_A Piece of Paper_
In the little desert hotel at Stacey, Mrs. Adams was singing softly to
herself as she moved about the dining-room helping Anita clear away the
breakfast dishes. Mrs. Adams had heard from Lorry. He had secured a
place in the Ranger Service. She was happy. His letter had been filled
with enthusiasm for the work and for his chief, Bud Shoop. This in
itself was enough to make her happy. She had known Bud in Las Cruces. He
was a good man. And then--Jim had settled down. Only last week he had
ridden over and told her how they were getting on with the work at the
ranch. He had hinted then that he had laid his guns away. Perhaps he had
wanted her to know _that_ more than anything else. She had kissed him
good-bye. His gray eyes had been kind. "Some day, Annie," he had said.
Her face flushed as she recalled the moment.
A boot-heel gritted on the walk. She turned. Waring was standing in the
doorway. His face was set and hard. Involuntarily she ran to him.
"What is it, Jim? Lorry?"
He shook his head. She saw at once that he was dressed for a long ride
and that--an unusual circumstance--a gun swung at his hip. He usually
wore a coat and carried his gun in a shoulder holster. But now he was
in his shirt-sleeves. A dread oppressed her. He was ready on the instant
to fight, but with whom? Her eyes grew big.
"What is it?" she whispered again.
"The Brewster boys got Pat."
"Not--they didn't kill him!"
Waring nodded.
"But, Jim--"
"In the Red Arroyo on the desert road. I found him. I came to tell you."
"And you are going--"
"Yes. I was afraid this would happen. Pat made a mistake."
"But, Jim! The law--the sheriff--you don't have to go."
"No," he said slowly.
"Then why do you go? I thought you would never do that again.
I--I--prayed for you, Jim. I prayed for you and Lorry. I asked God to
send you back to me with your two hands clean. I told Him you would
never kill again. Oh, Jim, I wanted you--here! Don't!" she sobbed.
He put his arm round her shoulders. Stooping, he kissed her.
"You are going?" she asked, and her hands dropped to her sides.
"Yes; I told Pat I would get Brewster. Pat went out with his hand in
mine on that word. My God, Annie, do you think I could ride back to the
ranch and face the boys or sleep nights with Pat's hand reaching for me
in the dark to remind me of my word? Can't you see where I stand? Do you
think I could look Lorry in the face when he knew that I sat idle while
the man that murdered Pat was riding the country free?"
"Pat was your friend. I am your wife," said Mrs. Adams.
Waring's lips hardened. "Pat's gone. But I'm calling myself his friend
yet. And the man that got him is going to know it."
Before she could speak again Waring was gone.
She dropped to a chair and buried her face in her arms. Anita came to
her and tried to comfort her. But Mrs. Adams rose and walked to the
office doorway. She saw Waring riding down the street. She wanted to
call out to him, to call him back. She felt that he was riding to his
death. If he would only turn! If he would only wave his hand to show
that he cared--But Waring rode on, straight and stern, black hate in his
heart, his free hand hollowed as though with an invisible vengeance that
was gone as he drew his fingers tense.
He rode north, toward the Starr Ranch. He passed a group of riders
drifting some yearlings toward town. A man spoke to him. He did not
reply.
And as he rode he heard a voice--the Voice of his desert wanderings, the
Voice that had whispered to him from the embers of many a night fire in
the Southern solitudes. Yet there, was this difference. That voice had
been strangely dispassionate, detached; not the voice of a human being.
But now the Voice was that of his friend Pat softly reiterating: "Not
this way, Jim."
And Waring cursed. His plan was made. He would suffer no interference.
If Brewster were at the Starr Ranch, he would question him first. If he
were not, there would be no questioning. Waring determined to trail him.
If Brewster had left that part of the country, that would prove his
guilt.
Waring knew that Hardy and his men had ridden south, endeavoring to find
some clue to the murderer's whereabouts. Waring, guided by almost
absolute knowledge, rode in the opposite direction and against a keen
instinct that told him High-Chin Bob was not at the ranch. Yet Waring
would not overlook the slightest chance. Brewster was of the type that
would kill a man in a quarrel and ride home, depending on his nerve and
lack of evidence to escape punishment.
The Voice had said, "Not this way, Jim." And Waring knew that it had
been the voice of his own instinct. Yet a stubborn purpose held him to
his course. There was one chance in a thousand that Bob Brewster was at
the ranch and would disclaim all knowledge of the shooting.
Starr was away when Waring arrived. Mrs. Starr made Waring welcome, and
told him that her husband would be in that evening. He was out with one
of his men running a line for a new fence. The old days of open range
were past. And had Mr. Waring heard that Pat had been killed? Buck Hardy
was out searching for the murderer. Did Mr. Waring know of a likely
foreman? Bob Brewster had left suddenly. Jasper--her husband--was not
well: had the rheumatics again. He could hardly walk--and his foreman
had left. "Things always happened that way."
Mrs. Starr paused for lack of breath.
"When did Brewster leave, Mrs. Starr?"
"Why, the last Jasper seen of him was Wednesday morning. Jasper is
worried. I'm right glad you rode over. He'll be glad to see you."
"Do you mind if I look over the horses in your corral?"
"Goodness, no! I'll have Sammy go with you--"
"Thanks; but I'd rather you said nothing to the boys."
"You don't think that Bob--"
"Mrs. Starr, I wouldn't say so if I knew it. Bob Brewster has friends up
here. I'm looking for one of them."
"Goodness, Mr. Waring, I hope you don't think any of our boys was mixed
up in that."
"I hope not. Have you seen Tony or Andy Brewster lately?"
"Why, no. I--why, yes! Tony and Andy rode over last Sunday. I remember
it was Sunday because Bob was out to the line shack. Tony and Andy hung
around for a while, and then rode out to look for Bob."
"Well, I'll step over and look at the horses. You say Jasper will be in
this evening?"
"If he ain't too stiff with rheumatics to ride back."
Waring walked round the corrals, looking for a pony lame forward and
with half a front shoe gone. Finally he noticed a short-coupled bay that
had not moved when he had waved his arm. Waring climbed through the bars
and cornered the horse. One front shoe was entirely gone, and the pony
limped as Waring turned him loose.
Mrs. Starr was getting supper when Waring returned to the house.
"Any of the boys coming in with Jasper?" he queried.
"Why, nobody except Pete. Pete's been layin' off. He claims his horse
stepped in a gopher hole and threw him. Jasper took him along, feelin'
like he wanted some one on account of his rheumatics. Jasper gets so
stiff ridin' that sometimes he can hardly get on his horse. Mebby you
noticed Pete's pony, that chunky bay in the corral--lame forward."
"Yes, I noticed that. But that pony didn't step in a gopher hole. He was
ridden down by some one in a hurry to get somewhere. He cast a shoe and
went tender on the rocks."
Mrs. Starr stared at Waring.
He shook his head and smiled. "I don't know. I can only guess at it."
"Well, you'll stay for supper--and you can talk to Jasper. He's
worried."
"Thank you. And would you mind asking this man Pete in to supper with
us?"
"I figured to, him being with Jasper and not feeling right well."
About sundown Starr rode in. Waring helped him from his horse. They
shook hands in silence. The old cattleman knew at once why Waring had
come, but he had no inkling of what was to follow.
The cowboy, Pete, took care of the horses. A little later he clumped
into the house and took a seat in a corner. Waring paid no attention to
him, but talked with Starr about the grazing and the weather.
Just before supper Starr introduced Waring.
The cowboy winced at Waring's grip. "Heard tell of you from the boys,"
he said.
"You want to ride over to our place," said Waring pleasantly. "Pat and I
will show you some pretty land under fence."
The cowboy's eyelids flickered. How could this man Waring speak of Pat
that way, when he must know that Pat had been killed? Everybody knew
that. Why didn't Mrs. Starr or Starr say something? But Starr was
limping to the table, and Mrs. Starr was telling them to come and have
supper.
In the glow of the hanging lamp, Starr's lined, grizzled features were
as unreadable as carved bronze. Waring, at his left, sat directly
opposite the cowboy, Pete. The talk drifted from one subject to another,
but no one mentioned the killing of Pat. Waring noted the cowboy's lack
of appetite.
"I looked over your saddle-stock this afternoon," said Waring. "Noticed
you had a bay out there, white blaze on his nose. You don't want to sell
that pony, do you?"
"Oh, that's Pete's pony, Baldy," said Mrs. Starr.
Starr glanced at Waring. The horse Baldy was good enough as cow-ponies
went, but Waring had not ridden over to buy horses.
"I aim to keep that cayuse," said Pete, swallowing hard.
"But every man has his price,"--and Waring smiled. "I'll make my offer;
a hundred, cash."
"Not this evenin'," said the cowboy.
Waring felt in the pocket of his flannel shirt. "I'll go you one better.
I'll make it a hundred, cash, and this to boot." And his arm
straightened.
Pete started back. Waring's hand was on the table, the fingers closed.
His fingers slowly opened, and a crumpled piece of paper lay in his
palm. The cowboy's lips tightened. His eyes shifted from Waring to
Starr, and then back again.
Mrs. Starr, who could not understand the strange silence of the men,
breathed hard and wiped her forehead with her apron.
"Read it!" said Waring sharply.
The cowboy took the piece of paper, and, spreading it out, glanced at it
hurriedly.
"This ain't for me," he asserted.
"Did you ever see it before?"
"This? No. What have I got to do with the sheriff's office?"
"Pete," said Waring, drawing back his hand, "you had better read that
note again."
"Why, I--Pete can't read," said Mrs. Starr. "He can spell out printed
reading some, but not writing."
"Then how did you know this paper was from the sheriff's office?"
queried Waring.
The cowboy half rose.
"Sit down!" thundered Waring. "Who sent you with a note to Pat last
Wednesday?"
"Who said anybody sent me?"
"Don't waste time! I say so. That broken shoe your cayuse cast says so,
for I trailed him from my ranch to the line fence. And you have said so
yourself. This paper is not from the sheriff's office. It's a tax
receipt."
The cowboy's face went white.
"Honest, so help me, Mr. Waring, I didn't know the Brewster boys was
after Pat. Bob he give me the paper. Said it was from the sheriff, and
I was to give it to Pat if you weren't around."
"And if I happened to be around?"
"I was to wait until you was out with the fence gang--"
"How did you know I would be out with them?"
"Bob Brewster told me you would be."
Waring folded the piece of paper and tore it across.
"Starr," he said, turning to the old cattleman, "you have heard and seen
what has happened since we sat down." And Waring turned on the cowboy.
"How much did Bob Brewster give you for this work?"
"I was to get fifty dollars if I put it through."
"And you put it through! You knew it was crooked. And you call yourself
a man! And you took a letter to Pat that called him out to be shot down
by that coyote! Do you know that Pat's gun was loaded when I found it;
that he didn't have a chance?"
Waring's face grew suddenly old. He leaned back wearily.
"I wonder just how you feel?" he said presently. "If I had done a trick
like that I'd take a gun and blow my brains out. God, I'd rather be
where Pat is than have to carry your load the rest of my life! But
you're yellow clean through, and Bob Brewster knew it and hired you. Now
you will take that lame cayuse and ride north just as quick as you can
throw a saddle on him. And when you go,"--and Waring rose and pointed
toward the doorway,--"forget the way back to this country."
The cowboy shuffled his feet and picked up his hat. Starr got up stiffly
and limped to his room. He came out with a check, which he gave to the
cowboy.
Waring pushed back his chair as though to step round the table and
follow the cowboy, but he hesitated, and finally sat down.
"I'm sorry it happened this way, Mrs. Starr," he said.
"It's awful! And one of our men!"
"That's not your fault, Mrs. Starr."
Starr fumbled along the clock shelf, found his pipe, and lighted it. He
sat down near Waring as Mrs. Starr began to clear away the dishes.
"If I can do anything to help run down that white-livered skunk--"
"You can, Jasper. Just keep it to yourself that I have been here. Pete
left of his own accord. I don't want the Brewster boys to know I'm out
on their trail."
Starr nodded and glanced at his wife. "I looked to see you kill him," he
said, gesturing toward the doorway.
"What! That poor fool? I thought you knew me better, Jasper."