The following day Crane realized that he had made a sort of a fool out
of himself, and that Big Jim might fire him. So he decided to go to
Antelope at once and make his peace with the man who was paying him to
run the XO-Bar-5.
Slim decided to go, too. He asked Bill Smith if he wanted to ride down
with them, but Bill declined. As soon as they rode away, Bill saddled
his horse and rode toward Rainbow Valley. He was curious to know what
old Rory McPherson thought about Big Jim’s accusations, and he also
wanted to see Della.
The RMP ranch had been home to Bill Smith. He knew every clump of trees,
every twisting of the stream in Rainbow Valley. Yet he was a stranger in
the place. He rode in past the big barns and up to the old ranch-house,
sprawled under the shade of some giant sycamores which had been planted
there when the first McPherson came to Rainbow.
A huge figure of a dog, half-mastiff, half-Dane, uncoiled itself from a
spot near the kitchen door and came toward him, its head lowered, a deep
rumble in its throat. Bill Smith grinned and swung out of his saddle.
“Pancho,” he said softly, “Pancho, do you know me?”
The great dog stopped and looked at him. Its eyes were a steel-blue in
color, heavily-pouched. Its nostrils worked violently, as it caught
the scent of a man it had known so well. Then, with a little rumble of
delight, it came straight to Bill Smith, fawning upon him with its
great paws, trying to lick his hands.
“You knew me, Pancho,” whispered Bill Smith. “You knew old Tex.”
He looked up quickly. On the porch stood old Rory McPherson and Della, a
look of astonishment on their faces.
“Why, it’s Mr. Smith!” exclaimed Della. “And a ver-r-y rare young man,”
added old Rory. “Old Pancho does not take to str-r-rangers, sir.”
“I can’t quite understand Pancho,” said Della. “Look at him, Uncle
Rory.”
The big dog continued to manifest the greatest of joy. He had been used
to romping with Tex Rowland every day, and this scent brought back joy
memories to him. Faces meant nothing to him; but a voice and a scent
did.
“Aye, lass; and it’s uncanny,” replied old Rory, coming down the steps
to meet Bill Smith.
He held out his hand and did not wait for an introduction.
“I’d take the dog’s wor-r-rd for ye, sir,” said the old man, as they
shook hands. “Ye can’t fool dogs and children. We grow up and lose
that intuition. Will ye not come and sit on the por-rch? Della?”
He turned his head and looked back, but Della had slipped into the
house.
“Anyway,” he said, turning back, “ye’ll sit with me, eh?”
Bill Smith accepted a seat on the porch and rolled a cigaret.
“Ye are a str-r-ranger, are ye not?” asked the old man. “I have never
seen ye before.”
Bill Smith nodded.
“Yeah, I reckon I am, Mr. McPherson. I work for the XO-Bar-5.”
“Ye do, eh?”
The old man was on the defensive at once.
“Ye work for Jim Mott, do ye?”
“I did,” smiled Bill, as he examined his knuckles.
Luckily the blow had landed square, leaving only a slight soreness.
“And do ye not now, Mr. Smith?”
“I don’t know. I belted Big Jim in the jaw yesterday, and he was too
tired to fire me at that time. Crane went to Antelope today, and Big
Jim will probably send my time out to me by him.”
“Ye str-r-ruck him, ye mean?” demanded the old man eagerly. “Ye did? And
ye brought him down?”
Bill Smith nodded slowly.
“Wonders will never cease,” said the old man softly. “Ye--” he squinted
at Bill Smith closely--“ye are a chunk of a lad. Ye have the arms and
chest of a man I know, and I’ve no doubt that ye jarred Mr. Mott. And
did ye have a r-r-reason for comin’ here, or did ye just dr-r-rop in?”
“I came to see Miss Marsh.”
The old man regarded him steadily, glanced back toward the door and
moved in closer to Bill Smith.
“Do ye know what happened yesterday in Antelope?”
“Yeah. I was there and I sure heard about it.”
“Tell me about it, will ye?”
“I’ll tell yuh what I know about it, Mr. McPherson.”
And in as few words as possible Bill Smith told the old man all he knew
about the missing money and the accusation against Della. The old man’s
bony hands gripped the arms of his chair, and his face grew white with
wrath before Smith had finished his tale.
“Ye ar-re tellin’ me true, lad?” he panted. “This is not a fair-rry tale
ye tell me?”
“Say, didn’t yuh know about this?” demanded Smith. “Didn’t she----”
“----, no! I knew there was somethin’ wr-r-r-rong, but--oh, the poor
lass!”
The old man got unsteadily to his feet, panting with combined wrath and
pity. As he turned toward the door, Della came out and up to him. She
had been crying. He put his hands on her shoulders and they stared into
each other’s faces.
“I heard him tell you,” she said firmly. “I wanted to tell you, Uncle
Rory; but I--I just couldn’t. It’s a lie--all a lie. I never took the
money.”
The old man laughed fiercely, gripping her shoulders until she winced
from the pain.
“A lie!” he fairly shouted. “Of course it’s a lie!”
He whirled on Bill Smith, fairly shaking his bony fist under the
cowpuncher’s nose.
“Do ye think it’s true? Do ye think----”
“If I did,” said Smith calmly, “I wouldn’t ’a’ smashed him in the jaw
yesterday.”
“Oh, aye.”
He gripped a porch-post fiercely and looked down the valley, his old
eyes blood-shot with emotion.
“And he told the sher-r-riff to arrest her, did he?”
“Yeah. But she pulled out ahead of ’em.”
Old Rory turned and stared at Della. His face softened and he put a hand
on her shoulder.
“They’d put ye in jail, lass? He’d drag your name in the dirt, would
he?”
He turned suddenly and stared at Bill Smith.
“And what inter-r-rest have ye in this, sir?” he demanded.
“Tex Rowland was my best friend.”
Old Rory moved a pace or two nearer to Bill Smith, looking at him
closely. Della was staring at him, wide-eyed, too.
“Ye were Tex Rowland’s friend?”
“We were closer than twin brothers,” said Bill Smith.
“Aye, is that so? Years ago, per-r-r-haps?”
“No--just a while ago.”
“But Tex lived here for years and you--” the old man hesitated and
lowered his voice--“you wasn’t in--in there with him?”
Bill Smith nodded slowly.
“Oh, yes!”
Old Rory straightened up with a sigh.
“Do you know where he is now?” asked Della, almost whispering the
question.
“Yeah, I know where he is but I can’t tell yuh now. Tex is hidin’ out
where they won’t find him. He don’t need money, Miss Marsh.”
“And he’s alive?”
“Y’betcha.”
“Thank God for that.”
She smiled through her tears. It was worth a lot for her to know that
Tex was safe and that he did not want for money. She was willing to
bide her time now.
“I’ll go to Antelope tomorrow,” said the old man slowly, thoughtfully,
“and I’ll kill Big Jim Mott.”
“That wouldn’t do no good,” said Bill Smith quickly. “They’d hang you,
tha’s-all. And your hangin’ wouldn’t clear up that stolen thousand
dollars, don’tcha see?”
“Why, Uncle Rory, you mustn’t talk like that,” said Della. “He told me
that he wanted to break your heart.”
“He told you that, lass?”
“Yes. It was after I demanded an investigation. He got mad and said
things that he didn’t intend to.”
“He didn’t want to investigate?” asked Bill Smith.
“No. He wanted to forget it all, he said.”
Bill Smith was rolling a cigaret and now he lifted his head and looked
straight at her.
“Wanted to forget it, eh? And what was the price?”
Della stared at him for a moment, but her cheeks flushed crimson and she
turned away, going quickly into the house. Bill and the old man looked
at each other for several moments. Old Rory was not quick to comprehend
such things, but he gradually digested it. Then he struck the porch-post
with the side of his clenched hand and swore bitterly.
“He’d try to buy her for a thousand dollars,” he said hoarsely. “That
price for a McPherson! By ----, I’ll show him what the pr-r-rice will
be.”
“And if the sheriff comes to arrest her--don’t quarrel with him,”
advised Bill Smith. “He’s all right. It’s a bailable offense, and yuh
can see that she don’t stay in jail.”
“Aye, that’s good advice, lad; and I thank ye for it.”
Bill Smith got to his feet and held out his hand.
“I reckon I’ll be siftin’ along, old timer,” he grinned. “I’ve enjoyed
the visit with yuh. You tell the little lady good-by for me, will yuh?”
“But won’t ye stay, lad? There’s room for ye.”
“There’s Tex Rowland to look after,” whispered Bill Smith.
“Oh, aye. Then be on your way, and God bless ye. Come soon.”
Bill Smith swung on to his horse, and rode slowly down the old highway
toward Antelope with a determined smile on his lips. Pancho, the big,
blue dog, followed him to the corner of the fence and watched him
disappear around a bend in the road, while old Rory leaned against the
post and looked moodily out across the Rainbow hills.
“Bill Smith,” he muttered softly. “Now, who in the ---- are ye, lad? Ye
have a fine face, and even old Pancho--now that beats anything I’ve ever
seen. He hates strangers, but he almost wore out his paws on Bill Smith.
There’s queer things in the wor-rld.”
Della had come back to the doorway and was looking down the valley. Old
Rory turned and looked at her.
“He’s gone. Pancho followed him to the cor-r-rner, lass.”
“Then he must be all right,” she said simply.
* * * * *
Contrary to Bill Smith’s expectations, Big Jim Mott did not tell Crane
to fire him. Not that Bill Smith cared in the least, except that he
liked both Crane and Slim Whelan, and his job on the XO-Bar-5 kept him
at a point about midway of the warring factions.
It was two uneventful days after Bill Smith’s visit to Rory McPherson’s
ranch in Rainbow Valley, that he and Slim rode to Antelope town. There
had been no work to do at the XO-Bar-5, and they were both tired of
inaction.
Big Jim Mott rode into town half an hour after their arrival and met
them in the Fashion Bar. Bill half-expected that Big Jim would try to
even matters with him on sight, and was not prepared for Big Jim’s
hearty invitation to have a drink.
“How are things at the ranch?” he asked, as they filled their glasses.
“Kinda slow,” admitted Slim. “We just kinda foller each other around,
hopin’ that somebody will discover somethin’ to do.”
Big Jim laughed and tossed off his drink. He was in rare good humor and
seemed to hold no grudge against Bill Smith for the knock-down; but Bill
Smith did not relax his caution. Finally Big Jim turned to him--
“Smith, I’ve got a better job for you, if you care to take it.”
“Tha’sso?”
Bill slid his empty glass down the bar.
“Hundred a month,” stated Big Jim.
“Yeah?” Bill Smith was interested. The XO-Bar-5 was paying him forty
dollars per month, and this added sixty dollars was worth considering.
“Taking charge of the Lightning ranch,” he said slowly. “I’ll give you
two punchers to help you run the place. It will take quite a lot of work
to put the house in shape, I suppose.”
“Uh-huh,” nodded Bill, “I reckon it will.”
“The Lightnin’?” queried Slim wonderingly. “The Paint Pot?”
Big Jim smiled and turned back to the bar, motioning to the bartender to
fill the glasses.
“Yes, I bought Pablo out yesterday,” he stated. “He had some stock I
wanted, but he was too hard to do business with; so I made him a good
offer for the whole works and he sold out.”
“Well, I’ll be darned!” grunted Slim. “I’ll betcha yuh had to show him
all the money in one pile, didn’t yuh?”
“Something like that, Slim.”
“When do yuh take charge?” asked Bill.
“Took it over yesterday. There’s nobody running the place yet, but it’s
ready for you to start in on right away.”
Bill Smith considered the proposition. He did not trust Big Jim. He had
knocked Big Jim down publicly, and Big Jim was not the kind of a man to
forget it. Still he was not in a position to refuse the offer; so he
nodded slowly.
“I’ll take yuh up on that,” he agreed. “I’ve always wanted to run a
ranch. Do I pick my own punchers?”
“I suppose so. Mike John and Mose Dickey are still out there. They’re
good punchers, but rather shy on brains. You might keep them until you
find better ones. Might be a good scheme to go out there and look the
place over, Smith. It’ll need a lot of fixing. When you find out what
you need, come down to the bank and draw money enough to cover it.”
“All right,” grinned Bill. “I never had a bank to draw on; so yuh better
warn the cashier to look out for me.”
Slim and Bill stood for a long time at the bar after Big Jim had gone
away. Slim was wondering why Big Jim had given the foremanship of the
Lightning to Bill Smith instead of to him; and Bill Smith was doing
quite a bit of wondering himself.
“Mebbe he wants to keep track of me,” mused Bill to himself. “It ain’t
’cause he loves me, that’s a cinch.”
Finally Slim grinned and held out his hand.
“I’m plumb glad yuh got the job, Bill,” he said sincerely. “I was
wonderin’ why he didn’t give it to me, especially after yuh batted him
in the jaw the other day; but that’s his business. Let’s have another
drink.”
“I’m wonderin’, too, Slim,” smiled Bill, accepting the invitation. “I
reckon he’s stuck on my shape. He don’t know whether I’m capable of
runnin’ the place, nor whether I’m honest nor anythin’.”
Slim laughed and wiped his lips with the back of his hand:
“I’ll play yuh a game of pool, Bill. I ain’t played since last year, but
I used to be a dinger.”
They walked over to the pool table and were chalking their cues when
a man came into the saloon, with two dogs on leash. The man was well
dressed and evidently more than half-intoxicated.
“What kind of danged dogs are them?” queried Slim, pointing at them with
his cue. “Ain’t fox-hounds, are they, Bill?”
“Bloodhounds,” said the man proudly, but thickly, as he tried to
untangle the leash from his knees.
“Best pair of trailers in the world, tha’s what they are.”
“You ain’t lost nothin’, have yuh?” asked Slim seriously.
“Huh?”
“I said we might have a hard Winter,” replied Slim loudly.
“What the ---- do I care about Winter? Let’s have a drink.”
Slim and Bill placed their cues on the table and walked back to the
bar. Bill stooped down and petted one of the dogs on its head. They
both fawned around him until yanked away by their keeper.
“Don’t monkey with ’em,” he grunted. “They’re worth lots of money,
don’tcha know it?”
“Pettin’ ’em takes away their value, eh?” asked Bill.
The man was too occupied with his drink to answer.
“How long yuh been here?” asked Slim.
“Come in thish mornin’.”
The man twisted his face from the bite of the whisky and leaned both
elbows on the bar.
“Dogs drag yuh in?” queried Bill.
“Dogs drag--shay, whatcha talkin’ ’bout, hey?”
“Dogs--not hay. Let’s have another.”
“Aw ri’. Thish is re’l nice town around here. I like it.”
“You can have it,” replied Slim seriously.
“I’ll take it, frien’. Mush obliged.”
“Oh, don’t mention it. We’ll give it to him, won’t we, Bill?”
“Give him the whole county, Slim,” grinned Bill. “Don’t be a piker.”
“All right, the whole county it is. You’ll take it, won’t yuh, Mister
Blood Hound?”
“Yesshir. M’ name’s Alfred Henderson Failing.”
“You’ve got quite a family tree,” observed Bill, but his meaning was
lost upon the man with the bloodhounds.
A man came in through the doorway and halted near the bar. Bill Smith
turned his head and looked square into the face of McHague, head warden
of the Elk Lodge penitentiary. Their glances held for a moment, but
there was no recognition in the eyes of the warden.
He was wearing a gray-checked suit, black derby hat and a pair of
glaring, yellow shoes, which creaked with every movement of his beefy
body. The butt of a badly-chewed cigar was clenched between his teeth,
a trickle of its juice making a brown streak down his slightly stubbled
chin.
Bill Smith felt a thrill down his spine as he squinted at McHague; but
the big warden knew him not.
“What the ---- are you doin’ here with them dogs?” snarled McHague at
Alfred Henderson Failing, who was trying to brace himself and try to
look dignified.
He swallowed with difficulty and squinted down at the two hounds, as if
trying to figure out a reasonable explanation.
“You’re drunk!” snorted McHague angrily. “Now you get to ---- back to
the hotel with them dogs, you drunken bum!”
“Yesshir.”
Failing tried to appear at ease and untangle the dogs at the same time.
He even essayed a whistling solo, much to the disgust of McHague. After
much effort he managed to straighten out both leashes and went out
through the front door, half-falling from the pull of the two hounds.
McHague watched him go and then turned to those at the bar.
“Have a drink, gents?” he asked.
Slim and Bill leaned against the bar, watching McHague unroll some
bills.
“Val’able dogs?” asked Slim.
“Couldn’t buy ’em for a thousand apiece,” grunted McHague.
“My----!” exploded Slim, “I’ve got to look at ’em agin’. Was they set
with diamonds?”
“Good rabbit-dogs come high,” offered Bill Smith seriously.
McHague tossed a bill onto the bar and spat out his cigar, as if
disgusted with their ignorance.
“What the ---- are you talkin’ about?” he grunted. “Them ain’t
rabbit-dogs.”
“Ex-cuse us,” said Slim quickly, “we’re ignorant enough to ask yuh what
they are, mister.”
“They’re the best pair of bloodhounds in the West. They never lose a
scent.”
“Bloodhounds?” queried Bill. “Man trailers?”
“You betcha. Finest bred dogs in the world. They belong to me.”
“You kinda hate them dogs, don’tcha?” grinned Bill. “They don’t look
like much, except that they’re sad in the face.”
“You’d be sad, if they were on your trail,” replied McHague.
“I s’pose so. Say, your face is familiar, somehow. Seems like I’ve
knowed you some place.”
McHague tossed off his drink and grinned widely.
“Maybe you have. I’m the head warden at Elk Lodge.”
Slim choked on his drink and it was some time before conversation was
renewed.
“You say that them dogs never lose a scent?” queried Bill.
“That’s what I said,” replied McHague proudly.
“Uh-huh. Then they’re the ones yuh used when yuh caught Tex Rowland,
ain’t they?”
McHague flushed angrily.
“What do you know about Tex Rowland?”
“He’s my best friend,” said Bill Smith softly.
“The ---- he is?”
McHague’s hands clenched and his brows drew down slightly over his eyes.
“Your best friend, eh?”
Bill Smith nodded slowly and moved a trifle away from the bar.
“Yeah, that’s what I said, McHague.”
“You seem to know my name.”
“I know more than that about yuh.”
“What do yuh mean?”
“Tex told me a few things, McHague. He told me about yuh stealin’
his letters, and how yuh bragged to him about it. Yuh had him where
he couldn’t get away, didn’t yuh? He didn’t have a Chinaman’s chance
to do anythin’. Yuh framed to kill him, too. Yuh tried to force him
to start trouble, so your hired murderer could shoot him down. But
he double-crossed yuh, McHague--him and the old trusty.”
McHague’s scowl almost concealed his eyes before Bill Smith had finished
his accusation. His lips were shut in a thin, white line, below which
jutted his undershot jaw like the prow of a fighting ship.
“Where in -- did you get all that?” he gritted.
“From Tex Rowland. And by ----, he told the truth!”
“He lied!” snorted McHague.
“He did not! You forced him into a fight, McHague--and he whipped you in
your own office, you dirty coyote!”
Bill Smith had not intended going so far with the accusation, but his
soul was still bitter against McHague and he forgot all caution.
“Who’s a dirty coyote?” snorted McHague.
And as McHague snapped his question, his right hand reached back under
his coat and whipped out a revolver. But Slim was looking for just such
a move, and, before McHague could level the gun, Slim grasped his wrist
with both hands, twisting so quickly that the gun went spinning across
the floor.
Slim sprang back, leaving McHague cursing wickedly, his shoulders
hunched as he faced Bill Smith.
“What kind of a ---- deal is that?” he demanded. “You going to
double-team me? You’ve still got a gun.”
Bill grinned, as he flipped out his gun and placed it on the bar.
“I better put it away before somebody takes it away from me,” he said.
McHague glanced at the bar and back at Bill Smith. Down deep in his
heart he did not want to fight. He had been warned that this country
was friendly to Tex Rowland, but this seemed to be carrying friendship
too far.
There were a number of men in the saloon, and now they swarmed to
vantage points. The bartender, in no uncertain terms, swore at everybody
concerned, and threatened to make them pay for every bit of damage done.
His warnings fell upon deaf ears, whereupon he changed his attitude and
offered to bet odds on McHague.
The first blow had not been struck when Big Jim Mott came in. He took in
the situation at a glance and shoved his huge bulk between them.
“Here, here!” he grunted. “What the ---- is going on? What’s all the
trouble about, Smith?”
“Ask McHague,” grinned Bill. “He tried to fire the first shot.”
“Oh, ----, the party’s ruined!” wailed Slim.
He crossed the room, picked up McHague’s gun and gave it to him. McHague
shoved it down in his pocket, glared balefully at Bill Smith and strode
out of the saloon.
After a moment’s indecision Big Jim turned and followed him outside,
catching up with him half-way across the street.
“That’s Tex Rowland’s friend,” said Big Jim. “He’s the one I told you
about, Mac.”
“----, don’t I know it?” snarled McHague. “That’s what it was all about.
I’ll shoot the liver out of him if he monkeys with me.”
“Well, you better do it from ambush,” advised Big Jim. “He’s got the
punch of an army mule, and he don’t wear that gun as a decoration.”
“The other one took my gun away from me.”
“Then you better thank him the first chance you get, because he probably
saved your life.”
“These ---- cowpunchers can’t run no sandy on me, Mott.”
“All right, Mac.”
“You’re ---- right, it’s all right!”
McHague turned away and went into the hotel. Big Jim looked after him,
a scowl on his face. Then he turned and went diagonally down the street
toward the bank.
Over in the saloon Slim leaned back against the bar, roweling a spur
thoughtfully against the rail, while Bill Smith faced the bar, as he
rolled a cigaret.
“That’s what I call stickin’ up for a friend,” said Slim thoughtfully.
“I helped send him over the road. ----, there wasn’t nothin’ else I
could do, under the circumstances. I s’pose he’s got them there
bloodhounds over here to try and nose out old Tex, eh?”
“Looks like it, Slim.”
“Uh-huh. Thousand dollars apiece, eh? Well, I ain’t got nothin’ again’
them flappy-eared, sad-eyed pups, but, by the horns on the moon, they
better not start snifflin’ around too much.”
“They won’t do much,” said Bill softly. “Let’s me and you ride out to
the Paint Pot and see how much disinfectant the danged old place needs.”
* * * * *
They went out to the hitch-rack, mounted their horses and rode away.
Bill Smith was not very optimistic over his new job. He did not like
the idea of retaining Mike John and Mose Dickey, the two half-breeds.
In fact, he did not like the idea of going to work for Big Jim as a
manager.
“Well, that gives Big Jim control of every ranch in the Antelope,”
declared Slim. “The Paint Pot was the last one to fall. If he could
buy out Rainbow Valley, he’d have some range, Bill.”
“He’ll never get that place,” declared Bill. “McPherson would rather die
than to see Big Jim own Rainbow.”
They were opposite the XO-Bar-5 and almost to the forks, where one
road led to Rainbow Valley and the other to the Paint Pot, when they
met Lohman, the sheriff, Biddy Toole and Dick Clarey, riding furiously
toward town.
They drew up in a cloud of dust.
“What’s all the rush?” asked Slim, as the three lathering horses danced
nervously from their run.
“Old Rory has been shot and badly hurt,” explained the sheriff, trying
to hold his horse on the road.
“Old Rory McPherson?” blurted Bill Smith. “How did it happen?”
“We don’t know,” Lohman swore at his horse, pulling it around against
Biddy Toole’s horse. “Old Rory and his daughter were at Welcome all
night. You know about Big Jim demanding her arrest, don’t yuh?”
“Well, they came in and stayed all night. Old Rory put up her bond and
they started back this mornin’. About two hours later I got a wire
from Antelope to come down and join forces with some officers from the
penitentiary; and I finds old Rory on the road.
“He’s been shot through the body and is in pretty bad shape. We fixed
him up as much as possible and we’re after a doctor right now.”
“But what about Della?” asked Slim anxiously. “Didn’t she----”
“That’s what we don’t know,” said Biddy helplessly. “She ain’t never
come home.”
“And she wouldn’t go away and leave the old man,” added Dick.
“It’s a ---- or a mixup somewhere,” declared Lohman. “And it looks to me
like whoever shot the old man took her along with ’em.”
“Nobody would dare to do that,” declared Bill Smith thickly.
“Wouldn’t they?” Thus Dick Clarey bitterly. “Don’t fool yourself,
stranger. C’mon, Lohman.”
They spurred on, leaving Slim and Bill staring after them.
Bill turned in his saddle, staring blindly up the road, trying to figure
out just what to do; trying to realize that some one had stolen Della
Marsh.
Far off to the west were the broken heights of the Wild Horse Range,
showing almost black in the sunlight. Bill Smith knew those mountains;
knew them better than any one in the country. There were few trails,
and much of it was impassable.
Beyond the mesas lived the wild goat and big-horn sheep. Bill Smith,
when he was Tex Rowland, hunted them on the rocky ledges above the
purple chasms, and he knew that there were places in those cliffs
where one man could stand off an army.
“That’s where she’d be,” said Slim, answering Bill’s unspoken question.
“The ---- himself couldn’t track anybody there.”
“I know it, Slim. C’m’on.”
Bill spurred ahead and Slim swung in behind him, wondering where Bill
was going. Straight to the Paint Pot ranch they went, with both horses
almost collapsing as they drew up at the front of the ranch-house.
Mike John came out to them, his wide face and black eyes expressionless,
although a trifle suspicious of their speedy arrival.
“Where’s Pablo?” asked Bill.
Mike John squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.
“Pablo gone.”
“Where’s Mose Dickey?”
“Down by corral.”
“Where’s Pokey?”
“Go with Pablo.”
“Uh-huh,” Bill glanced around quickly. “When did Pablo and Pokey leave
here?”
“Yes’day. No come back, I s’pose.”
“You suppose not, eh? Where did they go?”
“Long way, I s’pose.”
“All right. I’m new boss here, Mike.”
Mike grinned slightly. Then he spat and nodded.
“All right,” he said. “I don’ give----”
Mose Dickey came waddling up from the corral and joined them. His face
was as expressionless as Mike John’s, but he grinned when the two
cowpunchers spoke pleasantly to him.
“Did you hear the quarrel between Pablo and Big Jim?” asked Bill,
suddenly inspired with an idea.
The two breeds exchanged quick glances.
“Big Jim told me that Pablo was a thief,” said Bill easily. “I don’t
think Pablo is a thief. Big Jim awful mad at Pablo. He says Pablo no
good.”
“Um-m-m!” Mike John rumbled throatily. “Big Jim ---- fool!”
“That’s what I said,” nodded Bill.
Slim’s long nose was twitching and he wanted to laugh. He did not know
what it was all about, but was willing to swear that Bill Smith was
right.
“Yeah, he sure is,” agreed Bill heartily. “He tell me that he send Pablo
to the prison--mebbe.”
“By ----, no!” exclaimed Mose Dickey angrily.
“You know how much he pay Pablo?” asked Bill. “Big Jim say he give Pablo
much money--much gold.”
“---- lie!” snorted Mike. “Big Jim want all money for himself. He no pay
Pablo. By ----, no! He tell Pablo, you go to ---- away from here. Bimeby
somebody put you in jail long time.”
“He told Pablo that?” asked Bill.
“Um-m-m. Big Jim two-tongue. He lie to Pablo.”
“Uh-huh!”
Bill rolled a cigaret slowly. He was learning a lot from the angry
half-breeds, without them suspecting that he was pumping them for
information. He lighted his cigaret, inhaled deeply and handed the
tobacco and papers to Mike John.
“Mike John, do you know who killed Tucson Charley?” asked Bill Smith.
Mike’s eyes lifted from the cigaret-making and bored into those of Bill
Smith.
“No,” he said softly. “By ----, I like to know.”
“No horse kill Tucson Charley,” said Mose Dickey. “You go look Tucson
Charley; you look at pinto hoof. You know. We see you. Pablo say you
look see. What you find out?”
“Didn’t a horse kill Tucson Charley?” asked Slim.
“No, Slim. That pinto was barefooted. Tucson Charley might have been
kicked by a sharp-shod horse, but not by a clean hoof. A barefooted
horse could kill a man, but couldn’t leave a wound like that. It
looked to me like it had been done with a six-gun barrel, or some
heavy instrument.”
“I seeum,” said Mike John. “Too much cut for bare hoof. That pintado no
kick. Broke plenty. I see you throw hat--horse no kick.”
“That’s right,” smiled Bill. “And if that pinto was a kicker he’d ’a’
kicked Tucson more than once.”
“But who in ---- would kill him?” queried Slim. “Tucson never done
anything to anybody.”
“Tucson good boy,” nodded Mose Dickey sadly. “He goin’ marry Alice
Spotted Horse. Now can’t do.”
“Not very well,” admitted Bill dryly. “You remember the day Tucson was
killed?”
“---- right!” grunted Mike John. “Pablo and Tucson go to Antelope. Pablo
go get money from Big Jim. Pablo pay Tucson in Antelope. Pablo come home
bimeby. Nex’ day Tucson come home dead.”
“That’s how it was, eh?”
Bill grew thoughtful. There was not much of a clue in that.
“What Big Jim’s girl do here that day?” queried Mose.
“Is she Big Jim’s girl?” asked Slim.
“---- right. Big Jim marry her--mebbe.”
“Mebbe,” grinned Bill Smith.
“Why she come?” persisted Mose.
“You remember Tex Rowland?” asked Bill.
“---- right!”
“All right.”
Bill squatted on his heels and drew out his tobacco. The others squatted
with him and watched his fingers as he deftly rolled a cigarette and
handed the sack around the circle. Then:
“Tex Rowland write letter to that girl. You _sabe_?”
The two breeds nodded quickly.
“Tex Rowland give letter to Tucson Charley and tell him to give to girl.
Tucson give letter to girl; _sabe_? She write on same letter and give
back to Tucson Charley. She tell him to give it to Tex Rowland. Tucson
Charley put letter in pocket. Then he drink too much and somebody kill
him. Letter gone. That’s what girl was out here to get. She wanted the
letter. Now you _sabe_?”
“Somebody take letter?” queried Mike John.
“Yeah!”
“Tex Rowland give Tucson Charley letter? Tex Rowland in town?”