Thicker Than Water E-Book

W. C. Tuttle

• Herausgeber: Carousel Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Hashknife Hartley, ingenious, whimsical, patient, cool, daring and a little mysterious, rides over the prairie rim to the town of Red Arrow with Sleepy Stevens riding at his side, a shy Sancho Panza, devoted and puzzled, but a strong arm and a quick trigger-finger at need. Red Arrow is a trifle excited. The Wells Fargo messenger has been held up and relieved of $132,000. "Slim" Caldwell, the sheriff, welcomes Hashknife's aid in solving the problem, and the resulting adventures of Hashknife and Sleepy are many and thrilling.

Leseprobe

Thicker Than Water: A Story of Hashknife Hartley

W. C. Tuttle

Published by Limelight Books, 2024.

Copyright

Thicker Than Water: A Story of Hashknife Hartley by W. C. Tuttle. First published in 1927. New edition published by Limelight Books, 2024.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

I - THE ACE OF SPADES

II - THE EAGLE SALOON

III - LILA’S DEPARTURE

IV - CHUCKWALLA MAKES A MISTAKE

V - FATHER AND SON

VI - LILA

VII - RANCE WINS OUT

VIII - THE OVERLAND MAKES AN UNEXPECTED STOP

IX - AT THE CIRCLE SPADE

X - SCOTTY GETS AN EARFUL OF DIRT

XI - A HORSE TRADE

XII - THE HALF-BOX R

XIII - TWO SUSPECTS

XIV - RANCE’S CONFESSION

XV - ESCAPE

XVI – LOST - A HAT

XVII - KID GLOVER

XVIII - HASHKNIFE AT WORK

XIX - PART OF THE TRUTH

XX - FIRE

XXI - THE FINISH AT THE JML

XXII - THE TRAIL AGAIN

Further Reading: Riders of the Purple Sage

I - THE ACE OF SPADES

The two men faced each other across the little table in the living room of the Circle Spade ranch-house, in the light of a single oil lamp. The younger of the two men was Jack McCoy, known as “Angel,” while the other was Rance McCoy, his father, and owner of the Circle Spade ranch.

Angel McCoy was rather tall, well-muscled, with features as clean-cut as a cameo. His skin was almost as white as milk, his hair as black as jet, and he wore it long in front of his ears—a swinging curl of inky-black against his white cheek. His eyes were brown, shaded by sharpcut brows. There was no denying the fact that he was handsome.

Just now he wore a white silk shirt, with a red handkerchief knotted around his throat, black trousers tucked into the tops of a pair of fancy, high-heeled boots—and about him was an odor of perfume.

Rance McCoy’s appearance had nothing in common with his son’s. He was about fifty years of age, grizzled, hard-faced, with a skin the color of jerked venison. His eyes were gray, and there were scars on his face, which showed lighter than the rest of his skin; scars of many battles. Rance McCoy had been a fighter in his time. There were other scars, which did not show, where hot lead had scored him time and again.

He was tough, was Rance McCoy; an old gunman, afraid of nothing—not even of his handsome son.

“Well, all I can say is that you’ve got some damned queer ideas,” said Angel slowly.

“Mebby I have,” said the old man.

“No maybe about it,” said Angel sneeringly. “Lila is of age and I’m of age. If I want to marry her, it’s none of yore business.”

“You think not? Well, everybody is entitled to an opinion. I’ve told yuh about me, Angel.”

“Yeah, and I don’t think much of yuh.”

Angel got to his feet and stood there, looking down at his father.

“I knew all along that Lila wasn’t my sister,” he said slowly.

The old man lifted a hand to fend the light from his eyes, as he looked up at his son.

“Billy DuMond told yuh, Angel?”

“Ten years ago. He said you killed her father and then adopted her.”

“That drunken thief!” muttered the old man.

“Who—Lila’s father?”

“No—Billy DuMond.”

“I don’t know anythin’ about that part of it,” said Angel. “He merely told me that she wasn’t my sister. You don’t deny that, do yuh?”

“No, I don’t deny it.”

Angel slowly rolled a cigarette, watching the old man’s face.

“Maybe you think I’m not good enough for her, eh? Was that why you were willin’ to give me my share of the cattle, and let me buy out the Eagle? Wanted to get rid of me, eh?”

Angel laughed harshly and lighted his cigarette over the top of the lamp-chimney.

“There wasn’t any question of gettin’ rid of yuh,” said Rance McCoy slowly. “It was yore own proposition. You wanted to run a saloon and be a gambler; so I gave yuh yore share of the cattle. I sent Lila away to school. It cost me a lot of money to educate her, Angel.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

Angel exhaled a cloud of smoke through his shapely nostrils.

“But as far as you marryin’ Lila—you’ll not,” declared Rance McCoy flatly. “I raised the two of yuh together, and I know all about both of yuh. I’ve heard that you’re a crooked dealer, Angel. Men don’t hint things like that unless there’s some truth in it. Crooked at cards, crooked at everythin’.”

Angel McCoy jerked forward, his dark eyes glittering in the yellow light.

“Crooked, am I?” he laughed harshly. “No man dares say it to my face. They come and whine to you, do they? And you believe things like this of yore own son! That’s why you won’t let me marry Lila, eh? All right; I’ll tell Lila that she ain’t yore daughter. I’ll tell her you killed her father. I’ll tell——”

“If yuh do”—Rance McCoy’s old face twisted harshly and he leaned forward, shoving his right shoulder against the table—“If yuh do, Angel—I’ll kill yuh. A long time ago yuh ceased to be my son. Oh, yuh’ll get an even break. I never killed any man without givin’ him an even break.”

“Even break!” exclaimed Angel. “What man ever had an even break with you? I’ve seen yuh draw and shoot, old man.”

The old man laughed mirthlessly. Few men could draw and shoot with Rance McCoy.

“Yuh always did lose yore nerve in a showdown,” he said.

“I never lost my nerve,” growled Angel. “But this ain’t a shootin’ proposition.”

The old man studied him for a space of several minutes.

“Angel,” he said slowly, “what does Lila know about this? She wouldn’t marry her own brother. What have yuh told her?”

Angel smiled crookedly and rested his elbows on the table.

“Well, if you’ve got to know—she knows.”

“She knows?”

“I told her tonight.”

“Yuh told her tonight?”

“That you ain’t her father—yes. No, I never asked her to marry me—not yet. But by God, I’m goin’ to ask her!”

The old man got slowly to his feet, disclosing the fact that he wore a holstered gun. Angel also wore one, and the mother-of-pearl handle flashed like an opal in the yellow light. With a twitch of his left hand the old man jerked out a drawer from the table and produced an old deck of playing-cards.

He dropped them on the table and looked sharply at Angel, who was watching him curiously.

“Shuffle ’em,” ordered the old man.

“What’s the idea?”

“I’m givin’ yuh an even break, Angel. You’re a gambler, and I’m givin’ yuh a gambler’s chance. Shuffle the cards and let me cut ’em. You can do the dealin’. The one who gets the ace of spades—shoots first.”

“You mean——” Angel hesitated.

“You know what I mean, yuh yaller pup.”

Angel flushed quickly and reached for the cards. His long fingers riffled the cards with mechanical precision. Time after time he split the deck, until it seemed as though he was trying to wear out the cards. The old man’s keen eyes watched those hands, and there was a half-smile on his lips.

“That’s enough,” he said drawlingly. “Let me cut.”

It seemed to Angel that the old man studied the deck rather carefully before he made the cut.

“The one who gets the ace of spades shoots first, eh?” said Angel, and it seemed as though his voice trembled.

The old man nodded.

“Go ahead and deal.”

Angel hesitated.

“This is foolishness, old man. If I shoot yuh, they’ll hang me for murder. Lila’s upstairs.”

“She don’t know you’re here.”

“But the shot would wake her up.”

“How long do yuh think it’ll take yuh to get away? You talk as though yuh already had the ace of spades. I’ll take my chances. Go ahead and deal.”

Angel shuddered slightly. It was all so ridiculous, this idea of dealing for the first shot. But the old man did not seem to mind. There was not a tremor in the gnarled hand that rested on the old table-top.

“Go ahead and deal, you coward,” he said coldly.

With a flick of his fingers the gambler threw the first two cards—ace of hearts, six of clubs. There were fifty more cards in the deck.

King, jack. It was the king of spades.

“Hittin’ close,” said the old man.

Angel licked his lips and dealt the next two slowly—ten, deuce.

“How far for the first shot?” he asked hoarsely.

“Width of the room. Can’t miss. Deal.” Queen, deuce.

“Runnin’ small on yore side,” observed the old man.

Angel licked his lips again and his right hand trembled, as he dealt himself a trey to Rance’s second king.

“Why don’tcha git it over with, Angel?” taunted the old man. “Losin’ yore nerve?”

But Angel did not reply. His eyes were staring at the cards as they fell. The deck was getting thin now. Not over a dozen cards left. It was difficult for him to swallow. The oil was low in the lamp, and it had begun to smoke a little.

Six cards left. Ace of diamonds, seven of hearts. Only four left. His hands felt heavy as lead. He wanted to say something, but his mouth was too dry. With a super-effort he managed to deal the next two cards—two deuces.

There were only two cards left in his hand; two old dog-eared cards that held his fate. He stared down at them as though fascinated. He looked across the table at the face of his father, who was laughing at him. Slowly his right hand went to his lips—a hand that trembled a tattoo against his mouth—and with a strangled word he dropped the two cards on the floor, turned on his heel, and stumbled to the door. He flung the door open, and a moment later came the staccato drumming of his horse’s hoofs, as he rode swiftly away from the ranch.

The old man still stood beside the table, a half-smile on his lips, as he looked down at the cards. Then he stepped around the table and picked up those last two cards—a six of hearts and the joker. Then he swept up all the cards and opened the table drawer. Looking up at him from the bottom of the drawer was the ace of spades. It had been left there when the deck had been taken out.

“Busted his nerve,” whispered the old man. “Lucky thing that old joker was bent enough to lift up the deck and give me a chance to cut it on the bottom. Still, I didn’t think he had nerve enough to deal fifty of ’em—I wouldn’t have had, that’s a cinch.”

W. C. Tuttle’s stories featured in Adventure Magazine

II - THE EAGLE SALOON

Angel McCoy rode back to Red Arrow, his mind filled with mixed emotions. Although it hurt him deeply, he was obliged to admit to himself that his father had out-gamed him. He tried to explain to his conscience that the whole thing had been a colossal piece of melodrama, and that he feared to get the ace of spades. He was a good shot. There was little doubt in his mind that his first shot would settle the whole argument, and he would be branded as a murderer.

There had never been any love lost between himself and his father. Their natures had always clashed. But Angel, even with his cold-blooded nature, did not want to be branded a parricide. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous now. Lila had been away to school for five years, and had returned a beautiful young lady, fit to turn the head of any man in the country. She was not his sister, and he could conceive of no reason why he should not marry her—if she was willing. She knew now that Rance McCoy was not her father, and, being of age, could do as she pleased.

Angel rode up to his own stable, at the rear of the Eagle saloon and gambling-house, put up his horse and entered the saloon by a rear door. The Eagle was rather a large place for a Western town, being an oblong room about sixty feet long by thirty feet wide. On the right-hand side was a long bar, while part of the center, with all the left-hand side, was taken up by tables and gambling paraphernalia.

At the rear of the saloon were two private rooms, one of which was used as sleeping-quarters by Angel. During the week there was little play at the Eagle, but on Saturday and Sunday, when the Red Arrow cowboys came to town, there was plenty business.

The first man Angel McCoy met as he came into the place was Billy DuMond, a man as old as Rance McCoy, slouchy, unshaven, partly drunk. He was employed as a cowboy with the Half-Box R outfit, owned by “Butch” Reimer. Angel had known DuMond for years.

“Hyah, Angel,” greeted DuMond owlishly.

“Hello, Billy. I was kinda hopin’ I’d see yuh.”

Angel drew DuMond aside and lowered his voice.

“I just had a run-in with the old man, Billy. He knows you told me about Lila; so yuh better steer clear of him.”

DuMond wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swallowed dryly.

“Lemme git yuh straight, Angel. Yuh told him I said it?”

“Yeah; that he killed Lila’s father and then adopted her. You told me about it ten years ago, yuh remember.”

“Uh-huh. Well”—DuMond cuffed his shapeless hat over one ear and stared at Angel—“Well, what did yuh drag me into it fer? I don’t want no trouble.”

“A man don’t get into trouble by tellin’ the truth.”

“Th’ hell they don’t! I knowed a horse-thief that told the truth—and they hung him. And you told old Rance McCoy that I said—I—Angel, I’m shore sorry yuh told it.”

“You scared of him, Billy?”

“Well, by God!” snorted DuMond, cuffing his hat to the opposite side of his head. “Any old time I git m’ spark of life blowed out, who’s goin’ to light her ag’in? Don’t you re’lize that yore old man is danger’s?, He’ll shoot.”

Angel laughed shortly.

“I reckon you’re right, Billy; I’m sorry.”

“Sorrow won’t help me none.”

“Did yuh know Lila’s father?”

“No! I don’t know nothin’! I don’t even ’member tellin’ yuh anythin’. Ten years ago! Must ’a’ been drunk. Who’s this here Lila you’re talkin’ about, Angel?”

“Oh, go to hell!” snorted Angel, and went on toward the bar, where he met Butch Reimer and Dell Blackwell, one of Reimer’s cowboys. Butch Reimer was of medium height, with wide shoulders and a face that might well have belonged to a prize-fighter of the old bare-knuckle school. Several years previous to this time Butch had been kicked square in the face by a sharp-shod horse. There were no plastic surgeons at that time, so Butch’s face had merely healed up, leaving a crooked nose, twisted mouth, and a misplaced eyebrow, not to mention numerous indentations never intended by Nature in her most uncritical moods.

Dell Blackwell was a lithe, olive-complexioned, black-haired cowboy; inveterate gambler, bronco rider, and reputed a bad man to start trouble with.

“I just got nicked for a hundred in yore ecarte game,” growled Butch. “Drew a four and a five; but the dealer turned a natural.”

“Butch had a system,” smiled Blackwell. “Always won his first bet, yuh know; so he slapped down a hundred as a first bet. What’s new, Angel?”

“Not a damned thing, Dell.”

“Have a drink,” growled Butch. “I hear Lila’s home.”

“Yeah,” said Angel shortly.

“Growed up much?”

“Sure.”

“You’re sure talkative. Where yuh been—out to see the old man?”

Angel nodded moodily.

“I thought so,” grinned Butch, as he filled his glass. He knew that Angel and his father usually quarreled.

“What made yuh think that?” demanded Angel.

“Jist from yore actions. Oh, I don’t blame yuh. He jist the same as told me to keep off his place last week. And I’m goin’ to stay off, too. Ask Dell why.”

“Cinch,” laughed Dell. “I dropped in there a couple weeks ago and found the old man practicin’. I tell yuh, he was shootin’ pepper cans off the corral fence at sixty feet. Stuck up six in a row, about two feet apart, and hit every danged one of ’em. You jist try hittin’ three-inch squares every time at sixty feet with a forty-five.”

“I can jist hit my hat at that distance,” grinned Butch, “and I wear the widest thing Stetson makes.”

“And you jist shoot good enough to win my money,” laughed Blackwell.

“Somebody will kill him one of these days,” said Angel.

“Yeah—send him a bomb by express. Let’s have another.”

III - LILA’S DEPARTURE

Morning at the Circle Spade still found Rance McCoy humped in his chair beside the table in the old living-room. The lamp had burned dry long since, and the chimney was soot-streaked. “Chuckwalla Ike” Hazen, the old cook, was in the kitchen, wrestling with the cooking utensils. Chuckwalla Ike was as old as Rance McCoy, a weather-beaten old desert cook, crooked in the legs from riding bad horses in his youth, with his left elbow slightly out of line from stopping a bullet.

Chuckwalla wore a long, sad-looking mustache, and his head was as bald as a baseball. His nose was generous, and one cheek was habitually pouched from tobacco. He was clad in a sleeveless undershirt, overalls, and moccasins, as he peered into the living-room at Rance McCoy.

“Up kinda early ain’t yuh, Rance?” he drawled.

“I was—uh—I reckon I better put me on a shirt. Plumb forgot we’ve got a lady among us. Say, whatsa matter with yuh? Look like hell this mornin’.”

“I’m all right,” said Rance huskily.

“Which yuh ain’t a-tall. Yuh can’t fool Chuckwalla. What time does the Queen of Sheber come among us f’r nourishment?”

“I dunno,” wearily.

“Well, I s’pose not.”

Chuckwalla scratched his shoulder against a corner of the doorway.

“She shore growed up purty, didn’t she, Rance? Five year ago she was a tow-headed kid with long legs and freckles, and she used to yell at me, ‘Chuckwalla Ike, go set on a spike,’ and now she pokes out her hand and says, ‘Mr. Hazen, how do yuh do.’ There’s only one thing that improves with age, and that’s liquor.”

“They grow up,” said Rance slowly.

“Don’t they? Well, I s’pose I’d better scare up a flock of biscuits. She allus liked ’em. Mebby I better put on a shirt. She might not like a cook in dishabelle, as they say. And my lingeree is kinda mournful, too. And yuh might tell Monty Adams and Steve Winchell to cut out their profane greetin’s to me this mornin’. As far as the human voice is concerned, this ranch-house leaks like a sieve.”

Rance McCoy turned his head and looked curiously at old Chuckwalla.

“You heard what was said last night?”

“That don’t bother me,” said Chuckwalla quickly. “But I shore was curious to know who got that black ace, and quit on the job.”

“I got it,” said Rance softly, glancing toward the stairs.

“Uh-huh.” Chuckwalla opened his mouth widely, blinked his eyes and backed toward the stove, where he turned and began shaking up the fire. Rance walked out to the front porch, and the old cook looked after him, a quizzical expression in his eyes.

“Rance,” he said to himself, “you’re addin’ lies to the rest of yore sins.”

Rance McCoy sat down on the steps of the old ranch-house which had been his home for eighteen years. There were a few stunted rosebushes in the yard. Near the corner of the house grew a gnarled cottonwood tree. The barbed-wire fence sagged badly in spots, and the weeds grew unmolested. To his left was the long, low stable, and beyond it was the series of pole-corrals. On the hill beyond the stable a bunch of cattle were stringing away from the ranch waterhole in the willows. Several miles away to the south he could see a streamer of black smoke from a train, heading toward Red Arrow, northwest of the ranch.

The Circle Spade had never been a big cattle outfit. Only two cowboys were employed by Rance McCoy. He had never been well liked in the Red Arrow country. Gun-men are usually respected, but rarely liked. They let old Rance alone when he came to town and got drunk, which he did at rare intervals; but never blind drunk.

He could hear Monty Adams and Steve Winchell, the two cowboys, noisily washing their faces at the old wash-bench near the kitchen door, and joking with Chuckwalla Ike. Came a step on the porch, and he turned to see Lila. She was a tall, slender girl, her shapely head piled high with a wealth of golden-blonde hair, and wearing a pale blue dress.

Her eyes were slightly red, as though she had been crying. She leaned against the left side of the doorway and looked at the man she had always believed to be her father.

“How didja sleep, Lila?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly.

“Not very well.”

“Uh-huh.”

His shoulders hunched beneath his coarse blue shirt, and he turned his gaze away from her.

“Well, go ahead,” he said slowly. “No use sparrin’ around. Angel told yuh a lot of things last night, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what do yuh think about it?”

“Oh, I don’t know what to think. He said you killed my father.”

Old Rance lifted his head and stared across the hills, his left hand caressing his stubbled chin.

“Yeah, he told me the same thing, Lila.”

“I heard what was said.”

“Didja? What did yuh hear?”

“You—you forced him to deal those cards.”

Rance laughed harshly.

“Busted his nerve, didn’t I?”

“Did you? Do you suppose he would have shot you, if he had drawn the card?”

“I hope so; I hate a quitter.”

“But you are his father!”

“It never meant much to Angel.”

“Would you have shot him?”

“If I had drawn that ace of spades—sure.”

She did not know that the ace of spades had been left in the drawer.

“Where is my father buried?” asked Lila softly.

Rance McCoy shook his head.

“I can’t tell yuh, Lila.”

“Does Billy DuMond know?”

“He don’t know anythin’ about it, except what he heard.”

Chuckwalla Ike came to the doorway and called:

“You folks ready to eat?”

“Better go in and eat, Lila,” said Rance.

But Lila shook her head, and after a sharp glance at Rance McCoy, Chuckwalla went back to the kitchen, complaining to himself.

“Where is my mother?” asked Lila.

“Yore mother?” Rance frowned heavily. “Oh, yeah—yore mother. Well, I dunno, Lila.”

“Didn’t my father tell you?”

“No-o-o, he didn’t say.”

“But you killed him.”

Rance McCoy hunched his shoulders helplessly.

“Let’s me and you not talk about it, Lila. It’s all gone and forgotten now. You’ve been my little girl ever since yuh wasn’t knee-high to a nail; you’re still my little girl.”

The old man’s voice was not very steady and he did not look at her.

“It’s not forgotten,” said Lila bitterly. “Why didn’t you tell me a long time ago? I haven’t any right to—I’m not your daughter. You haven’t any adoption papers, have you?”

Rance shook his head sadly.

“Wasn’t anything like that, Lila. I didn’t never want yuh to know. I wish I’d killed Billy DuMond before he ever told Angel. The drunken bum ain’t hardly fit to hang on the hot end of a bullet. Angel wants to marry yuh, Lila. Mebby yuh heard him say it last night. But don’t do it.”

“That has nothing to do with the case,” said Lila evenly. “You know I can’t stay here any longer.”

Old Rance turned and looked keenly at her.

“Yuh—uh—yuh can’t stay here?” he faltered.

“Don’t you see how it is?” helplessly. “I don’t belong here. I—I’ll try and pay you back for what I’ve cost you. I don’t know how it can be done, but I’ll try. You’ve been good to me.”

Lila turned abruptly on her heel and went back into the house. The old man sank a little lower on the step, when he heard her tell Chuckwalla she did not want any breakfast. She was talking to the two cowboys, but Rance could not hear what was said.

A few minutes later Monty Adams came out to him. He was industriously picking his teeth and trying to appear at ease. Monty was tow-headed, rather flat-faced, and of medium height.

“Lila asked me to hitch up the buckboard and take her to town,” said Monty. “Is it all right, Rance?”

“Sure.”

Rance cleared his throat harshly, but did not look around. When Monty went back into the house Rance got up and walked down to the stable, where he sat down on an overturned box and looked gloomily at the ranch-house. He watched Monty and Steve hitch up the old backboard, and saw Chuckwalla carry Lila’s trunk out to the ranch-house porch.

There was no good-bye spoken. Lila came down and Steve helped her into the vehicle. She shook hands with Chuckwalla, and drove away with Monty. Steve sauntered down to the bunk-house, followed by a collie pup, which carried a piece of board in its mouth, while Chuckwalla sat down on the porch and rolled a cigarette.

He looked up quizzically as Rance came up to the porch, but the owner of the Circle Spade said nothing. For possibly five minutes they sat there together, saying nothing. Chuckwalla was the first to break the silence.

“Wimmin,” he said solemnly, “do beat hell.”

“Men, too,” said Rance sadly.

“Yeah, that’s right, Rance; they shore do. If I was you, I’d slap Billy DuMond to a peak and then kick the peak off.”

Rance McCoy smiled bitterly.

“What would yuh gain by that, Chuckwalla?”

“I dunno. Mebby he ain’t worth the effort, Rance. Oh, you can set there and pull yore old poker-face, Rance McCoy. But I know yuh. I know how yuh feel toward Lila. It’s jist like takin’ pincers and pullin’ out yore finger-nails. I may not have a lot of brains, but I ain’t dumb.

“She ain’t showin’ any sense, I tell yuh. My God, you’ve done everythin’ for her. What if yuh ain’t her daddy? Yuh shore been good to her, old-timer. Even if you did kill her real father. I don’t know a thing about it, and I don’t want to. I’ve been with you goin’ onto eight year, Rance; and her own dad couldn’t ’a’ been better to her. It’s that school she’s been to. They done give her top-heavy ideas, that’s what.”

“I know,” said Rance softly. “But don’t blame her too much. It was a shock to her, Chuckwalla.”

“To know you killed her dad? Shucks, what’s that? She didn’t know him no better than I knowed Gineral Custer—and I don’t hold no grudge ag’in’ the Injuns. That’s why I allus say that wimmin do beat hell. There ain’t never been no wimmin in my life, Rance. And I was a likely critter in m’ youth. Lots a girls looked sideways at me.”

“And now you’re jist a cow-outfit cook,” said Rance seriously.

“Yea-a-ah—and what are you? Owner of the outfit; eatin’ your tough old heart out over a girl that don’t deserve it; father of a son that ort to be kicked in the pants and showed the error of his ways. You ain’t got no edge on me, Rance. I tell yuh what I would like to do. How much money have I got comin’?”

“About eighty dollars, Chuckwalla.”

“Plenty. I’ve got a notion to go to Red Arrer and git so drunk that all m’ previous libations would look like the mornin’ meal of a day-old calf. I ain’t been drunk since they quit callin’ the Platte River Nee-brath-kah. That’s what’s makin’ us old, Rance. By God, pretty soon me and you will be so old we’ll be preachin’ temp’-rance.”

Old Rance shook his head sadly.

“I’d be scared to, Chuckwalla. If I got six drinks under my hide, I’d kill somebody.”