The Hash Knife Outfit

by Zane Grey

  Only questioning eyes made any return to that.

  “He patted me on the haid, called me Wood-mouse, an’ then to Glory, ‘Big-eyes, go marry Curly or Bud, an’ have some real Western kids, an’ never forget your desperado.’ … Then he rode off like mad. An’ after Glory had braced up we found the road. An’ heah we are!”

  “Of all the strange things!” exclaimed Jim.

  The cowboys were mystified. Curly ran his lean brown hand through his tawny locks, in action of great perplexity.

  “Molly, was Jed drunk?”

  “No. He had a bottle, an’ he made Glory drink some of the stuff. But he didn’t drink any.”

  “Bud, you heah Molly’s story?” went on the nonplussed Curly.

  “Yes, an’ if she ain’t lyin’, Jed Stone was locoed. Thet happened, mebbe, when he seen Glory, an’ it ain’t no wonder.”

  “Bud Chalfack, don’t you dare hint I’m not tellin’ the truth,” declared Molly, approaching his bed, and then seeing how white and drawn his face was, how prone his sunk frame, she fell on her knees, with a cry of pity.

  “Wal, ain’t you only a kid, an’ turrible in love?” he growled. “You couldn’t see straight, let alone tell anythin’ straight. … I’m a dyin’ cowpuncher, Molly. I reckon you’d better kiss me.”

  “Oh, Bud, I’m so sorry. Are you in pain?” she asked.

  “I shore am, but you an’ Glory might ease it some.”

  Whereupon she kissed his cheek and smoothed the damp hair back from his wrinkled brow. That fetched a smile to Bud’s face, until it almost bore semblance to the cherubic visage he possessed when in good health and spirits.

  “Glory, ain’t you comin’ over to kiss me, like Molly done?” he asked plaintively.

  “I am, surely, Bud, as soon—as I’m able,” she replied, smiling wanly. “I hope and pray you’re not serious—about dying.”

  “Aw, I am, Glory. But I might be saved,” he said, significantly. “If only I jest didn’t want to croak.”

  “Hush, you sick boy. Molly and I will nurse you.”

  At that Curly arose with a disgusted look, muttering under his breath: “If it takes thet, I reckon I can get shot up some.”

  Jim came out of his trance. “Boys, in our surprise and joy we’re forgetting the girls. … Curly, fetch hot water, and tell Jeff to fix something fit for starved people. Cherry, bring in the bags. … Now, Glory, I’ll carry you upstairs. … Come, Molly.”

  “Oh, such a wonderful, sweet-smelling house!” murmured Gloriana as he carried her along a wide hall, into the end room, sunny and open. It was bare except for a built-in bed of sycamore branches, upon which lay a thick spread of spruce foliage. He gently deposited Gloriana there, only to find her arms round his neck.

  “Jim, brother—my old world came to an end today,” she murmured, dreamily.

  “Yes. But you can tell me all when you’re rested again,” he replied, and kissing her cheek he disengaged himself and turned to meet Molly, who had followed. “Molly, you two use this room. Make her comfortable. Put her to bed. Feed her sparingly. And have a care for yourself. … What a kid you are! To go through all that ride and come out like this!—Damn Jed Stone. Yet I bless him! I can’t make it out.”

  Curly and the cowboys came up, packing things, and Curly lingered, unmindful of Jim or Molly.

  “Glory, I beg pardon for callin’ you darlin’, in front of the outfit,” he said, humbly. “I was shore out of my haid. But they all know aboot me.”

  She transfixed him with eyes of awe and reproach, almost horror.

  “Curly, I—I ought to shudder at sight of you,” she said, very low. “But I—I don’t.”

  “There! That’ll be about all for you,” interrupted Jim, and he shoved the shy and stricken cowboy out of the room, to follow on his heels.

  “What’d she mean, Jim?” Curly asked, huskily.

  “I don’t know, but I imagine it’s a lot—from Gloriana Traft.”

  Curly stalked downstairs and out into the open, like a man who did not see where he stepped. He remained absent until sunset. At supper, which was a silent meal, in deference to the sleeping girls up stairs, he ate but little, and that with a preoccupied air. Later he sought out Jim.

  “Boss, I been thinkin’ a heap aboot Molly’s yarn,” he said, ponderingly. “An’ it’s shore a queer one. The idee of Jed Stone bein’ lost! … Heah’s what I make of it—if you swear on your knees you’ll never squeal on me.”

  “I promise, pard,” returned Jim, feelingly.

  “Wal, you remember how crazy Glory was to heah aboot desperadoes. Now she took Jed fer one, an’ I’ll bet he was cute enough not to disappoint her. Jed must have hatched up some deal with Molly, to fool Glory, to scare her, to find out if she had any real stuff in her. Thet an’ thet only can account fer Jed’s queer doin’s an’ Molly’s queer story.”

  “But, Curly, was that motive enough?” asked Jim, incredulously.

  “No, I reckon it wasn’t,” admitted the cowboy. “They had to have a deeper one. Now, Jed knew Molly when she was a baby, always was fond of her. Molly is shore Arizona, Jim. So is Jed. But you cain’t savvy thet because you’re an Easterner. An’ to boil it down I reckon Jed scared Glory an’ starved her an’ drove her jest fer Molly’s sake. An’ in the end Glory took the brim off their cup by meanin’ to give herself up to save Molly’s honor. Glory was plumb fooled, an’ clean honest an’ as big as life. It was great, Jim. An’ if I hadn’t been in love with her before, I shore would be now.”

  “If that’s true, Molly is an awful little liar,” said Jim, dubiously.

  “Wal, yes an’ no. It depends on how you see it. Molly worships Glory, an’ she couldn’t have meant anythin’ but good. An’ good it shore was an’ is. Thet gurl is changed.”

  “Ahuh. I begin to savvy, maybe. I believe I did notice some little difference, which I put down to her joy at being safe again with us.”

  “Shore it was thet. But more. If I don’t miss my guess, Gloriana will never see through Jed an’ Molly. An’ thet’s jest as well. I hope the lesson wasn’t too raw. But thet sister of yours has guts. … When she gets rested she’ll appreciate things as they are out heah.”

  Next day Molly showed up downstairs, in changed garb, merry and shy by turns; and she surely was beleaguered by the cowboys. Eventually Jim contrived to get her away from Bud, and to walk out to look over Yellow Jacket. She was enraptured.

  “Molly, the end of the Hash Knife makes a vast difference,” Jim was saying as he halted with her on the log bridge across the amber stream. “We can actually live down here, eventually. But not till next year, and then you must have frequent visits to Flag. … You haven’t forgotten your promise to marry me this fall, have you?”

  “Oh, did I promise, Jim?” she asked, in shy pretense of surprise.

  “You sure did.”

  “Wal, then, say late November.”

  “But that’s winter!”

  “November? Oh no, thet’s the last of fall.”

  “Gosh! how long to wait! … But I love you so and you’re such a wonderful girl—I guess I can wait.”

  “Maybe—the middle of November,” she whispered, where upon Jim, with a glad shout, snatched her into his arms, to the imminent peril of their falling off the log that bridged the brook.

  Next morning late a lovely and languid Gloriana trailed shakily down the winding stairs into the living-room. Dark shadows enhanced the depth and hue of her eyes. She wore white, and to Bud and Curly, at least, she might have been an angel. But to Jim she appeared spent and shaken, completely warped out of her old orbit. She was made much of by the cowboys, except Curly, who worshiped and glowered by turns, from afar. Bud took advantage of Gloriana’s pledge of the day before and held her to it, after which he held her hand. At length Curly lunged out of the room, as if he meant to destroy himself, and then almost immediately he lunged back again. Jim understood his pangs, and when Curly gravitated to him, as always happened when he was cast down,
Jim whispered:

  “Pard, it doesn’t mean anything!”

  “Wal, I’ll shore find out pronto,” replied Curly, in heroic mood. “Never do to let her get hold of herself again.”

  Presently the other cowboys went out on the porch, to take up tasks, or to amuse Lonestar, who had a chair outside. This left Jim and Molly at the table. Gloriana sat on the edge of Bud’s bed, which consisted of blankets over spruce boughs, laid on the floor. Curly, who had before wandered around like a lost dog, now watched his friend and his sweetheart with flashing blue eyes. They apparently were oblivious of the others.

  “Glory, you’re the beautifulest gurl,” Bud was saying.

  “Silly, you’ve seen prettier ones,” she replied, but she was pleased, and she stroked his hair with her free hand.

  “Nope. They don’t walk on Gawd’s green earth,” returned her champion.

  “Bud, I’m to be here all summer,” she said, with a smile of enchantment. “Oh, it’s so heavenly here. I didn’t know. … Will you be all right soon—so you can ride with me—teach me how to handle a horse? I’m so stupid—so weak. Why, that pinto bucked me off!”

  “She did? Son-of-a-gun! I’ll beat her good fer thet.”

  “No you won’t. I love her.”

  “Love a pinto! … Is thet all?”

  “Bud, I love every horse—everything—everybody in Arizona.”

  “Aw, thet’s wuss.”

  Jim, entranced at this byplay, suddenly felt a tug. “Look at Curly,” whispered Molly.

  Curly seemed to have become transformed back to the old cool, easy cowboy, an unknown quantity, potent with some secret of imperturbable assurance. Yet Jim divined his was the grandeur of despair.

  “Glory,” drawled Curly, as he sat down on the bed, opposite her, and possessed himself of Bud’s other restless hand, “we’ve been like brothers for six years. … Bud an’ I. … An’ I reckon this last fight I evened up an old debt. When Bud went down, thet rustler would have killed him but fer me.”

  “Pard, what’s ailin’ you—thet you never told me before?” demanded Bud, his voice deep and rich.

  “No call fer it, Bud.”

  Gloriana looked from one to the other, fascinated, and vaguely troubled. Her intuition distrusted the moment.

  “Dog-gone! I had a hunch you did. Shore as hell thet’s why you missed the chance at Croak Malloy.”

  “I reckon.” Then Curly looked up at the girl. “I jest wanted you both to know, in case I don’t stay on heah.”

  “Stay on—heah?” faltered Gloriana, in her surprise actually imitating him. Then her eyes dilated with divining thoughts.

  “Now what I want to know—seein’ Bud an’ I are the same as brothers—which of us is to call you sister?”

  “Curly!” she entreated.

  “Aw, pard!” burst out Bud.

  “This son-of-a-gun ain’t bad hurt,” went on Curly. “I’ve seen him with more and worse gun-shot wounds. He’s only workin’ on your sympathy. Wal, thet’s all right. But it makes me declare myself right heah an’ now.”

  “Please, Curly—oh, don’t.”

  “You know I love you, Glory,” he continued, coolly and slowly. “Only it’s more since I told you first. An’ I asked you to marry me an’ let me be the one to help you tackle this tough Arizona. … Wal, thet was Christmas-time, aboot. You promised to write your answer. But you never did. An’ I reckon now I’m wantin’ to heah it.”

  “But, Curly—how unreasonable! Wait, I beg of you. I—I’m upset by this adventure. I don’t know myself.”

  “Wal, you know whether you love me or not. So answer pronto, lady.”

  She drooped her lustrous head a moment, then raised it, fearlessly, as one driven to the wall.

  “Curly, you’re not greatly different from Jed Stone,” she said.

  “I reckon thet a compliment.”

  “I’m not sure yet how or what I feel toward you, Curly, except that I know I’m not worthy. But since you insist—I—I say yes.” And with wistful smile she held out her free hand to him. Curly clasped it in both his and carried it to his breast, his face pale, his eyes intense.

  “Whoopee!” yelled Bud, in stentorian tones. “I knowed I could fetch him. All the time I knowed it—the handsome jealous geezer!”

  Next day Uncle Jim Traft drove down into Yellow Jacket.

  No suggestion of the hard old cattleman! He was merry and keen, full of energy to see and hear, and somehow mysteriously buoyant. At Jim’s hurried report of the lost cattle he replied: “Pooh-pooh! Only an incident in a rancher’s life!” But he gazed sorrowfully down at the graves of those cowboys who had died for the Diamond. They had not been the first, and perhaps they would not be the last.

  Curly related the story of the fight at the trappers’ cabin. Molly led him aside to tell her version of their adventure with Croak Malloy and Jed Stone. And Bud with rare pride exhibited the headpiece of carved aspen which he vowed he would place on Croak Malloy’s grave.

  “Wal, wal, we have our ups an’ downs,” replied the old rancher, when all was said. “An’ I say you got off easy. … My news is good news. Blodgett’s riders rounded up your stampeded stock. All the range knows Malloy is dead an’ the Hash Knife no more. Spread like wildfire. Yellow Jacket will prosper now, an’, my! what a gorgeous place! An’, Jim you won’t be lonesome, either, when you settle down with the little wife. Allen Blodgett is takin’ charge of his father’s range, an’ he’ll live there. Jack Way’s wife’s father will start him ranchin’. Miller is goin’ to move down. An’ in no time this valley will be hummin’. An’ I near forgot. The doctor come back from West Fork, reportin’ Slinger Dunn out of danger.”

  That, of all news, was the best for Jim, who found his joy and gratitude in Molly’s brimming eyes.

  “Rustlin’ will go on,” continued Uncle Jim, “but no more at the old Hash Knife rate. It’ll be two-bit stealin’ an’ thet we don’t mind.”

  After supper, when the old rancher had Jim, Gloriana, Molly, and Curly alone, he pulled a soiled paper from his pocket. His air was strikingly momentous.

  “I’m askin’ you never to tell what I read you now. Promise?”

  Surprised at his earnestness, at his fine softened face, strangely pale, they solemnly pledged themselves, whereupon Uncle Jim adjusted his eye-glasses and began to read slowly:

  TOBE’S WELL.

  DEAR JIM:

  I changed my mind about the money your rider fetched down. I appropriated it an’ am leavin’ this letter instead. You owe me thet, to make a new start in life.

  Thet niece of yours, Gloriana, offered to make a sacrifice. Same as I did twenty years ago, to save my pard. For the sweetheart we both loved an’ which he never got, after all. It sort of faced me back on the old forgotten trail. Jim, it’s never too late.

  Tell her, if she ever has a boy, to call him

  JED.

  Zane Grey, author of over 80 books, was born in Ohio in 1872. His writing career spanned over 35 years until his death in 1939. Estimates of Zane Grey’s audience exceed 250 million readers.