“I’m going along, Sam,” he said, and went out the rear door, where he
kept a horse in a little stable.
The bartender shoved a bottle of liquor across the bar to Bob.
“Better take this along with yuh, Bob.”
Bob nodded and shoved it inside his shirt as he went outside. The
cowboys were getting their horses, and in a few minutes the sheriff
came from his stable, leading a tall, roan horse, which belonged to
Andy Allard, his deputy, who was laid up with an ulcerated tooth.
“My horse went lame,” explained the sheriff wearily. “Lucky thing that
Andy’s horse was in the barn.”
It was about fifteen minutes after Bob’s entry into Bunch Grass that he
rode back at the head of eight riders and Doctor Knowles in a buggy. The
riders swung into a swift gallop, but Doctor Knowles kept close behind
them, his seasoned team of broncos traveling like a runaway.
Buck Kelly and the sheriff rode stirrup to stirrup, but did not talk to
each other. In fact, the sheriff seemed to try to avoid Kelly’s glances.
John Fann was still alive, but unconscious. The doctor made a swift
examination and ordered the boys to put John Fann into the buggy.
“Can’t tell a thing,” he replied to their questions. “Bullet is still in
there. Maybe it cracked his skull.”
“Do you think he’ll live to tell who shot him?” queried the sheriff.
“Chances are he never seen the man.”
“Better see what he’s got in his pockets,” said Kelly softly. “I handed
him eight thousand dollars in currency just before he left town. I took
a mortgage on the JHF.”
The sheriff stepped over and searched through John’s pockets, but there
was no sign of the eight thousand.
“Who knew that he had the money?” demanded Bob.
“Judge Freeman, myself and John Fann,” said Kelly slowly. He was trying
not to incriminate the sheriff.
“The judge is a cripple, and you couldn’t ’a’ been there,” said Bob.
“John Fann never shot himself and stole the eight thousand.”
Kelly looked at the sheriff, but the sheriff avoided his eyes. They
loaded John Fann into the buggy and Doctor Knowles picked up the lines.
“Do the best you can for him, Doc,” said the sheriff. “I’m going to try
and find the man who shot him.”
“You goin’ back to town?” queried Kelly, and the sheriff nodded.
“I’ll go back with you, Chet. There ain’t nothin’ I can do at the ranch.
Lemme know as soon as yuh can what chances old John has got.”
The buggy, with its cowboy escort, started on, and Buck Kelly rode
slowly back toward town with the sheriff.
“Now, yuh can talk to me, Chet,” said Kelly meaningly.
The sheriff turned in his saddle and faced Kelly.
“Buck, do you think I done that?”
“I’m listenin’, Chet.”
“Good ----! I wouldn’t harm John the Baptist, Kelly. I went out there
to pull off that hold-up, but I went up the cañon further, where I
waited. I hadn’t been there more than fifteen minutes, when I heard a
horse comin’, but it was comin’ from the JHF.
“Then I seen Barr Wyeth ride past, goin’ toward town. He didn’t see me,
but I figured that everythin’ was off now. He’d meet old John and old
John would give him the money.
“I didn’t want to run into them; so I stayed there a while. I don’t know
how long it was, but it must ’a’ been half an hour. Then I heard a shot.
I got on my horse and went down the road in a hurry.
“I found John’s horse comin’ up the road; so I caught it and took it
back with me. Then I finds John flat on his back in the road. I packed
him into the shade and examined him. The money was gone. I was wonderin’
what to do about it, when I happens to look up at the rim of the cañon
and I sees two riders, stopped on the edge.
“I know they’ve seen me, and I think it’s Bob Kern and Splinter Martin.
Then--” the sheriff shook his head--“I reckon I got panicky, Kelly. I
got my horse and busted out for town. I left the road and circled to
come in the back way. I seen Bob Kern streakin’ along the road. My bronc
looked like he’d swum the river; that’s why I’m ridin’ Andy’s horse.”
“Yuh sure it was Barr Wyeth?” asked Kelly.
“Y’betcha. Passed within twenty feet of me, Kelly.”
“If that’s told, there’s goin’ to be a first-class lynchin’, Chet.”
“And I’d have a ---- of a time tryin’ to tell my part of it, Kelly. Why,
even a jury wouldn’t believe my story. All the evidence I’ve got is the
fact that Barr Wyeth rode past me. That don’t make him a murderer--not
in the eyes of a jury.”
“Well----” hopefully--“I hope John the Baptist lives. To ---- with the
eight thousand dollars. If he dies I’ll tear up the ---- mortgage.”
They rode into town and stabled their horses. Several more cowboys were
in the Buck Horn, including Pastry Pell, Windy Hart and Mark Ells. They
crowded around and shot a volley of questions at Kelly, but he was able
to give them little satisfaction.
“I tell yuh she’s gittin’ to be a tough country,” declared Pastry Pell.
“I’m figgerin’ to pull out and see if I can’t find a calm and serene
locality. Who do yuh reckon shot the old man, Kelly?”
Kelly shook his head.
“I think it was a robbery.”
“Killed old John the Baptist to rob him?” queried Pastry Pell. “Why,
that ain’t----”
“He had eight thousand dollars with him,” said Kelly.
“For gosh sake!” exploded a cowboy. “Eight thousand!”
Pastry Pell’s mouth remained open so long that one of the cowboys
reminded him of the fact.
“And it was gone?” queried Pastry.
“Didja think they’d divide up with him?” snapped Kelly.
“Sheriff got any idea who done it?” questioned Windy.
“Yuh might ask him,” replied Kelly.
“Is John the Baptist goin’ to die?” asked Pastry.
“Now, ain’t that a ---- of a question?” complained Kelly, addressing the
cowboys. “Is it any wonder that he got his face smashed?”
“Aw, I never got it smashed for askin’ questions,” declared Pastry. “I
got it for answerin’ questions that wasn’t asked.”
* * * * *
Bob Kern rode ahead and broke the news to Ma Fann. He expected her to
faint or scream, but she was made of the fiber that bends much before
it breaks. Swiftly she prepared a bed, while Bob heated water on the
kitchen stove.
The cowboys carried the old man into the house and put him on the bed,
while Doctor Knowles laid out his shining instruments and prepared to
remove the bullet.
“Get Mrs. Fann away, can’t you?” asked the doctor of Bob Kern. “This
ain’t going to be pretty to watch.”
Bob went out into the kitchen and gently led Ma Fann out to the back
porch.
“Set down, Ma,” he urged. “There ain’t a thing yuh can do in there, and
I want to talk with yuh.”
She sat down beside him and he put his hand on her shoulder.
“Ma, I want to tell yuh that somebody--the feller that shot John--stole
eight thousand dollars out of his pocket.”
She nodded slowly.
“I was afraid of that, Bob. I knew he was going to get it today.”
“Why didn’t he ask me or Splinter to go with him? My gosh, I’d ’a’ hired
an army, Ma.”
Ma Fann did not reply. Bob was rolling a cigaret and as he started to
wet the edge of the paper with his tongue, his eyes seemed to focus on a
spot a few feet away. He spilled the tobacco from the paper as he shoved
away from the steps and peered down at the ground.
“Who was here today, Ma?” he asked.
“What do you mean, Bob?”
He came back and looked down at her.
“Ma, was Barr Wyeth here this mornin’?”
She nodded slowly.
“Yes. Just after you left, Pastry Pell came past here and stopped to
talk a minute. He had been in a fight, I think. He only stopped a
minute. Then, about nine o’clock, Barr came. I was out here and he
rode around. He asked for John and I told him that he was in Bunch
Grass.”
“Did he act mad?”
“No, I don’t think so, Bob.”
“Nine o’clock, eh?”
Bob glanced at his watch and put it back in his pocket.
“Bob, you don’t think----”
Ma Fann stopped with the question unasked, but Bob knew what she meant.
“Who hit John yesterday, Ma?”
She looked at him, her eyes filled with tears.
“It was Barr Wyeth, wasn’t it?”
She nodded, but did not look at him.
“I thought so,” he said softly.
“But that don’t mean ----”
Ma Fann hesitated, trying to convince herself that Barr was innocent.
“And John Fann was shot and robbed between nine and nine-thirty--two
miles from here.”
Splinter clumped out through the kitchen and came out on the porch.
“Doc got the bullet,” he announced. “It’s a .44.”
“And nine out of every ten six-guns in this valley are forty-fours,”
said Bob sadly.
“What does doc say about John?”
“He dunno. Says there must ’a’ been some shock, but he don’t think it’ll
be serious.”
Ma Fann got up and went into the house.
“She ain’t no quitter,” said Splinter. “By golly, she’s got more nerve
than I have.”
“Barr Wyeth was here this mornin’, lookin’ for John,” said Bob
meaningly. “He pulled off down the road after that.”
“Yeah?”
Splinter shoved his hands into his overall pockets and rocked on his
heels.
“Well, Mister Wyeth, we’ll be right on yore trail. Let’s go and have it
over with.”
“Zasso?” Bob’s tone was sarcastic. “I suppose all we’ve got to do is to
ride over there, ask Barr Wyeth for the money--and get it, eh? Then we
accuses him of shootin’ John Fann and he’ll admit it. My gosh, that’s a
simple way to settle things, Splinter.”
“Barr Wyeth started out to kill Chet Gunning and John yesterday,” stated
Splinter. “I heard the boys talkin’ about it. Barr hit John with the
bar-bottle at the Buck Horn and then beat it for home. That’s where John
got the busted scalp.”
“I know,” nodded Bob, and went into the house.
The cowboys were getting ready to leave and Bob went to Doctor Knowles,
who was sitting beside the bed.
“How long are yuh goin’ to stay, Doc?”
“Until John regains consciousness,” replied the doctor. “Anyway, I shall
be here several hours.”
“Just so Ma ain’t left alone,” explained Bob. “Me and Splinter are goin’
to town.”
“I’ll stay until you get back,” assured the doctor.
Bob went out the back way, spoke to Splinter and they went out to their
horses. The other cowboys were already going down the road and Bob did
not try to catch up with them.
“Look for the bar-shoe, Splinter,” said Bob. “So dang much travel has
likely wiped out the signs, but we’ll try and find where he turned off
the road.”
Here and there, for the first mile, they were able to find an occasional
imprint of a bar-shoe, but beyond that the dust became deeper and all
trace was lost. They spent some time in examining the spot where John
Fann had lain, but so much trampling had erased every clue that might
have been there.
From there on they searched closely, but there was no sign of a bar-shoe
to be seen.
“If Wyeth was in Bunch Grass this mornin’, somebody must ’a’ seen him,”
declared Bob. “Accordin’ to Kelly, nobody knew about the money, except
Kelly, Judge Freeman and John himself. Barr didn’t know it. He never
shot old John to get the money, but he must ’a’ found it afterwards. I
reckon he can use it to good advantage.”
They rode on into Bunch Grass. The cowboys had preceded them, and a
crowd was gathered around the Buck Horn, listening to the latest news
from the JHF. The sheriff was there, but was saying little. He was
frankly worried over the whole thing, and was not sure that Kelly had
believed his story.
Numerous questions were shot at Bob and Splinter, but they were unable
to improve upon the stories that had already been told. Windy and Mark
were there, listening much but saying nothing. As usual, Pastry Pell
had made himself the center of interest although he knew nothing,
except from hearsay.
“It ain’t for me t’ accuse anybody,” said Pastry, “but she ’pears as a
open book t’ me.”
“It sure would have to,” laughed Splinter, “and with letters a
foot-high, if you was able to read ’em with your eyes. You look like
you’d tried to bull-dog an engine.”
“He talked too much, like he’s doin’ now,” said Windy meaningly.
Pastry licked his lips and tried to think of a suitable answer, but
decided to keep still.
“John the Baptist was shot with a forty-four,” said Bob, “but that’s no
clue at all. How many of us shoot a forty-four?”
A check of the crowd showed that all except Pastry Pell and Splinter
used that caliber gun; their guns were forty-five Colts.
“Eight forty-fours and two forty-fives,” said Bob. “That’s about the
average all the way across this range.”
The talk became desultory and Bob caught a signal from the sheriff. In
an off-hand way they drifted together and went across the street to the
office.
“What’s your idea, Kern?” queried the sheriff.
Bob hesitated. He knew that the sheriff would immediately arrest Barr
Wyeth if he told him that Wyeth had been at the JHF that morning. In
Bob’s mind there was no doubt that Barr Wyeth had shot and robbed John
Fann, but still he held back the information.
“I ain’t got no idea, Chet,” Bob shook his head. “I seen the man ride
away, but I’ll be danged if I could tell whether he was a big man or
a little man, or whether he rode a black, brown, bay or a gray horse.
They was kinda in the shadows, and you know how things look on a
bird’s-eye view thataway.”
The sheriff sighed with satisfaction. At least, Bob did not suspect him.
“What about Barr Wyeth?” asked the sheriff.
“What about him?” asked Bob innocently.
“Aw ----!” The sheriff appeared peeved. “What are yuh tryin’ to
do--protect him?”
“Are you tryin’ to arrest him?”
“No-o-o, not unless he’s guilty. Yuh see, he came to town yesterday to
kill me and John the Baptist, but I took his gun away. He hit old John
with a bottle and darn near busted his head. Under them circumstances,
yuh’ve got to admit that it looks bad for Barr Wyeth, don’tcha?”
“Too bad,” agreed Bob.
“Whatcha mean, Kern?” quickly.
“Nothin’. I don’t reckon there’s anythin’ for yuh to do but to arrest
Barr and try him for it. Yo’re sure he done the job, ain’tcha?”
“Nope--not sure enough. I thought I had enough evidence to shove him
over for rustlin’, but you and Splinter and John the Baptist craw-fished
out of the deal.”
“Thasso?” grinned Bob. “Well, I reckon we’ll drift back to the ranch
and kinda relieve the doctor. ’F yuh hear of any good evidence, lemme
hear it, will yuh, Chet?”
“I will, like ----!” retorted the sheriff.
* * * * *
Barr Wyeth was going from the corral to the house when Windy and Mark
rode in that afternoon and motioned for him to stop.
“Didja hear the news?” asked Windy.
Barr shook his head.
“Somebody shot John the Baptist this mornin’ and robbed him of eight
thousand dollars.”
Barr stared at them wonderingly.
“You ain’t jokin’, are yuh, Windy?”
“Honest to ----, I ain’t, Barr.”
And then Windy proceeded to tell Barr all he knew about it.
“About nine-thirty, eh?” mused Barr thoughtfully.
“About that time,” agreed Mark, and added, “There’s a lot of talk goin’
on, and I reckon they mean you, Barr.”
Barr laughed shortly and a deep furrow grew between his eyes.
“You wasn’t over there, was yuh, Barr?” asked Windy.
Barr nodded.
“Yeah, and that’s the ---- of it--I was.”
“Does anybody know it?”
“Yeah--Ma Fann.”
“And she’ll head to Bob Kern.”
“I reckon so. I must ’a’ left there just at the right time to meet the
old man.”
“You ain’t got no alibi?” queried Mark.
“No. Ma Fann was the only one that seen me. I was back here at a little
after ten o’clock, but that won’t help me with a jury.”
“Maybe you better do a little runnin’,” suggested Windy. “If the old man
dies--yuh can never tell what folks might do, Barr.”
“If I run, it’ll look like I’m guilty.”
“And if yuh stay you’ll look like a corpse,” added the practical Mark.
“I’d run, y’betcha.”
Barr turned and went to the house. Mrs. Wyeth had seen him conversing
with the two punchers, and she knew from the expression on his face
that something was wrong. He came up and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Nell, your father was shot this mornin’ and robbed of eight thousand
dollars.”
“Shot?” she gasped. “Not dead, Barr?”
“No, he’s alive. It happened in the cañon about half-past nine this
mornin’.”
“My God! Who did it, Barr?”
Her face went white and she grasped him by the sleeve.
“I reckon they think it was me,” he said softly, “and I can’t prove it
wasn’t.”
“You? Why, Barr, you couldn’t do that!”
Barr shook his head.
“No, I couldn’t, Nell; but you know what happened yesterday.”
He drew away from her and leaned against the wall.
“I’ve drank and gambled away the Lightning. Buck Kelly owns it--not me.
I’ve been a ---- fool, Nell, and I reckon I’m gettin’ what’s comin’ to
me.”
“Don’t say that, Barr,” she begged tearfully. “How badly was my father
hurt?”
“I don’t know. Windy said he’d probably live. I don’t know much about
it, Nell--only what they just told me.”
“But can’t you prove that you didn’t do it, Barr?”
“No,” Barr shook his head slowly, “I can’t, Nell; but I may be able to
prove who did. There’s no use of me trying to alibi myself. I can see
where I’m up against it good and strong, unless I can slap the deadwood
on the man who did do it--and make him admit it.”
“Have you any idea, Barr?”
Barr smiled and nodded.
“Yeah, I’ve got an idea, but I don’t know whether it’ll work or not. I’m
goin’ to Bunch Grass and take a long chance on it, Nell.”
“A long chance, Barr?”
“Yeah--mighty long. Can’t wait here, don’t yuh see? Mebbe, it’s only a
bluff, but a bluff is only good when yuh beat the other feller to it.”
“But they’ll put you in jail, Barr.”
“I don’t think so.”
He went down the steps and turned to her.
“If my bluff don’t work, Nell--” He hesitated and hitched up his
belt--“I won’t go to jail, because I haven’t a Chinaman’s chance in
there. I’m the same as convicted right now. Don’tcha worry about me
nor about yore dad. He’s still alive and I’ve got a runnin’ chance.”
She watched him saddle his horse and ride toward town; watched him in a
dumb sort of a way, as if she had no interest in him any more. She
could not realize that her own father had been shot; possibly fatally,
and that Barr was believed to have done it. Windy and Mark were coming
up to the porch and she stared at them, as if they were total strangers
to her.
“Where’s Barr goin’?” asked Windy, and she shook her head dumbly in
reply to the question.
“If he ain’t a darned fool, he’ll beat it into the hills,” declared
Mark. “If the old man dies, which he’s liable to do----”
Mrs. Wyeth swayed and collapsed on the porch.
“You ---- fool!” wailed Windy. “The old man is her father!”
They ran up the steps and looked at her. Her face was white and her body
was very limp, as Windy tried to lift her.
“Help me, yuh danged fool!” he grunted. “We’ve got to get her into the
house.”
They managed to get her on to a bed and placed a pillow under her head.
“Now what do we do?” breathed Mark anxiously. “What do yuh give ’em in a
case like this?”
Windy scratched his head thoughtfully.
“I dunno. Only two remedies I _sabe_ are horse-liniment and castor-oil.”
“Don’t they pour water on ’em?”
“Yeah. Go and git the bucket, Mark.”
Mark departed to the kitchen to get a bucket of water, but Mrs. Wyeth’s
eyes opened and she stared wonderingly around.
“You jist take it easy, ma’am,” advised Windy. “Mark’s gone after the
water-bucket.”
“What happened?” she asked weakly. “Did I faint?”
“Yeah, I reckon that’s what it was. How do yuh feel now?”
“I’m all right now. I guess I just got dizzy.”
Mark stopped in the doorway and set down his bucket of water.
“Reckon yuh can git along all right now, ma’am?” asked Windy.
“Yes, I am all right now. Thank you both very much.”
“Yo’re welcome,” said Windy, and he and Mark went out through the
kitchen, leaving the water-bucket.
* * * * *
Judge Henry Freeman was badly crippled in the legs from rheumatism, but
was still able to continue his duties as district judge. He lived in a
little house at the outskirts of Bunch Grass; prolific in his profanity,
ready to argue anything from Blackstone to how to cure baldness, and
smoking a very vile old pipe, which, when burning properly, sounded like
eggs frying in a hot skillet.
He was a small man, with a long nose, abnormally bright eyes and a
broad forehead. His hair was very thin, except in the back of his
neck, where it grew down over his collar and started back up again in
an attempted curl, or possibly trying to loop-the-loop. On or off the
bench his tongue was as pointed as a rapier, but none could say that
he was not impartial in his decisions--and just.
Just now he was hunched down in his easy chair, deep in thought. A few
minutes before Buck Kelly had left him, after telling the latest news,
and the judge was trying to digest the facts impersonally. Kelly had
not told him which way the finger of suspicion was pointing, nor did
he divulge the fact that the sheriff had gone out to try to save money
for John the Baptist. And while the judge pondered, his housekeeper,
Mrs. Letts, a very fleshy, middle-aged woman, admitted Barr Wyeth to
the judge’s presence without advice from the judge.
“Mister Wyeth would see you, judge,” she said, after Barr was already
inside the room.
“He would, would he?” retorted the judge. “My ----, woman, how many
times do I have to tell you that--oh, well, go on out and let me talk
to him in private. Sit down, Wyeth--go out, Mrs. Letts.”
Mrs. Letts faded out and shut the door rather hard. The judge frowned
and threw his pipe on the littered table.
“Well?” He turned and faced Barr. “Go ahead.”
“You heard about John the Baptist, judge?”
“Umph! A little. Probably distorted. Always is. Never knew two men to
tell the same story. Go ahead.”
“Judge, I want to tell you a little story. Yesterday I had trouble with
John Fann.”
“Tried to kill him with a whisky bottle, didn’t you? I heard about it.
Likely heard it all wrong. Go ahead.”
“I thought I had killed him, judge. When I found that I hadn’t I--” Barr
hesitated--“I was glad.”
“Umph! Queer, ---- queer! Go ahead.”
“I have hated John Fann, judge. He has said some mean things about me,
and they hurt. You know I married his daughter against his wishes, and
neither of us have ever been to see them since.”
“---- foolishness!” growled the judge.
“This mornin’,” continued Barr, “I rode over to the JHF to have a talk
with John the Baptist. No, I didn’t go over there to quarrel with him,
judge; I wanted to make peace with him.
“But he wasn’t home; so I came back down the road, thinking that I’d
come to town and find him, but decided not to. I rode out of the cañon,
intendin’ to cut across the hills to my own ranch. I was takin’ my time,
and after I got out of the cañon I got to thinkin’ that I’d better go on
to town and find him.
“I swung around the rim of the cañon, intendin’ to hit the road where
it comes out into the valley, when I heard a shot. I didn’t think much
about it right then, but before I hit the road a man rode past me, and
he was sure goin’ fast.
“I was back in the mesquite and he didn’t see me. I stopped and done
a lot of wonderin’ why he was foggin’ along so fast. From where I was
I could see a long ways down the road and this man kept lookin’ back.
About half a mile below me the road curves to the right, and I seen
this rider swing off the road and head into the mesquite.
“I’ve just about made up my mind that it ain’t none of my business,
when here comes another rider, goin’ just about as fast as the other
one was. He busted past me and I watched him until he made the curve,
still follerin’ the road. The last man was Bob Kern.”
“What time was this?” asked the judge.
“Between nine-thirty and ten o’clock.”
“Umph!”
The judge scratched his jaw and reached for his pipe.
“Who was the first man?” he asked abruptly, turning his head as he
reached for his pipe.
“Chet Gunning.”
“The sheriff?”
Judge Freeman’s groping hand missed the pipe, and he sat down without
it.
“You mean to say that the sheriff----?”
“I ain’t meanin’ to say anythin’, judge,” interrupted Barr quickly, “but
those are the facts.”
“But why in ---- would Chet Gunning shoot John Fann?”
“There’s eight thousand dollars missing,” reminded Barr. “That mortgage
on the JHF.”
“Hm-m-m,” reflected the judge. “Bob Kern and Splinter Martin saw a man
ride away from the place where they found John Fann. Could you prove
that you were not that man?”
Barr shook his head.
“I can’t prove anythin’, judge.”
“What size gun do you shoot, Barr?”
“A forty-four.”
“And John Fann was shot with a forty-four.”
The judge reached for his pipe and began filling it, when Mrs. Letts
knocked loudly and stepped into the room.
“Mister Pell would like a word with the judge,” she stated stiffly.
“He’s outside, and I would not let him into the front door without a
word from you.”
The judge grinned and sucked on his pipe.
“The human bulletin-board again.”
“He’s anxious to see you,” volunteered Mrs. Letts.
“Send him in,” nodded the judge, and as Mrs. Letts went out he turned
the oil lamp down so low that it threw the room into a half-light. Barr
was partly hidden by the back of his chair and the judge motioned for
him to turn still further away from the light.
A moment later Pastry Pell opened the door and stopped on the threshold.
“Judge, I jist wanted to tell yuh that the doctor has come back from
the JHF, and he says that John the Baptist ain’t liable to live, and
the sheriff has gone out to arrest Barr Wyeth, because there’s a lot
of talk of a lynchin’, if old John dies, and the sheriff’s afraid the
old jail ain’t strong enough to stop ’em if they start and----”
Pastry stopped to catch his breath, and at this moment Barr Wyeth got up
from his chair and looked at him.
Pastry swallowed hard and his mouth formed an O.
“F’r ----’s sake!” he gasped and went right back through the doorway. A
moment later the front door shut with a crash.
“That was the first time I ever heard Pastry Pell stop talking, when he
had something to say,” declared the judge.
“He said enough,” Barr was anxiously staring toward the door. “I wonder
what I had better do, judge?”
“Don’t ask me. Right now I’m legally unfit to even hear the case. I
usually am, as far as that’s concerned; because everybody brings me
their troubles just ahead of the court session, but if you want an
honest opinion, Barr Wyeth--go a ---- of a long ways from here in the
least possible time. That’s about all I can see for you to do.”
“I wouldn’t have a chance in court,” declared Barr.
“No, not a chance. You’ve been a ---- fool, young man.”
“You don’t think I lied to you about the sheriff?”
“No, but the jury would. You’re losing time, Wyeth.”
Barr turned and went out of the door. He mounted his horse and sat
motionless for a while. Beyond him were the yellow lights of Bunch
Grass. Lights were twinkling in the windows of the scattered residences.
Just across the way from him was a tumble-down sort of a home and a tall
barn. He could hear voices.
Two bulky objects were coming down the dusty street toward him and
he instinctively moved his horse into the heavier shadows of an old
cottonwood. It was two cows, and behind them came a boy, herding
them. They turned in at the open gate and the boy panted wearily as
he dragged the old, sagging gate shut behind them. A voice called to
him from the house.
“Aw, ma, I got here as soon as I could.” The boy’s voice was changing,
and ended in a shrill treble. “Old Spot, the danged old tramp, was plumb
over in Cherry Cañon. I’m goin’ to put a toggle on her, y’betcha.”
“You hurry up and git ready f’r supper.” This in a woman’s tired voice.
“Is pa there?” yelled the boy.
“He’s eatin’ his supper, and if you don’t hurry----”
“Did he hear the news?” The boy ignored the implied threat in his
eagerness to dispense information. “Bud Newell told me that old man Fann
was jist about to die, and that there’s sure goin’ to be a lynchin’ in
Bunch Grass.”
“You come in the house and quit screechin’ such things!”
Came the rattle of a tin wash-pan, the splash of water, as the boy
performed his evening ablutions. Then:
“Ma-a-a! Say, ma--kin I go to it, if there is?”
But there was no reply, and the door shut behind the excited youngster.
“Even the kids,” muttered Barr aloud as he rode away from the
cottonwood. “There’s only one place where I’m anywhere near safe, and
I’m goin’ to take a chance.”
He swung his horse and went slowly back toward the main road.
* * * * *
The lights were turned low in the JHF ranch-house living-room. Ma
Fann sat close beside the bed, watching for any sign of returning
consciousness in John Fann. Bob Kern sat on the floor against the
wall, knees drawn up to his chin. Beside him lay an old magazine, the
cover of it littered with match-stubs, ashes and the remains of many
cigarets.
Humped over in an old rocking-chair was Splinter, reading the endless
list of testimonials in an old medical almanac.
“Doc ought t’ be back pretty soon,” he said softly.
“You’ve done said that a hundred times,” reminded Bob. “I dunno what he
can do, if he comes.”
“Is it goin’ to ache yuh any place, if I say it again?” queried
Splinter. “And there’s lots of things that you can’t see.”
Ma Fann smiled sadly. She was used to the good-natured bickering of the
two cowpunchers. She knew that both of them were itching for action,
and were only there to keep her company until the doctor came back from
Bunch Grass.
Suddenly Splinter threw up his head and glanced back toward the door.
“Somebody comin’,” he stated and went to the door.
He peered outside and grunted softly as footsteps sounded on the porch.
Then, through the open door came Windy Hart, carrying a blanket-wrapped
bundle in his arms, and behind him came Mark Ells, similarly burdened.
They squinted around the room and advanced softly to a couch, where they
placed their bundles.
Every eye in the room had been upon them, but now they turned to see
Nell Wyeth, standing in the doorway, her dark hair in a tangle about
her white face. Ma Fann had got to her feet and was staring at the
girl in the doorway.
“Them is the kids,” Windy broke the silence, as he indicated the bundles
on the couch. “C’m on, Mark.”
They tip-toed out of the room and Nell Wyeth moved aside to let them
pass. From one of the blanket-wrapped bundles came the soft wail of a
child.
“Ma, I had to come,” Nell Wyeth’s voice started bravely enough, but
broke into a sob at the finish.
Ma Fann was leaning forward toward her, seemingly half-dazed, hardly
realizing that it was her daughter. Then she threw out her hands to
her; the light of a mother’s love glorifying her tired old eyes, her
face tense with emotion.
“Then, why don’t you come, you poor kid?”
Bob Kern did not look at them as they came together; he grasped Splinter
by the sleeve, whirled him around and led him out of the house. They sat
down on the steps, and Splinter swore piously.
“What’sa matter, cowboy?” queried Bob. “You got a bad cold in yore
head?”
“I--I’ve got the same kinda hay-fever you’ve got,” retorted Splinter. “I
reckon she didn’t think Ma wanted her?”
“Ma,” said Bob softly, “Ma’s a dinger.”
From the house came the sound of voices talking softly, excitedly.
“Makin’ up for lost time,” said Bob. “Gotta lot to wau-wau about. I
wonder what Barr Wyeth thinks about it?”
Splinter laughed.
“I was just thinkin’ about Windy and Mark,” he explained. “Think of
them two salty old pelicans packin’ a baby per each plumb from the
Lightnin’.”
“More company comin’,” remarked Bob, “and it ain’t Doc Knowles.”
A solitary horseman, indistinct in the moonlight, had turned off the
main road and was riding up through the yard toward them. He dismounted
fifty feet away and came slowly up to them. It was Barr Wyeth.
Bob got to his feet. He did not know what Barr Wyeth’s intentions were,
and was taking no chances.
“I’m packin’ a white belt,” said Barr, using the old Indian peace
greeting.
“All right,” nodded Bob. “We’re takin’ your word for it, Wyeth.”
Barr came closer and peered at the house.
“How’s the old man?” he asked.
“Lord knows.”
“Still alive, though?” hopefully. “I just----”
Barr stopped. He had heard his wife’s voice and he looked inquiringly at
Bob.
“She just got here,” explained Bob. “I dunno why she came. Windy and
Mark packed the kiddies for her.”
“I wonder if I could go in there, Kern?”
“Well, I dunno why not.”
Bob turned and walked up to the door with Barr close behind him. Ma
Fann and Nell Wyeth were standing close to the bed, their arms around
each other, looking down at John Fann.
Then they both turned and looked at Barr, who was awkwardly twisting his
sombrero and looking down at the floor.
“Barr!” Nell Wyeth started toward him, but stopped. “Barr, I had to
come.”
“Tha’sall right,” he muttered. “So did I.”
She crossed the room and took him by the arm.
“Barr, the sheriff came just as we were ready to leave. He wanted to
know where you were and I--I had to tell him that you were in town.”
“Yeah, I was in town,” said Barr slowly, “but it never done me no good,
Nell.”
Splinter came in and shut the door.
“I ain’t got much of a chance,” said Barr. “Folks have kinda got me
convicted already; so I reckon I’ll just have to drift, if--” he
glanced around at Bob and Splinter--“if you two ain’t goin’ to take
the law in yore own hands.”
Bob shook his head.
“It ain’t for us to say, Wyeth--except that we’re sorry.”
Barr smiled bitterly.
“That sounds nice, Kern, and I ought to thank you, but I can’t help
rememberin’ that you said that you’d see the day that Barr Wyeth was
driven off this range, and that Nell would be sorry that she turned
yuh down on account of yore crooked face.”
Bob started forward, his hands clenched at his sides.
“That’s a ---- lie, Wyeth!”
“Is it?” Barr smiled crookedly. “Well, what’s the odds now. You hated
me because I won your girl, Kern; and maybe I don’t blame yuh. After
all, yore crooked face would have been better for her than my crooked
soul.”
“Barr, what are you saying?”
Nell’s face was ashen and her hands clawed at his shoulders.
“Well, I can’t say anythin’ worse about myself than Bob Kern and the JHF
outfit have said about me.”
Bob’s face was white with passion and his eyes gleamed yellow in the
lamp-light, as he moved slowly toward Barr Wyeth. Barr moved back until
he was against the wall near a window.
“Wyeth,” Bob’s voice was icy cold, “I have never said a word against
you--as God is my judge, but right now I’ll say that yo’re a
yaller-hearted quitter. You ain’t got the guts to fight for yore wife
and babies. You want sympathy, don’tcha? Well, yuh won’t never git it
by hurtin’ yore wife’s feelin’s.”
Barr laughed, but there was no mirth in it.
“The hero makes his speech,” he said sarcastically.
Behind them the door had opened slowly and they glanced back to see
the sheriff framed in the doorway, a six-shooter in his hand. He was
covering Barr Wyeth and paying no attention to the rest.
“I follered your wife, Barr,” he said triumphantly.
Bob relaxed and backed away. The sheriff shut the door with his foot.
“I hate to do this, folks; but it’s my duty. Barr Wyeth, I arrest you
for attempted murder and robbery.”
Barr laughed, but did not move. The sheriff watched him narrowly, as he
walked slowly forward.
“Yore duty, eh?” said Barr slowly. “What was you doin’ in the cañon at
the time the old man was shot and robbed?”
“Me?” The sheriff stopped and the barrel of his gun wavered.
“Yes, you!” snapped Barr. “My word won’t be worth a ---- against yours,
but I want to tell you that you’ll never send me to the penitentiary for
somethin’ you done yourself.”
As Barr finished his accusation, he whirled and dived head-first out
of the window, smashing the glass and splintering the frame. It was
so sudden and so unexpected that for several moments no one moved.
Then the sheriff turned and sprang to the closed door. Yanking the
door open, he ran on to the porch.
A man appeared to be just mounting a horse beyond the steps, and the
sheriff was taking no chances now. His gun spouted fire
once--twice--three times. The horse reared sideways, snorting wildly,
but the rider swung on to the saddle, firing across the cantle at the
sheriff. Twice his gun roared defiance at the sheriff, and then the
horse whirled and sped away in the darkness.
From the porch came the gasping cough and the sheriff sprawled back
half-way through the door. Bob sprang outside, gun in hand, but only
the diminuendo of galloping hoofs came to his ears. He turned back to
the sheriff and lifted his head.
“Hurt bad?” asked Splinter, moving in close.
“Too dead to skin,” replied Bob softly.
Ma Fann and Nell Wyeth moved over toward the door, dazed from the swift
turn of events, and Bob turned to Mrs. Wyeth.
“Barr had t’ do it, I reckon. I don’t figure that the sheriff had
any right to start shootin’ thataway. There wasn’t nothin’ but
circumstantial evidence, noways.”
“He’s dead?” whispered Nell Wyeth, pointing at the sheriff. “Barr killed
him?”
“Yeah, he’s dead, I reckon.”
Nell Wyeth turned and groped her way to a chair, where she sank down,
staring with unseeing eyes at the carpet. Ma Fann went to her and knelt
down beside the chair, while Bob and Splinter looked at each other
across the body of the sheriff.
“Doc ought to be here pretty soon,” said Splinter.
“My ----, yore gettin’ to be some conversationalist,” observed Bob. “I
hope he does come, so yuh can find a new remark to make.”
Came the rattle of loose buggy-spokes, the gritting of iron-tired
wheels, and the doctor drove his buggy team up to the front porch. Bob
stepped across the sheriff’s body and met the doctor at the bottom
step.
Quickly he told the doctor what had happened, but before the tale was
half-finished the doctor pushed past him and went inside. He knelt down
beside the sheriff and gave a swift examination.
“No chance, is there, doc?” asked Splinter.
“No. Probably never knew what hit him.”
Doctor Knowles got to his feet and turned toward the bed.
“What’ll we do with him, doc?” asked Bob.
“Take him to my office. We’ll have to hold an inquest.”
The doctor turned back to the bed.
“We’ll hitch up the wagon-team, Splinter,” said Bob, and then to the
doctor. “Didja meet anybody on the road, doc?”
“No.”
The two cowboys went outside and down to the barn.
“Wyeth’s a goner ---- sure,” observed Splinter.
“Yeah, it looks like it,” agreed Bob wearily, “but I’d give a lot to
know what he meant about the sheriff bein’ in the cañon at the time
John Fann was shot. They’ll just about put the deadwood on Barr Wyeth
now and lynch him.”
“Could that ’a’ been the sheriff we seen leavin’ old John?”
“Yeah, it could ’a’ been--but was it? The sheriff will never tell, and
they won’t give Barr Wyeth a chance to tell his story, I don’t suppose.”
* * * * *
The inquest over the remains of Chet Gunning drew the range people from
even the remote parts of Bunch Grass Valley. The news had traveled
swiftly, and the town of Bunch Grass seethed with saddle-horses and rigs
of every description.
Nell Wyeth was not called upon to testify, and Ma Fann was only called
upon to corroborate Bob and Splinter’s testimony, after which she was
hurried back to the bedside of John Fann, who was still unconscious.
Doctor Knowles, who was also coroner, conducted the inquest, with the
assistance of Andy Allard, who had automatically become sheriff. Andy’s
jaw was badly swollen from an ulcerated tooth, which Doctor Knowles
refused to extract, and he was altogether a miserable sheriff.
The testimony was brief and the jury needed no deliberation to bring
in a verdict to the effect that Chet Gunning had met his death from
gun-shot wounds inflicted by Barr Wyeth, who was resisting arrest.
Buck Kelly seemed to breathe easier now that the sheriff was out of
the way. He was afraid that the sheriff might be called upon to tell
the truth, and the truth might be damaging. The inquest made good
business for him, and he was very well satisfied with the way things
had turned out.
Much liquor was consumed, and men who had never hesitated in speaking
ill of Chet Gunning, now spoke glowingly of him; which is the way of
humanity. Andy Allard growled like a wounded bear and insisted on
talking with a finger in his mouth, telling disinterested listeners
just where his teeth hurt the most.
Bob Kern said little, although many questioned him after the inquest.
He wondered deeply over Barr Wyeth’s accusation, and there grew a doubt
as to Barr’s guilt. Buck Kelly had said that only three men knew of the
mortgage--Judge Freeman, John Fann and himself. Judge Freeman was above
reproach; Buck Kelly had not done it himself.
Who else knew about it? Bob felt sure that robbery had been the motive,
and the robber must have known of the mortgage money. Andy Allard came
to Bob and drew him aside.
“Awgl huh dawg docl glawf,” said Andy, with a forefinger shoved inside
his aching mouth.
“I’ll betcha,” agreed Bob seriously. “I knowed a man who died after
havin’ a ulcerated tooth.”
“Thasso?” Andy’s face grew grave. “My gosh! How long after, Bob?”
“Six ’r seven years.”
“Aw-w-w!” Andy grated his displeasure of such levity, and his forefinger
prodded the point of pain. “Arr-r ug glawf-f-f duddang it!”
“You ought t’ go to Russia,” said Bob. “Mebbe they can _sabe_ yore
wau-wau--I can’t, Andy.”
“Um-m-m,” said Andy painfully. “I wanted to ask yuh somethin’, Bob, but
every time I start t’ ask it this ---- tooth starts hoppin’. Will yuh
take the job as deppity like I was before I got all this responsibility
wished upon me?”
“Be a deputy-sheriff?”
“Yeah. It ain’t no ---- of a good job, but somebody’s got to do it. Pays
a hundred a month, Bob--and do yore own dodgin’. I’ve gotta catch Barr
Wyeth, I suppose.”
“And yuh want me to catch him, eh?” queried Bob.
Andy nodded and caressed his jaw.
“Yeah.”
“Man huntin’ don’t appeal to me, Andy,” seriously.
“Me neither,” confided Andy. “I’m takin’ a chance on Barr fillin’ me
with lead, and if I do nail him alive, these snakehunters’ll want to
lynch him and I’ll git leaded up in tryin’ to be a hero and protect
him.”
“Maybe he’ll leave the country, Andy.”
“Yeah,” wearily, and the finger went back inside his mouth. “Awgl gosh
dagl.”
Bob left Andy talking to himself, and went in search of Splinter.
Ordinarily Bob would have jumped at the chance to become a
deputy-sheriff at one hundred dollars per month, but just now the job
did not appeal to him.
He found Splinter in the Buck Horn saloon, backed against the bar, tears
running down his face. Splinter was gloriously drunk--crying-drunk. It
was not often that Splinter looked upon the wine when it was red, but
when he did he made a thorough inspection. Bob looked him over and went
back to the hitch-rack. He took Splinter’s horse to the livery stable
and rode back toward the JHF alone.
At the spot where John Fann had been shot, he stopped his horse and
tried to reconstruct the scene as he remembered it. John Fann had been
shot from the left side of the road, or from the rear. He had evidently
been allowed to pass the ambush and shot without any warning.
Bob dropped his reins and walked back from the spot. On the left side of
the road the brush grew heavy and there was plenty of cover to conceal a
man and a horse. The ground was so dry that it was impossible for him to
find the imprint of a man’s boot, but in the mold of a rotten log he
found an imprint that caused him to shake his head. It was the print of
a shod hoof--with a bar-shoe.
Bob went back to his horse and swung into the saddle. If Barr Wyeth was
innocent, why had he ridden into that thicket? To the right of the road
there was little brush, but beyond that a fringe of timber extended up
the side of the cañon. Bob rode slowly in that direction, crossing the
narrow gravel-wash of the dry creek bed.
An old cattle trail wound down through the timber, worn deeply from the
passing of many animals, and Bob headed up this trail, watching closely.
About half-way to the rim of the cañon he found another bar-shoe track,
pointing up the trail.
He rode out over the top, where the trail ended. Here was a wide
level expanse, almost bare of grass, and the bar-shoe tracks were
very plain: Here the rider had turned the horse around, possibly to
look back into the cañon, but had turned around and headed straight
toward the Lightning ranch.
A flash of sunlight on metal attracted Bob’s attention and he dismounted
to pick up an empty cartridge shell. A glance showed him that it was a
forty-four caliber revolver cartridge shell.
“Stopped here to look back,” mused Bob, “and reloaded his gun. Hm-m-m!”
His brows drew down in a heavy frown, as he examined the cartridge
shell. He drew his own gun, extracted a cartridge and tried to insert
the empty shell, but it would not fit. Then he put the shell in his
pocket, rolled a cigaret and started across the hills, trying to trail
the tracks of the bar-shod horse.
For about a mile the trail was plain to Bob, but a herd of cattle had
obliterated it at the head of a cañon and Bob was unable to pick it up
again. He was about to turn back toward the JHF, but an idea seemed to
strike him and he rode back toward Bunch Grass town.
* * * * *
Splinter Martin was enjoying the fullness of things--mostly his own. He
had quite recovered from his earlier melancholy outlook, wiped away his
tears and had started out to do big things in the world.
Splinter was fat, with the waddling walk of a duck, and he required much
room. In fact, the Buck Horn was much too small for him; so he went into
the street. The crowd had dwindled away and Splinter gazed reprovingly
upon several cowboys who were just leaving.
“Tha’s just m’ luck!” he wailed. “Nobody cares what b’comes of me-e-e!
Gonna be lef’ all a-lone. Everythin’ goin’ out and nothin’ comin’ in.
Oh, o-o-o-oh!”
A strange cowboy riding a jaded gray horse passed him and dismounted
at the hitch-rack. He was a skinny sort of a person, dust-covered,
long-nosed and watery of eye. Splinter looked him over with approval.
“Brother, we welcomes yuh,” greeted Splinter, with an expansive gesture.
“The keys of our fair city are yours and they just held an inquest over
the re-mains of the sheriff. Go as far as yuh like, but come back in
time to have a drink.”
The strange cowboy grinned widely and hitched up his belt.
“What town is this, pardner?”
“This here?” Splinter stumbled slightly and looked around at the street.
“This here town is Bunch Grass. She’s rawhide warp and bob-wire fillin’;
guaranteed not t’ bend, break, rust, rumble nor rattle. Take it ’r leave
it, and no questions asked.”
“You kinda like it, don’tcha?” grinned the cowboy.
“Like it ----!” exploded Splinter. “I love it.”
The cowboy laughed and considered Splinter.
“Mebbe you can tell me where I’ll find the Ten-Bar-B outfit?”
“Uh?” Splinter squinted thoughtfully, but shook his head. “It ain’t in
no jog’fee I ever studied, pardner.”
“You ain’t lived here long, have yuh?”
“Ain’t I?”
Splinter balanced himself carefully and pointed at the hills beyond the
town at the foot-hills.
“See them hills? Well, sir, when I came here that was the highest part
of the Rocky Mountains.”
“Yeah?” The cowboy grinned. “Shrunk, ain’t they?”
“Shrunk ----! I wore ’em off driving cows across ’em. Let’s have a
drink.”
“All right.” The cowboy seemed willing enough. “I’m headin’ for the
Ten-Bar-B.”
“Many happy returns of the day,” said Splinter, “but I never heard of no
Ten-Bar-B outfit.”
They went into the Buck Horn and leaned against the bar. The stranger
had a thirst, and after about seven man-sized drinks he tried to sing
a song, but Splinter vetoed it sharply.
“Don’t shing.”
“Don’t shing?”
“Not a shong.”
“Aw right,” reluctantly. “I c’n shing good.”
“Zasso? Where ’r you from, Mister Shinger?”
“Wyomin’. And I’m lookin’ for the Ten-Bar-B outfit.”
“You remin’ me of the feller that got on his horsh and went huntin’ for
the moon,” grinned Splinter. “And the ---- thing fell on him.”
“The moon did?” wonderingly.
“No--the horsh.”
“Aw-w-w, ----!” The stranger helped himself to another drink. “That
Ten-Bar-B outfit’s near here.”
“Is zasso?” Splinter wiped the back of his hand across his lips and
reached for the bottle. “’F it is, it moved in this mornin’, pardner.”
“My name’s Mellody.”
“Oh, ex-cuse me. No wonder yuh wanted t’ shing. Mine’s Martin. Folks
calls me Splinter ’count of my shape. Now Mister Mellody, since
we’ve been properly introduced, I don’t mind tellin’ yuh that you’ll
go cock-eyed tryin’ to find that Ten-Bar-B in Bunch Grass valley. It
jist ain’t, tha’sall.”
Splinter delivered this opinion and looked around, just as Bob Kern came
in through the doorway.
“Hey, Bob! C’m here. Want yuh to meet Mister Mellody, the whippoorwill
from Wyomin’. Mister Mellody, this is Mister Kern, dangerous but
passable.”
Bob shook hands with the cowboy, who wanted to buy a drink, but Bob
refused gracefully.
“Mister Mellody,” said Splinter, “is lookin’ for the Ten-Bar-B ranch.”
Bob smiled.
“Never heard of it, Mellody.”
“Thasso?” Mellody squinted down at the floor. “Tha’s real funny,
y’betcha.”
“Do we laugh at yuh or with yuh?” queried Splinter.
“At me, I reckon. Yuh see, I’ve been workin’ for the Diamond-Dot outfit
near Searchlight. Old man Himes owns the ranch, and he’s a slicker on
buyin’ stock, y’betcha.”
“Buys cheap, eh?” asked Bob.
“Dang right. That’s how I finds out about this Ten-Bar-B outfit. The
feller what owns it drives about three hundred head over into our
range and sells most of ’em to old man Himes. He said that the range
was plumb burnt out over here, and he was willin’ to sell cheap to
git rid of ’em.”
“Yeah?”
Bob moved in closer and nodded to the bartender to set out the glasses.
“Yeah,” nodded Mellody. “I had a run-in with old man Himes, and quit.
This here Ten-Bar-B _hombre_ talked a lot about his place over here;
so, when I got out of a job, I drifted over to see if he could use
me.”
“Said it was near Bunch Grass?” queried Bob.
Mellody gulped his liquor and nodded.
“Anyway, I sure as ---- understood it thataway.”
“Didn’t say what his name was, did he?”
“Smith. We all called him ‘Windy,’ for short, ’cause he talked quite a
lot.”
“There ain’t no Windy Smith around here,” said Splinter, shaking his
head. “Leave it to Buck Kelly, if there is.”
Buck was coming in behind the bar from the rear of the room, and he
looked inquiringly at Splinter.
“Here’s a pilgrim from Wyoming, Buck,” explained Splinter, “and he’s
lookin’ for the Ten-Bar-B, which is run by Windy Smith. You ever heard
of it?”
Buck frowned and squinted at Mellody.
“We’re provin’ it by you, Buck,” said Splinter, grinning.
Kelly shook his head.
“I never heard of the place.”
“’S ---- funny,” Mellody shook his head and reached for the bar-bottle.
“Anyway, I ain’t worried a heap. Mebbe I can git me a job.”
“Would yuh know Windy Smith if yuh seen him?” queried Kelly.
“Y’betcha. Well, here’s to yore old sun-bonnet.”
Kelly drank with them and walked back to the poker game, where he sat
down. Mellody was beginning to get very intoxicated and Splinter began
to cry softly; so Bob made a sneak out the front door and started across
the street, when Doctor Knowles drove up to the front of his office. Bob
went over to him and the doctor was grinning widely.
“John the Baptist woke up,” he informed Bob. “I was afraid it might
have affected his mind, but he’s as clear as a bell. Had to swear at
him to make him stay in bed.”
“By golly, that’s fine!” applauded Bob. “Yo’re some doctor. Betcha
some of them city doctors would ’a’ killed the old man. He didn’t say
anythin’ about seein’ the feller that shot him, did he?”
“He didn’t even know what happened to him, Kern. Don’t remember a thing.
Was just riding along, when something hit him a terrible blow.”
“Knows he got robbed, don’t he?”
“Yes. I guess it hurt him more than the bullet, but he didn’t say
anything.”
“No, he wouldn’t beef about it,” agreed Bob warmly. “Are they goin’ to
bury Chet Gunnin’ tomorrow, doc?”
“Yes; in the afternoon.”
“Will yuh do me a favor, doc?”
“Why, I think so, Kern; what is it?”
“Before yuh git ready to bury Chet, will yuh cut out one of them bullets
and let me see it?”
“Sure. What’s the idea, though?”
“Kinda curious, doc. Yuh see, we don’t know just what did kill him. Them
holes are there, but we dunno what is inside of him.”
“I see,” admitted the doctor. “Well, that might be a good idea, Kern.
I’ll have the bullets for you in the morning.”
“That’s kind of yuh,” nodded Bob. “S’ long, doc.”
Bob went back to his horse. He knew there was no use of trying to get
Splinter to go back to the ranch, so he rode away alone, wondering who
Mellody was and what or where was the Ten-Bar-B outfit. Bob knew every
brand in the county, and there was no such iron used on any of the
ranches.
He rode back to the JHF and stabled his horse before going into the
ranch-house to see John Fann. Nell Wyeth met him on the porch, anxious
for the latest news.
“Ain’t heard a word,” stated Bob softly. “Nothin’ been done yet.”
She nodded dumbly and turned back into the house. John Fann was propped
up in bed and he grinned widely at Bob.
“Caused some excitement, didn’t I, Bob?”
“Yuh sure did, John. How are yuh feelin’?”
“I’m feelin’ fine.”
“Well, you take it easy,” advised Bob, drawing up a chair. “Doc Knowles
tells me that you ain’t got no idea who shot yuh.”
John Fann shook his bandaged head.
“Never knew I was shot until they told me.”
“Been a lot of things happenin’,” observed Bob.
Nell Wyeth had stopped near the center of the room, but now she turned
and went into the kitchen. John Fann’s eyes followed her and he shook
his head sadly.
“Poor little girl. It’s a hard row of stumps for her, Bob.”
“Yeah,” nodded Bob, “she ain’t had a square deal.”
“Too much hate mixed up in it all,” sighed John Fann. “I have never
said one word against Barr Wyeth, yet they hate me for the things I
have said.”
“That’s right,” agreed Bob. “Accordin’ to Barr, I’ve said some danged
mean things against him and Nell, but I never said ’em, John.”
John Fann shook his head thoughtfully and leaned back wearily on his
pillow.
“Where’s Splinter?” he asked.
“He’s in town. The strain was too much for him, John.”
“Drinking? I often wonder what would happen to Splinter if he didn’t get
drunk once in a while. Did you boys bring in any of the stock yet?”
“Not yet, John. There has been too much happening lately. Did you ever
hear of the Ten-Bar-B outfit?”
“No, I don’t think I ever did, Bob.”
Bob explained about the cowboy from across the line, who was looking for
such an outfit.
“Must be a Wyoming register,” said John, “I don’t remember of ever
seein’ it in the Montana register. Likely got his directions mixed.”
“Yeah, I reckon he did,” agreed Bob doubtfully, “but the rest of his
stuff kinda pointed toward this range. I’m goin’ to have another talk
with him, if he don’t leave too soon.”
Bob got up and turned back toward the door, as Ma Fann came out of the
kitchen and joined him. She walked out to the horse with him.
“Have they started hunting for Barr?” she asked softly.
Bob shook his head.
“I don’t think so, Ma. Andy wanted to give me the deputy job, but I
didn’t take it. I wasn’t goin’ back to town tonight, but I think I
will. Feller down there that I want to see.”
“Nell’s almost crazy over it, Bob. She just walks around and don’t say
anything, except to wonder what has been done. Find out everything you
can, will you, Bob? And let her know about it?”
“Yeah, I’ll do that, Ma. Barr’s had a good chance to make a long
getaway, and I sure hope he keeps away.”
Bob swung on to his horse and turned toward the gate just as Pastry
Pell, his horse reeking from a hard run, swung off the road and galloped
up to them.
“Say!” he blurted. “Splinter shot that Wyomin’ cowboy a while ago, and
they’ve got Splinter in jail!”
“Splinter shot him?” exclaimed Bob. “Shot Mellody?”
“Yeah, I think that’s his name.”
“For ----’s sake, what for, Pell?”
“Over a poker game. They was both drunk. Andy Allard put Splinter in
jail.”
“For Heaven’s sake, what will happen next?” said Ma Fann wonderingly.
“A lot depends, Ma,” said Bob grimly. “I’ve got to see Splinter first.”
“I’ll ride back with yuh,” offered Pastry Pell, but Bob had spurred
his horse into a run and Pastry’s horse was in no shape to make the
trip again at that speed.
* * * * *
Bob was riding wild and with no purpose in his mind, except to hear the
story from Splinter’s own lips. It was not like Splinter to do a thing
like this, especially when he was drinking. Liquor only served to make
Splinter more congenial. And Splinter did not care for poker.
Bob jerked his horse to a panting stop at the Buck Horn, dismounted and
strode inside. Buck Kelly was at the bar, talking to Andy Allard, and he
squinted closely at Bob as he strode up to them.
“Talk a little, Buck,” advised Bob hoarsely. “I want to get this whole
story in a few words.”
“Well,” Buck smiled faintly, “I guess I can tell it to you in a few
words. The strange cowboy wanted to play poker and he sort of hoodled
Splinter into the game. They were both drunk and I didn’t want to play
with them, but they insisted.
“Only a few hands were dealt, when Splinter kinda fumbled with the
discards. The stranger called him for it and then Splinter went for
his gun, or acted like he was goin’ to, and the stranger reached for
his gun. Splinter shot first.”
“And Splinter goes to jail for it, eh?” queried Bob.
“Well--” Buck spread his hands helplessly--“the stranger accused
Splinter of cheating, and Splinter drew first.”
“Don’t blame me,” wailed Andy, “I had t’ do it. Between gun-fights and
this ---- tooth of mine, I’ll be crazy in another day.”
Bob squinted one eye at the mirror and rubbed his chin violently.
“Can I have a talk with Splinter, Andy?”
“Yeah--sure. I reckon he’s sobered up a lot. C’m on.”
“Who else seen this shootin’, Buck?” queried Bob.
“Well, I happened to be with them at the table; the bartender was up
near the front window, and Pastry Pell was just comin’ in the back
door.”
“All right,” nodded Bob and followed Andy out the front door.
“Was this Mellody person killed plumb dead?” asked Bob, as they crossed
to the jail.
“No, he ain’t dead yet, Bob; but doc says he ain’t got a chance in the
world.”
They went in through the sheriff’s office and Andy unlocked a cell door.
Splinter was lying on a cot, smoking a cigaret; as unkempt a figure of a
cowboy as could be imagined. His eyes were blood-shot, face dirty, but
he grinned at Bob and motioned him to a stool.
“You sure went and raised ----, didn’t yuh?” said Bob reprovingly.
“That’s what they tell me,” agreed Splinter hoarsely, “but I don’t
remember a danged thing, except--” He hesitated and closed his eyes
for a moment. “Say, it’s ---- funny that I can’t even remember playin’
poker.”
“You must ’a’ been pretty drunk.”
“Ke-rect. ’S a funny thing just the same.”
Splinter dug down in his pocket and drew out a twenty-dollar bill and a
few cents in change.
“I had twenty-seven dollars when I started drinkin’. I figure I must ’a’
spent about seven dollars f’r hooch. What in ---- did I buy poker-chips
with? You know dang well that Buck don’t play against credit in his
poker games.”
“Yuh sure that’s all yuh had?” queried Bob.
Splinter laughed wryly. “Cowboy, I ain’t no book-keeper, but I sure
_sabe_ my own finances.”
“But can’t yuh remember nothin’, Splinter?”
“Not much. There was a poker game, Bob; I remember that much, and I
remember settin’ down in a chair. Then I kinda remember that somebody
came in and I heard Mellody speak to him.”
Splinter shook his head helplessly.
“Buck sure sells bad hooch. I remember that shot. It kinda woke me up,
and the next thing I knowed I was bein’ slammed around, and then I’m in
jail, with Andy explainin’ to me that I’ve killed Mellody.”
“Uh-huh,” reflected Bob. “And Mellody spoke to somebody, did he?”
“Aw-w-w, I’ll be ---- if I know, Bob. I think he did. You know how hazy
things git when yuh drink a lot.”