TWO OLD MEN
The following morning at eleven o’clock Johnny and Tony sent their
tired ponies across the newfangled concrete bridge which spanned the
Humboldt on upper Bridge Street.
Winnemucca lay somnolent in the midday sun, the street so deep with
dust that it softened the sound of their horses’ hoofs to a dull
pad-pad as they continued on past Rinehart’s general store and the
new State Bank building. The two men had ridden all night. In fact,
they had put a staggering number of miles behind them since they had
left Standing Rock the preceding day.
Johnny swung off his horse in front of the Eldorado Hotel. He had
long since decided that he would find Molly registered there. His
method of ascertaining this was indeed strange, for, instead of
going to the desk where the register lay open to public view, he
made directly for the bar. Whitey Carr, the bartender, nodded to
him. Johnny said “How?” and ordered a drink. It was to win this bit
of recognition that he had entered the room. He had been there often
enough to have more than a nodding acquaintance with Whitey and his
co-workers. In truth, Johnny’s intimacy with the craft was well-nigh
universal.
Being remembered, and thusly armed for his attack on the register,
he searched for some written sign of the girl’s presence. Her name
did not reward him. Whitey Carr saw his perturbance and through the
swinging doors he called:
“Who you looking for, Johnny?”
Johnny’s desire to find the girl outweighed his desire for secrecy.
“Lookin’ for the old man’s daughter,” he called back to Whitey.
The bartender shook his head positively.
“Ain’t been no females here in two days,” he said. “That is,
exceptin’ some show folks.”
There was no need looking for her at the other hotels. If she were
in town she would be here. Johnny’s face wore a frown as he stepped
to the door and motioned to Tony to come in and eat.
“She ain’t here,” he said to the Basque. “We got to eat, though.
Soon as I get a few victuals inside of me I’ll prospect around.”
The restaurant was a long, narrow room set with high stools before a
wooden counter. Tony tried to make talk, but the boy was more intent
on watching the few passers-by on Bridge Street, hoping against hope
that he might catch a glimpse of the girl. But he finished his meal
of ham and eggs and pie without this coming to pass.
When he had paid their check he said to Tony:
“You’d better git a room and turn in for an hour or two. I’ll be
back soon. What we got to do won’t be done in a day.”
“For why you leave me behin’, Johnny?”
“I ain’t leavin’ you behind. I tell you, we need sleep. We may be
headin’ back for Standing Rock tonight. You turn in.”
Leaving the hotel, Johnny went down the street to Dan Secor’s shop.
Old Dan ran a second-hand store and pawnshop in addition to his
business of gunsmithing. He was going home for dinner when Johnny
hailed him.
“Hey, Dan,” the boy called, “I want to see you a minute before you
go. Open up for a second.”
“That’s you boys,” the old fellow growled. “Sit here all mornin’
long ’thout nary a customer, and soon as I gits locked up you flock
in. What you want?”
“Dan, I want you to take a look at this gun. D’you ever see it
before?”
Dan had to put his specs in position before he could answer.
“Sure; put that firin’ pin in myself. That’s an old Ross pistol.”
Johnny was all smiles.
This was the first bit of luck to come his way this day.
“I reckoned you’d fixed it up.”
“Ain’t yore gun, is it?” old Dan questioned. “Leastways, it wa’n’t
you had it in here to be fixed.”
“No. I just came by the gun accidental-like. I’m right interested in
the man what owned it, though. Suppose you got his name in your
books.”
“Umph—umph!” Dan grunted. “Ain’t, neither. I ’member he waited here
while I put in the pin. Had quite a talk.”
Johnny’s face fell. Old Dan’s words had dropped him from the clouds
to the bottomless pit. What mattered it that he had traced the dead
man’s movements to Secor’s shop? His surmising was proved correct,
but the murdered man’s identity remained a mystery, and that had to
be solved before he could proceed with any assurance of success.
Johnny cursed in his chagrin. Could you find two men in a hundred
who would have a gun repaired while they waited? Of course not! It
was just a trick of fate’s to thwart him. It wouldn’t happen so
again in a thousand years.
“You seem right put out,” Dan rejoined. “Man ain’t done nothin’?”
“Not a thing. Say, you mind tellin’ me what you two talked about?”
“Don’t know as I do. Wa’n’t nothin’ puss’nal; ’twas mostly cattle
talk, him askin’ after the brands folks was runnin’ along the river.
You know, light talk—two old men.”
The old gunsmith took off his glasses and gazed vacantly into space,
as if beholding some pleasant vista of almost forgotten years.
“Yes,” he murmured, “two old men. Him and me had been in Santa Fe
’bout the same time.” Dan clucked his lips at the memory. “Them was
the days; riotin’ ever’ night, hell poppin’ over in the Tonto,
Injuns puttin’ on the paint every now and then.”
The old man paused abruptly. Then:
“Say, Johnny!” he exclaimed. “Come to think on it, your man did say
somethin’ puss’nal. Asked me what folks said of old Kent’s
daughter.”
“What?”
Johnny’s exclamation was whipped out with such force as to startle
old Dan. Here was that draw again—Molly and the dead man. Every
place he turned he came face to face with it.
The gunsmith misunderstood the boy’s attitude. “Why, Johnny, they
wa’n’t no harm in the question. I told him folks said only good
things of Molly Kent. And he didn’t seem to set no great store by my
answer. Said he was goin’ over to the Piute Reservation; didn’t say
he was, but I knew it because he asked me if he could git to
Standing Rock from the North Fork without a-comin’ way back here.”
Johnny began to understand that the talk the two men had was of
vital importance, even though old Dan saw nothing of value in it.
The boy wondered if he should tell the old man of the murder.
Another day and he would know of it, anyhow. Better make an ally of
the old man and get him to hold his tongue. And then, too, the
surprise of telling him now might startle him into recalling some
other bit of conversation.
“Dan,” he began, “when did you have that talk?”
“’Bout six days ago, I reckon.”
“You ain’t sure?”
“Le’s see—yes, I’m sot on that. ’Twas the first of the month.”
The first of the month; this was the sixth. Tony had seen the man on
the North Fork five days ago. It fitted in!
“He didn’t say who he was goin’ to see over in the Injun country?”
“Don’t reckon he did.”
“That’s goin’ to be awfully important, Dan, because this man got
hisself killed night before last.”
“No! Not killed?”
“Killed dead. Old Aaron says he killed hisself. It’s a lie. He was
murdered. I’m aimin’ to find out who did it. And, Dan, when folks
git to talkin’ about it down here, I want you to be dumb. That man
got a rotten deal. Ain’t nobody but me goin’ to square it. What do
you say?”
“I say yes. You ain’t askin’ me nothin’.” He shook his head.
“Killed, eh? And him lookin’ to be so handy with a gun. It wa’n’t no
fair fight.”
“You said somethin’. I know he was on the North Fork. Went to the
Rock from there. But there was two days in between. Do you suppose
he was on the Reservation all that time? Can’t you remember who he
was goin’ to see over there? Was it Ames, the trader, or the agent?
Maybe it was old Thunder Bird!”
“No, Johnny, he didn’t say. But he did tell me he was comin’ back!
Said he’d be here Saturday.”
“Saturday? That’s today.” Johnny whistled a surprised note or two.
Dan watched him as he walked back and forth, hands thrust deep into
his pockets. “Saturday,” the boy muttered. “Comin’ back here. Say,
Dan, what would he be comin’ back here for? Was he aimin’ to meet
somebody?”
“That might ’a’ been it. Or mail—he might ’a’ been expectin’ a
letter.”
“That’s it!” Johnny pounded the counter vehemently. “He was comin’
back for his mail!”
Johnny was so excited that the noon-time pedestrians stared at him
as they passed.
The boy was unmindful of them until a girl’s mocking laugh reached
his ears. He turned, then, to stare her down; but the expression on
his face changed with magic swiftness, for, standing there watching
him, her face pressed close to old Dan’s window, was Molly Kent.
She had been watching him these many seconds. A roguish light swam
in her eyes as Johnny’s mouth sagged with amazement.
“Ride him, cowboy!” she called. “Ride him!”
It was the old Diamond-Bar battle-cry.
Johnny shook his head dully. “I’m damned!” was all he could say.