“Has Tucson Charley got somethin’ in his pocket that yuh want?”
“I----”
She hesitated for a moment. She could hardly tell it all to Slim Whelan,
because Slim was one of the men who had sent Tex to the penitentiary.
Still, she had known Slim for years, and liked him.
“I don’t know,” she finished truthfully.
“Well, by golly, we’ll sure find out!” blurted Slim and went into the
house.
Pablo acted as if he might object to this, but let it pass. He knew that
Slim would not take kindly to objections.
Della made no move to follow Slim; so Bill Smith stayed with her. Pablo
went to the doorway and watched inside, while Slim made a search of the
corpse.
“You work in the bank, Miss Marsh?” asked Bill.
“Yes,” nervously watching the doorway.
“Bank belongs to Mott, don’t it?”
She nodded shortly. Slim was coming out, rubbing his hands on his hips.
The job had not been to his liking.
“Ain’t got a thing in his pockets, Della,” he declared, “I even felt
inside his shirt-front, and I’m plumb glad that my folks never raised
me to be an undertaker.”
“Nothing in his pockets.”
Della squinted painfully. It meant that some one had that note. She
looked at the blank expression on Pablo’s face, wondering whether or
not he knew about Tex. She felt that Tucson Charley would hardly know
it alone.
“You better set down on the steps, Della,” urged Slim. “You look so
dog-gone white around the gills.”
“I’m all right,” she protested, “I--I think I will go now.”
She turned to her horse and Slim helped her mount.
“We’ll ride down the road a ways with yuh, Della,” said Slim. “We’re
goin’ in that direction.”
She rode slowly away and they overtook her in a short distance.
“You hadn’t ought to come out here alone, Della,” said Slim. “Pablo
and his gang may be all right, but it ain’t no place for a girl to
come alone.”
Della nodded, but did not reply. Slim lifted himself in his stirrups
and glanced back toward the Paint Pot as he swung his horse in closer
to her.
“Listen here, Dell,” he said softly, “you can trust me and Smith. Tell
us what Tucson Charley had that you wanted, and we’ll get it just as
sure as ---- made little apples.”
“You couldn’t, Slim,” she replied. “Whoever has it will keep it, I
think.”
“Not if I know what it is,” declared Slim. “Tell us what to look for,
Della.”
Della stared at the bobbing ears of her horse and tried to make up
her mind what to say. Some one had that note. It would be no secret
now, unless it fell into the hands of some one who was a friend of
Tex Rowland. Perhaps, she thought, that note was already on its way
to the sheriff. There was a big reward offered for Tex, payable on
information that would lead to his recapture.
She knew that Slim had not helped to send Tex to the prison on any
personal grievance. They had been friends for a long time, and Slim
was only doing what any other cattleman would have done.
“Yuh goin’ to tell us?” queried Slim.
“I think I will, Slim,” she said slowly. “Tucson Charley brought me a
note yesterday. I scribbled a line on it and gave it back to him to
return to the man who wrote it. I know that Tucson Charley did not
return it, and I thought he might still have it in his pockets.”
“I kinda understand,” nodded Slim. “It was a note, eh? Well, who wrote
it, Della?”
“Tex Rowland.”
Bill Smith jerked up on his reins so quickly that the half-broke
horse reared and whirled off the road. In a moment he had it under
control--and himself, too.
“Tex Rowland, eh?” grunted Slim, as Bill swung in beside him again.
“Well, I’ll be darned! Tucson brought you a note from him, eh? Tex
didn’t say where he was, did he, Della?”
“No, he didn’t say, Slim. But he must be close to Antelope. If the
sheriff gets hold of that note he will probably search. Tex said he
had been hurt, but was getting along better now. But he is broke and
needs money badly.”
“Have yuh any idea who got the note?” asked Bill Smith.
“No. I don’t know who found Tucson Charley this morning. Somebody
brought him out here to the Paint Pot. He must have had the note in
his pocket when he was killed, because he did not leave town after he
came to see me.”
“We’ll see if we can find out a few things in town,” said Slim. “If I
can find out who got that note, I’ll sure ride ’em ragged until they
give me that note.”
“Let me do some of the ridin’, Slim,” said Bill Smith. “I’m kinda
interested in it, too.”
Della shot a glance of gratitude to the stranger, who was willing to
assist her, but he was looking straight ahead and did not see it. He
was trying to puzzle out a reason for any one writing a note to her
and signing his name.
Della went straight to the livery-stable, while Slim and Bill tied their
horses at the Fashion hitch-rack and went into the saloon. Big Jim Mott
was standing in front of a restaurant across the street and watched them
ride into town. After Slim and Bill had gone into the saloon, Big Jim
crossed the street and came in behind them.
It did not take Slim long to find out that Tucson Charley had been found
at daylight by Pete Sutherland, the blacksmith, and old Ase Bradley.
They had notified others, including the doctor, and Pete had driven the
team that hauled Tucson’s body out to the Paint Pot.
Slim and Bill had a drink and then went to the blacksmith shop, where
they found Pete repairing a broken wagon-spring.
“---- road was rough,” explained Pete wearily. “Broke a spring.”
“Kinda bumpy ridin’ for the corpse, wasn’t it?” grinned Slim.
“Well, he didn’t complain any,” laughed Pete, wiping the perspiration
off his brow and sitting on his anvil.
“You found him, didn’t yuh?” queried Slim.
“Yeah--me and old Ase. He was almost under that pinto, and it’s a wonder
that the pinto didn’t walk him into the ground.”
“Yeah, it is, at that,” agreed Slim. “But he wasn’t cut up any. What do
yuh do, when yuh find a dead man, Pete? Go through his pockets and all
that?”
“Well, we didn’t,” grinned Pete. “Yuh see, we knowed Tucson so well that
we didn’t have to investigate him thataway.”
“I suppose the doctor investigated,” said Bill.
“Nothin’ except to look him over and tell us what we already knew. If
Tucson carried any cree-den-shuls in his pockets, they’re still in
’em--unless Pablo or his gang cleaned him out.”
“They look like they might,” laughed Bill.
They went back to their horses, no wiser than when they came to town. It
was evident that no one had searched Tucson Charley, unless, as Pete had
said, Pablo or his gang might have done it.
“Which they didn’t,” declared Slim. “Them three breeds ain’t goin’ to
do a thing like that. They wouldn’t touch him on a bet. If Tucson had
a hundred dollars in his pants pocket, and Pablo knew it was there, it
would be buried with the corpse.”
They rode back to the XO-Bar-5, arriving there in time for supper. Crane
was already eating his meal, while the half-breed, Alice Spotted Horse,
shuffled back and forth from table to stove, attending to his wants.
“How’d the pow-wow come out?” asked Crane, as they sat down.
Alice had stopped and was looking at them. It was then that Slim
realized what the news would mean to her. He looked at Bill Smith,
who had also realized the same thing. Crane felt that something was
not exactly right and waited for Slim to explain.
“This is goin’ to be just too ---- bad,” said Slim softly. And then he
spoke directly to Alice----
“Alice, I’ve got some bad news for yuh.”
She blinked and stared at him. Perhaps she did not understand what he
meant. He was always joking with her.
“Tucson Charley got killed last night, Alice.”
She frowned slightly. Crane also scowled at Slim. He thought that Slim
was joking, too; and it wasn’t a good joke at all.
“Got kicked to death by a horse last night, Crane,” said Bill Smith
softly.
Alice lifted a hand and brushed a stringer of black hair out of her
eyes. She was beginning to realize what Slim had said.
“Tucson Charley?” she asked thickly.
“Yeah, Alice. Horse kicked him last night. Too bad.”
“Last night?” She was not looking at them now. Her eyes had closed
tightly for a second, but now she was staring over their heads.
“Yeah, last night,” said Slim.
“Horse kick Tucson Charley? He dead now?”
“Yeah, Alice,” softly.
“I be ----!”
She barely breathed it. Her right hand came up to brush away the
stringer of hair again, but stopped and fell back at her side.
“I be ----!”
Then she turned around to the stove and picked up a skillet. The three
men looked at each other and then looked away. Alice turned and looked
at Bill Smith. In one hand she held the skillet and in the other an egg.
She indicated the skillet and made a motion toward it with the egg. She
wanted to know if he would like to have eggs for supper. Indians are not
the stoics that some would like to believe; and anyway, Alice was
half-breed. As Bill Smith watched her pantomime, a tear rolled down her
cheek.
Quickly she turned away, but not before they had all seen the tears.
Bill got to his feet and stepped away from the table.
“Aw, ----! I don’t want any supper,” he grunted.
“Me neither,” said Slim softly.
Crane got up and the three of them filed outside. Bill glanced back into
the kitchen. Alice Spotted Horse was standing at the stove, skillet and
egg in her hands, staring into space.
“She didn’t see us go out,” said Bill Smith softly.
“No-o-o, I don’t reckon she did,” agreed Slim. “I seen that squashed
aig runnin’ out between her fingers, Bill. Death sure does raise ----
with love thataway.”
“And it’s like a ---- rattler; it don’t care who it bites,” said Crane
sadly. “She’ll go out into the hills pretty soon. The Injun blood is
stronger than the white thataway. She’ll wail all night, I betcha; but
she’ll go where we can’t hear her.”
“And about that time we’ll swipe the coffee-pot and make us a feed in
the bunkhouse,” opined Slim. “The Lord must ’a’ handed me a soft spot
for other folks’ grief; but he also handed me a man-sized stummick.
How about you, Smith?”
“Well, I don’t want any eggs,” replied Bill. “They’ll always remind me
of that Injun girl, tryin’ to keep from cryin’. It took her quite a
while to get it; but when she did, she sure got it all in a bunch.”
“She’s goin’ out,” whispered Crane. “I said she would, didn’t I?”
* * * * *
Alice Spotted Horse came out the front door of the house, turned to the
right and started off up a trail which led into the hills.
She had thrown a colored blanket around her shoulders and over her head,
making her a blotch of color against the gray of the hill. Straight up
the trail she went, never looking back. They watched her until the color
of the blanket blended into the dim distance of the hills.
“It’s just too danged bad, that’s all,” said Slim, as they turned away.
Neither of the others commented on it in any way.
“We saw Della Marsh today, Crane,” continued Slim. “By ----, I feel
like a dirty pup every time I see her. We didn’t do anything wrong
when we sent Tex Rowland to the pen; but right now I wish to gosh we
hadn’t ’a’ done it.”
“Yeah, I suppose we might ’a’ done different,” agreed Crane. “But there
was so danged much stealin’ goin’ on.”
“Has it quit since he was sent up?” asked Bill Smith.
“Yeah, I think it has. Still, I dunno. I signed that petition to have
Tex pardoned.”
“I sure did,” added Slim quickly.
“Was there a petition to have him pardoned?” queried Bill.
“Sure,” nodded Crane. “Everybody in the country signed it. This Marsh
girl rode all over the county gettin’ signers. Every man on his jury
signed it. By golly, a woman sure can work on the sympathy of a
cowpuncher.”
Bill Smith squinted painfully and busied himself with making a cigaret.
“I don’t _sabe_ why Tex made a getaway like he did,” commented Slim.
“It was almost a cinch he’d get out on parole, even if he didn’t get
pardoned. Della must a wrote him about it. If she didn’t, I’ll betcha
old Rory McPherson did.”
“Mebbe Tex didn’t have no faith left,” offered Crane. “It was a queer
move for him to make, anyway, considerin’ what his friends were doin’
for him. If they catch him now, they sure won’t pardon him very quick.”
“Well, let’s not dwell on any more grief tonight,” said Slim, “I’ll get
that coffee-pot right now.”
Slim and Crane went into the house, while Bill Smith went slowly down
to the bunk-house. He knew now what Old Hump Sherrill had meant when he
spoke about a pardon. The old man had known that a movement was under
way, but had had no chance to tell him.
And for some reason McHague, the warden, had stolen Tex Rowland’s
letters; letters from Della and possibly from Rory McPherson, telling
him of what they were doing for him. And now some one was using his
name in writing notes to Della Marsh.
“Kinda makes me wonder if I am Tex Rowland,” he declared to himself.
“I don’t look a bit like him, that’s a cinch. And I’ll never be able
to prove who I am. But I sure hope that I run across this jigger who
signs Tex’s name to letters. If he’s Tex Rowland, I’ll sure recognize
him. And if he is, who in ---- am I?”
He turned and stared off across the dim hills. Somewhere out there a
half-breed woman was wailing out her grief over a lost sweetheart, and
his sympathy went out to her.
“We’re almost in the same fix, Alice,” he said softly. “You’ve got a
chance to wail yours out all to once; but I’ve got to stick around,
like a danged ghost, and just look on, that’s all.”
Slim was coming down from the kitchen, carrying a coffee-pot and some
tin dishes that jangled softly. Bill Smith broke off his musings and
went to meet him.