"Hashknife"—philanthropist

I don’t know who “Toothpick” Thompson was or is, but he must ’a’ been a miserable sort of a whippoorwill to incur the enmity of a smiling soul like “Hashknife” Hartley.

Hashknife is what you’d call a lovable character with a purpose in life, said purpose being the finding of said Toothpick. With this one exception Hashknife loves everybody, but packs his gun handy for those who might misconstrue his devotion.

Hashknife never did tell me what Toothpick done to him, but it must ’a’ been something gosh-awful. I can get a rise out of Hashknife any old time by asking him for a toothpick, but he never has said what he intended doing to this splinter-named individual.

“Going to hang his hide on the fence?” I asks.

“Whatcha reckon I’m going to do--kiss him?”

I’ve got so I keeps my eyes open for anybody which might fit the description, which consists of a he-human, a heap generous from end to end, but skimpy in circumference. Added description don’t help much, ’cause Hashknife is likely prejudiced and anyway nobody’d print it. I never antagonizes Hashknife and I never intentionally starts any argument, but at times I foolishly makes some sort of a remark, and this is what happens:

“Aw shucks, ‘Sleepy,’ you’ve got the wrong idea entirely. Romance means meeting some female, making love to her by the old mill-stream, and eventually marrying her.

“I know, I know, cowboy; you’re thinking of the days men wore iron panties and went around with a cant-hook in one hand and a skewer in the other. Uh-huh--sure. They was on the prod most of the time according to books, but you’ve got to figure that they had to do a little work once in a while.

“Yeah, they was romantic, Sleepy, but they must ’a’ had toothache, bald heads and corns the same as me and you. You never reads no tales of cow-land wherein the buckaroo is ever troubled with them ailments or has to get up at five o’clock in the Winter to shovel hay at a lot of bawling cows. Romance is a great thing, Sleepy, but yuh can’t be hungry or broke and be romantic at the same time.”

Hashknife gasps with delight over that discourse. I marvels exceedingly that any human being can hold its breath so long.

“Hashknife,” says I, “Bill Bryan never had anything on you except his platform. I wasn’t kicking about there not being any romance left, but I was just remarking that nothing ever happens to us. Honest, we’re getting in one awful rut.”

Hashknife reins in his bronc and stares at me.

“Oh, yeah. Well, well. Me and you just got the powder-smoke out of our noses, and here you goes yelping about being in a rut. What would you advise?”

“No advice. I was just hoping that something would happen to us--something we ain’t to blame for. Sabe?”

“Oh, yeah. Uh-huh. You’d like to have this grade slide off into the river or have a rattlesnake rise up and bite you or----”

P’wee! P’wee-e-e-e-e!

One of them bullets makes a merry-go-round out of my hat, and the other one makes Hashknife grab his nose.

P’wee-e-e-e-e-e! Splat!

Another one flattens on a rock behind us as we whirled our broncs off the road into a willow thicket. Then we hit the ground with our rifles in our hands and stares at each other.

“Somebody must ’a’ heard you, Sleepy,” grins Hashknife. “You talk too loud. Keep your head down.”

“Take care of your own head,” says I. “I never hired you as a head-guard.”

We sneaks in behind some rocks and brush, and takes a look across the river. I reckon we’ve been there half an hour when we sees two men on a rock across the river. They appears to be a heap interested in the spot where we left our broncs. After a while one of ’em takes a shot in that direction.