GONE AWAY!
McFluke's eyes flickered at the question. His body appeared to sink
inward. Then he straightened, and flung back his wide shoulders, and
glowered at Racey Dawson.
"I ran into a door this morning," said the saloon-keeper in a tone of
the utmost confidence.
"Oh, you ran into a door, did you," Racey observed, sweetly. "And what
particular door did you run into?"
"The front door."
"That one?" Racey indicated the door of the barroom.
"That one."
"We'll just take a look at that door."
Accompanied by the deeply interested sheriff, who was beginning to
sniff his quarry like the old bloodhound he was, Racey crossed to the
barroom door. He looked at the door. He looked at the sheriff. The
sheriff looked only at the door.
"Door's opened back flat against the wall, Mac," said the sheriff.
"Was she like this when you ran into her?"
"Course not," was the heated reply. "She was swingin' open."
Racey squatted down on the floor. "Lookit here, Sheriff."
The sheriff stooped and regarded the wooden wedge under the door that
jammed it fast. Racey drew a finger across the top of the wedge. He
held up the finger-tip for the sheriff's inspection. The tip was black
with the dust of weeks.
"That door has been wedged back all this hot weather," said Racey,
gently. "Look at the dust under the door on both sides of the wedge,
too. Bet that wedge ain't been out of place for a month."
Softly as he spoke McFluke heard him. "---- you! I tell you that
door was opened this mornin'! I hit my head on it! Ask 'em all! Ask
anybody! Jack, lookit here--"
"I didn't see you hit yore head on the door," interrupted Jack Harpe.
"Maybe you did, I dunno."
Racey raised a quick head as Jack Harpe spoke. Quite plainly he saw
Jack Harpe accompany his words with a slight lowering of his left
eyelid. Racey glanced at McFluke. He saw the defiant expression depart
from the McFluke countenance, and a look of unmistakable relief take
its place.
Racey dropped his head. The sheriff was speaking.
"Mac," he was saying, "yo're lyin'. Yo're lyin' as fast as a hoss can
trot. You never got yore black eye on this door. I dunno why yo're
sayin' you did, but I'm gonna find out. Till--"
"You won't have far to go to find out," struck in Racey Dawson. "I
know how he got his black eye."
"How?" demanded the sheriff, his grizzled eyebrows drawing together.
"Dale gave it to him," was the answer pat and pithy.
"He did not!" The saloon-keeper began to roar instantly, and had to be
quieted by Kansas Casey.
When order was restored Racey explained his deductions. The sheriff
listened in silence. Then he went to the body of the dead man, and
examined the bruised and broken right hand.
"I'm tellin' you," declared Racey with finality, "he hit somebody when
he broke that hand."
"He might 'a' broke it when he fell after being shot," put in Luke
Tweezy.
The sheriff shook his head. "He couldn't fall hard enough to break
them bones as bad as that. It's like Racey says. Question is, who did
he hit? McFluke's eye and McFluke's lies are a good enough answer for
me."
"You'll have to prove it!" snapped Luke Tweezy.
"I expect we'll do that, Luke," the sheriff said, calmly. "Have you
agreed on a verdict, Judge?"
"We had," replied Dolan. "We was about satisfied that a plain 'killin'
by a person unknown,' was as good as any, but I expect now we'll
change it to murder _with_ the recommendation that McFluke be arrested
on suspicion. Whadda you say, boys?"
"Shore," chorussed the "boys," and hiccuped like so many bullfrogs.
"Whu-why not lul-let the shush-shpicion shlide," suggested one bright
spirit, "an' cue-convict him right now an' lul-lynch him after shupper
whu-when it's cool?"
"No," vetoed Dolan, "it can't be done. He's gotta be indicted and
held for the Grand Jury at Piegan City. I ain't allowed to try murder
cases."
"Tut-too bad," mourned the bright spirit, and refused to be comforted.
"Can I take him now, Judge?" inquired Chuck Morgan, referring to the
dead man.
"Any time," nodded Dolan.
Racey Dawson, whose eyes that day were missing nothing, saw that Jack
Harpe was looking steadily at Luke Tweezy. Luke's nod was barely
perceptible.
"Where were you thinking of taking him, Chuck?" was Tweezy's query.
"Moccasin Spring," Chuck replied, laconically.
"I wouldn't if I were you," said Luke Tweezy. "Better save trouble by
taking him to yore house."
It was coming now--the answer to one puzzle at least. Racey was sure
of it. He was not disappointed.
"And why had I better take him to my house?" demanded Chuck.
"Because the ranch at Moccasin Spring don't belong to the Dale family
any more," Tweezy explained, smoothly. "Dale has turned over the place
to Lanpher and me."
"It's a damn lie!" declared Chuck.
Tweezy smiled. He was a lawyer, not a fighter. Names signified nothing
in his greasy life. "It's no lie," he tossed back. "You know Lanpher
and me bought the mortgage on the Dale place from the Marysville bank.
The mortgage is due in a couple of days. Dale didn't have the money to
satisfy the mortgage. We was gonna foreclose. In order to save trouble
all round he made the ranch over to us."
"You mean to tell me Dale did that just to save trouble?" burst out
Racey. "Just because he liked you two fellers and wanted to make it as
easy as possible for you? Aw, hell, Tweezy. Aw, hell again. Yo're as
poor a liar as yore side-kicker McFluke."
Tweezy smiled once more and drew forth a long and shiny pocket-book
from the inner pocket of his vest. From the pocket-book he extracted a
legal-looking document. Which document he handed to Sheriff Rule.
"Read her off, Jake," requested Luke Tweezy.
The sheriff read aloud the lines of writing. Shorn of the impressive
terms so beloved of law and lawyers, the document set forth that in
consideration of being allowed to retain all his live-stock, wagons,
and household goods, instead of merely the fixed number of cattle,
horses, and wagons, and those specified household articles, exempt
from seizure under the law, Dale voluntarily released to the
mortgagers, without the formality of foreclosure proceedings, the
mortgaged property comprising six hundred and forty acres as described
hereinafter, etcetera.
The document was signed by Dale and witnessed by Doc Coffin and Honey
Hoke:
The sheriff held the paper out to Chuck Morgan. "This Dale's
signature, Chuck?"
Chuck Morgan examined the signature closely and long.
"Looks like it," he said, hesitatingly.
"It's his signature, all right," spoke up Honey Hoke. "I saw him sign
it."
"Me, too," said Doc Coffin.
"Paper's dated to-day," said the sheriff. "How long before he was
killed did Dale sign it, Luke?"
"About a hour," replied Tweezy.
"It's made out in yore writin', ain't it?" went on the sheriff.
"Shore," nodded Luke. "All but the signature. So, you see, Chuck,"
he continued, turning to Morgan, "you might as well pack him to yore
house. We intend to take possession immediately."
"You do, huh," said Chuck. "You try it, thassall I gotta say. You try
it."
"I'd admire to see you drive those women out of their home on the
strength of that paper, Tweezy," remarked Racey.
"Sheriff, I'll make out eviction papers immediately and Judge Dolan
will have you serve them on the Dale family." Thus Luke Tweezy,
blustering.
"That's yore privilege," said the sheriff, "and I'll have to serve
'em, I suppose. But only in the regular course of business, Luke.
I'm mighty busy just now. Yore eviction notice will have to take its
turn."
"My punchers will throw 'em out then," averred Lanpher.
"They ain't nary a one of 'em would gorm up their paws on a job like
that for you, Lanpher," Alicran stated in no uncertain tones. "If you
got any dirty work to do you'll do it yoreself."
"Yo're--" began the 88 manager, and stopped suddenly.
"What was you gonna say?" Alicran's voice cut sharply across the
general silence.
Lanpher controlled himself by an effort. Or perhaps it was not such
an effort, after all. It may have been that he remembered the object
lesson of the severed branch of the wild currant bush. At any rate,
he did not pursue further the subject of the 88 cowboys cast as an
eviction gang.
"I'll talk to you later, Alicran," said he in a tone he strove to make
grimly menacing, but which actually imposed upon no one, least of all
the truculent Alicran.
"We won't need yore boys, Lanpher," said Racey. "The sheriff will
attend to it."
"Lookit here, Tweezy," said Judge Dolan, slouching to the front of the
crowd, "are you gonna run them women off thataway after _this_?" Here
the Judge jerked his head backward in the direction of the body.
"Why not?" Tweezy demanded, sulkily. "We got a right to."
"It don't always pay to stand on our rights, Luke," suggested the
Judge. "I'd go a li'l easy if I was you."
"You ain't me," said Tweezy, rudely.
"Which is something I gotta be grateful for," the Judge returned to
the charge. "But alla same, Luke, I'd scratch my head and think how
this here is gonna look. Here Dale gives you this paper, and a hour
later he's cashed. Of course, it looks like his signature, and you
got witnesses who say it's his signature, but--" The Judge paused and
gravely contemplated Luke Tweezy.
"I'll tell you what it looks like to me," announced Racey in a loud,
unsympathetic tone. "The whole deal's too smooth. She's so smooth
she's slick, like a counterfeit dollar. You and Lanpher are a couple
of damn thieves, Tweezy."
But the sheriff's gun was out first. "None of that, Lanpher," he
cautioned. "They ain't gonna be no lockin' horns _here_. That goes for
you, too, Racey."
"I don't need to pull any gun," Racey declared, contemptuously. "All
I'd have to use is my fingers on that feller. He never went after his
gun till he seen you pull yores. He ain't got any nerve, that's all
that's the matter with him."
Lanpher snarled curses at this. He yearned for the daredevil
courage sufficient to risk all on a single throw by pulling his gun
left-handed and sending a bullet smack through the scornful face of
Racey Dawson. But it was precisely as Racey said. He did not have the
nerve. With half-a-dozen drinks under his belt he undoubtedly would
have made an attempt to clear his honour. But he was not carrying the
requisite amount of liquor. Lanpher snarled another string of oaths.
"If I didn't have my right arm in a sling--" he began.
"I guess," interrupted the sheriff, "this will be about all. Lanpher,
yore hoss is outside. Git on and git out."