THE WRITING ON THE WALL
When the senior member of the firm of Twitchell and Carpenter read
Ridley's letter things began to happen. It was the last straw, for
besides being half-owners in the bank the firm had for several years
been annoyed by depredations committed by Mesquite citizens on its
herds. The depredations had ceased upon payment of "campaign funds"
to the Mesquite political ring, but the blackmail levy had galled the
senior member, who was not as prone as Carpenter was to buy peace.
Orders flew from the firm's office and the little printing-plant at
Sandy Bend broke all its hazy precedents, with the result that a
hard-riding courier, relaying twice, carried the work of the job-print
toward Mesquite. Reaching Ridley's domain he turned the package over to
the local superintendent, who joyously mounted and carried it to town.
Tim Quayle welcomed his old friend, listened intently to what Ridley
had to say and handed over an assortment of tacks and nails, and a
chipped hammer. "'Tis time, Tom," he said, simply.
Ridley went out and selected a spot on the hotel wall, and the sound of
the hammer and the sight of his unusual occupation caused a small crowd
of curious idlers to gather around him. When the poster was unrolled
there were sibilant whispers, soft curses, frank prophesies, and some
commendations, which was entirely a matter of the personal viewpoint.
Half an hour later, the last poster placed, Ridley took a short cut,
entered the hotel through the kitchen and went into the barroom. What
he had published for the enlightenment, edification, or disapprobation
of his fellow-citizens was pointed and business-like, and read as
follows:
=$2,500.00 REWARD!=
For Information Leading to the Capture
and Conviction of the Men Who Robbed
the Mesquite Bank.
=STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL=
TWITCHELL & CARPENTER
Sandy Bend TOM RIDLEY, Local Supt.
Quayle turned and smiled at the T & C man. "Ye've slapped their faces,
Tom. Mind yore eye!"
"They've prodded th' old mosshead once too often," growled Ridley,
looking around at Johnny, Idaho, and the others. "I reckon this stops
th' blackmail to th' gang. When I wrote my letter I expected somethin'
would happen, an' th' letter I got in return near curled my hair.
Twitchell's fightin' mad."
"Th' reward's too big," criticized Idaho.
"I'm fearin' it ain't big enough," said Ed Doane, shaking his head.
Ridley laughed contentedly. "It's more than enough. There's men in
this town, an' that gang, who would knife anybody for half of that.
When they can get twenty-five hundred by simply openin' their mouths,
without bein' known, they'll do it. Loyalty is fine to listen about,
but there's few men in th' gang we're after that have any twenty-five
hundred dollars' worth. This is th' beginnin' of th' end. Mark my
words."
"A lot depends on how many were in on it," suggested Johnny, "an' how
many of th' others know about it."
"He's throwin' money away," doggedly persisted Idaho. "A thousand would
buy any of 'em, that an' secrecy."
"He ain't throwin' it away," retorted Ridley, "considerin' his letter.
He's after results, amazin' results, an' he shore knows how to get 'em.
It'll be sort of more pleasant if th' gang is sold out. He figgers a
reward like that will save time an' be self-actin', for my orders are
to stay in th' ranchhouse an' wait. That's what I'm goin' to do, too;
an' I'll be settin' there with all guns loaded. No tellin' what'll
happen now an', not bein' able to say how soon it will happen, I'm
leavin' you boys. So-long."
He walked out to his horse and mounted. As he settled into the saddle
there was a flat report, his hat flew from his head and he toppled from
the horse, dead before he struck the ground.
Quayle swiftly reached over the desk and took a Winchester from its
pegs, Irish tears in his eyes; and waited hopefully, Irish rage in his
heart, watching the dirty windows and the open door. "It's to a finish,
byes," he grated in a brogue thickened by his emotions, the veins of
his forehead and neck swelling into serpentine ridges. "They read th'
writin' on th' wall, an' they read ut plain. D'ye mind what some of
thim divils would be after doin' for all that money? They'd cut their
own mither's throat--an' Kane knows ut! An' I'm thinkin' they'll be
careful now--Kane has served his notice."
The idlers in the street stood as if frozen, gaping, not one of them
daring to approach the body, nor even to stop the horse as it kicked
up its heels and trotted down the street. Ed Doane was the third man
through the door and he brought in the dead man's hat as Johnny and
Idaho placed the warm body on the floor of the office. They hardly had
stepped back when hurried footsteps neared the door and the sheriff,
with two of his deputies, entered the office, paused instinctively at
sight of the rifle in Quayle's hands, and then slowly, carefully bent
over to examine the body. The sheriff reached forth a hand to turn it
over, but stopped instantly and froze in his stooped position, his arm
outstretched.
"Kape ut off him!" roared Quayle, his eyes blazing. "What more d'ye
want to see?"
"From behind?" asked Corwin, slowly straightening up, but his eyes
fixed on the proprietor.
"An' where'd ye be thinkin' 'twas from?" snarled Quayle, the veins
standing out anew. "No dirty pup of that pack would dare try ut from
th' front, an' ye know ut! An' need ye look twice to see where th' slug
av a buffalo-gun came out? Don't touch him, anny av ye! Kape yore paws
off Tom Ridley! An' _I_'m buryin' him, mesilf."
"But, as sheriff--" began Corwin.
"Aye, _but_!" snapped Quayle. "We'll be after callin' things be
their right names. Ye are no sheriff. Ye was choosed by th' majority
av votes cast by th' citizens av an unorganized county, like byes
choose a captain av their gangs. There's no laws to back ye up, an'
ye took no oath. As long as th' majority will it, yore th' keeper
av th' peace--an' no longer. Sheriff?" he sneered. "An' 'tis a fine
sheriff ye'll be makin', runnin' in circles like a locoed cow since th'
robbery, questionin' every innocent man in town, an' hopin' 'twould
blow over, an' die a natural death. But it's got th' breath av life in
it now! What do ye think old Twitchell will be sayin' to _this_?" he
thundered, his rigid arm pointing to the body on the floor. "Clear out,
th' pack av ye! Ye've seen all ye need to!"
Corwin glanced at the body again, from it around the ring of set and
angry faces, shrugged his shoulders and motioned to his deputies to
leave. "We'll hold th' inquest here," he said, turning away.
"Ye'll hold no inquest!" roared Quayle. "Show me yore coroner! Inquest,
is ut? I've held yore inquest already. There's plenty av us here
an' we say, so help us God, Tom Ridley was murdered, an' by persons
unknown. There's yer inquest, an' yer findin's. What do ye say, byes?"
he demanded. A low growl replied to him and he sneered again. "There!
There's yer inquest! As long as yer playin' sheriff, go out an' do yer
duty; but look out ye don't put yer han's on a friend! Clear out, an'
run yer bluff!"
Corwin's eyes glinted as he looked at the fearless speaker, but with
Idaho straining at a moral leash, Johnny's intent eagerness and the
sight of the rifle in the proprietor's hands, he let discretion mold
his course and slouched out to the street, where another quiet crowd
opened silently to let him through.
Johnny passed close to Idaho. "Go to your ranch for a few days, or
they'll couple you to me!" he whispered.
* * * * *
Bill Long, feeding his borrowed Highbank horse in the northernmost of
the two stables at the rear of Kane's, heard the jarring crash of a
heavy rifle so loud and near that he dropped instantly to hands and
knees and crawled to a crack in the south wall. As he peered out he
got a good, clear view of a pock-marked Mexican with a crescent-shaped
scar over one eye and who, Sharp's in hand, wriggled out of the north
window of the adjoining stable, dropped sprawling within five feet of
the watcher's eyes, scrambled to his feet and fled close along the
rear of Bill's stable. The watcher sprang erect, sped silently back
to his horse and stirred the grain in the feed box with one hand,
while the other rested on a six-gun in case the Mexican should be of
an inquisitive and belligerent frame of mind. His view of the street
had been shut off by the corner of the southern stable and he had not
seen the result of the shot. Wishing to show no undue curiosity he did
not go down the street, but returned to the gambling-hall. He had not
been seated more than a few minutes when one of Kane's retainers ran
in from the street with the news of Ridley's death. There was a flurry
of excitement, which quickly died down, but under the rippling surface
Bill sensed the deeper, more powerful currents.
"This man Kane, whoever an' wherever he is," he thought, "has shore
trained this bunch of scourin's. I'm gettin' plumb curious for a look
at him. Huh!" he muttered, as the window-wriggling, pock-marked
Mexican emerged from behind the partition, bent swiftly over Kit Thorpe
and betook his tense and nervous self to the roulette table. "I've got
yore ugly face carved deep in my mem'ry, you Greaser snake!" he growled
under his breath. "If it wasn't for loosin' bigger game I'd turn you
over to Ridley's friends before night. You can wait."
Not long after the appearance of the Mexican, the sheriff came in
by the front door, pushed through the crowd near the bar and walked
swiftly toward the rear of the room. Speaking shortly to Kit Thorpe in
a low voice he passed through the door of the checkerboard partition.
"I'm learnin'," muttered Bill. "I don't know who Kane is, but I'm dead
shore I know _where_ he is. An' I'm gettin' a better line on this
killin'. I'll shore have to get a look behind that door, somehow."
Suddenly the doorkeeper arose and stuck his head around behind the
partition and then, straightening up, closed the door, went up to the
bar, spoke to several men there and led them to the rear. Opening the
door again he let them through and resumed his vigil; and none of them
reappeared before Bill went into the north building to eat his supper.