“Then I’ll make lo-o-o-ove to so-o-o-me turtle do-o-ve, ’wa-a-ay up on
the mounta-a-a-a-ain.”
The last lingering note of sadness faded from Smoky’s throat as the
deputy struck a few tentative discords on his guitar.
“Yo’re quite a singer,” said Goober Glendon.
“All the difference between him and a medder-lark is a lotta feathers,”
said Pete La Plante, the sheriff of Keno City. “He’s wastin’ his time.”
“Wastin’ time doin’ what?” queried Smoky.
“Singin’.”
“There yuh are,” sighed the deputy. Smoky hung his guitar on the rifle
rack and sat down on his heels against the wall, where his long fingers
began the manufacture of a cigarette.
“I liked yore singin’, Smoky,” reminded Goober. “Mebbe I ain’t got no
ear for music--I dunno. But it seems to me that you carry a tune real
well, and yuh shore can quiver the old voice. ’Course I don’t _sabe_
them words. I’ve done et a lot of turtle doves, but I never made no
love to ’em.”
“I wouldn’t put anythin’ past Smoky,” said the sheriff.
Johnny Wells, jackknifed in the doorway of the office, turned and spoke
to the sheriff. “Does Hal Austin ride a sorrel?”
“Rode one through here t’-day,” replied Pete.
“I thought it was him. Stopped at the courthouse.”
“He’s stickin’ around Indian Wells pretty close,” grinned Smoky. “But I
don’t blame him. That there Diaz girl shore is a dinger. Hal kinda took
the play away from Cal Sands, it looks t’ me.”
“Money--prob’ly,” said the sheriff.
“Yeah, that might be. But wait ’ll she hears that Frank Austin has made
Cal half owner of the Star A outfit.”
“When did that happen?” asked Goober.
“I dunno jist when Austin done this here Sandy Claws act, but he done
it. Sands is now half owner of the whole outfit.”
“Did you fellers know Terrill very well?” queried Johnny.
“Not very,” replied the sheriff. “He was out of my county, of course.
Funny thing about him gettin’ killed thataway. You think he shot you,
Glendon?”
“I hope so,” grinned Goober.
“Why do yuh hope so?”
“’Cause he won’t be able to try it agin.”
“My theory is that one of his own men killed him,” said Smoky. “He’s
got a couple forked gents workin’ for him. If Silver Bar keeps goin’,
they’ll have a bad reputation. Nolan must have his hands full; him not
havin’ any deputy.”
“Hell!” snorted La Plante. “Lotta good a deputy’d do him or any other
sheriff.”
“T’ me,” said Smoky thoughtfully, “a sheriff is only a figger-head. He
wears the big star, draws the big money, talks a lot--but the
downtrodden deputy is the brains and the action of the office. ’Course
the sheriff gits the credit for anythin’ his office does--but the
deputy is the man behind the gun.”
“He’d shore be behind somethin’,” retorted the sheriff. “A deputy shore
don’t take chances. All the brains I’ve ever seen one of ’em use was in
defence of their own life.”
“That may all be true,” grinned Smoky, “but who ever seen a dead
sheriff, except one that died from natural causes?”
The argument might have gone on indefinitely, but a horse and buggy
drew up to a hitch-rack across the street, and a tall, gray-haired man
climbed out and tied the horse. He stood there for several moments,
looking around, finally coming toward the sheriff’s office.
“That’s Ed Chandler, prosecutin’ attorney from Silver Bar,” said Smoky.
The sheriff went to the doorway and met the lawyer, who smiled seriously
as they shook hands. “Yore quite a stranger over here, Ed,” said the
sheriff.
“I know I am, Pete. Hello, Smoky.”
“Hello, Ed. How’s crime over in yore country?”
“Well, not very serious.”
Smoky introduced him to Goober and Johnny. The lawyer considered Goober
gravely before he said: “The fact of the matter is this--I came over
here to see you, Glendon.”
“To see me?”
“Just a little private matter which probably doesn’t concern you, but of
importance to me.”
“Shore,” nodded Goober.
“Might go over and sit in my buggy.” They crossed the street and climbed
into the buggy.
“You have done work for the Cattle Association,” said the lawyer.
Goober glanced at the stern profile of the lawyer, wondering where this
might lead, but merely nodded.
“I sent them a wire,” continued the lawyer. “Their reply stated that
your word was as good as gold.”
“Kind of ’em,” smiled Goober.
“Very,” dryly opined the prosecutor. “But I needed that assurance. You
were in Silver Bar the night that a man named Slade was killed?”
“Yeah, I was there.”
“You did not see the shooting?”
“Heard it,” Goober stated.
“Do you mind telling me what you know about it? You say you heard the
shots fired, but I want to know what else you heard, Glendon.”
Goober hesitated. The inquest had settled all the legal facts, and
Goober did not want to incriminate Hal Austin. He had no idea what the
prosecutor might be digging up.
“I don’t quite git yore drift, Mr. Chandler,” said Goober thoughtfully.
“Everythin’ was settled at the inquest, wasn’t it?”
“Apparently. But later developments----”
“Put yore cards on the table,” grunted Goober. “It’s yore lead.”
“I’ll do that. You probably know that Frank Austin had the body shipped
back to San Francisco to Slade’s relatives. The body was cremated.”
“I understand they’re crematin’ lots of folks these days.”
“Yes, that is true. Did you hear that Slade was shot in the
back--murdered?”
“Can yuh imagine that?” muttered Goober softly.
“And that the cowboy from Flask River, who is supposed to have killed
Slade in self-defence, died four months ago from an injury caused by a
fall from a horse.”
Goober whistled softly.
“Here’s my cards, Glendon. I don’t know where the report comes from,
except that my informant believes young Austin started it in Indian
Wells. However, it is to the effect that young Austin shot Slade in
the back, and that Frank Austin paid certain officials a lot of
money to cover up on the deal. As soon as I heard this, I wired San
Francisco officers to make an examination of Slade’s body. The body
had been cremated the day they got my wire. The coffin had been
prepared by our coroner, and was not opened by the relatives, except
to identify the corpse.”
“Kinda kills off any chance to prove murder,” said Goober. “Didja say
anythin’ to the sheriff or coroner?”
“Not a word. I can prove that the sheriff lied about that Flask River
cowboy, but he could say he was mistaken. I happen to know Frank Austin
drew five thousand dollars from the bank on the day of the inquest. That
is not evidence that he bribed anybody, but it raises a suspicion. Those
are my cards, Glendon.”
“Yore cards are good, but the game closed at the end of the inquest,”
Goober pointed out. “All you’ve got is a lot of aces, and nobody to
play ’em against. Here’s my hand, and it’s no good to you or anybody
else. After that shootin’, Sheriff Nolan dragged Hal Austin into that
saloon, claimin’ that Austin shot Slade in self-defence. But out of
consideration for Frank Austin, he said he’d swear a cowboy from Flask
River done the shootin’. They piled young Austin into a buggy and sent
him back here.”
The lawyer smiled grimly. “So that’s how Nolan happened to pick the
wrong cowboy, eh? An easy mistake to make, because he didn’t know
this cowboy was dead. What did young Austin have to say about it at
the time?”
“Not much. He was drunk and kinda dazed.”
“Did you see the body?”
“I didn’t examine it. The doctor was lookin’ it over.”
“He is also the coroner,” observed Chandler.
“Yeah; I recognised him at the inquest.”
“You didn’t hear any rumours about Austin buying off officials, did
you?”
Goober shook his head quickly.
“Another thing, Glendon; did Hal Austin still have his gun, when you saw
him?”
“The sheriff had it. Anyway, he said it was Austin’s gun.”
“Nobody seems to know where that gun is, but that doesn’t matter. I’m
glad for your information. Not that it will help the situation a bit,
but it shows how Nolan made his mistake. I’d hate to believe that any
of our officials would accept a bribe. In fact, it appears that they
covered up, before there was any promise of a bribe.”
“Call it a present,” smiled Goober, as they climbed out of the buggy.
“I believe it would be better to forget it, Glendon. I am sure you will
not repeat what I have told you.”
“Not unless I talk in my sleep.”
They shook hands, and the attorney rode out of Keno City. Johnny Wells
was crossing the street, and Goober joined him. As they entered the Keno
Bar, Hal Austin left the courthouse, untied his horse and came down to
the Keno Saloon. It was not over fifteen minutes later that Cal Sands
rode into town, noted the sorrel at the hitch-rack, and immediately rode
over to the sheriff’s office.
“Young Austin gettin’ drunk, as usual,” he remarked to Smoky.
“Well, he ain’t had much time yet,” grinned Smoky.
“He’s jist got here.”
“Where’s he been?”
“He was out to the ranch, wasn’t he?” asked the sheriff.
“Yeah, but he left there quite a while ago,” Sands said.
“Oh, he was over at the courthouse quite a while,” said Smoky.
Sands laughed shortly. “I wonder what he was doin’ at the courthouse?”
“Mebbe gettin’ a marriage licence,” laughed Smoky maliciously.
Sands frowned quickly.
“Speakin’ of courthouses,” said the sheriff, “I wonder what Chandler
wanted of Glendon.”
Sands turned quickly to the sheriff. “Chandler from Silver Bar?”
“Yeah. He was here a while ago. Said he wanted to talk private with
Glendon, and they went over to Chandler’s buggy. Chandler jist left
here a little while ago.”
Sands frowned thoughtfully for several moments, then asked: “Pete, what
is that Glendon doin’ over here, anyway?”
“Huh!” snorted the sheriff. “You’ll have to ask somebody that knows.”
“Jist a couple driftin’ cow-pokes,” said Smoky.
“Yea-a-a-ah?”
“Well, that’s all we know about him,” Smoky retorted.
“What’s yore suspicions?” queried the sheriff.
“Hell, it don’t make no difference to me what he’s doin’,” Sands
disclaimed.
“They tell me yo’re half owner of the Star A,” said Smoky.
“Yeah,” the foreman admitted indifferently. Sands finally left the
office and went up the street.
“I’ll betcha he’s goin’ to the courthouse to see what Hal Austin was
doin’ there,” said Smoky.
The sheriff grinned. “He better let young Austin alone. Jist ’cause
Sands is pardner with the old man, it don’t give him no right to ride
herd on the kid. I got a tip that Frank Austin came out here to bust up
the love-affairs of Hal and that Diaz girl; but from the amount of time
the kid is spendin’ in Indian Wells, it kinda looks as though Frank was
fallin’ down on the job.”
“And she was Sands’s girl before Hal showed up. Mebbe Austin has hired
Cal to ride herd on the kid.”
This was partly true, and Sands meant to find out why Hal was at the
courthouse. It was an old two-storey building on the main street, and
the first office on the ground floor was the county clerk’s office.
The door was open, and Sands sauntered in, apparently to merely pass
the time of day with the clerk.
“Who’s goin’ to be best man, Cal?” asked the assistant clerk, grinning.
“Best man? What do yuh mean?” asked Sands.
“For Hal Austin’s wedding.”
Sands swore under his breath. Smoky’s guess had been right. The clerk
drew out the licence book, flipped it open on the counter, and showed
Sands where a marriage licence had been issued to Harold Austin and
Juana Diaz, both of legal age.
Sands passed the matter off easily, talked a few minutes about nothing
in particular, and went out. His first impulse was to ride back to the
ranch and tell Frank Austin. But, knowing that Mrs. Austin and Betty
were intending a trip to Indian Wells to-morrow to meet Juana and her
mother, Sands decided that Hal and Juana would not get married until
after that meeting.
He waited in Keno City until Hal left, and after a discreet interval,
followed his rival down the road to Indian Wells.