Saturday night, as was usual in a cow-town, was a gala night in Turquoise City. Every cowboy in the country came to town, thirsty, full of song and looking for excitement. Wind River had sobered and was repentant; but Horse-Collar Fields and Lovely Lucas were still having a wonderful time.They had forgotten Jimmy Moran and their escapade at the sheriff’s office; but they had never gone near the Black Horse Saloon. The Ranger was their happy hunting ground. Both of them had long since run out of money and were spending their credit with great prodigality.“We s’licit your votes, gen’lemen,” said Horse-Collar expansively. “Lovely’s runnin’ f’r gov’ner and I’m sheekin’ nomina-shun for pup-president. Long may she wave. How’s all your li’l’ cowlets and bullets? Have a drink on the bartender; he ain’t treated since Sittin’ Bull stood up.”“Lemme ’lone;” pleaded Lovely, “Lemme ’tirely ’lone. I’m tryin’ to think why I came to town.”“Tha’s right; be intelligent, ’f you can. ’F that bartender would only think, he’d know it’s his turn.“O-o-o-oh, I feel as fresh as a big sunflowerThat bends and nods in the bree-e-e-e-zus;My heart’s as light as a drop of dewThat lays in the road and free-e-e-e-zus.”“My word, what a shong!” exploded Lovely. “Lissen, mockin’-bird, I know what we came here for.”“I crave to know,” said Horse-Collar seriously. “Yes sir, I ahnos’ deman’ to know. Don’t keep me in shuspense.”“We came here to liberate Jimmy Moran.”“My God! We did? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! That was yesserday.”“That was t’day.”“My, my! Thasso? How time does fly. Was it only t’day that we had the battle? Don’ tell me. Where’s Wind River Jim?”“Roarin’ came and got him long time ago.”“Can that be possible? Ain’t Roarin’ Rigby dead? Ain’t he? My, my, I mus’ practise up. Shay! Let’s me and you go down and c’ngratulate Roarin’. He’s lucky. As shoon as the bartender dechides that it’s his turn, we’ll have one more li’l’ snifter and then go down to shee Roarin’.”“I’d do that just to get you jiggers out of here,” said the bartender. “But if you ask me, I’d tell you to go easy on Roarin’ Rigby. He’ll salivate both of you.”“Yesh, he will not!” snorted Horse-Collar. “He’ll eat out of my good right hand, tha’s what, eh, Lovely?”“Oh, pos’tively; well, here’s a stiff rope and a short drop, bartender. May you eat well on your last mornin’.”They took their drink, locked arms and tried to go through the narrow doorway, arm in arm. Failing in that, they went out sidewise and fell flat on the sidewalk.“Thank heaven, they’re out of here!” said the bartender. “They’re the craziest pair of punchers I ever seen, and I’ve seen ’em all. Lie and prove it by each other. Owe me ten dollars apiece, and won’t remember it. Well, I won’t lose an awful lot. I filled up a half-empty bar-bottle with water, and they’ve drank it all; so I only lose fifty per-cent on ’em.”But they didn’t find Roaring at the office. Hashknife was there, talking with Wind River Jim, and Horse-Collar looked hin over rather dubiously. Lovely sat down on the floor against the wall and tried to roll a cigaret. Wind River Jim didn’t feel very well.“We came peacefully,” declared Horse-collar. “Kinda like a fam’ly re-e-union, you shee.”“You don’t feel so good, do you, Wind River?” asked Lovely, spilling the contents of his tobacco sack over his knees. “I think you’ve got stummick complaint.”“Ne’ mind my stummick,” growled Wind River.“Don’ mind his stummick,” advised Horse-Collar Fields owlishly, and then to Hashknife he said—“Wheresh Roarin’ Rigby?”“I dunno,” grinned Hashknife.“Ain’t dead, is he?”“He wasn’t dead fifteen minutes ago.”“Then I mus’ ’a’ missed him,” sadly.“Gittin’ old.”“You’re drunk,” declared Wind River heavily.“Thasso? Huh! Not a speck. Lemins tell you—”From somewhere on the street came the sharp snap of a revolver shot. Hashknife stepped quickly to the door. There was nothing unusual about a revolver shot on the main street of Turquoise City, especially on a Saturday night.The only lights on the street were from the windows of the saloons and business houses. Hashknife stepped outside, and Wind River Jim came to the doorway behind him.Hashknife was looking toward the Black Horse Saloon, where there seemed to be considerable activity, and Wind River Jim stepped past him to the edge of the sidewalk, when a spurt of flame seemed to lash out at them from the alley between the office and a store building next door.Almost before his ears registered the report of the gun, Hashknife felt the bullet sear the side of his neck, like the touch of a red-hot iron. Hashknife instinctively threw himself sidewise, drawing his gun. He heard Wind River drop to the sidewalk, but he thought that he merely did it for protection, never thinking that the bullet might have hit him.He heard the scrape of running feet. He darted into the dark alley, regardless of the fact that he might be running into an ambush. He blundered around behind the store, falling over an old packing-box; finally he ended his run at the corner of the sheriff’s little stable.For several moments he remained silent, but he could hear nothing. He circled the rear of the store and came back to the street between the store and post-office, where he met Roaring Rigby.“What was that shootin’?” asked Roaring.“I don’t know who it was,” panted Hashknife. “They darned near got me. Burned me across the neck. I chased him down the alley but he got away. Didn’t somebody fire a shot near the Black Horse Saloon?”“Yeah—one shot. I can’t find out who fired it.”“Foxy devils,” said Hashknife. “That shot was to draw me out of your office, Roarin’. I bit on it.”“Well, I’ll be darned!” exploded Roaring. “Could it have been Horse-Collar or Lovely?”“No, they’re both in the office. Let’s go down there.”They went cautiously past the alley and entered the office. Wind River Jim was lying flat on his back in the middle of the office floor, his face bathed in gore. Around his neck was Lovely Lucas’ blue silk muffler, tied loosely, and inside the loop of this was a long-barrel Colt revolver, which Horse-Collar Fields was twisting around and around, shutting off Wind River’s breath entirely, while Lovely sat on Wind River’s legs to keep him from jerking.“You fools!” yelled Roaring.He knocked Horse-Collar aside and untwisted the muffler as quickly as possible. Horse-Collar landed against the wall and stared at Roaring indignantly.“What in the devil was you tryin’ to do?” demanded Roaring.“Turny-keet,” wailed Horse-Collar. “Look at his head, you big bully! He’s bleedin’ to death.”“Firs’ aid for the injured,” grunted Lovely. “Look at him kick.”Hashknife flopped down in the old swivel chair and shook with laughter, while Horse-Collar and Lovely looked at him in amazement. Roaring didn’t see the humor of the situation. He wiped some of the blood off Wind River’s face and head; enough to discover that the bullet had merely cut a furrow, knocking Wind River cold.“You can’t stop bleedin’ thataway,” he told Horse-Collar.“The devil you can’t! I did, the time I got shot in the leg. Saved in’ life, too, y’betcha.”“Who shot ’in?” demanded Lovely. “That’s what I’d crave to know—who shot ’in?”“That long legged geezer,” said Horse Collar, pointing at Hashknife. “Shot ’im and then run. He’s dangerous, I tell you. Didn’t he shoot at me awhile ago? Put ’m in jail, Roarin’.”“Drunk and crazy!” snorted Roaring. “Take a look at this wound, will you, Hashknife? If you figger it’s bad enough, I’ll send out to Conley’s place for the doctor.”Hashknife examined it closely and decided that Wind River would be all right in a few minutes.“Get some water and wash his head,” suggested Hashknife.As Roaring started for the rear of the office, Slim Regan stepped into the office. Slim was panting from running, and he ignored the sight of Wind River Jim on the floor.“Hartley,” he panted. “Your pardner got hurt. They’ve got him in the Black Horse Saloon; you better come.”Hashknife was past Regan before the Big 4 foreman finished speaking. He ran heavily up the street and crossed to the saloon. The crowd parted to let him in. They had placed Sleepy on the floor near the center of the room, and the yellow light from the center lamp illuminated his white face. Hashknife dropped to his knees beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.“Sleepy, do you know me?” he asked.But Sleepy did not speak. He was breathing heavily. Hashknife could see the blood oozing through Sleepy’s shirt. He had been shot through the body on the right side, about two inches above his waist-line.“I sent Hank Pitts for the doctor,” said Slim.Hashknife looked up at Regan, his face twisted with pain.“Thank you, Slim. Does anybody know how it happened?”Slim shook his head.“He was out by the hitch-rack. Hank Pitts almost stepped on him, Hartley. There was a shot fired out there awhile ago, but nobody investigated it.”“That was the shot I heard,” muttered Hashknife. He got to his feet and stood fretfully looking down at Sleepy.“I seen him in the restaurant a while ago,” said Ted Ames, a short, fat-faced cowboy from the 7AL.Hashknife nodded. He knew that Sleepy had gone to supper with Roaring Rigby. Roaring came in and shoved his way to Hashknife. His arms were still wet from washing Wind River’s head.“How bad is he hurt, Hashknife?” he asked.“Bad enough. They’ve gone for the doctor. Wasn’t Sleepy eatin’ supper with you, Roarin’?”“He shore was. I stopped to talk with Jeff Ryker, and Sleepy went out. While I was talkin’ to Ryker I heard that shot out near the hitch-rack, and then I heard the one that hit Wind River Jim. I came out, tryin’ to find out what was goin’ on, and crossed the street. That’s when I met you.”“Who shot Wind River Jim?” asked a cowboy.“The same man who tried to kill me,” said Hashknife savagely.“F’r God’s sake!” exploded some one. “’S gittin’ salty around here.”“If there’s a blanket handy, I’d like to have some of you help carry him over to the hotel,” said Hashknife. “We’ve got a room over there.”The blanket was forthcoming, and there were plenty of volunteers to act as stretcher-bearers. They put Sleepy on the bed, and several of the men waited with Hashknife, until the old doctor arrived. Among them were Slim Regan and Kent Cutter. Hashknife had nothing to say. He sat at the head of the bed, his lean face very grim in the lamplight.It was the first time in their wanderings that either of them had been seriously hurt. Hashknife knew that only half of the plot had succeeded. These men, whoever they were, had planned to kill him and Sleepy.It was an hour before the doctor arrived. He sent for more lamps, and the men held them over Sleepy while he made his examination.“Close,” he muttered. “Went all the way through. Must have went through on an angle. Bad shock, lost lots of blood. Can’t tell all about it yet.”He straightened up and peered at Hashknife.“Pretty lucky, I think. Gut shot is very bad. Unless I miss my guess, he’ll pull through. Put the lamps on the table and get me plenty of hot water.”Hashknife stretched his full length and sighed deeply.“Glad, eh?” said Regan.“Glad?” Hashknife blinked painfully.“My God!”He turned and walked over to a window, where he stared out into the night. The room was very quiet.“We ain’t got much money, Doc,” said Hashknife slowly. “But if you pull him through, I’ll go out and kill anybody you want killed.”The old doctor lifted his eyes and studied the lean figure at the window.“All right,” he said finally, “I’ll take you up on that.”“Name your man, Doc.”“I can’t do it, Hartley; it’s a man who shoots in the dark.”“All right, Doc, you’ll get his ears.”
Saturday night, as was usual in a cow-town, was a gala night in Turquoise City. Every cowboy in the country came to town, thirsty, full of song and looking for excitement. Wind River had sobered and was repentant; but Horse-Collar Fields and Lovely Lucas were still having a wonderful time.
They had forgotten Jimmy Moran and their escapade at the sheriff’s office; but they had never gone near the Black Horse Saloon. The Ranger was their happy hunting ground. Both of them had long since run out of money and were spending their credit with great prodigality.
“We s’licit your votes, gen’lemen,” said Horse-Collar expansively. “Lovely’s runnin’ f’r gov’ner and I’m sheekin’ nomina-shun for pup-president. Long may she wave. How’s all your li’l’ cowlets and bullets? Have a drink on the bartender; he ain’t treated since Sittin’ Bull stood up.”
“Lemme ’lone;” pleaded Lovely, “Lemme ’tirely ’lone. I’m tryin’ to think why I came to town.”
“Tha’s right; be intelligent, ’f you can. ’F that bartender would only think, he’d know it’s his turn.
“O-o-o-oh, I feel as fresh as a big sunflowerThat bends and nods in the bree-e-e-e-zus;My heart’s as light as a drop of dewThat lays in the road and free-e-e-e-zus.”
“O-o-o-oh, I feel as fresh as a big sunflowerThat bends and nods in the bree-e-e-e-zus;My heart’s as light as a drop of dewThat lays in the road and free-e-e-e-zus.”
“O-o-o-oh, I feel as fresh as a big sunflowerThat bends and nods in the bree-e-e-e-zus;My heart’s as light as a drop of dewThat lays in the road and free-e-e-e-zus.”
“O-o-o-oh, I feel as fresh as a big sunflower
That bends and nods in the bree-e-e-e-zus;
My heart’s as light as a drop of dew
That lays in the road and free-e-e-e-zus.”
“My word, what a shong!” exploded Lovely. “Lissen, mockin’-bird, I know what we came here for.”
“I crave to know,” said Horse-Collar seriously. “Yes sir, I ahnos’ deman’ to know. Don’t keep me in shuspense.”
“We came here to liberate Jimmy Moran.”
“My God! We did? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! That was yesserday.”
“That was t’day.”
“My, my! Thasso? How time does fly. Was it only t’day that we had the battle? Don’ tell me. Where’s Wind River Jim?”
“Roarin’ came and got him long time ago.”
“Can that be possible? Ain’t Roarin’ Rigby dead? Ain’t he? My, my, I mus’ practise up. Shay! Let’s me and you go down and c’ngratulate Roarin’. He’s lucky. As shoon as the bartender dechides that it’s his turn, we’ll have one more li’l’ snifter and then go down to shee Roarin’.”
“I’d do that just to get you jiggers out of here,” said the bartender. “But if you ask me, I’d tell you to go easy on Roarin’ Rigby. He’ll salivate both of you.”
“Yesh, he will not!” snorted Horse-Collar. “He’ll eat out of my good right hand, tha’s what, eh, Lovely?”
“Oh, pos’tively; well, here’s a stiff rope and a short drop, bartender. May you eat well on your last mornin’.”
They took their drink, locked arms and tried to go through the narrow doorway, arm in arm. Failing in that, they went out sidewise and fell flat on the sidewalk.
“Thank heaven, they’re out of here!” said the bartender. “They’re the craziest pair of punchers I ever seen, and I’ve seen ’em all. Lie and prove it by each other. Owe me ten dollars apiece, and won’t remember it. Well, I won’t lose an awful lot. I filled up a half-empty bar-bottle with water, and they’ve drank it all; so I only lose fifty per-cent on ’em.”
But they didn’t find Roaring at the office. Hashknife was there, talking with Wind River Jim, and Horse-Collar looked hin over rather dubiously. Lovely sat down on the floor against the wall and tried to roll a cigaret. Wind River Jim didn’t feel very well.
“We came peacefully,” declared Horse-collar. “Kinda like a fam’ly re-e-union, you shee.”
“You don’t feel so good, do you, Wind River?” asked Lovely, spilling the contents of his tobacco sack over his knees. “I think you’ve got stummick complaint.”
“Ne’ mind my stummick,” growled Wind River.
“Don’ mind his stummick,” advised Horse-Collar Fields owlishly, and then to Hashknife he said—
“Wheresh Roarin’ Rigby?”
“I dunno,” grinned Hashknife.
“Ain’t dead, is he?”
“He wasn’t dead fifteen minutes ago.”
“Then I mus’ ’a’ missed him,” sadly.
“Gittin’ old.”
“You’re drunk,” declared Wind River heavily.
“Thasso? Huh! Not a speck. Lemins tell you—”
From somewhere on the street came the sharp snap of a revolver shot. Hashknife stepped quickly to the door. There was nothing unusual about a revolver shot on the main street of Turquoise City, especially on a Saturday night.
The only lights on the street were from the windows of the saloons and business houses. Hashknife stepped outside, and Wind River Jim came to the doorway behind him.
Hashknife was looking toward the Black Horse Saloon, where there seemed to be considerable activity, and Wind River Jim stepped past him to the edge of the sidewalk, when a spurt of flame seemed to lash out at them from the alley between the office and a store building next door.
Almost before his ears registered the report of the gun, Hashknife felt the bullet sear the side of his neck, like the touch of a red-hot iron. Hashknife instinctively threw himself sidewise, drawing his gun. He heard Wind River drop to the sidewalk, but he thought that he merely did it for protection, never thinking that the bullet might have hit him.
He heard the scrape of running feet. He darted into the dark alley, regardless of the fact that he might be running into an ambush. He blundered around behind the store, falling over an old packing-box; finally he ended his run at the corner of the sheriff’s little stable.
For several moments he remained silent, but he could hear nothing. He circled the rear of the store and came back to the street between the store and post-office, where he met Roaring Rigby.
“What was that shootin’?” asked Roaring.
“I don’t know who it was,” panted Hashknife. “They darned near got me. Burned me across the neck. I chased him down the alley but he got away. Didn’t somebody fire a shot near the Black Horse Saloon?”
“Yeah—one shot. I can’t find out who fired it.”
“Foxy devils,” said Hashknife. “That shot was to draw me out of your office, Roarin’. I bit on it.”
“Well, I’ll be darned!” exploded Roaring. “Could it have been Horse-Collar or Lovely?”
“No, they’re both in the office. Let’s go down there.”
They went cautiously past the alley and entered the office. Wind River Jim was lying flat on his back in the middle of the office floor, his face bathed in gore. Around his neck was Lovely Lucas’ blue silk muffler, tied loosely, and inside the loop of this was a long-barrel Colt revolver, which Horse-Collar Fields was twisting around and around, shutting off Wind River’s breath entirely, while Lovely sat on Wind River’s legs to keep him from jerking.
“You fools!” yelled Roaring.
He knocked Horse-Collar aside and untwisted the muffler as quickly as possible. Horse-Collar landed against the wall and stared at Roaring indignantly.
“What in the devil was you tryin’ to do?” demanded Roaring.
“Turny-keet,” wailed Horse-Collar. “Look at his head, you big bully! He’s bleedin’ to death.”
“Firs’ aid for the injured,” grunted Lovely. “Look at him kick.”
Hashknife flopped down in the old swivel chair and shook with laughter, while Horse-Collar and Lovely looked at him in amazement. Roaring didn’t see the humor of the situation. He wiped some of the blood off Wind River’s face and head; enough to discover that the bullet had merely cut a furrow, knocking Wind River cold.
“You can’t stop bleedin’ thataway,” he told Horse-Collar.
“The devil you can’t! I did, the time I got shot in the leg. Saved in’ life, too, y’betcha.”
“Who shot ’in?” demanded Lovely. “That’s what I’d crave to know—who shot ’in?”
“That long legged geezer,” said Horse Collar, pointing at Hashknife. “Shot ’im and then run. He’s dangerous, I tell you. Didn’t he shoot at me awhile ago? Put ’m in jail, Roarin’.”
“Drunk and crazy!” snorted Roaring. “Take a look at this wound, will you, Hashknife? If you figger it’s bad enough, I’ll send out to Conley’s place for the doctor.”
Hashknife examined it closely and decided that Wind River would be all right in a few minutes.
“Get some water and wash his head,” suggested Hashknife.
As Roaring started for the rear of the office, Slim Regan stepped into the office. Slim was panting from running, and he ignored the sight of Wind River Jim on the floor.
“Hartley,” he panted. “Your pardner got hurt. They’ve got him in the Black Horse Saloon; you better come.”
Hashknife was past Regan before the Big 4 foreman finished speaking. He ran heavily up the street and crossed to the saloon. The crowd parted to let him in. They had placed Sleepy on the floor near the center of the room, and the yellow light from the center lamp illuminated his white face. Hashknife dropped to his knees beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Sleepy, do you know me?” he asked.
But Sleepy did not speak. He was breathing heavily. Hashknife could see the blood oozing through Sleepy’s shirt. He had been shot through the body on the right side, about two inches above his waist-line.
“I sent Hank Pitts for the doctor,” said Slim.
Hashknife looked up at Regan, his face twisted with pain.
“Thank you, Slim. Does anybody know how it happened?”
Slim shook his head.
“He was out by the hitch-rack. Hank Pitts almost stepped on him, Hartley. There was a shot fired out there awhile ago, but nobody investigated it.”
“That was the shot I heard,” muttered Hashknife. He got to his feet and stood fretfully looking down at Sleepy.
“I seen him in the restaurant a while ago,” said Ted Ames, a short, fat-faced cowboy from the 7AL.
Hashknife nodded. He knew that Sleepy had gone to supper with Roaring Rigby. Roaring came in and shoved his way to Hashknife. His arms were still wet from washing Wind River’s head.
“How bad is he hurt, Hashknife?” he asked.
“Bad enough. They’ve gone for the doctor. Wasn’t Sleepy eatin’ supper with you, Roarin’?”
“He shore was. I stopped to talk with Jeff Ryker, and Sleepy went out. While I was talkin’ to Ryker I heard that shot out near the hitch-rack, and then I heard the one that hit Wind River Jim. I came out, tryin’ to find out what was goin’ on, and crossed the street. That’s when I met you.”
“Who shot Wind River Jim?” asked a cowboy.
“The same man who tried to kill me,” said Hashknife savagely.
“F’r God’s sake!” exploded some one. “’S gittin’ salty around here.”
“If there’s a blanket handy, I’d like to have some of you help carry him over to the hotel,” said Hashknife. “We’ve got a room over there.”
The blanket was forthcoming, and there were plenty of volunteers to act as stretcher-bearers. They put Sleepy on the bed, and several of the men waited with Hashknife, until the old doctor arrived. Among them were Slim Regan and Kent Cutter. Hashknife had nothing to say. He sat at the head of the bed, his lean face very grim in the lamplight.
It was the first time in their wanderings that either of them had been seriously hurt. Hashknife knew that only half of the plot had succeeded. These men, whoever they were, had planned to kill him and Sleepy.
It was an hour before the doctor arrived. He sent for more lamps, and the men held them over Sleepy while he made his examination.
“Close,” he muttered. “Went all the way through. Must have went through on an angle. Bad shock, lost lots of blood. Can’t tell all about it yet.”
He straightened up and peered at Hashknife.
“Pretty lucky, I think. Gut shot is very bad. Unless I miss my guess, he’ll pull through. Put the lamps on the table and get me plenty of hot water.”
Hashknife stretched his full length and sighed deeply.
“Glad, eh?” said Regan.
“Glad?” Hashknife blinked painfully.
“My God!”
He turned and walked over to a window, where he stared out into the night. The room was very quiet.
“We ain’t got much money, Doc,” said Hashknife slowly. “But if you pull him through, I’ll go out and kill anybody you want killed.”
The old doctor lifted his eyes and studied the lean figure at the window.
“All right,” he said finally, “I’ll take you up on that.”
“Name your man, Doc.”
“I can’t do it, Hartley; it’s a man who shoots in the dark.”
“All right, Doc, you’ll get his ears.”