ON SQUINT'S TRAIL
Doc Hollis' house was at the far end of town. It was small and set
quite a way back from the street. Shortly after dark that night, Allen
pushed open the gate and walked up the path. On the porch he stood and
listened for a moment. He had no reason to fear a trap, but his life
had taught him the cautiousness of a wolf. He waited for a moment and
then knocked on the door. Doc Hollis opened it, and Allen entered the
small living room where he found Bill McAllister before him.
"Doc, this is the gent I tol' yuh about," the old horse wrangler said
bluntly.
Allen shook hands with Doc and grinned a greeting. Doc Hollis was a
small, rotund man with a smooth, bald head. He stared in puzzled wonder
at the outlaw. It seemed impossible that this smiling, freckle-faced
boy could be the most notorious gunman of all time.
Allen seemed to read his thoughts, for he said with a broad, loose
grin: "I'm sure me."
The doctor chuckled, and Bill McAllister's leathery face broke into a
fleeting smile.
"What yuh aimin' to do?" Doc asked curiously.
"Postmaster a friend of yourn?" Allen countered.
"Frank Cragg? He sure is," Doc answered.
"Do yuh figger he'd fake a letter--postmarks an' the whole thing--an'
make believe it just arrived from New Mex for Squint Lane?" Allen asked.
"Reckon he would. Why?"
"Well, if he tol' folks he had a letter which looked important for
Squint, mebbe one of Squint's friends would put a new address on it,
an' then we'd know where to look for Squint," Allen said, grinning.
"I'm bettin' there's three or four of Spur's gunmen who knows where
Squint's holdin' out," Doc cried excitedly.
In case the letter was opened by some friends, they carefully wrote a
long epistle from a supposed friend of Squint's in New Mexico.
"Now, Doc, there's one other thing yuh can do. Did yuh ever stop to
figger that if Slivers was blottin' Double R cows to Double B, it's
darn funny that after he lights out there wasn't enough cows to sell
an' pay off a measly eight hundred what he owed to ol' Miser Jimpson."
"Darn me--that's true," Bill McAllister growled.
"Sure is--an' I never thought about it," Doc commented.
"Then yuh start other folks a-thinkin'. Sorta hints that the gent what
framed Slivers was the one what ran off his Double B cows."
Doc persuaded Allen to wait for them; there was no use for him to run
the risk of being recognized on the streets. Doc Hollis and McAllister
would visit the post office and arrange about the letter, and then they
would all have supper with Mrs. Hart, Slivers' mother.
As the two walked toward the door, Allen stopped them.
"When did this rustlin' start?" he asked.
"About six-seven months ago. Old man Reed began to suspect some one was
makin' free with his cows. He started the boys ridin' night herd.
Pretty soon a bunch of 'em runs into a gang of rustlers, an' two of
'em, Bill Steel an' 'Big-foot' gets downed. The old man knows then the
rustlers is strong an' workin' hard, so he sends down to the border for
a bunch of gunmen. But the rustlin' goes right on--we has several night
battles. Then Slivers is supposed to down Iky Small an' lights for the
hills." McAllister concluded and cut off a large piece of black plug,
which he thrust into his mouth.
"But the rustlin' goes right on?" Allen asked.
"Correct. Then the ol' man gets plumb crazy, 'cause his cows is bein'
run off wholesale. A little later he gets downed," Doc cut in.
"Any rustlin' since then?"
"The boys ain't reported nothin' suspicious, but there ain't a hell of
a lot of Double R cows left," Bill McAllister said, after a moment's
thought.
"When did this here Spur Treadwell person turn up?" Allen asked.
"Now, look here, Jim, yuh're barkin' up the wrong tree," Bill said
warmly. "Spur ain't got nothin' to do with this rustlin'. 'Cause why?
'Cause didn't he down them rustlers what gunned the old man? No gent
could get away with a thing like that, 'cause tother gents workin' for
him would sure quit."
"That's sure correct," Doc said gravely. "An' didn't Spur, after John
Reed was killed, go tearin' over to Boston Jack's outfit ready to tear
it apart. An' he sure would have if he'd found anythin' wrong. An'
Sandy McGill dropped one of Boston's men. No, sir, Spur ain't in
cahoots with Boston or he could never get away with a thing like that."
"Jim, yuh're sure wrong about Spur," Bill insisted. "I ain't sayin' he
didn't frame Slivers 'cause of Dot, but he ain't no rustler," Bill
insisted.
Jim Allen had far more knowledge of the duplicity of which some men are
capable than the other two. It was hard for him to understand how any
men could be so blind. He looked at them quizzically for a moment.
"Yuh see ol' man Reed after he was shot?" he asked unexpectedly.
"Sure--we both see him," Doc replied. "They sent for me when he was
shot, but when I reached the ranch Spur tol' me he was dead. I was
goin' to look at him, but Spur says I couldn't do no good an' for me to
tend to Dot."
"Then yuh didn't see him?" Allen asked sharply, with a touch of acute
disappointment in his voice.
"Yeh, I did. Me an' Bill, here, was his oldest friends, so we sneaked
in to sorta say good-by all by ourselves, late that night," Doc said
sadly.
"An' I'm bettin' yuh both was mad when yuh see how he was shot to
pieces."
"We sure swore loud and plenty," McAllister growled.
Doc Hollis stared at the outlaw, and then took two quick steps toward
him.
"Most folks don't know he was shot up bad. How'd yuh know?" he asked,
as a quick suspicion entered his mind.
Allen's face held a hopeless expression as he met the angry eyes of the
older man.
"Yuh thinkin', 'cause I claims to be a friend of Slivers--an' as Spur
says he was there, mebbe I was, too, when the old man got his?" he
asked sarcastically. "That sorta proves yuh can think, but if yuh'll
recollect that Spur is now Dot's guardian, mebbe yuh'll see what I see."
Doc Hollis looked from Allen to Bill McAllister. His face wore a
puzzled expression. Slowly this changed to one of startled wonder and
then to furious anger.
"The thing was so complete I never thinks. Damn the skulkin' coyote!
Don't yuh see, Bill? Think! The old man couldn't write that will after
he was downed!" Doc cried excitedly.
"Hell! I sure does now--but them dead rustlers--the thing was so pat,"
McAllister mumbled.
The moment when full realization of how their old friend had been
foully murdered reached their minds, Allen had all he could do to keep
them from dashing out and trying to exact a summary revenge. He pointed
out that a hasty move would spoil everything and, little by little,
calmed the two older men.
A few minutes later, the two walked out and headed toward the post
office. Arriving there, they told the postmaster everything. They got
an envelope and addressed it to Squint Lane. The mail came in on the
stage at seven that night, and the postmaster promised to show the
letter to all who came for their mail.
"Bill, yuh an' me an' the rest of the folks in this town is plumb
blind," Doc said sadly.
"We sure is, but Jim Allen ain't. Do yuh know, Doc, I bet there's a
dozen men in this town what would give an arm to get a shot at his
back, an' he goes roun' grinning like a schoolboy," Bill remarked.
They stopped and picked up Allen at Doc's house and continued on to
Mrs. Hart's little cottage.
She was a short, motherly looking woman with bright-blue eyes and
graying sandy hair. "Lands sake, what's the matter with the boy?" she
asked.
"I got a toothache," Allen replied.
At that she bustled about him like a hen with a lone chick. Allen
played the part of the suffering boy until he caught sight of two
large, brown pies on the kitchen table, when he instantly lost all
interest in everything but those works of art.
"Pies! Well, I'm jiggered if it ain't pies!" He added greedily: "Yuh
aimin' to give us a piece of that?"
"After yuh eat, yes," Mrs. Hart replied with a smile.
"I hate to waste space," Allen said regretfully. The two other men
chuckled, and the woman shook her head.
"Yuh're just like my boy--he was always crazy for sweets." Her words
brought bitter memories to her, and her eyes clouded.
Allen pecked at his food, and his unabashed greediness, as he cast
longing glances at the pies, made the woman momentarily forget her
grief at being separated from her son. At last, she could no longer
stand his wistful, greedy eyes, and arose and cut him a big piece of
pie. He gobbled it down before she could regain her seat. With a laugh,
she cut him a second piece. As she handed it to him, there came a knock
on the door. The others started, but Allen continued to eat his pie.
Mrs. Hart opened the door, and the postmaster entered at a run,
bubbling with excitement.
"It sure worked. 'Lefty' Simms takes that letter an' sticks it into
another envelope an' addresses it. I fishes it out. Shucks, I suppose I
robbed the mails, but here she is," he cried, as he held out the letter
triumphantly.
Bill McAllister grabbed the letter, glanced at it, and then handed it
to Allen, who read the address and grinned gleefully.
"Shucks! He's way down at Brushtown, along the border," McAllister said
in disappointment.
"But Brushtown ain't far from Cannondale, an' I got----"
"Whoopee, I get yuh! Yuh got friends down there," Bill McAllister
interrupted, "I betcha yuh do have, after what yuh done----"
At Allen's warning glance, the old-timer brought his sentence to a
close with a series of coughs.
"What yuh goin' to do?" Doc asked.
"Me? I'm aimin' to eat another piece of pie, if Mrs. Hart will give it
to me, then I'm goin' to ride to Three Roads Junction an' send a
telegram," Allen said carelessly.
Mrs. Hart hastily arose and cut Allen a double portion of pie. The
postmaster stared at Allen with protruding eyes. He was too overcome to
speak. He nudged Bill McAllister and pointed to Allen. The old horse
wrangler nodded in reply.
Doc Hollis volunteered to furnish Allen with a fast horse and then
hastened away to saddle it. Five minutes later, he was back again.
Allen finished the pie, thanked Mrs. Hart, walked outside, mounted the
waiting horse, and rode away into the night.
"He sure does things casuallike," the doctor said admiringly.
"It's sure him," the postmaster said in awe.
"Yeh, but don't go talkin' loud," Bill McAllister warned.
"What is it? Who is that boy?" Ma Hart asked.
"Never yuh mind that," Doc told her seriously. "Yuh get down on your
knees this night an' pray if yuh want to see that boy of yourn
again--pray as yuh never prayed afore that nothin' happens to the White
Wolf to-night."
"Who is he? The White Wolf? What could happen to him?" the woman asked,
bewildered.
Doc pointed to a picture of a man on a white horse that hung over the
mantelpiece.
"Read me that there title!" he said.
Wondering, the woman read: "I saw a man on a white horse, and his name
was Death!"
"That's him!"
The other two gravely nodded their heads. The woman glanced from the
picture to the three solemn faces and then back to the picture again.
Late that night Bill McAllister and Doc Hollis laughed softly to
themselves. The rumor they had started was spreading like wildfire. On
their way home, at least three friends stopped them and said
practically the same thing:
"Yuh know, I been thinkin'. If Slivers Hart was rustlin' cows, how come
there warn't no cows on the ranch when the sheriff seized it? It's
funny about the killin' of John Reed----" They all would go that far
and then nod as if they could say more if they were so inclined.
"Folks is sure startin' to think," McAllister chuckled.
The following morning Bill McAllister was with the cavvy when Allen
trotted down a slope and rode toward him.
"Yuh send it all right?" the old man asked eagerly.
"Yeh." Allen slipped to the ground and unsaddled his horse, which was
drooping from fatigue. "There is two things I wants yuh to do. Don't
tell her any more than yuh have to--'cause she might act hopeful an'
give her hand away--but tell Dot to insult Spur Treadwell--call him
names, say he ain't nothin' but a bull of a man an' that she's plumb
disgusted with him. Then I wants yuh to make me night wrangler."
With that, even before Bill McAllister could ask the reason for these
requests, Allen curled up beneath a clump of brush and was asleep.