Title: Hashknife of the Diamond H
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: July 19, 2026 [eBook #79136]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1925
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79136
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
It was a gathering typical of the cow-country. The office of the local justice of the peace, a small room, badly ventilated, was filled with humanity and tobacco smoke; mostly chap-clad humanity, except for the presiding justice, conscious of his rotund importance, and a few of the store-clothes-dressed business men of the town.
The object of interest was a little old man, disheveled of appearance, with a kindly old face, in spite of evident line of dissipation, who sat humped in a chair beside the justice’s desk, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. There was something pitiful in his abject pose, the uncomprehending expression of his eyes, as he looked around.
“Uncle Billy, it’s thisaway,” one of the cattlemen, a tall, grizzled man, cleared his throat apologetically. “Yuh see, it’s thisaway, old-timer. You’ve lost everythin’ and—and—”
“And yuh aim to send me to the poor-house?” The old man spoke thickly. “Is that it boys—to the poor-house?”
One of the cowboys in the crowd swore softly and stepped outside. The others shuffled their feet nervously and did not care to meet the wavering gaze of the old man.
“Yes, that’s it,” said the justice. “You’ve got to have somebody to take care of you. It’s too bad, but it’s the only thing we can think of, Uncle Billy.”
The old man squeezed his hands a little tighter together and his eyes shut tightly, as he said hoarsely:
“I s’pose so. Yuh see, I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“Ain’tcha got any money, Uncle Billy?” another of the cowboys propounded the question. The old man turned and looked at the questioner.
“Money? Why, no, I don’t reckon I have, Yak. Why do yuh ask?”
Yakima Reed shook his head, sorry to find himself for a moment the center of interest.
“No, he hasn’t any money,” said Steve Morris, the justice of the peace.
“I don’t guess I have.” Uncle Billy Holton essayed to reach in his overall pocket, but realized it was of no use.
He knew there was no money in his pocket. In the short space of two years he had lost his wife, his ranch, cattle, everything in the world, and now he was being sent to the poor-house. It was hardly a fitting finish to a man who had owned one of the best ranches in the Medicine River range.
Some of the cowboys moved softly out of the room. They were a sympathetic crew, but there was nothing they could do. The old man had become an ordinary drunk, a frowsy old nuisance, but all of them remembered the time when there was always a hearty welcome for them at the Diamond H.
“Well,” said the justice ponderously, “I’m glad that’s finished.”
Uncle Billy looked at him, his lips quivering slightly, as he said:
“Thank yuh, Steve. I reckon yo’re doin’ all yuh can for me.”
“Well, I—I—” Morris got to his feet and looked down at his desk—“I hope so, Uncle Billy. They’ll take care of yuh.”
“Yeah, I s’pose so, Steve,” said the old man softly, “I jist didn’t know it was as bad as this. I never expected to go there, yuh see.”
“I knowed a man who went to the poor-house—” began a cowboy, but some one trod on his instep and he subsided in guarded profanity.
Uncle Billy got up and steadied himself against the desk.
“Steve, this won’t go no further, will it?” he asked. “It won’t git in no papers, will it?”
“In the newspapers, Uncle Billy? No, I don’t think so.”
“Thank yuh, Steve. Yuh see, I—I don’t want—” He stopped.
“I know what yuh mean, Uncle Billy. No, this won’t get into the papers. It isn’t like a court case. You see, you haven’t any money nor any one to take care of you, so it’s up to us to see that you’re taken care of.”
The old man bowed his head as he nodded.
“Thank yuh, Steve. When do I go?”
“Well, it’s goin’ to take a few days to fix it up. Prob’ly you can leave here day after tomorrow. We’ll fix it up for you at the hotel, so don’t worry about that.”
The grizzled cowman who had tried to explain things to the old man stepped up and pressed a ten-dollar bill into the old man’s hands.
“For a little hooch,” he said softly. “You need it, Uncle Billy.”
The old man looked at the bill, his lips working nervously. He was aching with the desire for liquor, but somewhere within him was a spark which the whisky had not yet extinguished. He did not meet the gaze of the big cowman as he handed back the money with shaking hands.
“N-no, Jim O’Leary,” he said hoarsely. “I—I’m not goin’ to be thirsty for liquor no more. Thank yuh jist the same.”
“Better be sure, Uncle Billy.”
Uncle Billy looked up at O’Leary, a firm resolve in his old eyes. His shoulders squared a little—just a little.
“I’m sure, Jim. I’m goin’ to the one place on earth where I never expected to go—and I want t’ go clean. I’ve been an awful fool, ain’t I? Everythin’ is gone. I’ve lost my ranch, my cattle and the respect of everybody. I lost my—wife.”
He started to say more, but it seemed that he was forced to shut his lips, and O’Leary stepped aside to let him stagger out of the room. Out at the edge of the narrow board sidewalk Uncle Billy paused, blinking in the bright light and surveyed the main street of Medicine River.
Across the street was the War Paint saloon, its wide-open door disclosing the fact that men were at the bar. Uncle Billy could hear the clink of glasses, the dull rumble of conversation, but he did not cross the street. Instead, he made his erratic way up to the walk to a point beyond the Medicine River bank. He sat down on the edge of the high sidewalk where a gnarled cottonwood, the only one on the street, afforded a little shade.
Jim O’Leary shook his head and walked up the street to the bank, where he stepped inside and shook hands with Parker Miller, president of the institution. They were old friends. O’Leary drew Miller to the door and pointed at old Uncle Billy.
“Somebody said there was a movement on foot to send him to the poor-farm,” said Miller. “How did he take it, Jim?”
“Oh, I dunno, Park. I feel sorry for him, but I s’pose it’s the best thing to do.”
“The best thing,” nodded Miller.
“You own the Diamond H now, don’tcha?” asked O’Leary.
Miller smiled grimly.
“Yes, we own it, Jim—such as it is.”
“Meanin’ what, Park? The Diamond H is—”
“Come in and let’s talk in my office,” suggested Miller.
O’Leary followed him through the bank, speaking to Frank Laskey, the cashier, who nodded pleasantly. O’Leary was a good customer of the bank. Once in the private office, Miller picked up the conversation.
“Yes, we own the Diamond H, Jim. When Uncle Billy and his wife busted up over Uncle Billy’s drinking and gambling, we took a first mortgage on the Diamond H for ten thousand dollars.
“At that time we were sure that Uncle Billy and Ma Holton would patch things up. You see Uncle Billy and his wife divided up everything, Uncle Billy keeping the ranch and giving her ten thousand in cash.
“The mortgage was for one year, Jim. The Diamond H was worth a lot more than that. Uncle Billy kept drinking and gambling all that year, and when the mortgage came due he had no money to pay it off. In fact he was too addled from drink to care.
“A bank is different than an individual, Jim. I was forced to foreclose. There is a year allowed for redemption, you know. That year was up a month ago. Right now the Medicine River bank owns the Diamond H ranch, and there isn’t twenty head of stock wearing that brand on this range.”
O’Leary looked curiously at the banker, “You mean that somebody got away with the stock, Park?”
Miller spread his hands, a sour smile on his lips, “Draw your own conclusions, Jim. We couldn’t put guards on the job to protect a mortgage. The old man is no fool.”
“You think he sold the cattle?”
“What would you think?”
“But he’s goin’ to the poor-farm, Park.”
“There are no bars to keep him there.”
“That’s true, Park. Hm-m-m. I never thought of that. Are yuh sure about the cattle?”
“Absolutely. Perhaps the ranch itself is worth ten thousand dollars, but I’m afraid no one would pay that much.”
“No, not hardly. It looks like the bank was stuck.”
“Not only looks like it—it is, Jim.”
“Well, it’s a funny proposition. I hear you’ve got a new man in charge of the Diamond H.”
“Yes. In fact, I’ve got two men. I heard them arguing the other day about which was the foreman, so I don’t know exactly which one is in charge.” Miller laughed softly. “I don’t mind telling you that the men were recommended to me by the Cattle Association.”
“Stock detectives?”
“No, I don’t think so, Jim. Anyway, I didn’t ask for a detective. I wanted a dependable man who was also a practical cowman. You know there isn’t an available man around here. Of course I might have taken one of the cowboys, but I thought it might be better to have a stranger. These men come well-recommended, and they seem to know their business.”
“Yakima Reed and Chuck Allison are still there, ain’t they?”
“No. The ranch won’t support four hired men. I asked Hartley if the two of them could run the place and he said that the two of them could run the whole —— government, if they had half a chance.”
“Yore foreman named Hartley, Park?”
“Yes. The other man is named Stevens.”
“Have yuh questioned the old man about the stock?”
“Yes, but he didn’t seem to understand what I meant. It’s a bad deal all the way around; the old man goes to the poor-farm and the Medicine River bank has made a bad investment.”
“Where is the old lady livin’ now?”
“I think she is still in Phoenix, but we have never heard. It was a shame for two people of their age to separate, Jim. Both of them salt of the earth. After she left him he sobered up and said he was through drinking, but I guess he lost heart.”
“I offered him a ten-spot today,” said O’Leary. “He sure needed a shot of liquor, but he refused the money. Said he was through.”
“Might as well start now,” smiled Miller. “He won’t get any of it where he’s going.”
“How didja say yuh wanted yore aig, ‘Hashknife?’” “Sleepy Stevens” leaned over the range at the Diamond H ranch, a hot frying pan in one hand, an egg in the other.
Hashknife Hartley sprawled across the table, reading a dog’s-eared copy of a medicine almanac, squinted at Sleepy, as he licked his thumb and turned a page.
“Turned over,” he said shortly. “Yuh ask me that every time.”
The egg sizzled in the hot fat.
“Sleepy, what sign of the Zodiac was you born under?”
“What’sa Zod’ac, Hashknife?”
“Circle of —— fool pictures. Goat, mess of fish and a jigger who has just been operated on and—”
Sleepy had tried to flop the egg in the pan and was now looking down at the splatter on the floor.
“You get yore egg planked,” said Sleepy.
“Not on Tuesday, Mister Stevens. Try agin’.”
“You take it or leave it, cowboy,” declared Sleepy. “There’s jist one aig left, and I’m eatin’ mine straight-up.”
“Just one left, Sleepy?”
“You know that’s all. Lady Godiva and Mary Garden only lays one aig per day apiece, Hashknife.”
“I sabe human nature, Sleepy; but ain’t we got three chickens?”
“We has. The third one is a baritone.”
“Oh, that’s his alibi, eh?”
Sleepy fried his egg, put it on a plate and sat down at the far end of the table from Hashknife, who drank his coffee and read ancient jokes from the almanac.
And these were the two men who had been recommended by the Cattlemen’s Association of Arizona to manage the affairs of the Diamond H ranch. Hashknife Hartley stood close to six feet and a half in his high-heeled boots, his slenderness accentuated by his height. His face was long and bony, invariably sad in repose, his eyes nested in a mass of grin-wrinkles. Sleepy Stevens was of medium height, broad of shoulder and slightly bowed of legs. His over-developed sense of humor showed in the grin-marks of his face, while his eyes seemed to register a perpetual innocence of guile. These two were not at all ornamental, but entirely capable.
Sleepy finished his egg and leaned back to enjoy a cigaret.
“I’ve made up our minds,” he said slowly, exhaling a thin stream of smoke through his nostrils and squinting thoughtfully at his cigaret.
“Thasso?” Hashknife looked up from his almanac.
“Yea-a-ap. We’re goin’ to wash up the dishes, saddle up and ride down to Medicine River. When we git there we’re goin’ to walk in the bank, hand Mr. Miller the key to the lock and tell him we’re surrenderin’.”
“Thasso? Huh. Sleepy, here’s another funny story. An Irishman—”
“I’ve heard yuh read that three times today, Hashknife. I can recite every danged thing in that almanac, except the moonrise and the sunfall, and who in —— cares about that? Honest to grandma, I’m sick of this fool job. Nothin’ to do!” Sleepy got to his feet and waved his arms.
“’S a good job,” said Hashknife.
“Good for what? There ain’t nothin’ to do, except feed two hens and a rooster, eat three times a day and play crib. By grab, I’ve fifteen-two’d until I hate —— out of a crib-board. Hashknife, I like you quite a little. You’ve got some likable qualities, even if yuh don’t look it. Are yuh listenin’ to me, you sand-hill crane?”
“Feller don’t have to listen when yuh yell thataway, Sleepy.”
“All right. You got us into this here job. They made a mistake when they hired men to handle this place, Hashknife. A couple of old ladies would be almost too much for these jobs. So I’m goin’ away. You can stay if yuh want to, but Mister Stevens’ fav’rite son is goin’ to fare him forth to the broad highway in search for adventure, sabe?”
“Here’s another good one, Sleepy. A feller comes home drunk one night and—”
“Aw-w-w, ——!” Sleepy snorted indignantly and walked to the door. “Been here two weeks and all that’s happened is two aigs per day bein’ layed.”
“Yeah, it has been kinda tranquil,” admitted Hashknife.
“Tranquil! My ——, it’s been overbearin’. The rust has began to flake off me.” He walked outside and circled around to the porch, where he sat down to contemplate. Hashknife sauntered through the house and joined him on the porch, still carrying the almanac. Sleepy noticed this, and snorted defiantly.
“Don’t read t’ me,” he pleaded.
“Yo’re bilious, Sleepy. We’ll ride down and get yuh some calomel.”
“Calomel! I never seen such a range. I’m gettin’ bed-sores, I tell yuh! If this keeps up much longer I’m goin’ to take a shot at somebody. I want action, cowboy. It ain’t like you to stay here and grow rusty, Hashknife.”
“I ain’t kickin’,” said Hashknife slowly. “If they’d said there was a lot of trouble in this country, you’d kick agin’ comin’, and when there ain’t no trouble yuh kick because there ain’t. Yore idea of a happy medium would be to have a feller with a busted gun huntin’ for yuh, Sleepy.”
“Thasso? By golly, I wish that everybody in the country would rise up agin’ me,” he said savagely. “I’m all primed to fight the world.”
“Sorry, Napoleon, but we’re jist out of wars this week. We’ve got a shipment on the way, but yuh know how unreliable freight is these days.”
“Yo’re awful funny, Hashknife.”
“I’ve got a funny job, pardner.”
“Uh-huh, yuh shore have. There comes the stage.”
The road from Lone Fir paralleled the west fence of the Diamond H ranch enclosure, and they watched the creaking vehicle, drawn by four horses, come to a stop at the ranch-house gate.
“Must be a new almanac for yuh,” observed Sleepy. It was an uncommon thing for the stage to stop at the ranch.
The driver was busy unstrapping a trunk from the boot, and a woman dismounted, her arms filled with packages. The driver carried the trunk to the gate, talked for several moments with the woman before mounting his seat and driving on toward Medicine River.
“Company, by golly,” said Sleepy. “Now who in thunder is this?”
They walked down toward the gate and met the little old lady, who was coming toward them, her dusty face beaming.
“Oh, I thought it was some of the boys I knew,” she said, as she looked them over. There was disappointment in her voice.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Hashknife smiling. “I’d shore like to be one of the boys yuh used to know.”
“Well, it’s all right,” she laughed at them and allowed Hashknife to relieve her of some bundles.
“My name is Hartley,” he told her. “I’m in charge of the ranch.”
“I’m Stevens,” grinned Sleepy, his grouch forgotten. “I’m in charge of half of the ranch.”
The old lady laughed and dusted off her shirts, “My, it sure is dusty on that stage. I am Mrs. Holton. Mostly everybody calls me Ma Holton. Oh, lordy, it is good to be home.” She breathed deeply and her eyes suddenly filled with tears.
To Hashknife and Sleepy it was an awkward situation. They followed her to the front porch, where she leaned against one of the porch posts, as though all tired out.
“Can I help yuh, ma’am?” asked Hashknife.
“Help me? No, I guess not, Mr. Hartley. You see it has been a long, long time since I last saw the old place, and it—it—”
“Thasall right.” Hashknife patted her on the shoulder. “You go ahead and cry all yuh want to, while me and Sleepy go down and get yore trunk.”
They left her standing beside the post and went down after the trunk.
“What do yuh make of it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy.
“I dunno. She says she came home. We’ve heard enough of the story to sabe that she’s the former wife of old man Holton, Uncle Billy. But I dunno why she came home, Sleepy. Anyway, it ain’t none of our danged business. She’s a darned sweet old lady, and if she wants to live on the old ranch, it’s all right with me.”
“Me too,” echoed Sleepy.
Ma Holton had gone in the house by the time they arrived with the trunk, but she was waiting for them.
“Will you unrope it right away?” she asked. “I must get out my work clothes. Of all the dirty houses I have ever seen, this is the worst.”
“Yes’m,” said Sleepy. “Me and Hashknife ain’t much on the chambermaid stuff.”
“Most men ain’t,” she said. “But I’m just so glad to be here that I don’t mind a little dirt. I haven’t been in the kitchen yet.”
“That’s good,” said Hashknife.
Sleepy coiled up the rope and hurried to the kitchen, where he proceeded to mop up the planked egg and otherwise knock the top layer off the worst of the dirt, while Hashknife leaned in the doorway and whistled unmusically.
“Anyway,” said Sleepy philosophically, “somethin’ happened.”
“It mostly always does,” said Hashknife. “We’ll have to quit swearin’ so —— much around the house.”
Ma Holton appeared in her work clothes, threw up her hands in holy horror at the appearance of the kitchen and began a cleaning campaign such as the old Diamond H ranch-house had not seen in a long time. Hashknife and Sleepy helped her willingly. It was a welcome change from the two weeks of idleness, and they went to it with a will.
They told her about how they happened to be in charge of the ranch, and how they had spent their time.
“Huntin’ for aigs mostly,” said Sleepy. “Lady Godiva kinda played a game with us every day. That danged hen shore hid her produce on us, Ma.”
“What a name for a hen!” exclaimed Ma Holton.
“There she is now,” grinned Sleepy, pointing through the open doorway.
“Prob’ly wonderin’ why we don’t hunt her daily aig.”
“Why, that poor hen is moulting. It’s a wonder she layed at all.”
“Is that what she’s doin’?” queried Sleepy. “We didn’t know. She was runnin’ around without hardly any clothes on, so we named her thataway. The other one gits all over dust and does a wiggle-dance. We didn’t figger out a name for the he-hen.”
Ma Holton laughed and leaned on her broom.
“Oh, it seems good to be back in the cow-country boys; to hear a cowboy talk again.”
“Yes’m, I s’pose it does. You aim to stay here all the time?”
“As long as I live, I hope. You see, I own the ranch now.”
“Yuh do?”
“Yes, I bought the mortgage and paid the interest. It took every cent I owned, but I don’t mind. There is money to be made on this ranch, and right now it is worth a lot more than the price of that mortgage.”
Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged quick glances. They knew that the Diamond H was not a paying concern.
“Yuh bought it from the bank?” asked Hashknife.
“Yes. A man came up to Cheyenne and we settled up everything. I have always had this in mind. You see, it was my home for so many years that I—I just had to come back.”
“Ten thousand, wasn’t it?” asked Hashknife.
“And interest, yes,” Ma Holton laughed softly. “I got me a job in a store in Cheyenne and I never had to spend my bankroll.”
“Well, Ma, I’m glad for yuh,” said Hashknife. “I wish there was somethin’ we could do for yuh, but there don’t seem to be. We’ll go down to the bank in the mornin’ and see Mr. Miller. He won’t want us any longer, and you’ll want to hire some of the boys you’ve knowed for a long time, of course.”
“Well, I don’t know. I haven’t been here for so long that I don’t know any of the boys, I suppose. Things must have changed.”
She worked for several minutes, cleaning off the stove, polishing thoughtfully. Then:
“I suppose you’ve heard of our—our trouble. Most every one has, it seems. Did—did you ever meet Mr. Holton, Uncle Billy?”
Hashknife squinted at Sleepy, who scratched his head and moved over closer to the door. Ma Holton looked up at Hashknife and found him picking an imaginary splinter in his thumb.
“You have seen him, haven’t you?” she asked.
“Yes’m,” admitted Hashknife.
“Well,” she looked from one to the other, “what is wrong? He isn’t—” She hesitated and came closer to Hashknife. “What is it? I—I haven’t heard, you see.”
“Well, I don’t know him, Ma,” said Hashknife slowly. “We’re kinda strangers in this range, me and Sleepy. But I s’pose I might as well tell yuh. A man rode past here last night and said there was a meetin’ in Medicine River yesterday and they decided to send Uncle Henry Holton to the—to the poor-farm.”
“To the poor-farm?” She stared at Hashknife. “Sending him to the poor-farm? Why—why that—is it true?”
“Yes’m, I s’pose it is. I dunno any reason why this man should lie to us about it, ’cause it wasn’t any of our business.”
Ma Holton walked away from the stove and sat down in a chair. Her face was almost as gray as her hair now. Hashknife shifted nervously. He could see Sleepy walking down across the yard toward the corrals, and wished that he was with him. He wanted to say something to the old lady, but there was nothing to be said.
“They held a meeting and decided to send him to the poor-farm,” she said slowly, as though repeating a sentence and was not quite certain that she was wording it properly.
“Yes’m,” said Hashknife softly.
She looked up at him and shook her head, “No, that cannot be the truth. You see, we—we—why, Uncle Billy and me lived here in this house for twenty years. This is as much his home as mine.”
“Yes’m, I s’pose it is.”
“He got to drinking, Uncle Billy did. I suppose lots of men do.”
“Yes’m. It ain’t no uncommon thing to do.”
She shook her head and looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears.
“I got religion,” she said simply.
“Yes’m, I’ve knowed folks to get religion.”
“It was a revival meeting. I got religion—and Uncle Billy got drunk.”
“Everybody accordin’ to their views,” said Hashknife in all seriousness.
“I suppose. I lost my religion, after it was all over, but Uncle Billy still drank. I—my religion was like small-pox, I guess. It was awful while it lasted, and I’ve still got some of the pits left. It wasn’t a good religion though. I had the religious spirit, but not the Christian one. It was the kind that tears down temples instead of trying to clean them. I can see it now, when it is too late.”
“There ain’t anythin’ too late,” said Hashknife, “except dodgin’ a bullet or delayin’ yore departure from a spot near the hind legs of a mule.”
Ma Holton looked at him and smiled. He was smiling, and there was something contagious about his smile.
“I think I like you,” she said.
“That’s good, Ma.”
They were sort of holding a mutual admiration meeting, when Sleepy came softly in and placed an egg on the table at Ma’s elbow.
“Lady Godiva’s,” he said softly, and turned back to the door.
“Where yuh goin’?” asked Hashknife.
“I’m shadowin’ Mary Garden. If you think it’s hard to trail a horse-thief, you jist try out-guessin’ a danged hen.”
Sleepy hunched his shoulders and went slowly across the yard, while from down in the willows behind the stable came the well-known Cut, cut, cut, ca-dar-cut of a triumphant hen.
“If he gets that other egg, I’ll make a cake,” said Ma Holton.
“Well, if he don’t, I will,” declared Hashknife, and he went down toward the willows, fairly galloping in his haste, while Ma Holton stood in the kitchen door, a wistful smile on her old face. At least she was at home, among the kind of people she had always known, and she must smile, even with the pain in her heart.
It was after the best meal they had eaten on the Diamond H that Hashknife and Sleepy sat together on the porch of the ranch-house, while Ma Holton cleaned up the supper dishes.
“This is what I’d call home now,” observed Sleepy expansively.
Hashknife nodded thoughtfully over his cigaret. Ma Holton was singing an old church hymn, and Hashknife squinted at the open door behind them.
“Sleepy, that danged bank has stuck Ma for this ranch. It ain’t worth the price of that mortgage. The buildings are pretty old and need a lot of repair, and this ain’t a country where there’s much of a premium on water. There ain’t twenty head of Diamond H stock in these hills, so where does she get off?”
“Well, let her find out,” advised Sleepy. “She’s just as happy as a medder-lark now, and that one jolt yuh gave her is enough for one day. She’s stuck, that’s a cinch—and I feel like goin’ down and stickin’ up that bank for ten thousand.”
“And interest, Sleepy—at eight percent.”
Ma Holton came out and joined them a few minutes later, and Sleepy carried a rocking-chair from the living-room. It was one of those quiet evenings, with only the sleepy calling of the birds and the faraway bawling of a cow to break the stillness. The twilight had softened the harsh contour of the ridges and some of the sunset colors still glowed in the western horizon.
“There don’t seem to be any cattle using that ridge tonight,” said Ma Holton, pointing at a broken hog-back ridge, backed by a streak of opal sky. “Uncle Billy and me used to sit here in the evenin’ and watch them coming down to water, with the sunset colors behind them. We used to think it was better than any picture ever painted.”
“I’ll betcha,” agreed Hashknife, and added, “Mebbe there’s water back in the upper cañons, Ma, and they don’t have to come down to the creek.”
“Perhaps. I wonder if things have changed much. It seems as though I have been away only a few days. The old place hasn’t changed much. We used to have awful good times here—big dinners and dances—and folks used to come from all over the country. You haven’t been here long enough to meet many folks, have you?”
“Not many,” said Hashknife.
So she told them of the good days of the Diamond H, while they smoked and listened. It was a life they both knew well, the rough, hearty, big-hearted fun of the range country, where laughter quickly followed tears, and where people were friends, not merely acquaintances.
“But it’s still thataway here,” said Hashknife. “There ain’t nothin’ to change folks, Ma. The old Diamond H will always be the same old place, and a friend is always a friend.”
“Yes, that is true, but the Diamond H will never be the same.”
They knew what she meant. Uncle Billy had always been the moving spirit in the festivities.
The last trace of the twilight faded. Gone was the ridge where the cattle used to come down to drink. Ma Holton sighed and got to her feet.
“I’m tired,” she said, “but I’m happy tired. Won’t you boys sleep in the house tonight, instead of the bunk-house? It—it seems lonesome, somehow.”
“Sure, we’d jist as soon, Ma,” said Sleepy. “We’ll take that back bedroom, if yuh don’t mind.”
“Thank you, boys. I’ll go in now.”
She went in the living-room and lighted the lamp, while Hashknife and Sleepy rolled a good-night cigaret. The big gate, which opened out to the main road, creaked softly, and they heard the wooden fastener cluck back into the socket.
“Somebody comin’,” observed Hashknife, peering toward the gate. It was several minutes before they discerned the form of a man, coming slowly toward them. He came up to the porch, where the light from the doorway illuminated his face.
It was Uncle Billy Holton. He did not seem to see them for a moment, as he peered around.
“Good evenin’,” said Hashknife pleasantly. The old man started.
“I didn’t see anybody around,” he said wearily. “It got dark on me. Mebbe I started out too late, and I—I didn’t realize it was so far.”
“Didja walk out here from town?” asked Hashknife.
“Yeah, I—” He hesitated for a moment. “I was goin’ away tomorrow mornin’ and I kinda thought I’d like to take a look at the old place before I went. But it’s too dark now; so I’ll jist set down for a few minutes and then go back.”
“For ——’s sake!” whispered Hashknife. He had turned his head and saw Ma Holton standing in the doorway. She was holding to both sides of the doorway, looking out at the old man.
He lifted his head and looked at her. She had her back to the light, but Hashknife could see the strained expression on the old man’s face, as he looked at her; an expression of astonishment, hope, misery. He lifted a hand and brushed it across his eyes.
“Uncle Billy, is that you?” she whispered.
“Yeah; it’s—it’s me, Ma,” he said hoarsely. “I jist came back.”
“I just came back, too, Billy.”
They were still staring at each other, when Hashknife grasped Sleepy by the sleeve and drew him around the corner of the house.
“There’s some things that’s too —— sacred for two ordinary cowpunchers to listen to,” said Hashknife thickly, as they sat down on the steps of the bunk-house.
“Uh-huh,” gulped Sleepy. “My ——, I was glad to git out of there. Walked all the way out here to take a look at the old ranch, and it got dark on him. Jist wanted to set down for a few minutes and then walk back. Aw-w-w, ——!”
“I’ll play yuh a game of crib,” offered Hashknife.
“All right. Best two out of three, and then we’ll mosey back and see if the old folks are still astonished at each other.”
It was possibly an hour later that the game broke up and the two cowboys left the bunk-house. “’S a funny thing there ain’t no light,” observed Hashknife.
“Prob’ly settin’ on the porch and savin’ oil,” grinned Sleepy. “Man, I’m bettin’ they had a lot to talk about.”
But there was no one on the front porch. The door was wide open, but from within came no sound. They walked in and Hashknife scratched a match.
“For ——’s sake, light the lamp!” exclaimed Sleepy, as the flare of the match partly illuminated the room.
Hashknife lighted the lamp and then looked around. Ma Holton was roped to a rocking-chair and gagged with a dish-towel, while Uncle Billy sprawled on his face near the door.
As quickly as possible Sleepy removed the ropes and gag from the old lady, while Hashknife lifted the old man to the couch and examined his injuries. His right eye was swollen shut from a blow which had struck him near the right temple, but otherwise he seemed uninjured.
Ma Holton was unable to talk until Sleepy gave her a drink of water.
“For gosh sake, what happened?” asked Hashknife.
“I don’t hardly know,” she confessed, looking anxiously at Uncle Billy, who was still unconscious.
“He’s all right,” assured Hashknife. “Just a tunk on the head. He ain’t in very good physical shape and it played him plumb out.”
“Didn’t yuh see who done it?” questioned Sleepy.
“No,” Ma Holton shook her head. “We were sitting on the porch, and I noticed that the lamp had gone out. I told Uncle Billy that it must have burned dry and we went inside to light another lamp.
“Then I felt somebody grab me. I thought at first it was Uncle Billy, and I started to say something, when a cloth was shoved in my mouth and some one grabbed my arms. I—I tried to fight, but it was no use.
“I heard somebody swear and Uncle Billy called to me, but just then I heard somebody fall, and it must have been Uncle Billy.”
“Yuh don’t know how many men were here?” asked Hashknife.
“No, I didn’t see anybody. It was awful dark in here. But there must have been more than one.”
“That’s a queer deal,” muttered Hashknife. They secured a pan of water and bathed the old man’s head. He had been hit hard, but soon recovered. His story was about the same as Ma Holton’s.
Hashknife propped him up against a pillow, lighted another lamp and went on a tour of inspection. But they could find nobody, nor could they find any reason for the attack. As far as they could determine nothing had been touched.
Range folks are not in the habit of locking windows and doors; so it was an easy matter for any one to enter the house from the rear. They went back to the living-room, where they found the old man much improved.
“It’s beyond me,” declared Ma Holton. “Why in the world would any one do this to us, I’d like to know. It was just like having a nightmare. There I was, setting in that chair, unable to move or talk, and I knew that Uncle Billy had been hurt. Oh, it seemed hours before I heard you boys coming.”
“What do you make of it, Uncle Billy?” asked Sleepy.
“Craziest thing I ever heard of. No reason for it.”
“Mm-m-m. Any popular lunatics in this country?”
Uncle Billy laughed painfully and felt of his head, “Not that we have any record of. I s’pose we’re all more or less crazy.”
“Anybody got it in for you?” asked Hashknife.
Uncle Billy squinted painfully, “Well, I—I don’t think that any of them would sneak up on me in the dark.”
“Well, they didn’t do any talking,” said Ma. “They didn’t plug my ears. I heard them leave this room, but I couldn’t turn my head, so I don’t know where they went, nor how long they stayed.”
“How long was it after we left?” asked Hashknife.
“I don’t know,” confessed Ma. “You see,” she smiled wistfully, “there are times when folks forget the minutes.”
“Yeah, I’ll betcha,” grinned Hashknife. “Well, it’s all over and nobody got killed. They won’t come back tonight, so I move that we all go to bed. I’ll make a bandage for Uncle Billy. If you’ve got a little arnica we’ll plumb ruin that swellin’—and a black eye wears out after while.”
“He is going to stay here,” said Ma Holton. “He can have that bedroom on the east side. You see, Uncle Billy ain’t going to no poor-farm. We were both fools and we admit it. And just as soon as we can find a minister or a justice of the peace, we’re going to get married again.”
“Hurray!” whooped Hashknife. “And we’ll pull off a dance in the old Diamond H, eh? Make old Medicine River set up and howl at the moon. Whooee-e-e!”
He slapped Uncle Billy on the back, almost upsetting him and did a war-dance around Ma Holton’s chair.
“But will they come to our dance?” asked Ma wistfully.
“Will who come?”
“The folks of Medicine River?”
“They’ll come a-runnin’, or feet-first, Ma. Get me that arnica.”
Uncle Billy got to his feet, bracing one hand against the table, and looked down at Ma Holton.
“Ma,” he said, his voice quavering, “I thought the old world had come to an end—but it’s just startin’.”
But long after every one else at the Diamond H had gone to sleep, Hashknife fought his pillow and wondered what it was all about; wondered why any one would mishandle two old people for no visible reason.
Hashknife knew that some one had robbed the Diamond H. He and Sleepy had been told all about it before they took the job. But they had not been hired to hunt for rustlers, so that part of the deal did not interest them.
But Hashknife was interested in the fact that the bank had sold Ma Holton the mortgage. Possibly it was business, mused Hashknife, but a bad business. She had bought a pig in a poke.
“Anyway, I’m goin’ down and tell Miller what I think of him tomorrow,” decided Hashknife. “I may not be able to do it, ’cause I ain’t got a whole lot of words, but I’ll use what I’ve got.”
Sleepy was snoring loudly; so Hashknife stuffed part of the pillow in his mouth before he blew out the lamp.
“Whaza want?” grunted Sleepy.
“I jist wanted to tell yuh that I think the peace of the Diamond H is about over.”
“Thaz good. Go sleep, you danged owl.”