by W. C. Tuttle

Hashknife Wasn’t Exactly the Size and Shape to Play Santa
Claus; Still and All, Peace on Earth Was a Long Way from
Dancing Devil Valley That Particular Season

A long, dusty freight train rattled and clanked through the desert
hills, seemingly in no hurry to anywhere. Outside it was almost dark,
and there were no lights inside the caboose, where Hashknife Hartley
sprawled on an uncomfortable seat and gazed wearily through a dusty
window. Across the aisle was Hashknife’s partner, Sleepy Stevens,
stretched out on the seat, his head pillowed on his war-sack.

Hashknife was inches over six feet tall, of slender, steel-muscled
manhood, his sombrero pulled low over his gray eyes. Sleepy Stevens was
less than six feet tall, broad of shoulder and beam, slightly
bow-legged. Sleepy had a grin-wrinkled face, wide mouth and
innocent-looking blue eyes, which seemed amazed at the world.

In garb they were merely a pair of drifting cowboys; well-worn Stetsons,
colorless shirts, stringy vests, little more than a depository for
tobacco and papers, faded overalls and high-heel boots. There was
nothing fancy about these two cowpokes. Their gun-belts were home-made,
form-fitted by wear, and even their Colt guns, tucked into short
holsters, had plain wooden butts, blackened by wear.

A sleepy-eyed brakeman climbed down from the cupola and wiped a grimy
forearm across his dusty eyes and lighted his lantern. He said, “We’re
pullin’ into Northgate, boys.”

Sleepy swung around on the seat, yawned widely and picked up his
war-sack. The train was slowing down, as they came out on the platform.
Each one of them picked up a heavy saddle and stepped down. There were
few lights in Northgate, the railroad point for all of the Dancing Devil
range.

There were huge loading corrals along the tracks, indicating that much
livestock was shipped from Northgate. The train stopped, with the
caboose close to the depot, and the two men swung down. The conductor
crossed in front of them, going into the depot, where a kerosene lamp
yellow-lighted the windows. A man came from the near corner of the
depot, walking swiftly toward the rear platform of the caboose.

He had just reached the steps and was about to enter the caboose, when a
shotgun blasted from down behind the loading platform. The man twisted
around, tried to grasp the doorway, but missed, and went backwards off
the platform, falling in the middle of the tracks behind the caboose.

Hashknife and Sleepy dropped their impedimenta and ran over to the
caboose. There was no sign of the shooter. The conductor, depot-agent
and a brakeman came running. They picked the man up and placed him on
the platform while Hashknife told them where the shot came from. There
was no one in sight. The victim had stopped a dozen buckshot, and was
beyond any medical assistance.

There was no law officer in Northgate, the sheriffs office being at
Tomahawk Flats, thirty miles south, center of the Dancing Devil range.
Someone summoned a doctor, and other curious people arrived. A cowboy
said, “I know who he is–he’s Oren Blakely. I think he worked for the
Circle H, down at Tomahawk Flats.”

Hashknife and Sleepy secured a room at a little hotel, and, after
considerable haggling, bought two horses from the man who owned the
livery-stable and feed corral. They told him they were leaving for
Tomahawk Flats in the morning. He said, “if yo’re lookin’ for work down
there–”

“What about it?” asked Hashknife quickly.

“I just meant that they prob’ly ain’t lookin’ for cowpokes. Yuh see, the
bank went busted and that busted most of the cowmen, makin’ things kinda
bad down there. If a feller was lookin’ for work– But that’s yore
business.”

“Much obliged,” said Hashknife, but he didn’t say whether it was for the
advice or the information.

* * * * *

Over at the hotel they heard a man say that they had sent for the
sheriff and the coroner. Another man said, “It ain’t goin’ to be a very
merry Christmas down there this year.”

In their little room, Hashknife sprawled on the bed, smoking a
cigarette, while Sleepy looked moodily from a dusty window. Sleepy said,
“I just hope we ain’t playin’ Sandy Claws for Bob Marsh.”

Hashknife laughed shortly. “Where’d yuh get that idea?”

Sleepy sat down and began manufacturing a cigarette.

“Distrust of Bob Marsh,” he replied. “Bob sets there at his desk, his
big, brown eyes as full of honesty as a coyote pup is full of fleas, and
explains that all on earth he wants us to do is come down here, get the
best possible price on three, four cattle spreads, and let him know.”

“Well?” suggested Hashknife curiously.

“That’s all we’ve got to do,” sighed Sleepy. “No rustlers, no
horse-thieves–just a couple real estate men on horseback.”

“Sounds all right to me,” said Hashknife. “We get paid so much for the
job, and if the deals go through we get more money. It’s an honest job,
Sleepy. Bob Marsh, as secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association, can’t
afford to be mixed up in a crooked deal.”

“Yeah, I know but–well, a man was murdered tonight.”

“Men,” remarked Hashknife quietly, “are murdered every day.”

“Yeah, I know, but–you heard that man at the livery-stable, sayin’ that
everybody in the Dancin’ Devil country are broke. The bank went
busted–”

“Are you lookin’ for boogers, Sleepy?”

“No, I’m tryin’ to figure out why Bob Marsh got us down here. If he
can’t get us into trouble one way, he’ll–well, all right.”

“I’ve just thought of somethin’ else,” said Hashknife soberly. Sleepy
looked sharply at him and said, “Yeah? What?”

“It ain’t long until Christmas, pardner.”