The overland train ground to a stop at the little station of Sibley Junction, unloaded one passenger and a couple of heavy valises, and then hurried on, as if glad to get away.Sibley Junction consisted of the depot, a water-tank and a saloon. The depot and water-tank were on one side of the railroad; the saloon was on the other. The saloon was a weatherbeaten, false-fronted structure, one side of which still bore traces of having been decorated with a circus poster.There was no sidewalk, no awning. The false-front leaned back, as if weary of it all. The surrounding hills were hazy with the afternoon heat, and the dust from the passing train seemed to hang suspended in the windless atmosphere. There was no sign of life, except two saddled horses dozing at the hitch-rack beside the saloon.The lone passenger from the overland picked up his valises and walked heavily to the waiting-room of the depot, dropped the valises and mopped his red face. He was a big man, square-headed, heavy-jawed, well dressed. His baggage was of expensive leather. He looked around sourly as the head and shoulders of a sleepy-eyed depot-agent appeared at the ticket window.“Howdy, Mr. Moran,” said the man with the sleepy eyes. “I kinda thought somebody got off Number Six.”“Yeah!” grunted Franklyn Moran.“Goin’ over to Turquoise City, eh?”“Yeah. Train on time?”“Might be here on time tomorrow—not today. They went in the ditch this side of Wiebold, and the report is that they won’t move nothin’ over this jerkwater line for at least twenty-four hours, Mr. Moran. I’m sorry.”Moran almost exploded. Slim Regan’s telegram had caused him to drop everything and head for Turquoise City. And here he was, twenty-five miles away, with no hotel, no livery-stable, no way for him to travel that twenty-five miles, except on foot.“That means I can’t get a train to Turquoise until tomorrow, eh?”“Probably about tomorrow even’.”“Anybody around here got a horse I could buy or rent?”“I don’t think so.”“I saw two horses over at the saloon rack.”“Couple of strange cowboys. They rode in today from the Outpost country. Been punching cows for the Muller outfit.”“I wonder if they’re headin’ for Turquoise City?”“I don’t think so. They asked about the Long Bend country.”“Maybe I better take a look at ’em. I’ll leave my baggage here.”Moran mopped his face again and crossed the track to the saloon. It was a dusty, fly-specked place. The bartender was humped over in a chair, reading a paper-backed novel; a gray cat was curled up on the end of the bar, and at the one card table sat two dusty cowboys, eating canned salmon, peaches and crackers.Moran stopped at the bar and looked around. The bartender showed mild interest, marking the page of his book by crimping a page. The two cowboys did not even show mild interest. One of them was very tall and thin, with a long, serious face, which just now he was stuffing with food. The other was of medium height, broad-shouldered, with very wide blue eyes and a deeply-lined face. Their well worn garb was typical of the cow-country.“I’ll buy a drink,” invited Moran.The tall cowboy swallowed heavily and shook his head.“Thank you just the same,” he said pleasantly. “We tried it.”“They don’t know good liquor,” said the bartender rather plaintively, and getting to his feet.“I reckon that’s right,” nodded the tall one, digging into the salmon can with his pocket-knife.“Beer?” queried Moran.The tall one grimaced.“Hot. There ain’t been no ice here since the glacial period.”“What’ll you have?” asked the bartender.Moran considered.“Anything cold?”The bartender rubbed his chin ruefully.“Not that I’ve seen. Been pretty hot lately.”“I guess I don’t want anything, thank you.”“Uh-huh.”The bartender went back to his novel, and Moran sat down near the two cowboys.“I’m Franklyn Moran,” he told them, “from Chicago. I own the Big 4 ranch near Turquoise City.”“What former experience have you had, and why did you leave your last place?” queried the blue-eyed cowboy seriously.“Eh?” said Moran.“I was just thinkin’ how I’d hate to live here,” said the blue-eyed one seriously.“Mm-m-m-m,” muttered Moran. He knew that wasn’t what the cowboy had said.“It’s all right, after you get used to it,” said the bartending bookworm.“That may be,” smiled Moran. “I expected to catch that afternoon train to Turquoise City, and find that there’s a wreck which will take twenty-four hours to clear. I’d give twenty-five dollars for a horse to ride to the Big 4 ranch.”“Twenty-five dollars for twenty-five miles?” queried the bartender.“It’s worth it to me,” declared Moran. “If one of you boys will let me have a horse—”“You must be in a hurry,” observed the tall cowboy. He wiped his lips and prepared to roll a cigaret.“I am. That’s my offer. I’d even ride double.”“What kind of a place is this Turquoise City?”“Wide open town. You boys lookin’ for work?”“No-o-o-o, lookin’ for a job. We’re too intelligent to look for work, pardner.”Moran smiled and offered them cigars, which were declined.“How about my offer?” he asked anxiously.The tall one elevated his eyebrows and looked at his companion.“I’ll tell you what we will do with you,” said the short one. “You can ride my bronc, if you’ll pay twenty-five dollars and give me a railroad ticket to that town. I’ll wait for the train tomorrow afternoon.”“Cinch!” Moran dug in his pocket and drew out a ticket. “Here’s mine. How soon do we start?”“Right now, if the bartender will let me have half of his bed tonight,” said the short one.“Pleased to have you,” nodded the bartender. “I won’t have to talk to myself tonight.”“I’ll leave my baggage with you,” said Moran.“All right.”They threw the empty cans outside and went to the horses. The cowboys helped Moran adjust the stirrups to the proper length.“My name’s ‘Hashknife’ Hartley,” said the tall cowboy. “This pardner of mine is named Stevens. Folks call him ‘Sleepy,’ ’cause he ain’t.”“Well, I’m both glad and lucky to meet you,” laughed Moran. “There’s some trouble over in Turquoise City, and I’m anxious to get over there.”“Trouble, eh?” Hashknife Hartley’s long nose twitched.Moran mounted and picked up his reins. Sleepy Stevens was looking at Hashknife, a queer expression in his blue eyes.“Seems there is,” nodded Moran. “Ready?”“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife. He turned to Sleepy.“Don’t miss that train, pardner; I’ll be lookin’ for you.”Sleepy nodded solemnly and watched them ride away. Finally he cuffed his Stetson over on one side of his head, spat disgustedly and walked back toward the saloon.“Trouble!” he snorted aloud. “By God, there wasn’t nothin’ but a depot and a saloon, a depot-agent and a bartender —and we found trouble jist the same.”
The overland train ground to a stop at the little station of Sibley Junction, unloaded one passenger and a couple of heavy valises, and then hurried on, as if glad to get away.
Sibley Junction consisted of the depot, a water-tank and a saloon. The depot and water-tank were on one side of the railroad; the saloon was on the other. The saloon was a weatherbeaten, false-fronted structure, one side of which still bore traces of having been decorated with a circus poster.
There was no sidewalk, no awning. The false-front leaned back, as if weary of it all. The surrounding hills were hazy with the afternoon heat, and the dust from the passing train seemed to hang suspended in the windless atmosphere. There was no sign of life, except two saddled horses dozing at the hitch-rack beside the saloon.
The lone passenger from the overland picked up his valises and walked heavily to the waiting-room of the depot, dropped the valises and mopped his red face. He was a big man, square-headed, heavy-jawed, well dressed. His baggage was of expensive leather. He looked around sourly as the head and shoulders of a sleepy-eyed depot-agent appeared at the ticket window.
“Howdy, Mr. Moran,” said the man with the sleepy eyes. “I kinda thought somebody got off Number Six.”
“Yeah!” grunted Franklyn Moran.
“Goin’ over to Turquoise City, eh?”
“Yeah. Train on time?”
“Might be here on time tomorrow—not today. They went in the ditch this side of Wiebold, and the report is that they won’t move nothin’ over this jerkwater line for at least twenty-four hours, Mr. Moran. I’m sorry.”
Moran almost exploded. Slim Regan’s telegram had caused him to drop everything and head for Turquoise City. And here he was, twenty-five miles away, with no hotel, no livery-stable, no way for him to travel that twenty-five miles, except on foot.
“That means I can’t get a train to Turquoise until tomorrow, eh?”
“Probably about tomorrow even’.”
“Anybody around here got a horse I could buy or rent?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I saw two horses over at the saloon rack.”
“Couple of strange cowboys. They rode in today from the Outpost country. Been punching cows for the Muller outfit.”
“I wonder if they’re headin’ for Turquoise City?”
“I don’t think so. They asked about the Long Bend country.”
“Maybe I better take a look at ’em. I’ll leave my baggage here.”
Moran mopped his face again and crossed the track to the saloon. It was a dusty, fly-specked place. The bartender was humped over in a chair, reading a paper-backed novel; a gray cat was curled up on the end of the bar, and at the one card table sat two dusty cowboys, eating canned salmon, peaches and crackers.
Moran stopped at the bar and looked around. The bartender showed mild interest, marking the page of his book by crimping a page. The two cowboys did not even show mild interest. One of them was very tall and thin, with a long, serious face, which just now he was stuffing with food. The other was of medium height, broad-shouldered, with very wide blue eyes and a deeply-lined face. Their well worn garb was typical of the cow-country.
“I’ll buy a drink,” invited Moran.
The tall cowboy swallowed heavily and shook his head.
“Thank you just the same,” he said pleasantly. “We tried it.”
“They don’t know good liquor,” said the bartender rather plaintively, and getting to his feet.
“I reckon that’s right,” nodded the tall one, digging into the salmon can with his pocket-knife.
“Beer?” queried Moran.
The tall one grimaced.
“Hot. There ain’t been no ice here since the glacial period.”
“What’ll you have?” asked the bartender.
Moran considered.
“Anything cold?”
The bartender rubbed his chin ruefully.
“Not that I’ve seen. Been pretty hot lately.”
“I guess I don’t want anything, thank you.”
“Uh-huh.”
The bartender went back to his novel, and Moran sat down near the two cowboys.
“I’m Franklyn Moran,” he told them, “from Chicago. I own the Big 4 ranch near Turquoise City.”
“What former experience have you had, and why did you leave your last place?” queried the blue-eyed cowboy seriously.
“Eh?” said Moran.
“I was just thinkin’ how I’d hate to live here,” said the blue-eyed one seriously.
“Mm-m-m-m,” muttered Moran. He knew that wasn’t what the cowboy had said.
“It’s all right, after you get used to it,” said the bartending bookworm.
“That may be,” smiled Moran. “I expected to catch that afternoon train to Turquoise City, and find that there’s a wreck which will take twenty-four hours to clear. I’d give twenty-five dollars for a horse to ride to the Big 4 ranch.”
“Twenty-five dollars for twenty-five miles?” queried the bartender.
“It’s worth it to me,” declared Moran. “If one of you boys will let me have a horse—”
“You must be in a hurry,” observed the tall cowboy. He wiped his lips and prepared to roll a cigaret.
“I am. That’s my offer. I’d even ride double.”
“What kind of a place is this Turquoise City?”
“Wide open town. You boys lookin’ for work?”
“No-o-o-o, lookin’ for a job. We’re too intelligent to look for work, pardner.”
Moran smiled and offered them cigars, which were declined.
“How about my offer?” he asked anxiously.
The tall one elevated his eyebrows and looked at his companion.
“I’ll tell you what we will do with you,” said the short one. “You can ride my bronc, if you’ll pay twenty-five dollars and give me a railroad ticket to that town. I’ll wait for the train tomorrow afternoon.”
“Cinch!” Moran dug in his pocket and drew out a ticket. “Here’s mine. How soon do we start?”
“Right now, if the bartender will let me have half of his bed tonight,” said the short one.
“Pleased to have you,” nodded the bartender. “I won’t have to talk to myself tonight.”
“I’ll leave my baggage with you,” said Moran.
“All right.”
They threw the empty cans outside and went to the horses. The cowboys helped Moran adjust the stirrups to the proper length.
“My name’s ‘Hashknife’ Hartley,” said the tall cowboy. “This pardner of mine is named Stevens. Folks call him ‘Sleepy,’ ’cause he ain’t.”
“Well, I’m both glad and lucky to meet you,” laughed Moran. “There’s some trouble over in Turquoise City, and I’m anxious to get over there.”
“Trouble, eh?” Hashknife Hartley’s long nose twitched.
Moran mounted and picked up his reins. Sleepy Stevens was looking at Hashknife, a queer expression in his blue eyes.
“Seems there is,” nodded Moran. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife. He turned to Sleepy.
“Don’t miss that train, pardner; I’ll be lookin’ for you.”
Sleepy nodded solemnly and watched them ride away. Finally he cuffed his Stetson over on one side of his head, spat disgustedly and walked back toward the saloon.
“Trouble!” he snorted aloud. “By God, there wasn’t nothin’ but a depot and a saloon, a depot-agent and a bartender —and we found trouble jist the same.”