From the corridor came the awkward shuffle of many feet, and the body of
the killer was borne past, borne by men who were cursing, masking their
terror by rough talk.
“The back door’s locked,” said one. “Must’ve shot him through a window,”
opined another. “Wing Lee says he was the only one back in the booth.”
I remembered that the restaurant had been deserted when I entered, and
chuckled, but the chuckle was short-lived. My thought turned to the
Chinaman. Had he heard of the trouble the night before? Why had he
escorted me to the booth? Why had he brought the killer to the other
booth? Why had he so nimbly skipped to one side just before the shooting
commenced? Was he friend or foe—and who was the girl who had occupied
that same booth the night before?
That Chink was playing a deep game, and he would bear watching.
However, his ruse worked, and no one thought of connecting me with the
shooting. I nibbled through my second breakfast, and then strolled to my
horse. A piece of paper dangled from the saddlehorn, and a closer
inspection showed that it was an envelope, twisting and spinning at the
end of a string.
With narrowed, watchful eyes, I tore open the envelope and read the
message within.
“_Come to the Half Box Ranch at once_,” it said, and it was unsigned.
There was a hundred-dollar bank note accompanying the missive.
I could see no one taking an undue interest in my movements. There were
people on the street, loungers in front of the restaurant, still talking
of the shooting, an occasional horseman going past, a few men grouped
before one of the combination saloons and pool-halls, but no one that I
could spot as being particularly interested in me. However, I had no
doubt but what there was a hidden pair of eyes watching to see how I
took the message.
I twisted the bill and the note up into a spiral, touched a match to
both and used them to light the end of a cigar. Black Barr did not
accept orders, even when they were accompanied with bank notes. Whoever
had delivered his letter could have his answer in my actions.
Two minutes later and a big, burly figure elbowed its way from the
pool-hall, and heaved into a saddle which was on the back of a spirited
horse that had been tied to the hitching rack, and loped to the edge of
the town, then struck into a gallop and vanished into the heat haze in a
cloud of dust.
I recognized him as the man who had approached me in the restaurant, the
man with the crafty eyes, the one who had warned me of the climate and
the small graveyard.
I fancied that I knew where he was going, fancied that I could tell the
report he was taking with him.
I spent an hour mingling with the men of Caliente Flats, joining the
crowds of gossips, taking a great delight in the way conversation
languished whenever I came within earshot, noticing the way men found
occasion to leave a group as soon as I joined it. They were, then,
talking about me. More than that, I was considered a dangerous
companion. Men did not want to be seen talking with me, did not wish to
appear intimate. I was an outcast, a marked man. I might have been
carrying the plague and still have been made more welcome.
I grinned to myself. That would mean a quick showdown. There were events
impending, and their coming was presaged in the very atmosphere of the
place.
I determined to ride out to the scene of the fire. I owned a curiosity
concerning the girl who stamped on threatening letters and who executed
a war dance in the light of burning buildings. I went for my horse and
the animal was gone, had been led away.
I knew he had been led away because he would permit no one but me to
ride him; knew that it had taken main force to drag him from the place
where he awaited the return of his master. A cold rage swept me. My
mouth began its strange writhing. Whoever it was who had taken that
horse would hear from me, and that soon. A wanderer makes but few
friends. My horse was my companion, my only close friend.
A flicker of white caught my eye. Another of those envelopes had been
fastened to the hitching rack near where my black had stood.