr was the slickest. You had no call to kill him for what you do yourself.”

  “Wal, he won all the money. Thet’s the difference.”

  “Ahuh. I see. It’s shore a big difference. An’ where’s all this money Carr won?”

  “He was stuffin’ his pockets an’ laughin’ at us,” said Malloy, with heat. “Thet made me sore. An’ I cussed him fer bein’ a caird sharp. Then, Boss, he got mean an’ personal. He swore I stacked the cairds, which you all know is a lie, ’cause I can’t do it. The best trick I know is to slip an ace from the pack or hold out a hand. An’ the damn gambler threw thet in my face.”

  Stone called the men in from outside. “Search Carr an’ put what he has on the table. Then take him out an’ bury him—an’ make it a good long way from this cabin.”

  “Boss, what’re you goin’ to do with it?” asked Malloy, as the heaps of gold coin and rolls of greenbacks were thumped upon the table.

  “Divide it, accordin’ to what each of you lost.”

  Then arose an argument among the gamesters over what amounts Carr had won from them. Lang and Madden, and especially young Reed, lied about it. Malloy frankly admitted he did not know how much he had lost, but certainly all that he had. Stone finally adjusted the difficulty by giving each the exact sum he had portioned out to them as their share of the recent cattle-drive. This caused some grumbling. And it turned out that Stone himself, with the aid of Pecos, had to carry Carr out into the woods and bury him.

  “Much good his stone face done him,” said the outlaw leader, wiping the sweat from his face.

  “Shore not much,” agreed the Texan. “Boss, I reckon Carr got his deserts. He was aimin’ to slope with all thet money.”

  “You don’t say? Who told you?” asked Stone, in surprise.

  “Carr told me aboot it. Made no bones of braggin’ he’d quit the outfit soon as he’d won our pile.”

  “Did he ever say thet before Croak?”

  “Shore. We all heahed him.”

  “Then thet was why Croak shot him.”

  “I reckoned so myself.”

  “Pecos, do you hold this job as good or bad for the Hash Knife?”

  “Wal, both, I reckon. Carr riled the fellars, most of the time. He was a disorganizer. Bad hombre for a business like ours. On the other hand, the fact that he meant to double-cross us an’ thet Croak killed him in cold blood shore is serious. … Boss, the Hash Knife is ailin’ from dry rot.”

  “Ahuh. … Money too easy—no hard work like we used to have—this two-faced Bambridge——”

  Pecos nodded his lean hawklike head, acquiescing silently to the leader’s unfinished speech.

  Two mornings later, rather early, for Madden and Lang were cleaning up after breakfast, Stone was surprised by Sonora darting in the cabin door with his noiseless swift step.

  “Boss, somebody comin’,” he whispered.

  “Who?”

  “Cowboy—on foot.”

  “Sit tight, all of you,” ordered Stone, and faced the door. Then Sonora told him that there was a camp somewhere down outside the gateway of the canyon. He had smelled smoke and had started to hunt for it when he had espied this lone cowboy approaching up the trail.

  After a long wait a leisurely footfall was heard outside. A shadow fell across the sunny threshold. Then came a knock.

  “Hello! Anybody home?” called a clear voice.

  “Come in,” replied Stone.

  A tall, lithe-limbed, broad-shouldered young man stepped into sight. He was bareheaded, and the sun shone on a tanned open countenance.

  “I’m looking for Jed Stone,” he announced, frankly.

  “Wal, you’re lookin’ at him,” replied the outlaw, tersely. “An’ who may you be, stranger?”

  “Boss, it’s young Jim Traft,” spoke up Reed, excitedly.

  “Yes. But I can talk for myself,” returned the young visitor, with a flash of sharp hazel eyes at Reed.

  “Jim Traft! … What you want?” exclaimed Stone, in slow amaze.

  “I want a straight talk with you.”

  “Wal, young fellar, thet ain’t hard to get, though most ranchin’ folks reckon they’d get straight shootin’ instead.”

  “I’d like to talk to you alone,” said Traft, eagerly.

  “No. What you have to say to me you’ll say in front of my outfit.”

  “Very well, then,” rejoined Traft, slowly, and he sat down on a box in the broad sunlight that flared through the wide door. He did not appear to be hurried or nervous; indeed, for an Easterner not long in the West he was exceedingly cool. Stone liked his face, the keen curious light of hazel eyes, and his manner. And the thought stung Stone that twenty years ago he was very like this young man. Traft glanced casually over the Hash Knife outfit, his gaze lingering longest on Croak Malloy, who sat on the floor, leaning against a pack, and for once his expression was one of interest. Though the little gunman did not realize it, he had respect for courage.

  “First off, my Uncle Jim didn’t advise me to call on you. I’ve done that on my own hook,” said Traft.

  “Wal, you needn’t of told me thet,” observed Stone.

  “I’ve made my mind up ever since I got out of that fight at Tobe’s Well—to try common sense.”

  “It ain’t a bad idea, if the other party has any.”

  “Stone, would it surprise you to learn my uncle speaks well of you?” queried the young rancher.

  “Reckon it would,” replied Stone, slowly. And a pang rent his heart.

  “He has done so. To me, and I’ve heard the same to others. He said twenty years ago he knew you and you rode for him—and there wasn’t a finer or squarer c
owboy in Arizona. He said you must have been driven to outlawry. Anyway, you never had been and you never would be a cattle thief at heart. … And it was a damn pity.”

  Stone felt a rush of hot blood to his face, and a cold tightness of skin as the wave receded. His breast seemed to cave with a sickening pain. So old Jim Traft spoke openly that way about him? Somehow it had a terrible significance, almost a fatality, coming at this hour. Malloy’s hollow croaking laugh jarred on him.

  “Wal—thet was—good of Jim—but I reckon—wasted sympathy,” he replied, rather hoarsely.

  “I’m not concerned with the truth of it—though I believe my uncle,” went on Traft. “It just encouraged me to call on you and have a talk.”

  “No harm done, young fellar, but shore a little risky.”

  “I didn’t see it. Curly Prentiss called me a crazy tenderfoot. And Slinger Dunn swore it was ten to one I’d not come back. But I couldn’t see it that way. I’m not packing a gun or looking for trouble.”