A whizzer on Willer Crick

The longer I inhabits this vale of tears, the more I believe in the saying, “Honesty is the Best Policy.” A feller may get awful lonesome and all that, but he don’t have to wear his holster tied down and take his drink with his back to the bar.

I don’t want you to get the idea that me and “Hashknife” Hartley are bad hombres, ’cause we ain’t--not so awful. We don’t make a practice of throwing rocks at cripples and we haven’t a single mortgage on anybody’s old homestead.

Taking it by and large, there ain’t many folks who can point their finger at “Sleepy” Stevens and Hashknife Hartley and say--

“You’re wanted some place.”

But at that it don’t take many pointed fingers to make you feel that you should have growed up according to the Golden Rule, went to Sunday-school more than one week before Christmas and educated yourself to be a harness drummer or a hotel clerk.

Hashknife is just a long, thin, angular, hatchet-faced hombre with a perpetual grin on his face. Some time or other he’s been red-headed and freckled, but the desert sun, Dakota blizzards and Montana alkali has faded it until he’s just a roan. I won’t brag about myself, ’cause I’m telling the story. Sabe?

I found an old newspaper one day when me and Hashknife are working for the Triangle A outfit over on the Flathead.

I’m digging under a bunk after a short piece of rope when I unearths this old sheet, and something thereon seems to catch my eye.

It shows some pictures of bucking broncs and fellers bull-dogging steers, and the center picture shows a silver-mounted saddle, all scrolled up with fancy jiggers. The top of the page shows this line:

WHERE DID THEY GO? RIDERS BUCK OUT OF SIGHT AND LEAVE COVETED TROPHY

I takes the paper out where Hashknife is putting a new hondo on his rope and sets down beside him. His cigaret sizzles his mustache before he gets through reading it, and then he nods his head and goes back to work.

“She must ’a’ been some hull,” I observes.

“Yeah. Cost a hundred and eighty bucks, Sleepy. Saddle-maker told me that he didn’t make a cent on it. You’ve got to pay big for all that fancy scroll stuff, and there must be a heap of silver in all them ornyments.”

“Nobody knows where they went,” says I. “Just bucked out.”

Hashknife scratches his nose and peers at that hondo.

“Thank ----! What folks don’t know won’t hurt ’em, Sleepy.”

Just to wise you up a little, I’m going to let you in on a little happenstance. The towns of Yolo and Pecos ain’t far apart. Yolo is the county seat, the same of which is the place where the sheriff holds forth. Pecos holds such a wayward reputation that the sheriff stations a deputy there to keep as much peace as he can get his hands on to.

A feller inhabits Yolo for a few days--feller who rides a pinto horse. He’s wishful to buck a game of chance, but soon finds out that they’re cinch games. He rises in his wrath and proclaims he’s been gypped by said crooked pastime. Naturally there’s a few interested parties who objects to having their morals paraded, and they rises to the occasion--too late.

The rider of a calico bronc relieves ’em of their visible supply of worldly goods, exchanges lead compliments with the sheriff and fades out of Yolo with the sheriff on his trail.

Simultaneously a rider of a calico horse goes into a bank in Pecos and takes what’s in sight without leaving any security, and he fades out with the festive deputy in pursuit.