IN DRY VALLEY
If Kirby had been a properly authenticated detective of fiction he
would have gone to his uncle's apartment, locked the door, measured the
rooms with a tape-line, found imprints of fingers on a door panel, and
carefully gathered into an envelope the ashes from the cigar his uncle
had been smoking. The data obtained would have proved conclusively
that Cunningham had come to his death at the hands of a Brahmin of high
caste on account of priceless gems stolen from a temple in India. An
analysis of the cigar ashes would have shown that a subtle poison,
unknown to the Western world, had caused the victim's heart to stop
beating exactly two minutes and twelve seconds after taking the first
puff at the cigar. Thus the fictional ethics of the situation would
have been correctly met.
But Kirby was only a plain, outdoors Westerner. He did not know the
conventional method of procedure. It did not even occur to him at
first that Apartment 12 might still have secrets to tell him after the
police and the reporters had pawed over it for several days. But his
steps turned back several times to the Paradox as the center from which
all clues must emanate. He found himself wandering around in that
vicinity trying to pick up some of the pieces of the Chinese puzzle
that made up the mystery of his uncle's death.
It was on one of these occasions that he and Rose met his cousin James
coming out of the apartment house. Cunningham was a man of admirable
self-control, but he looked shaken this morning. His hand trembled as
it met that of his cousin. In his eyes was the look of a man who has
suffered a shock.
"I've been sitting alone for an hour in the room where Uncle James met
his death--been arranging his papers," he explained. "It began to get
my nerve. I couldn't stand it any longer. The horrible thing kept
jumping to my mind." He drew his right hand heavily across his eyes,
as though to shut out and brush away the sight his imagination conjured.
His left arm hung limp. Kirby's quick eyes noticed it.
"You've hurt yourself," Lane said.
"Yes," admitted James. "My heel caught on the top step as I started to
walk down. I've wrenched my arm badly. Maybe I've broken it."
"Oh, I hope not," Rose said quickly, a warm sympathy in her vibrant
young voice. "A broken arm's no fun. I find it an awful nuisance."
The janitor of the Paradox came out and joined them. He was a little
Japanese well on toward middle life, a small-featured man with small,
neat feet.
"You feelum all right yes now?" he asked, directing his slant, oval
eyes toward Cunningham.
"Yes, I've got over the nausea, thanks, Shibo." James turned to the
others. "Shibo was at the foot of the stairs when I caught my heel.
He gathered up the pieces. I guess I was all in, wasn't I, Shibo?"
The Japanese nodded agreement. "You heap sick for minute."
"I've been worrying a good deal about this business of Uncle James, I
suppose. Anyhow, I've had two or three dizzy spells lately. Nothing
serious, though."
"I don't wonder. You sit at a desk too much, James. What you need is
exercise. If you'd get in the saddle a couple o' hours a day an' do
some stiff ridin' you'd quit havin' dizzy spells. Sorry you're hurt,
old man. I'll trail along with you to a doctor's."
"Not necessary. I'll be all right. It's only a few blocks to his
office. Fact is, I'm feeling quite myself again."
"Well, if you're sure. Prob'ly you've only sprained your arm. By the
way, I'd kinda like to go over Uncle's apartment again. Mind if I do?
I don't reckon the police missed anything, but you can never tell."
James hesitated. "I promised the Chief of Police not to let anybody
else in. Tell you what I'll do. I'll see him about it and get a
permit for you. Say, Kirby, I've been thinking one of us ought to go
up to Dry Valley and check things up there. We might find out who
wrote that note to Uncle. Maybe some one has been making threats in
public. We could see who was in town from there last week. Could you
go? To-day? Train leaves in half an hour."
Kirby could and would. He left Rose to talk with the tenants of the
Paradox Apartments, entrained for Dry Valley at once, and by noon was
winding over the hilltops far up in the Rockies.
He left the train at Summit, a small town which was the center of
activities for Dry Valley. Here the farmers bought their supplies and
here they marketed their butter and eggs. In the fall they drove in
their cattle and loaded them for Denver at the chutes in the railroad
yard.
There had been times in the past when Summit ebbed and flowed with a
rip-roaring tide of turbulent life. This had been after the round-ups
in the golden yesterday when every other store building had been
occupied by a saloon and the rattle of chips lasted far into the small
hours of night. Now Colorado was dry and the roulette wheel had gone
to join memories of the past. Summit was quiet as a Sunday afternoon
on a farm. Its busiest inhabitant was a dog which lay in the sun and
lazily poked over its own anatomy for fleas.
Kirby registered at the office of the frame building which carried on
its false front the word HOTEL. This done, he wandered down to the
shack which bore the inscription, "Dry Valley Enterprise." The owner
of the paper, who was also editor, reporter, pressman, business
manager, and circulator, chanced to be in printing some dodgers
announcing a dance at Odd Fellows' Hall. He desisted from his labors
to chat with the stranger.
The editor was a fat, talkative little man. Kirby found it no trouble
at all to set him going on the subject of James Cunningham, Senior. In
fact, during his stay in the valley the Wyoming man could always use
that name as an "Open Sesame." It unlocked all tongues. Cunningham
and his mysterious death were absorbing topics. The man was hated by
scores who had been brought close to ruin by his chicanery. Dry Valley
rejoiced openly in the retribution that had fallen upon him.
"Who killed him?" the editor asked rhetorically.
"Well, sir, I'll be dawged if I know. But if I was guessin' I'd say it
was this fellow Hull, the slicker that helped him put through the Dry
Valley steal. 'Course it might 'a' been the Jap, or it might 'a' been
the nephew from Wyoming, but I'll say it was Hull. We know that cuss
Hull up here. He's one bad package, that fat man is, believe me.
Cunningham held out on him, an' he laid for the old crook an' got him.
Don't that look reasonable to you? It sure does to me. Put a rope
round Hull's neck an' you'll hang the man that killed old J. C."
Lane put in an hour making himself _persona grata_, then read the
latest issue of the "Enterprise" while the editor pulled off the rest
of the dodgers. In the local news column he found several items that
interested him. These were:
Jim Harkins is down in Denver on business and won't be home till
Monday. Have a good time, Jim.
T. J. Lupton is enjoying a few days vacation in the Queen City. He
expects to buy some fancy stock at the yards for breeding purposes.
Dry Valley is right in the van of progress.
Art Jelks and Brad Mosely returned from Denver today after a three
days' visit in the capital. A good time was had by both. You want to
watch them, girls. The boys are both live ones.
Oscar Olson spent a few days in Denver this week. Oscar owns a place
three miles out of town on the Spring Creek road.
Casually Kirby gathered information. He learned that Jim Harkins was
the town constable and not interested in land; that Lupton was a very
prosperous cattleman whose ranch was nowhere near the district promoted
by Cunningham; and that Jelks and Mosely were young fellows more or
less connected with the garage. The editor knew Olson only slightly.
"He's a Swede--big, fair fellow--got caught in that irrigation fake of
Hull and Cunningham. Don't know what he was doin' in Denver," the
newspaperman said.
Lane decided that he would see Olson and have a talk with him.
Incidentally, he meant to see all the Dry Valley men who had been in
Denver at the time Cunningham was killed. But the others he saw only
to eliminate them from suspicion. One glance at each of them was
enough to give them a clean bill so far as the mystery went. They knew
nothing whatever about it.
Lane rode out to Olson's place and found him burning brush. The
cattleman explained that he was from Wyoming and wanted to sell some
registered Herefords.
Olson looked over his dry, parched crops with sardonic bitterness. "Do
I look like I could buy registered stock?" he asked sourly.
Kirby made a remark that set the ranchman off. He said that the crops
looked as though they needed water. Inside of five minutes he had
heard the story of the Dry Valley irrigation swindle. Olson was not a
foreigner. He had been born in Minnesota and attended the public
schools. He spoke English idiomatically and without an accent. The
man was a tall, gaunt, broad-shouldered Scandinavian of more than
average intelligence.
The death of Cunningham had not apparently assuaged his intense hatred
of the man or the bitterness which welled out of him toward Hull.
"Cunningham got his! Suits me fine! Now all I ask is that they hang
Hull for it!" he cried vindictively.
"Seems to be some doubt whether Hull did it," suggested Kirby, to draw
him on.
"That so? Mebbe there's evidence you don't know about." The words had
come out in the heat of impulse, shot at Kirby tensely and
breathlessly. Olson looked at the man on the horse and Lane could see
caution grow on him. A film of suspicion spread over the pupils
beneath the heavy, ragged eyebrows. "I ain't sayin' so. All I'm dead
sure of is that Hull did it."
Kirby fired a shot point-blank at him. "Nobody can be dead sure of
that unless he saw him do it."
"Mebbe some one saw him do it. Folks don't tell all they know." Olson
looked across the desert beyond the palpitating heat waves to the
mountains in the distance.
"No. That's tough sometimes on innocent people, too."
"Meanin' this nephew of old Cunningham. He'll get out all right."
"Will he? There's a girl under suspicion, too. She had no more to do
with it than I had, but she's likely to get into mighty serious trouble
just the same."
"I ain't read anything in the papers about any girl," Olson answered
sullenly.
"No, it hasn't got to the papers yet. But it will. It's up to every
man who knows anything about this to come clean."
"Is it?" The farmer looked bleakly at his visitor. "Seems to me you
take a lot of interest in this. Who are you, anyhow?"
"My name is Kirby Lane."
"Nephew of the old man?"
"Yes."
Olson gave a snort of dry, splenetic laughter. "And you're out here
sellin' registered Herefords."
"I have some for sale. But that's not why I came to see you."
"Why did you come, then?" asked the Scandinavian, his blue eyes hard
and defiant.
"I wanted to have a look at the man who wrote the note to James
Cunningham threatenin' to dry-gulch him if he ever came to Dry Valley
again."
It was a center shot. Kirby was sure of it. He read it in the man's
face before anger began to gather in it.
"I'm the man who wrote that letter, am I?" The lips of Olson were
drawn back in a vicious snarl.
"You're the man."
"You can prove that, o' course."
"Yes."
"How?"
"By your handwritin'. I've seen three specimens of it to-day."
"Where?"
"One at the court-house, one at the bank that holds your note, an' the
third at the office of the 'Enterprise.' You wrote an article urgin'
the Dry Valley people to fight Cunningham. That article, in your own
handwritin', is in my pocket right now."
"I didn't tell them to gun him, did I?"
"That's not the point. What I'm gettin' at is that the same man wrote
the article that wrote the letter to Cunningham."
"Prove it! Prove it!"
"The paper used in both cases was torn from the same tablet. The
writin' is the same."
"You've got a nerve to come out here an' tell me I'm the man that
killed Cunningham," Olson flung out, his face flushing darkly.
"I'm not sayin' that."
"What are you sayin', then? Shoot it at me straight."
"If I thought you had killed Cunningham I wouldn't be here now. What I
thought when I came was that you might know somethin' about it. I
didn't come out here to trap you. My idea is that Hull did it. But
I've made up my mind you're hidin' somethin'. I'm sure of it. You as
good as told me so. What is it?" Kirby, resting easy in the saddle
with his weight on one stirrup, looked straight into the rancher's eyes
as he asked the question.
"I'd be likely to tell you if I was, wouldn't I?" jeered Olson.
"Why not? Better tell me than wait for the police to third-degree you.
If you're not in this killin' why not tell what you know? I've told my
story."
"After they spotted you in the court-room," the farmer retorted. "An'
how do I know you told all you know? Mebbe you're keepin' secrets,
too."
Kirby took this without batting an eye. "An innocent man hasn't
anything to fear," he said.
"Hasn't he?" Olson picked up a stone and flung it at a pile of rocks
he had gathered fifty yards away. He was left-handed. "How do you
know he hasn't? Say, just for argument, I do know somethin'. Say I
practically saw Cunningham killed an' hadn't a thing to do with it.
Could I get away with a story like that? You know darned well I
couldn't. Wouldn't the lawyers want to know howcome I to be so handy
to the place where the killin' was, right at the very time it took
place, me who is supposed to have threatened to bump him off myself?
Sure they would. I'd be tyin' a noose round my own neck."
"Do you know who killed my uncle?" demanded Lane point-blank. "Did you
see it done?"
Olson's eyes narrowed. A crafty light shone through the slitted lids.
"Hold yore hawsses. I ain't said I knew a thing. Not a thing. I was
stringin' you."
Kirby knew he had overshot the mark. He had been too eager and had
alarmed the man. He was annoyed at himself. It would take time and
patience and finesse to recover lost ground. Shrewdly he guessed at
the rancher's state of mind. The man wanted to tell something, was
divided in mind whether to come forward as a witness or keep silent.
His evidence, it was clear enough, would implicate Hull; but, perhaps
indirectly, it would involve himself, too.
"Well, whatever it is you know, I hope you'll tell it," the cattleman
said. "But that's up to you, not me. If Hull is the murderer, I want
the crime fastened on him. I don't want him to get off scot free. An'
that's about what's goin' to happen. The fellow's guilty, I believe,
but we can't prove it."
"Can't we? I ain't sure o' that." Again, through the narrowed lids,
wary guile glittered. "Mebbe we can when the right time comes."
"I doubt it." Lane spoke casually and carelessly. "Any testimony
against him loses force if it's held out too long. The question comes
up, why didn't the witness come right forward at once. No, I reckon
Hull will get away with it--if he really did it."
"Don't you think it," Olson snapped out. "They've pretty nearly got
enough now to convict him."
The rough rider laughed cynically. "Convict him! They haven't enough
against him even to make an arrest. They've got a dozen times as much
against me an' they turned me loose. He's quite safe if he keeps his
mouth shut--an' he will."
Olson flung a greasewood shrub on a pile of brush. His mind, Kirby
could see, was busy with the problem before it. The man's caution and
his vindictive desire for vengeance were at war. He knew something,
evidence that would tend to incriminate Hull, and he was afraid to
bring it to the light of day. He worked automatically, and the man on
horseback watched him. On that sullen face Kirby could read fury,
hatred, circumspection, suspicion, the lust for revenge.
The man's anger barked at Lane. "Well, what you waitin' for?" he asked
harshly.
"Nothin'. I'm goin' now." He wrote his Denver address on a card. "If
you find there is any evidence against Hull an' want to talk it over,
perhaps you'd rather come to me than the police. I'm like you. If
Hull did it I want him found guilty. So long."
He handed Olson his card. The man tossed it away. Kirby turned his
horse toward town. Five minutes later he looked back. The settler had
walked across to the place where he had thrown the card and was
apparently picking it up.
The man from Wyoming smiled. He had a very strong hunch that Olson
would call on him within a week or ten days. Of course he was
disappointed, but he knew the game had to be played with patience. At
least he had learned something. The man had in his possession evidence
vitally important. Kirby meant to get that evidence from him somehow
by hook or crook.
What was it the man knew? Was it possible he could have killed
Cunningham himself and be trying to throw the blame of it on Hull? Was
that why he was afraid to come out in the open with what testimony he
had? Kirby could not forget the bitter hatred of Cunningham the farmer
cherished. That hatred extended to Hull. What a sweet revenge to kill
one enemy and let the other one hang for the crime!
A detail jumped to his mind. Olson had picked up a stone and thrown it
to the rock pile--with his left hand.