The ranch of the tombstones

Author of “The Range Boomer,” “Flames of the Storm,” etc.

Two men swung their horses through the tumble-down gateway of the Half-Moon Ranch and rode slowly toward the old, rambling ranch-house.

The man in the lead was a tall, thin, unshaven cowboy, with a long, sad countenance and a pair of bright, grin-wrinkled eyes. He rode standing straight in his saddle, with the brim of his sombrero pulled down over his eyes.

The other man was shorter, heavier, with a heavy-lined face and half-shut eyes. A few strands of roan-colored hair straggled from under the brim of his hat, which rested on the back of his head.

They drew rein and looked the place over. The tall one nodded toward the side of the house, and they both rode around to the rear, from whence came the sound of a voice raised in anger.

“Cook!” exclaimed the voice scornfully. “You? Huh! Do yuh think the Half-Moon outfit wear steel bills and digests their food through a gizzard? Why, dang yore hide, yuh can’t even burn stuff decently. Set yoreself up to cook fer an outfit, do yuh? Where’d you learn to cook? Cook, ----! Yo’re fired! No, I don’t want to hear yuh explain how yuh got drunk on one li’l drink and forgot which way home was. No sir! Pack yore war-bag and drift. I’ve got enough troubles without annexin’ a lot of bad stummicks around here. Yo’re fired; sabe? If you can’t understand English, I’ll write it out in Swedish and mail it to yuh.”

The tall cowboy’s face wrinkled into a grin, and he started to say something to his companion, but just at that moment a woman opened the kitchen-door and looked out at them.

She was a tiny wisp of a woman, dressed in faded calico. About fifty years of age, with a mild, sweet face and soft, blue eyes. She stared at the two cowboys for a moment, and a flush crept into her tanned face.

“Ma’am,” said the tall cowboy taking off his hat, “I plumb betcha that cook knows where to head in at about now.”

“Did--did you hear--me?” she faltered.

“Yes’m. I’m ‘Hashknife’ Hartley and my pardner’s name is ‘Sleepy’ Stevens. Nod to the lady, Sleepy.”

“I am Mrs. Snow,” said the lady. “‘Frosty’ Snow is my husband. He owns this Half-Moon Ranch.”

“T’ meetcha,” bowed Hashknife, and then seriously, “Ma’am, if that cook ain’t took the hint yet, I’d admire to repeat yore words to him.”

“The--there ain’t no cook here now,” confessed Mrs. Snow.

“Ain’t? Why----”

“He won’t quit, don’tcha see? His name’s ‘Swede Sam,’ and if ---- ever made a more ignorant person than Swede Sam he sure kept him under cover for loco-seed.”

“Didja ever try firin’ him?” asked Hashknife.

“Sure. But he won’t quit. Every day I practise on a new style of firin’ him. And what you just heard was what I’m framing up to tell him when he shows up again. We’ve done everythin’ except kill him outright, but he just grins and says:

“‘Das goot yoke. Ay am de cook, you bet.’”

Hashknife laughed joyfully. He liked Mrs. Snow because she could see the humor of life.

“Where is he now?” asked Sleepy.

Mrs. Snow shook her head slowly.

“I dunno. A few weeks ago he cooked up a big mess of prunes and forgot where he put ’em. Yesterday he drank the result, and lit out for Caldwell; singin’ somethin’ that didn’t sound like a Swedish church-hymn. I reckon he’s asleep in Casey McGill’s saloon now. He thinks Casey’s a Swede.”

“Much stock runnin’ in this Lodge-Pole country, ma’am?” asked the practical Sleepy.

“Ye-e-es--I reckon you’d say there was.”

“We’re lookin’ for jobs, ma’am,” explained Hashknife. “Me and Sleepy are what you’d call top-hands.”

“Never seen a puncher that wasn’t,” declared Mrs. Snow. “Frosty says there’s been a epidemic in the cow-country, which has made top-hands out of every danged buckaroo what has two legs to wear chaps.”

“They do get graduated fast, I reckon,” agreed Hashknife grinning. “Me and Sleepy earned ours. Do we get the job?”

Mrs. Snow smiled and shook her head. She liked the looks of these two bronzed, practical-looking men, but the Half-Moon was full handed.

“We’re runnin’ full of help, boys. Frosty said he’d likely have to cut down pretty soon.”

“Well, that’s too danged bad,” observed Hashknife. “I’d sure like to work for you, ma’am. Know any ranch that might be honin’ for two more to feed?”

Mrs. Snow smiled and shook her head, but sobered as she squinted at them.

“Might try the Tombstone Ranch.”

“Sounds right cheerful, ma’am,” observed Hashknife. “Do they raise ’em already carved?”

“Kinda,” admitted Mrs. Snow seriously. “Place belongs to old Amos Skelton, the meanest old son-of-a-gun that ever pulled on a boot. Everybody hates him.”

“Must amount to somethin’ then,” observed Sleepy.

“What does his iron look like--his brand?” asked Hashknife, reaching for the cigaret makings.

“It’s the old 33 outfit. Folks named it the Tombstone about a year ago. Bill Wheeler owned the old 33 and he let Caldwell put their graveyard on his ranch. It was a kinda nice spot, where the grass stays green most of the time. Then old Amos comes along and buys Bill out. Amos is a danged old blow-hard and most everybody starts in hatin’ him at the drop of a hat.

“Long comes Halloween Eve and some brainless cowpunchers goes down to the graveyard, swipes the tombstones, and when old Amos wakes up the next mornin’ his front yard is set full of them epi-tafts.

“It was a good joke on Amos, don’t you think?”