playin’ yore cards, Monk—remember this.”
Clark scowled heavily. He had not counted on this.
“Just what things do yuh mean, Hank?” he asked.
“Anythin’ affectin’ Joy and Curley.”
“Oh. Well, go ahead and be a —— fool, Hank. If you want that girl to
starve to death with a rattle-headed cowpuncher, it’s yore business, I
reckon.”
Monk Clark picked up his reins and climbed into his saddle.
“Yuh can tell the sheriff that I’m here when he wants me,” said Gregory.
Clark laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“Don’t be a fool. I’ve been yore friend a long time, Hank. I didn’t
think you’d turn me down. But if I happen to feel like it, I’ll tell the
sheriff.”
He turned his horse and rode away. Joy and Calamity stopped their labors
long enough to watch him ride down the road. They were laughing as they
resumed their planting. Gregory leaned against the stable wall, his mind
going back to a day, almost ten years before.
* * * * *
It happened in a little county in a far corner of the State. Gregory was
riding through, and joined with two congenial fellows, who were well
mounted. Almost without warning they were fired upon by several mounted
men.
Without any inkling that he was with two horse-thieves, Gregory returned
their fire. The battle did not last long. Both of the thieves were shot
from their saddles. Gregory saw one of the posse fall.
It was only through the speed of his horse that Gregory had been able to
escape the posse. Monk Clark, who had been one of the posse, recognized
Gregory’s horse when Gregory came to his ranch that night.
Believing that honesty was the best policy, Gregory told his story to
Clark, who seemed to accept Gregory’s explanation. It was then that
Clark told him that the sheriff had been killed and that his story would
not save him if the authorities knew where he was.
The two horse-thieves were dead; so their testimony would not be
available. Clark explained that the sheriff was well liked in that
country; so well liked, in fact, that he—Gregory—would probably not be
accorded a fair trial.
For over a week, he remained in hiding, until the excitement had died
down, before leaving the ranch. Clark had kept him posted, and Gregory
knew that they were looking for him for the killing of the sheriff.
Gregory had made his way back to the Moon River country, and later Monk
Clark had acquired the Tin Cup outfit. But in all this time, Clark had
never—until today—mentioned the incident.
It had been the natural thing for Gregory to assist Clark in any way
possible, and Gregory had thought that Clark believed his story at the
time of his escape. But guilty or innocent, Gregory knew that he could
never prove it to a jury.
He wondered if Clark would use his knowledge. Gregory had never told it
to any one else. Joy’s mother had died before this happened, and Joy was
living with her mother’s sister in another State.
Gregory knew now that Monk Clark wanted Joy, and that he would do
everything possible to prevent Joy from marrying Curley Adams. Gregory
knew that Joy disliked Monk Clark and would be greatly amused at even a
hint of her marrying him.
But Gregory was not worried about Monk doing anything to Joy. What he
could and might do to Curley was a different matter. He knew Monk Clark
for a determined man, and it seemed that Monk’s conscience was fairly
flexible.
He wanted to tell Curley to be on his guard, but it would be a difficult
thing to explain without telling more than he cared to tell. It was
nearly supper time when Curley rode in and announced that he was tired
of his own cooking.
He exhibited some bruised fingernails as evidence that he had been
working.
“Sawed my knee-cap three times today,” he declared. “I’ve heard of
architects puttin’ their souls into their work; but I’m puttin’ my flesh
and blood in mine. Every darned nail I’ve got is hinged in the middle.
What I need is a wide-faced hammer and some tacks.”
“Joy cooked some apple pie,” announced Calamity. “When we git through
with the crusts I’m goin’ to sew ’em together and make a cover for my
old saddle. Rawhide! Whooee! I knowed a cook back in 1866 that made a
pie and—”
“You was in the penitentiary in 1866,” retorted Joy.
“Shore I was. This feller was the penitentiary cook, Joy. This cook says
to me, ‘Calamity, I’m——’”
“The penitentiary cooks don’t speak to common prisoners.”
“Is that so? Huh! He wasn’t any better than I was. We was both in for
the same crime—killin’ a man.”
“The same man?” grinned Curley.
“Yessir. By golly, it shore was a queer deal. Happened in a saloon. Me
and this here cook are facin’ the bar, when a jigger walks in on the
other side of me. Him and this cook has had trouble, and the cook is
layin’ for him.
“I seen this cook pull his gun, and the other feller backs away from the
bar. Well, sir, I steps in between ’em and tries to block the cook from
shootin’, but it wasn’t no use. This danged cook shot me through the arm
and the bullet killed this jigger as dead as a petrified fish. We both
got sent to the penitentiary for it.”
“Calamity, yo’re an awful liar,” said Curley. “Why should they send you
to the penitentiary for what the cook did?”
“Well, sir,” grinned Calamity, “the jury said that it was through me
that this feller got killed, so I—ha, ha, ha, ha!”
Calamity did a jig-step into the kitchen, slapping himself on the leg.
“That is like most of Calamity’s stories of 1866,” laughed Joy. “He will
chuckle over it to himself for a week.”
“And swear at everything and everybody the rest of the time,” grinned
Curley.
“That’s true, Curley. But Calamity is awful human. Get him alone and
he’s different. He doesn’t really hate any one.”
Gregory came in and shook hands with Curley. Joy went to the kitchen to
help Calamity with the supper, and Gregory took Curley out on the front
porch.
“Curley, I want to warn yuh to look out,” said Gregory.
He had spoken so abruptly that Curley looked at him in amazement.
“What about, Gregory?”
“I can’t tell yuh any more, Curley. Mebbe I’m barkin’ up the wrong tree—
mebbe not. But you know how easy it is to frame a crime on to a man.
Keep yore eyes peeled, son.”
“This ain’t another 1866 joke is it?” asked Curley.
“I wish it was a joke.”
Curley scratched his nose and looked thoughtfully at the man who was
soon to become his father-in-law. Gregory was not joking, Curley knew.
He glanced back toward the door.
“Nothin’ concernin’ Joy, is it?”
“If anythin’ happened to you, it would affect her, don’t yuh think?”
“Well—yes. Can’t yuh give me any more information?”
“No. It may only be a suspicion, son. I hope it is. But I had to tell
yuh.”
“But why would any one want to frame a crime on me?”
“Yo’re figurin’ on marryin’ Joy, ain’t yuh?”
“You bet!”
“Uh-huh. Never stopped to think that there might be other men who would
like to do the same thing, have yuh?”
“Oh!”
Curley’s eyes widened momentarily and he started to say a name, but shut
his lips tightly. He knew what Gregory meant, now. And Gregory knew that
there was no need to mention any names.
“I’m much obliged,” said Curley slowly. “I’ll kinda keep my eye
peeled—thank yuh.”
Calamity was yelling for them to “come and get it!” so they changed the
conversation and went to the dining-room.
“I heard that yuh busted a feller in the jaw the other day, Curley,”
said Calamity. “That new feller on the Tin Cup.”
“Moran,” said Gregory.
“It wasn’t anythin’,” smiled Curley. “He got fresh.”
“Yeah, I heard he did. Worked for the Lazy H a while. I seen him ridin’
with Sam Ertle. Know anythin’ about him?”
“Not much, Calamity. He was with the Tin Cup while I was there, but we
didn’t have much to do with each other. He came to work while I was sick
in bed.”
“You had quite a time, didn’t yuh?” observed Gregory. “Monk Clark
thought yuh was goin’ to have pneumonia.”
“I guess I did almost have it. They kept me in bed for over a week.”
“And I came very near coming home,” said Joy. “I didn’t get a letter
from you for over two weeks.”
“Well, I couldn’t help it, Joy. By golly, I sure was helpless. That
Crescent City doctor didn’t know what to do. The boys took turns settin’
up with me. It was mighty fine of ’em.”
“How’s the ranch comin’?” asked Calamity.
“Kinda slow. Gee, I never knew there was as many things to be repaired.
It’s worse than building a new place. But I’ve got one room rain-tight,
I think. It’s fun though.”
“That’s what love does to yuh,” said Calamity. “I remember a feller that
fell in love back in 1866—”
But that was as far as he got, because Curley reached for the
coffee-pot, and Calamity subsided with a chuckle.
Curley did not tell Joy what her father had told him. He knew that
Gregory had meant Monk Clark, and he wondered just what Monk would be
able to do. They had always been friendly enough—as friendly as Monk
usually was with any of his cowboys.
Curley had urged Joy to marry him at once, but she told him to wait
until he had fixed up the old ranch. Calamity nearly floored them all by
offering to come down and help Curley with his carpenter work.
“Well, that’s sure fine,” said Curley. “But do you know anything about
carpentering, Calamity?”
“Do I? Huh! Say, I knowed a carpenter in 1866—”
All of which was sufficient proof that Calamity knew all about the
building trade.
* * * * *
That same afternoon Skeeter Bill sat on a counter in Mike Gower’s store,
playing with a three-legged gray cat whose name was Shy. Old Mike
lounged on the counter and puffed at his old pipe, which sizzled like a
frying egg.
“Curley Adams might make a go of the old ranch,” said Mike thoughtfully.
“He’s a good sort of a kid, yuh know. The old place ain’t worth much,
and it didn’t cost him much.”
“Looks kinda tumble-down,” nodded Skeeter. “Still, I like to see a young
feller try to make a start. Yuh might hand me down a box of forty-fives,
Gower.”
The old storekeeper lifted a box of cartridges off a shelf and slid them
over to Skeeter, who examined the label of the box.
“You carry quite a stock of cartridges, don’t yuh?” observed Skeeter.
“I have to. Of course, there’s certain sizes that I never have any call
for. Nobody shoots anythin’ smaller than a .38. Mostly .44’s and .45’s.”
“Ever have any calls for .41’s?”
“Not very much. Curley Adams has a .41. He’s one of them fellers that
likes to experiment; so he has me buy a reloadin’ set for him. He tries
different kinds of powder and all that. I dunno what he finally decides
to do. One of the boys at the Tin Cup said that Curley had ruined every
tin-can on the ranch.”
“Loadin’ his own shells, eh?”
“I s’pose so. Anyway, he ain’t asked me to stock any .41’s since I got
him that outfit.”
Skeeter opened his box and filled the loops in his belt. The fact that
Curley Adams owned a reloading set for a .41 revolver, and used a .41,
made it interesting knowledge.
“Don’t any one else use a .41 around here?” asked Skeeter.
“Not that I know of. Mostly everybody buys their shells from me. I can
get yuh some if yuh—”
“No, I didn’t want any. I never used one.”
He patted the gray cat, adjusted his belt and walked back to the office,
where he found Kaintuck playing solitaire.
“What did yuh find out?” asked Kaintuck.
“I found out that Curley Adams owns a .41, and also owns a reloading
outfit.”
Kaintuck whistled softly, as he gathered up his cards.
“Anybody else around here own a .41, Skeeter?”
“I reckon not.”
“It means that we’ll have to investigate Mr. Adams, eh?”
“I dunno, Kaintuck. Mebbe somebody else owns a .41. We’ll keep this
under our hats and see what else we can find out.”
A little later they went to the Half-Moon Saloon, where they met Sam
Ertle, owner of the Lazy H, and “Frisco” Larkin, one of Ertle’s
cowpunchers. Frisco was a tall, saturnine sort of person, with
buck-teeth and a bald head.
Ertle was not a congenial sort of cowman. He was not inclined to
conversation and seemed to mind his own business fairly well. Some one
had told him about the silver robbery, and it was the topic of
conversation when Skeeter and Kaintuck came in.
“Jist how in —— could yuh steal a thousand pounds of silver?” Frisco
wanted to know, but no one seemed able to enlighten him.
“And if yuh got it, what would yuh do with it?” asked Frisco.
“You might ask the sheriff,” smiled the bartender.
Frisco squinted at Skeeter Bill closely. He had imbibed a few drinks and
desired an argument.
“All right; I ask him,” said Frisco. “From what I’ve heard about him, he
don’t know a —— of a lot; so I don’t expect him to answer my question.”
“Then I’m not goin’ to disappoint yuh,” smiled Skeeter.
Frisco laughed and pounded on the bar. “Name yore weapons, gents. I’ve
found a sheriff that ain’t afraid to admit he’s ignorant. Ha, ha, ha,
ha, ha! Ain’t goin’ to disappoint me, eh?”
Frisco fairly leered at Skeeter, who kept his temper admirably, much to
the disgust of Kaintuck.
“I never like to disappoint anybody,” said Skeeter evenly.
“Sure yuh don’t,” fleered Frisco. “Everybody says that about yuh. They
don’t expect anythin’ from yuh—and they don’t get anythin’. Yuh sure are
some sheriff, I’d tell a man.”
“Yeah, I’m good,” admitted Skeeter slowly.
“Well, for ——’s sake!” exploded Kaintuck disgustedly.
Frisco squinted at Kaintuck closely, blinking his eyes as though the
deputy was of some strange species. He ignored Skeeter now,
concentrating entirely on Kaintuck.
“Now, whatcha s’pose this is?” he queried.
Kaintuck’s left hand went slowly up to the brim of his wide sombrero,
crumpled the edge of it slightly, as though about to wipe off his brow
with the back of his hand.
* * * * *
Then, as quick as a flash, he whipped the hat off his head and slashed
Frisco across the face with it. It was done so quickly and took Frisco
so utterly by surprize that he staggered back against the bar, throwing
both hands up to his eyes.
As Kaintuck’s left hand swept aside and as Frisco’s hands went up to
protect his eyes, Kaintuck took a half step forward and drove his right
fist into Frisco’s anatomy, just below the arch of his breast-bone.
It was a terrific punch. Frisco’s hands dropped limply, his eyes rolled,
and he slumped down between the rail and the bar, knocked completely
out. Kaintuck stepped back, put on his hat and leaned one elbow against
the bar, looking down curiously at Frisco, who had not moved again.
“Nobody but a —— fool ever starts trouble and ain’t set to meet it,”
said Kaintuck dryly.
“There’s a lot of truth in that,” said the bartender.
Ertle did not say a word, but managed to drag Frisco away from the bar
and stretch him out in the middle of the room.
“You sure sung him to sleep,” stated the bartender, as he walked around
the bar, carrying a glass of water, which he threw in Frisco’s face.
The shock of the cold water partly revived Frisco, who was able to sit
up and groan hollowly and clutch at his stomach.
“He won’t give a —— what the cook puts on the table tonight,” said
Kaintuck.
Ertle gave Kaintuck a side glance, but kept his lips shut.
After another minute Frisco was able to get to his feet and slump back
into a chair. He was still a mighty sick man.
“How’r yuh comin’, Frisco?” asked Ertle.
Frisco shook his head, his lips compressed painfully. Then he got to his
feet and went outside with Ertle, where he leaned on the hitch-rack
until his breathing apparatus began to function normally again.
“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t hit him, Skeeter,” complained
Kaintuck. “Are you gettin’ meek, cowboy?”
“I’m the sheriff,” grinned Skeeter. “I ain’t got no right to fight
everybody that disagrees with me.”
“Uh-huh? Say, that don’t affect me, does it?”
“It didn’t seem to. But yuh don’t need to feel contrite over it. That
pelican was cravin’ trouble.”
“He was.” The bartender was emphatic.
“Well, his cravin’ ought to be satisfied,” grinned Kaintuck. “Unless the
man is a reg’lar hog for punishment, he ought to be plumb pleased over
his success.”
“He didn’t show good sense”—thus the bartender, polishing the top of the
bar industriously—“wanted trouble and didn’t look for it. He’s mostly
always like that when he’s drinkin’.”
Kaintuck walked to the door and looked toward the hitch-rack, where
Ertle and Frisco were having a heated argument. Ertle had hold of
Frisco’s arm and was trying to dissuade him from doing something.
“Well, go ahead and be a —— fool, then!” snorted Ertle.
Frisco yanked away from him and started back toward the saloon door. It
was evident to Kaintuck that Frisco was coming back to wipe out the
disgrace.
He stepped aside, flattened himself against the wall, and the maddened
Frisco walked past him, squinting at the bar, where Skeeter and the
bartender were standing, wondering what it was all about. Kaintuck saw
that Frisco had drawn his gun and was carrying it behind him.
For a moment Frisco stared at the two men, and in that moment Kaintuck’s
revolver barrel rapped him sharply across the knuckles of his right
hand, causing him to drop the gun. He whirled quickly and found himself
looking into the muzzle of Kaintuck’s .45.
Kaintuck kicked Frisco’s gun aside and motioned for Frisco to get out of
the saloon.
“You must be one of them fellers who never know when they’re whipped,
ain’t yuh?” queried Kaintuck. “I ought to pistol-whip yuh right here and
give the doctor somethin’ to sew up, you bat-eared ant-eater. Git on
yore bronc and go home.”
Kaintuck followed Frisco to the hitch-rack. Ertle had come back to the
saloon door, but preceded Frisco and Kaintuck to the rack. They mounted
their horses and rode out of town, with never a backward glance, while
Skeeter and the bartender stood in the doorway and grinned at each
other.
“You’ve got a real capable deputy,” observed the bartender.
“Sh-h-h-h-h!” cautioned Skeeter. “Don’t let him hear it. The first thing
he knows he’ll be thinkin’ he is somebody.”
Kaintuck swaggered back to the saloon and picked up Frisco’s gun.
“Give it to the bartender,” said Skeeter. “He can give it to Frisco the
first time he shows up.”
Kaintuck was examining the gun intently, but did not give it to the
bartender. Moran and Monk Clark came in. They nodded to Skeeter and
Kaintuck, who took advantage of their coming to leave the saloon.
Back in their office Kaintuck took the gun from his pocket and handed it
to Skeeter. It was a Colt .41.
“That’s why I didn’t give it to the bartender,” said Kaintuck. “And I
don’t want yuh to forget that that is my clue.”
“It sure is,” grinned Skeeter. “And you earned it, cowboy. That makes
two .41’s in evidence. If we get any more, we’re up against it. You
better look out for Frisco. He came back there to kill yuh, that’s a
cinch.”
“He sure did. I’d like to know why he tried to pick trouble with you,
Skeeter. We’ve never done anythin’ to him.”
“Mebbe he ain’t killed no sheriff yet,” grinned Skeeter. “He strikes me
as bein’ one of them fellers that won’t be satisfied until they’ve
killed a sheriff. He’s a bad boy.”
“He ain’t so bad as he used to was,” grinned Kaintuck. “If he wants his
gun back he’s got to say ‘please, Mister Kennedy’—which he won’t do; so
I’ll keep the gun.”
It was about fifteen minutes later that Clark and Moran rode past the
office, going south. Moran gave them a friendly wave, but Clark did not
turn his head. They had disappeared when Kaintuck saw the bartender
standing in the door of the Half-Moon, waving at him.
Curiosity impelled them both to go back to the saloon.
“Clark didn’t stop at your place, eh?” said the dispenser of drinks.
“Why should he?” asked Skeeter.
“Well, from what they said I thought sure he would. They’re on the way
to the Lazy H to see Sam Ertle. It seems that Monk Clark found a
yearlin’ heifer today, which had a vented brand on its right hip, and a
fresh Box X on its left shoulder.”
“Yeah?” Skeeter’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Uh-huh. Meanin’ that—” He
hesitated for a moment. “On the right hip, eh? Who brands on the right
hip?”
“The Lazy H.”
“Anybody else around here?”
“No. The Tin Cup brand on the right shoulder, HG on the left hip—and the
Box X on the left shoulder.”
“Then they must ’a’ vented a Lazy H, eh?”
“Looks like it. I heard Monk and Moran talkin’ about it. It seems that
Monk had started for the Gregory ranch, but run into this heifer. He
said the new brand made him suspicious; so he roped the animal and put
it in an old corral on Deer Creek, between here and the Box X. He cut
back to the road and run into Moran who was comin’ to town.”
“It’s kinda funny he didn’t come to me,” mused Skeeter. “Bein’ the
sheriff, I’m interested in cattle stealin’.”
“Yuh ought to be,” smiled the bartender.
Skeeter paid for a round of drinks and led the way back to the office,
going straight through the place and out to the little stable at the
rear. Kaintuck looked at him curiously, but saddled his horse without
comment.
Frisco Larkin was in a vile frame of mind when he got back to the Lazy H
ranch. It was the first time he had ever been completely knocked out—the
first time he had ever lost his six-shooter. To a man like him nothing
could have been more humiliating.
* * * * *
Frisco was not endowed with an overabundance of imagination, but he had
a certain amount of pride, and it galled him deeply to think that he had
been whipped. As he rode along through the dust he removed his hat and
wiped his bald head with a flirting motion of his hand.
His stomach was still fluttering, and there was a great vacancy beneath
his breast-bone. He shifted painfully in his saddle, spat between his
front teeth and spurred his horse savagely. He wanted revenge on
something. Then he yanked cruelly on the reins, almost throwing his
horse off the road.
He roweled the animal savagely and raced it all the way to the Tin Cup
ranch, where he dismounted and sat down in the shade of the stable,
trying to ease his cramping insides.
Van Cleve, Ertle’s other cowboy, a stolid-faced person, with scraggly,
yellow mustaches and a crooked mouth came down from the ranch-house,
wondering what was the matter with Frisco. His teeth were like aged
tombstones in a badly-kept cemetery—sadly out of line.
“You got a stummick-ache?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Et somethin’ yuh hadn’t ort to, eh?”
“Na-a-aw! Deputy sheriff hit me in the belly.”
Van Cleve filled his pipe slowly, lighted it, and sat down with Frisco,
who told his story in meager detail.
“I’m prob’ly goin’ to kill him for that,” declared Frisco, after his
story was finished.
Van Cleve had little to say. He gave Frisco another gun and a box of
cartridges, closing the incident, as far as he was concerned. But it was
not closed as far as Frisco was concerned.
“And when yuh went back to kill him, he took yore gun?” asked Van Cleve.
It seemed marvelous to Van Cleve; so marvelous that he picked his teeth
thoughtfully with the blade of his pocket-knife.
“Bad hombre,” he said, after careful consideration.
“Hit me when I wasn’t lookin’,” said Frisco.
“What was yuh lookin’ at?”
“Oh, ——!” Frisco felt too badly to explain. “Did yuh ever get hit real
hard right here?” He indicated his solar plexus.
Van Cleve shook his head.
“Never got hit anywhere, except in the back.”
“Somebody sneak up on yuh, Van?”
“Na-a-a-aw, ——! They outrun me.”
“You think this is funny, don’tcha?”—indignantly.
“’F I do, it’s because I can’t help m’self, Frisco. You poked yore beak
into the molasses and got it stuck, tha’sall.”
“Yeah, and I’ll poke it some more, if I want to.”
“Tha’sso? Frisco, you’ve got intestinal trouble, ain’tcha?”
“What do yuh mean?”
“Yo’re overbalanced.”
“Meanin’ what?”
“Too much guts and too few brains. I dunno how in —— he ever knocked yuh
down.”
“That will be about all,” said Ertle warningly. “There’s been enough
fighting.”
As Ertle turned toward the house, Monk Clark and Frank Moran came in
sight. Ertle stopped and waited for them to ride up. Clark and Ertle
exchanged nods of greeting, and Clark came right to the point.
“I’ve got a heifer in the old corral on Deer Creek, waitin’ for you to
look it over, Sam. There’s a fresh brand vent on the right hip, and a
new Box X on the left shoulder. Kinda thought yuh might be interested.”
Ertle scowled heavily.
“Tha’sso?” He turned to Frisco and Van Cleve. “Saddle up the horses.”
Ertle walked to the house and came back carrying a rifle in a scabbard,
which he fastened to his saddle, when Frisco came with the horse.
“Old Deer Creek corral, eh?” he asked Monk Clark.
“Yeah. We’ll ride over with yuh, Sam.”
“The more the merrier. Did yuh tell the sheriff?”
“I did not.”
“Suits me. Let’s go.”
The five men rode away from the Lazy H, heading straight for the bridge
across Moon River, after which they swung to the northeast, passing
between Crescent City and the Gregory ranch.
It was only about eight miles, but they were unable to make much speed
across the hills. There was little conversation. They struck Deer Creek
about a quarter of a mile below the old corral, but rode along the
ridges to a point above the small flat where the old corral was located.
Even at a distance they could see the spotted yearling, moving about the
dusty old enclosure. They went down the hill, crossed the little creek
and drew up at the corral fence. Clark and Ertle dismounted and climbed
over the fence, while the yearling circled wildly. The process of
branding an animal does not serve to make it gentle in any way.
* * * * *
The two men stopped near the center of the corral. Ertle was carrying a
coiled lariat, which he shook out and roped the animal on the first
throw. It bawled and protested, but he drew it up to an old
snubbing-post in the center of the corral, while they looked it over.
Ertle walked around it, his eyes half closed, and came back to Monk
Clark whose face registered extreme wonder.
But Clark did not speak. He looked at Ertle, as though wondering what
thoughts might lie behind the keen eyes of the wiry little cattleman.
And Clark knew he was treading on thin ice.
Ertle stepped away from him, circled the animal and came back to face
Clark. He pointed at the yearling.
“Does this happen to be the one yuh mentioned, Clark?” Ertle’s voice was
pitched low.
“Well, by ——, it looks like it! But—”
The other cowboys had climbed the fence and were gazing at the animal.
On its two hips were burned splotches, where brands had been eliminated,
as also was a burned area on its left shoulder. But on the right
shoulder, clumsily drawn but unmistakable, was the outline of the Tin
Cup brand.
“I don’t understand—” began Clark, his face black with wrath. He choked
raspingly. “When I left here that yearlin’—”
Ertle’s sarcastic laugh interrupted him.
“Somebody was just as smart as you was, Monk. It looks like the deadwood
was on the Tin Cup, and not on the Box X.”
“You don’t think I’d slap my brand on a Lazy H, and then call yore
attention to it, do yuh?” demanded Monk belligerently.
“Nobody has proved it to be a Lazy H. With three vented brands on it,
yuh can call it what yuh like. It looks to me as though it was a Tin Cup
right now. If I was in yore place, I’d herd that —— critter home and
make veal out of it before anybody else finds out what you’ve done.”
Ertle turned on his heel, climbed the fence and went back to his horse,
followed by Frisco and Van Cleve. They mounted and rode away, while
Clark leaned against the snubbing-post and swore roundly, much to the
amusement of Frank Moran, who perched on the top pole of the corral and
smoked a cigaret.
Monk Clark walked over to the corral fence and watched Ertle and his two
men ride away. He looked back at the calf and swore witheringly. He knew
positively that some one had found this calf and had branded it again,
wiping out all trace of the brand which would incriminate Curley Adams.
Clark walked back and examined the brands closely, while the calf bawled
some more and kicked up dust. Satisfied that there was no trace left of
any original brand, Clark turned to Moran.
“That —— pup of an Adams saw me corral that heifer,” complained Clark.
“He sneaked in and balled up everythin’.”
“What would yuh expect him to do?” grinned Moran. “If I was in yore
place, I’d drop the whole thing, Clark. You haven’t any proof that
Curley Adams did the job, and if Adams hears about it you might get in
trouble.”
Clark cursed witheringly, as he took Ertle’s rope off the animal, threw
the rope aside and let down the bars.
“Goin’ to take Ertle’s advice?” asked Moran, as they mounted their
horses.
“What in —— else can I do? Be a —— of a fine thing for somebody to find
a heifer with three vented brands on it—and my brand put on with a
runnin’-iron.”
Monk Clark rode into the corral to chase the yearling out, when Moran
whistled warningly. Skeeter Bill and Kaintuck had ridden out of the
brush just above the corral, and were coming toward them.
Monk Clark spat out a curse against all sheriffs and other meddling
fools, and tried to make the yearling break for freedom. But with the
perversity of its species, the yearling ignored the opening and ran
around behind Clark.
Clark stopped, shifted his gun and wiped the perspiration from his face,
while the calf came close to him, nosing out toward the man who would
have given many dollars to have been miles away at this time. Clark
looked appealingly at Moran, but that worthy was watching the officers
approach, a half grin on his thin lips.
Skeeter and Kaintuck rode up to the corral opening, nodding pleasantly
to both men. Clark glowered heavily, but Moran wore an amused smile. It
was nothing to him.
“You prob’ly didn’t know we were in town when yuh went out to the Lazy
H,” said Skeeter slowly, eyeing the heifer. “We heard that somethin’ was
wrong out here; so we came out.”
“Oh, the —— you did!” snorted Clark.
Skeeter and Kaintuck were looking closely at the vented brands, and now
they looked at each other.
“That darned bartender never got it right,” observed Kaintuck. “He said
that a Lazy H had been vented and a Box X run on. Shucks, there’s been
three brands vented and the Tin Cup run on.”
Skeeter dismounted and came inside the corral. Clark eyed him narrowly,
wondering just what this lean-faced, inquisitive-looking sheriff might
do in a case of this kind. He watched anxiously as Skeeter circled the
animal, looking closely at the burned spots.
Skeeter seemed seriously amused, as he straightened up, hitched up his
belt and looked knowingly at Kaintuck, who had ridden his horse up close
to the fence and was rolling a cigaret. Clark coughed slightly,
apologetically.
Skeeter looked at Monk Clark curiously.
“We had a hard time findin’ this old corral, Clark.”
“Yuh did, eh?”
“Yeah. I sure wish you’d tell us about them vented brands.”
Clark shut his lips tightly and there was a strained expression around
his eyes. He realized that he was in bad. Skeeter turned to Moran.
“What do you know about it, Moran?”
“Not a thing, Sheriff. He told me that a Lazy H had been vented and a
Box X run on. We got Sam Ertle to come over—and this is what we found.”
“By ——, I’d like to know who done it!” exploded Clark.
“Uh-huh,” Skeeter nodded thoughtfully. “I dunno who would steal cattle
for you, Clark—do you?”
Clark bristled angrily.
“Look here, Sheriff! Don’t you—”
“I’m not doin’ anythin’,” protested Skeeter angrily. “It looks to me as
though the heifer belongs to you.”
“It does not!”
“All right. I’ll take it back to town with me.”
“Back to town? What in —— do yuh want to take it to town for?”
“See if I can find out who owns the darned thing.”
* * * * *
Clark swallowed heavily and scowled at the offending animal. It put him
in a ridiculous position, and he realized that every one in the Moon
River country would hear about it.
It looked as if he had made a clumsy attempt to steal a heifer. Of
course it would be impossible to tell who had been the original owner,
but that would not lessen the fact that the animal did not belong to
him. He squinted at the right shoulder of the animal, a painful scowl on
his face. The outline of a tin cup was too plainly drawn for any one to
mistake it.
“Well,” he said slowly, “can’t we arrange this, Sheriff? You can see
where it puts me.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” smiled Skeeter. “If I was doin’ my duty I’d
arrest you, Clark. If I was you, I’d herd that heifer home, make meat of
it and burn the hide.”
“Is that all right with you?”
“I’ll make it all right, I reckon.” Skeeter turned his horse and
motioned to Kaintuck, who followed him. Skeeter looked back at Clark and
said:
“It’s all right this time, Clark; but I don’t want to see any more
vented brands around this country. You caught me when I was feelin’
awful good-natured.”
Skeeter and Kaintuck crossed the creek and rode over the ridge, where
they looked back to see Clark and Moran going in the opposite direction,
herding a frightened heifer. Kaintuck looked at Skeeter and they both
doubled over their saddle-horns, choking with unholy mirth.
“Mamma, pin a rose on me!” howled Kaintuck. “Caught yuh when yuh was
feelin’ awful good-natured! Haw, haw, haw, haw!”
Kaintuck grew incoherent at sight of the tears running down Skeeter’s
face. The tall cowboy was unable to talk.
“We had him foul,” choked Kaintuck. “My ——, it’s too bad we wasn’t there
when Sam Ertle seen the critter.”
Skeeter managed to clear his throat.
“I like t’ died all the time, Kaintuck. The expression on Clark’s face
was the funniest thing I ever seen.”
“And we didn’t finish any too danged quick either,” said Kaintuck. “I
never drawed a picture of a tin cup with a hot cinch-ring before in my
life. Haw, haw, haw, haw! It sure was a shame to burn places where there
wasn’t any brand.”
“We had to make it a puzzle,” said Skeeter laughing. “I’m not sure that
Monk Clark tried to hang a crime on to Curley Adams, but somebody did.
That kid is too smart to do a thing like that.
“Curley hit Moran that night, and that would make Moran hate Curley.
Mebbe Moran did the job to put Curley in bad, and Monk Clark happened to
find the animal.”
“That would be a —— of a thing for a Government detective to do,
wouldn’t it, Skeeter?”
“Sure it would. But yuh never can tell anythin’ about a detective,
because they’re just human bein’s, Kaintuck.”
“That’s right, I s’pose. And I’ve an idea that Monk Clark ain’t goin’ to
like us so awful well after this.”
“Tha’sall right. We’re goin’ to be disliked a lot before this deal is
all finished. Shake up that goat yo’re ridin’, or we’ll be late for
supper.”
But there was little mirth in the heart of Monk Clark as he herded the
misbranded heifer toward the Tin Cup ranch, assisted by Moran, who had
offered no sympathy nor advice.
“That sheriff is all right,” offered Moran.
Clark spurred around the animal, cutting it off from going down the side
of a coulée, and rode back beside Moran.
“Yuh think he’s all right, do yuh?”
“He let you off easy.”
Clark shut his jaws savagely, but was forced to admit that Moran was
right.
“Yuh just played in hard luck, Clark. Adams saw yuh corral the critter,
came over and saw what yuh had done, and proceeded to ruin things.”
“If I thought—if I knew that for a fact, I’d kill that —— puncher,” said
Clark evenly. “But I don’t know. Mebbe it was Gregory or Calamity.
Either one of ’em would do it for Curley.”
“I suppose,” nodded Moran.
They drove the heifer down through a brushy swale, and Clark spurred in
close to it, forcing it against a barrier of greasewood, where it tried
to turn back past him. Shooting from his hip he dropped the animal the
first shot. His horse swerved aside, whirling completely around, but he
curbed it and dismounted.
With a few flicks of his knife he stripped the Tin Cup brand from its
shoulder and flung it far off across the brush, where it hung, dangling
from a limb for a moment and dropped into a thick bush.
“Give the coyotes a feed,” he said as he mounted, and they rode on
toward the Tin Cup in silence.
* * * * *
Hank Gregory had been doing a lot of thinking about his conversation
with Monk Clark. He wondered if it might not be a good thing to explain
everything to Curley. He felt that Curley would keep the secret. Still,
he did not want to share it with any one.
Old Calamity had ridden to Crescent City to get the mail and a few
groceries, and Joy was still cleaning house. Calamity was glad to get
away from the ranch, where Joy had drafted him into the army of
cleanliness.
Hank Gregory sat humped in a rocking-chair on the shady porch and chewed
on the stem of his pipe, his soul troubled greatly. He had resolved to
kill Monk Clark if Clark tried to interfere with the wedding. That much
was settled in his mind.
Calamity came back and stabled his horse. Gregory could see that
Calamity carried news by the way he hurried up from the stable. He
tossed a mail-order catalogue on the porch, handed Gregory a newspaper
and squinted through the front door.
He thought he heard Joy working in the kitchen, but she was on her knees
behind a living-room chair, fixing the carpet. He stepped back to
Gregory.
“Hank, there’s a funny deal been pulled off,” he said.
Joy straightened up and came closer to the doorway, as Calamity
continued—
“Frisco Larkin was in town this mornin’. Got drunk and told everybody in
sight that Monk Clark found a yearlin’ with the Lazy H vented and the
Box X run on.”
Gregory stared at Calamity, his mind working fast.
“Monk and this Moran person went to get Ertle to look at the heifer,
which was in the old Deer Creek corral, and when they got there somebody
had vented the Box X and put on the Tin Cup. Ertle got mad and went
home.”
“Frisco told this?” wondered Gregory. “Meanin’ that Curley Adams tried
to steal a Lazy H yearlin’, Calamity?”
“Yeah, it looks thataway, Hank. But somebody ruined it, don’t yuh see.
The laugh was on Monk Clark.”
“The laugh, eh?” Gregory surged out of his chair. “Curley never done
that, Calamity.”
“He’d be an awful fool to do it,” amended Calamity. “The Lazy H is the
only one to brand on the right hip. A vented brand on the right hip
means that it was a Lazy H.”
“Monk Clark did it,” said Gregory slowly. “—— him! He wants to marry
Joy, and he did this to jail Curley Adams.”
“How do yuh know?” blurted Calamity.
“Never mind how I know.” Gregory walked down the steps and went toward
the stable.
Calamity sat down in the rocking-chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
Joy had heard all of it.
It seemed ridiculous to think that Monk Clark wanted to marry her badly
enough to try to fasten a crime to Curley. She shook her head
wonderingly. Why, she had not spoken a dozen words to Monk Clark since
she had come home. It must be that her father was wrong, she thought.
She peeked out at Calamity, who was still deep in thought, and walked to
the window. Her father was saddling a horse at the corral, and she
wondered whether he was going to town. He mounted and rode away through
the big gate, but did not go toward town. He was going toward the Box X.
She walked back to the doorway. Calamity looked at her and scratched his
chin thoughtfully.
“Wasn’t much mail, Joy,” he said. “How’s the cleanin’?”
“I heard what you told Dad,” she said.
“Yeah? Well,” Calamity simulated a yawn, and rubbed his stubbly cheek,
“I don’t reckon it was any secret.”
“Where has Dad gone, Calamity?”
“He didn’t say, Joy.”
“Haven’t you any idea?”
“Well, yuh can’t hardly call it an idea, Joy. He had a rifle under his
knee, and I kinda think he went to kill Monk Clark.”
Calamity spoke in a matter-of-fact way, as though a killing was nothing
to speak about.
“You’re joking, Calamity.”
“I hope so, Joy. I’ve knowed yore father a long time, and I can kinda
read him. Mebbe I’m wrong. If Monk Clark misbranded a critter to send
Curley to the penitentiary, he shore needs killin’.”
“But, Calamity, don’t you realize what it would mean? They would hang
him for murder. Oh, why didn’t you stop him—make him listen to reason?”
“I dunno. It’s a free country, Joy—and I don’t like Monk Clark.”
“But it is such a foolish idea, Calamity! Monk Clark doesn’t want to
marry me.”
“Don’t he?”
“Certainly not!”
“Shows —— bad taste then.”
Joy knew that she could get no satisfaction out of talking with
Calamity; so she resolved to do the only thing possible to avert a
tragedy.
She ran through the kitchen and down to the stable, where she saddled
her own horse, a hammer-headed roan that had little brains but plenty of
speed. Calamity stood at a corner of the porch and watched her ride
after her father.
He did not offer to assist nor interfere. Calamity was absolutely
neutral. Nobody could ever accuse him of stopping a fight, and if one
man wanted to kill another, it was no affair of Calamity’s.
The hammer-headed roan was not the best riding horse in the country, and
Joy was having difficulty in convincing it that she was its master. A
liberal application of the quirt showed the roan that its ways were not
liked, and after that it decided to do better.
She knew that her father would waste no time, but there was a
possibility that he might stop at the Box X; so she swung further down
the slopes, where it was possible to make better time.
Joy was a good rider—a good hill rider, which is some different than
riding on the flat. She knew all the tricks of helping a horse over
tough going, and as a result she was able to make time where an
inexperienced rider would have hunted for an easier way around.
And never before did she have such an incentive for speed. She felt sure
that she could convince her father of the folly of his intentions. Even
if Monk Clark was guilty of an attempt to send Curley to the
penitentiary, he had failed, she reasoned.
And it was Curley’s battle, not her father’s. She could not understand
her father’s sudden animosity toward Monk Clark, because they had always
been friendly, as far as she knew. And while she commended her father’s
attitude in defense of the man she was to marry, she did not agree that
he should commit murder for something which had not injured Curley.
She sent the roan scrambling over a ridge and galloped him straight down
the brushy hill, where a slip might send horse and rider pin-wheeling to
the rocky bottom. They hit the bottom in a cloud of dust and a shower of
stones, but the roan gamely kept its feet and lurched into a gallop down
the slope to Deer Creek.
She crossed Deer Creek near the old corral and continued straight north,
intending to strike the Tin Cup road about two miles from the ranch, but
when she reached the old road, which led east to the Box X, she
hesitated. Something seemed to tell her to take this road.
“He might have stopped at the old ranch,” she told herself, and turned
in that direction. There was plenty of run left in the roan and it did
not take her long to cover the mile to the Box X.
She could see a man near the ranch-house and a saddled horse stood
between the house and the old stable. A closer inspection convinced her
that the horse was the one her father had ridden from home.
She rode up beside the house and dismounted. Her father was standing
just in front of the house, looking at something on the ground. He had
seen her coming, but did not look up as she walked up to him.
* * * * *
Lying in front of him, half-hidden in the rank growth of foxtail grass,
was Monk Clark, his sightless eyes staring at the sky. His right elbow
was bent, and in his right hand was a cocked six-shooter. He had drawn
the gun, cocked it, but died before he could pull the trigger.
Joy’s face blanched at sight of him and she drew back, staring at her
father.
She knew now that she had come too late. He had ridden faster than she
had anticipated, and had met Monk Clark at the Box X. She looked down at
him, a big hunk of lifeless clay, his jaw sagging. It seemed as though
he might be yelling a battle cry, his gun lifted for a shot. She could
not realize that Clark was dead.
She looked at her father, hardly able to tear her eyes away from the
face of the dead man, and found him staring into space. His shoulders
were bowed, as though bearing a great weight, and he seemed to have aged
years in an hour.
A wild canary swung from a stunted bush near them and began singing. Joy
turned and looked at the little yellow bird, wondering that anything
could be happy now. She looked at Monk Clark and shuddered sickeningly.
Her father spoke—
“How did yuh happen to follow me?” he asked softly.
“To try and stop you, Dad,” she said hoarsely. “I heard what Calamity
told you, and I—I knew why you came.”
“I heard shots,” he said wearily. “They sounded like they were fired
over here. But I didn’t see anybody. You can see him from the front
porch.”
“Didn’t you kill him, Dad?”
Gregory shook his head.
“I didn’t have a chance, Joy. Somebody beat me to it.”
Somebody beat him to it? wondered Joy. Somebody? Who was the somebody
who would shoot Monk Clark? She looked at her father and found him
looking at her, his eyes filled with sorrow. They were thinking the same
thing, and both knew it. Gregory compressed his lips, turned his head
and looked at Monk Clark.
Joy’s lips felt like leather when she tried to moisten them with a dry
tongue, and there was a tightness about her throat, an aching tightness
that hurt her to breathe. Her voice sounded far away, thin, vibrant, as
she said—
“Who? Oh, Dad, you don’t suppose Curley—”
“Hush! We don’t know.”
“Well, he can’t hear me. There is only us, Dad. You don’t suppose—oh,
here comes somebody!”
Joy grasped her father’s arm and pointed at the two riders who were
coming toward the ranch.
“We can’t prove anything, don’t you see?” she panted. “Oh, what will we
do?”
“Keep yore nerve,” he cautioned her, as the riders drew closer. “I
didn’t kill him, and we don’t know who did.”
It was Skeeter Bill and Kaintuck. Both of them had met Gregory, but not
Joy. They dismounted and came across the yard.
“Howdy,” greeted Skeeter. “Nice day, folks.”
Gregory nodded, but his answer to the greeting was to indicate the body
of Monk Clark. Skeeter moved in closer, flanked by Kaintuck, who
whistled softly through his teeth. Skeeter dropped on his knees and
examined the body closely.
Skeeter did not hurry. He slowly unbuttoned Clark’s shirt and examined
the bullet holes. He sat back on his heels, looking the body over, and
his eyes roamed back to the house, as though estimating where the person
had been who fired the shot. He took hold of the gun in Clark’s hand,
and found it clutched in a death grip.
Kaintuck leaned down, still whistling through his teeth, and looked at
the bared chest of the dead man. Joy had taken her father by the arm,
her eyes squinted with pain, thinking what it was going to mean for all
of them. Skeeter turned to them.
“Shot twice,” he said. “Second one must ’a’ cut him off quick. First one
went through his left shoulder.”
Skeeter got to his feet and brushed the dust off his knees, as he looked
questioningly at Gregory.
“I don’t know who killed him,” said Gregory. “I stopped here to see
Curley Adams, and from the porch I could see the body lying out here.”
“Uh-huh,” Skeeter squinted thoughtfully. “Didja hear any shots?”
“Yeah, I did. That’s why I came.”
Skeeter turned and looked at Joy.
“It kinda seems as though nobody is goin’ to introduce us, ma’am. I know
yo’re Miss Gregory. I’m Sarg, the sheriff. I want yuh to meet Kennedy,
my deputy.”
Joy’s hand trembled as she shook hands with the two officers, but their
grins were reassuring.
“You came in kind of a hurry, didn’t yuh?” asked Skeeter.
“Why, I—I—what makes you think I did?” stammered Joy.
“Well, for one thing, yuh forgot to put a saddle-blanket on yore horse,
and yo’re still wearin’ an apron.”
For the first time Joy realized that she was wearing her old cleaning
apron, no hat, and an old pair of shoes. And she remembered that she had
forgotten to put a saddle-blanket on her horse.
“She came after me,” said Gregory. “She had an idea I was goin’ to the
Tin Cup ranch to kill Monk Clark. She had just got here when you showed
up.”
“Uh-huh,” nodded Skeeter. He knew that Gregory was telling the truth.
“She thought you was goin’ to the Tin Cup to kill Monk Clark, eh?”
Gregory nodded.
“And that’s where I was goin’, Sheriff.”
The admission was a decided shock to Joy, but did not seem of any great
moment to Skeeter Bill.
“Mind tellin’ us why yuh wanted to kill Clark, Gregory?”
“Not at all. Clark wanted to marry my daughter, who is goin’ to marry
Curley Adams. I heard that Clark found a yearlin’, on which the _Lazy H_
had been vented and the _Box X_ run on. So I knew that Monk Clark had
tried to send Curley to the penitentiary.”
Skeeter and Kaintuck exchanged quick glances. They knew all about that
part of it.
Skeeter nodded and walked back to the porch, where he looked back toward
them. He could see the body plainly from there. He sat down on the steps
and they came up to him.
“What do yuh make of it?” asked Kaintuck.
“I dunno. There’s one thing sure—Monk Clark is dead. And the worst of it
is, he was killed here. Dang it, I’m sorry!”
“Will it incriminate Curley?” asked Joy quickly.
“Unless he can prove where he was at the time.”
“Oh, I know he didn’t do it,” said Joy tearfully.
“I sure hope yo’re right,” Skeeter got up and moved over to a lower
corner of the steps, where he examined the ground.
“Kinda funny,” he muttered, squinting back toward the body.
After another examination of the ground he walked back and squatted
beside the body again, while the three people on the porch watched and
wondered what he had discovered.
Kaintuck stepped down and looked at the ground, which had seemed of
interest to Skeeter. On the sandy soil was a dark colored spot, still
damp, covering a space about a foot square.
Skeeter got to his feet and walked back to the porch.
“It kinda looks to me like Monk Clark was shot right here beside the
porch,” he stated. “There’s a big spot of blood at the corner of the
porch, and hardly any out at the body. His gun is gripped awful tight in
his hand, which might happen when a man is killed so quickly, and I find
where his heels scraped along the ground, as he was carried out there.”
“But what does that signify?” asked Joy.
“I dunno, ma’am. It kinda looks as though he came up to the porch and
got killed. Mebbe the man who killed him wanted to get rid of the body
and started out to hide it, but seen yore dad coming and made his
getaway.”
“That sounds reasonable,” nodded Gregory. “It wasn’t so long after the
shots were fired that I came. Possibly ten minutes.”
“Have you been in the house?” asked Skeeter.
“No. I came on the porch and called Curley’s name. There was no answer,
and when I looked around I saw the body. I was out there lookin’ at it
when Joy rode up. You came a few minutes later.”
“Might be worth while to look around a little,” suggested Skeeter.
The front door was partly open; so they went in. The living-room of the
old ranch-house was about sixteen by twenty-four feet in size, with a
large stone fireplace in the front, right-hand corner.
There were no furnishings, and the wall-paper, discolored by age, was
nearly all peeled from the rough board walls. The boards of the floor
were broken and warped, and the windows had been patched with cardboard,
newspapers and other opaque materials, until little light filtered in.
Skeeter walked directly to the fireplace, where a number of scattered,
fire-blackened bricks were lying, and found that the bottom of the
fireplace had been recently torn out, disclosing a cavity about three
feet long, two feet wide and two feet deep.
“Looks like Curley had been rebuildin’ his fireplace,” observed
Kaintuck.
* * * * *
Skeeter made no comment. He had picked up a piece of metal, which
greatly resembled silver; a splattery-looking piece, which looked as
though it had been spilled while melted. Down in the cavity he found
another piece, which appeared to be a silver dollar on one side, but a
blank on the other. The imprint of the coin was not well done.
“What in the world is that?” asked Joy.
Skeeter handed her the piece of metal and continued his search, but
there was nothing more to be found, except a fragment of white
substance, which might have been plaster-of-paris.
“It looks as though somebody had tried to make a dollar,” said Gregory.
“Yeah, it does,” agreed Skeeter thoughtfully. “We better look around a
little more.”
At the rear of the living-room were two doors, one of which opened to a
bedroom, the room which Curley had been repairing, and the other to the
kitchen and dining-room, which were still in need of repairs.
The bedroom contained Curley’s personal effects, and on a shelf Skeeter
discovered the reloading outfit, a small can of powder and a bullet
mold. But there was nothing to indicate tragedy.
Further search disclosed the fact that Curley’s horse and saddle were
not at the stable. While Kaintuck, Joy and Gregory argued over what
might have happened, Skeeter mounted his horse and rode back over the
route taken by Gregory on his way to the ranch.
He came back in a few minutes and went to the west side of the house,
searching the ground closely.
“What did yuh find out?” asked Kaintuck.
“Not very much,” said Skeeter. “A man had his horse here on this side of
the house. He was in the house when Clark came up to the steps, and he
shot Clark.
“He wanted to hide the body, I reckon, but he saw Gregory on the skyline
of that hill back there; so he dropped the body, ran back to his horse
and rode south-west. The house would mask him from Gregory until he was
able to cut down through the brush and into that gully. Clark’s horse is
down in the brush, tied to an old snag. He probably sneaked up here on
foot.”
“Well, I’d say yuh found out quite a lot,” said Kaintuck.
“But why would Monk Clark sneak up here?” asked Joy.
Skeeter squinted at Clark’s body.
“Didn’t you say that Clark tried to put Curley Adams in bad because he
wanted to marry this young lady?”
“He did,” Gregory was very positive.
“Uh-huh. Do yuh reckon Clark would go so far as to try and shoot
Curley?”
“Meanin’ that Clark sneaked up here to shoot Curley, and got beat at his
game?”
“Not meanin’—just wonderin’, Gregory.”
“I don’t know what Clark would do, Sheriff. But I don’t think that
Curley would kill him and run. He ain’t that kind.”
Skeeter rolled a cigaret, shaping it carefully. It gave him a chance to
do a little silent wondering for himself.
“I don’t understand about that imprint of a dollar,” said Gregory.
“Experimentin’, I reckon,” said Skeeter. “I wish Curley would show up.”
“You don’t think he did it, do you?” asked Joy hopefully.
Skeeter smiled softly.
“I hope he didn’t, Miss Joy. Yuh see, I’m doin’ my darndest to think of
somebody else that did do it. Whoever killed Monk Clark was here at the
house, I think.
“Everythin’ points to the fact that Monk Clark sneaked up here and
somebody shot him through the shoulder. Monk draws his six-shooter,
pulled back the hammer— and got a bullet right through his heart. I
dunno what Monk Clark was doin’ here. His horse is down there in the
brush, two hundred yards away, which makes it look like Monk sneaked up
here, lookin’ for trouble.”
“And he got it!” said Kaintuck emphatically.
“Yeah, he did. You go down and get Clark’s horse, Kaintuck. We’ve got to
pack the body to town.”
“Want us to go with yuh?” asked Gregory.
“No-o-o-o, I don’t think so. You folks ain’t goin’ to run away.”
Kaintuck brought the horse, and the three men draped the body of Monk
Clark across his own saddle, roping it securely.
“If you see Curley before I do, tell him to come down to see me right
away,” said Skeeter. “And don’t talk to anybody about this. It sure
looks awful bad right now, but there ain’t nothin’ as bad as it looks.”
The two officers shook hands with Joy and Gregory.
“I’m awful glad you look at it in the right way,” said Joy. “I certainly
went weak all over when I saw you coming.”
“I’ll bet yuh did. You knew yore father was goin’ out to kill Monk
Clark; so yuh went out to stop him, eh? I don’t blame yuh for feelin’
weak in the knees. Well, be good.”
They rode away, leading the loaded horse, while Joy and her father
mounted and headed for home.
“This shore is a funny deal,” declared Kaintuck. “What’s yore theory,
Skeeter?”
“I’d hate to say. Here’s how it looks. The Box X ranch-house has been
used by them counterfeiters. They melted their stuff in the fireplace,
and kept their tools under the bricks, in the hole.
“For some reason Monk Clark made a sneak over here and caught this
feller removin’ some of the stuff, or the tools. It looks as though this
feller, knowin’ that he’s caught with the goods, starts shootin’. That’s
how it looks to me.”
“But who was the feller?”
“My ——, you don’t want to know much, do you?” exploded Skeeter.
“If it wasn’t Curley Adams, what was Monk after him for?”
“How do I know?”
“You think that the counterfeiters had been usin’ the old ranch-house as
a place to make their bad money, and they wanted to get their stuff out
before Curley discovered it?”
“That wouldn’t be very hard to think, would it?”
“Nope. I’ll bet this killin’ will sure cause a lot of talk, Skeeter.
Why, Monk Clark was our most prominent citizen.”
“’S a funny old world, Kaintuck. Almost any jury would hang Hank Gregory
for this. He started out to kill Monk Clark, yuh know. Admits it.
Prob’ly sorry he didn’t get a chance. If Curley killed him, I don’t
blame Curley.”
“But yuh don’t think he did, Skeeter?”
“I’m tryin’ not to, yuh know. I sure hope Curley has been where folks
can prove he wasn’t at home at the time of the killin’.”
“And if he can’t?”
“Then I’m scared we’ll have to put Curley in jail.”
* * * * *
Gregory and Joy were worried over the same thing as they rode back home.
Neither of them believed that Curley had killed Clark; but could he
prove it, they wondered?
Calamity met them at the stable, interested to know what had happened.
Joy left her horse for Calamity to unsaddle and went to the house.
“Didja find Monk Clark, Hank?” queried Calamity.
Gregory hung up his saddle and turned to Calamity.
“Monk Clark is dead,” he said shortly.
Calamity’s mouth opened widely, but he did not speak. His eyes followed
Gregory, who got some grain for the horses and threw in fresh straw for
bedding. Calamity leaned against the wall and absently tested the teeth
of a curry-comb on his chin.
“Did he put up much of a fight, Hank?” he asked softly.
“Didn’t have much chance,” said Gregory seriously. “One bullet hit him
in the left shoulder and the other bored straight through his heart.”
This was such a cold-blooded statement of facts that Calamity scratched
his chin with the curry-comb. Then—
“Well, I hope yuh had a witness, Hank.”
“Joy came just after I found him.”
“After yuh—whatcha talkin’ about?”
“He had already been killed, Calamity. Somebody shot him at the Box X
just before I got there.”
“The —— they did! Hank, you—”
Gregory shook his head.
“No, I didn’t shoot him.”
“Curley?”
“I don’t know, Calamity. Curley wasn’t there. The sheriff and his deputy
showed up just after Joy got there. They took the body back to town.”
“They did, eh? Well, I’ll be darned! I remember a case back in 1866,
when a feller shot—”
“You didn’t see Curley since we left, did yuh?”
“Nope.”
“I wish I knew where he is. If he can’t prove where he was, he’s up
against a bad deal. Monk was killed right at a corner of the front
porch; probably shot by somebody who was inside the house.”
“My gosh! Do yuh reckon Curley done it, and then high-tailed it out of
the country? Darn fool kid wouldn’t stop to think that he could beat the
case. I remember a feller back in—”
But Hank Gregory did not care to hear of something which had happened in
1866, and was going toward the house. Calamity grunted and followed in
his wake.
Calamity said nothing, but went to work preparing supper, while Joy and
her father sat on the porch and tried to cheer each other up. About an
hour later Calamity announced supper.
“’Sall ready,” he said. “I don’t reckon there’s much appetite around
here though.”
As they went back to the dining-room, Curley Adams rode up and
dismounted. They were grouped together, staring at the front doorway,
when he came in, rattling his spurs and whistling.
“Hello, everybody,” he called. “Am I in time for supper? By golly, I
sure am—” He hesitated and looked at them curiously. “Say, what’s the
matter with you folks, anyway?”
Joy went close to him and put her hands on his arms.
“Curley, where have you been today?” she asked softly.
“Where have I been?” Curley laughed foolishly. “Why, I’ve been over to
San Gregario cañon. Why the question?”
“Over to San Gregario?”
“Sure. I went over to the old saw-mill to see if they had any lumber.
I’ve got to have some pretty quick.”
“Did they have any?”—hopeful that he had seen some one over there.
“I reckon not, honey. There wasn’t a soul over there.”
“Not a soul?” Joy shook her head hopelessly. “You didn’t see anybody
over there, Curley?”
“Nope. Say, what’s all the fuss about? What have I—”
“What time did you leave the ranch today?” asked Gregory.
“Time? About noon, I reckon.”
“Have you met any one since?”
“No. Say, what the thunder is the matter with you folks?”
“Let me tell him, will you, Dad?” asked Joy.
“I’d sure be glad if yuh did, Joy,” replied Gregory.
Joy led Curley out to the porch, where she told him what had happened at
the Box X. And she could tell by the expression of his face that it was
all news to him. He did not interrupt, except to ask a repeat on some of
the happenings.
“And I’ve got to prove an alibi, eh?” he said slowly. “Well, I can’t do
it, Joy. I had intended coming here before I went to San Gregario cañon,
but I didn’t. There wasn’t a soul at the old saw-mill, and I didn’t meet
any one on the way back. From the looks of things there hasn’t been any
one at the old mill for weeks. They’ve moved everything away, except the
lumber and machinery.”
“Then what will you do, Curley?” Joy was terrified at the prospect.
Curley laughed shortly.
“I dunno, Joy. I can’t run away, yuh know. I suppose the best thing I
can do is to go right to the sheriff and tell my story. He probably
won’t believe it.”
“I think he will. Honest, I do. He has kind of a grin on his face all
the time, and he seems to think a lot. Anyway, he was awful nice to us.
I expected him to arrest Dad right away, but he seemed to believe our
story. You know him, don’t you?”
“Not very well, Joy. I’ve known Kennedy quite a while—and he’s on the
square.”
They walked back to the dining-room and sat down.
“Well, what do yuh think of it?” asked Gregory anxiously.
“I can’t even think,” admitted Curley. “It’s a mystery to me. I’m goin’
to have a bite to eat and then ride to town. It looks as though I was up
against it, Gregory. There isn’t a chance for me to prove an
alibi—nothin’ but my word.”
“Lemme tell yuh about a case I knowed about back in—”
“1866?” laughed Curley. “Calamity, you ought to write a book about
1866.”
“It sure was a busy old year,” grinned Calamity.
Curley realized what he was up against. There was no way in the world
for him to prove that he had been to San Gregario cañon. He could not
imagine who would be in his house in broad daylight and kill Monk Clark.
It did not seem reasonable, but still there seemed to be plenty of proof
that such a thing had happened. As far as the fireplace was concerned,
he did not give it a thought.
Joy told him about the misbranded heifer, and she knew from the
expression on his face that it was all news to him.
“Didn’t you run on that Tin Cup brand?” asked Calamity.
“Certainly not,” declared Curley. “In the first place, would I be fool
enough to vent a Lazy H and run on the Box X? I’m no fool, Calamity.”
“Certainly he never did it,” said Joy warmly.
“Then who in —— did? Ex-cuse my Spanish, Joy. None of us done it,
Curley. Must be a crazy person runnin’ in these hills. Dang it all, no
sane person would do that. Monk Clark found the heifer with yore brand
on it; so he penned it up in the Deer Creek corral and went after Ertle.
When he came back there was three vents and the Tin Cup. By golly, I’ll
pass.”
“I’ll pass, too,” smiled Curley. “But we can’t pass the fact that Monk
Clark was killed at my ranch, and that I’m suspected of killin’ him.
What was Monk Clark doin’ at the Box X? Was he comin’ after me?”
Gregory shook his head sadly.
“Monk Clark is too dead to answer, Curley.”
“Sure. And only the man who killed him can answer it. I can see where a
man named Adams is going to have a lot of difficulty in provin’
anything.”
“Well,” Gregory coughed softly, “you could make a getaway right now.”
Curley shook his head.
“Nope. I can’t afford to run. They may hang me, but they won’t chase
me.”
“Oh, Curley, don’t say things like that,” begged Joy. “There must be a
way out.”
“Sure thing,” smiled Curley. “Don’t worry, Joy. Gosh, this will all come
out in the wash.”
“I’ll go down with yuh,” said Gregory slowly. “Somehow I’ve got quite a
lot of faith in that sheriff. They said he didn’t have any sense, but I
think they’re wrong.”
“I’m going along, too,” declared Joy. “I’ve got as much faith as any one
else.”
“I’ve got faith, too,” said Calamity dryly. “I’ve also got a hunch—that
I’ll have to wash and wipe the dishes.”
* * * * *
“I thought this shootin’ was a mystery,” said Kaintuck, after he and
Skeeter had turned the body over to the local coroner, told their story,
and escaped to their office.
“Ain’t it?” asked Skeeter, relaxing indolently in an old chair, the back
of which wailed a protest.
“It ain’t. At least a dozen men offered to bet me that Curley killed
him. Some of ’em offered big odds; so I reckon poor Curley is the
favorite for the hangman stakes.”
“When a prominent man is killed,” said Skeeter slowly, “the crop of
detectives is enormous. They all seem to think that Curley killed him
because of that brandin’ deal. And they’re plumb willin’ to believe that
Curley tried to steal a Lazy H animal.
“Why, the darn fools are already makin’ bets as to whether he gets a
life sentence or gets hanged. You’d think that he had confessed, to hear
some of ’em talkin’.”
“Mebbe he did kill Monk Clark,” said Kaintuck.
“Mebbe. There wouldn’t be anything wonderful about it, if he did. As far
back as history goes, men have killed each other, and they’ll prob’ly
keep on doin’ it, Kaintuck. If Curley did kill him, I’ll back him in a
plea of self-defense.
“Monk Clark had no business in sneakin’ up on the Box X. He died with a
cocked gun in his hand. But there’s somethin’ else to this deal,
pardner. Behind it is that counterfeitin’ layout.”
“Skeeter, do you think that Monk Clark was mixed up in it?”
“Hm-m-m. That’s hard to say. I told Moran to come down here as soon as
he could sneak away from the crowd.”
A few minutes later Frank Moran came in and sat down with them.
“They’re still millin’ around the Half-Moon,” stated Moran. “I don’t
know what will happen when the Tin Cup outfit hear that their boss is
dead. What was it you wanted to talk about, Sheriff?”
Skeeter told him about the fireplace at the Box X and showed him the
partly-made dollar.
“Clumsy job,” declared Moran. “Looks like they had tried to make one in
a plaster mold. Was there anything else in the fireplace?”
“Nope.”
“I wonder,” said Moran thoughtfully, “if Curley Adams is one of the
gang?”
“You’ve been at the Tin Cup for quite a while, and you haven’t found out
anythin’.”
“That’s true, I’ll admit that I’m stuck.”
“Moran, did Monk Clark know that you was a detective?”
Moran nodded.
“Yeah, I told him. I had to do it, in order to have a chance to do my
work.”
“Ertle, too?”
“Yeah.”
Skeeter smiled and shook his head.
“I don’t _sabe_ you fellers, Moran. Why in —— didn’t yuh carry a
banner?”
“What else could I do?” Moran almost lost his temper. “I had somethin’
to do besides punchin’ cows. Ranch owners don’t pay cowpunchers to
pesticate around the country, lookin’ for clues.”
“I beg yore pardon,” said Skeeter seriously. “How long have you been
with the Tin Cup outfit?”
“About a month.”
“You was with the Lazy H quite a while, wasn’t yuh?”
“Several months. What difference does it make how long I’ve been here?
These cases sometimes take a year to settle up.”
“Hadn’t ought to, Moran.”
“No?” Moran got to his feet. “Well, if you’re so —— smart, go ahead and
settle it. If you was any kind of a sheriff you’d have Curley Adams
behind the bars right now.”
Moran walked across the room, turning his back on the sheriff, and began
scanning a number of reward notices which had been pasted on the wall in
lieu of wall-paper. There was no doubt that Moran was angry. Kaintuck
squinted at Skeeter, his ill-fitting mustaches jerking with mirth.
Skeeter drummed on the table with his fingers and silently contemplated
Moran’s back. He had deliberately angered the detective, and it amused
him. Moran shifted and began reading another notice, when Skeeter spoke
apologetically—
“Aw-w-w-w-w, yuh don’t need to get sore.”
“No? Well, I’m tired of havin’ you tryin’ to tell me what to do all the
time; _sabe_? I’ll run my end of this, Sheriff.”
Moran turned and stalked out of the office, while Skeeter grinned at
Kaintuck.
“He got mad at yuh,” said Kaintuck.
“Yeah, he did. Li’l son-of-a-gun. I go ahead and find all kinds of clues
for him—and he gets mad at me. Ho-o-o, hum! It seems like yuh can’t
please everybody.”
Kaintuck went to the Half-Moon, to see what the sentiment might be,
while Skeeter smoked innumerable cigarets and made queer figures on a
piece of paper with a stubby pencil.