and had him in Marlin City the next morning in time to send him out to
the Weeping Tree with Doctor Meyers. Brick watched them drive away,
and wondered if Doctor Winchell would be of any use. Winchell had
added knowledge of human ills to his practise as veterinary. Doctor
Meyers was also called in animal cases. Ordinarily, Brick would have
laughed over the fact that two veterinaries were going to consult over
a wounded human being, but humor seemed apart from Brick just now.
Silent came to Brick and spoke disgustedly--
“They’re talkin’ about askin’ you to resign, Brick.”
“Who?”
“I dunno. I heard it mentioned in the Dollar Down.”
Brick turned away and walked slowly up the street. He suddenly made up
his mind to ride out to the Weeping Tree and see Jean. At least he could
tell her he didn’t fire that shot. He saddled his horse and rode away
from town. Within a mile of the ranch-house he met Mrs. Wesson. She drew
up her team and looked up at him.
“I--I was just goin’ out there,” stammered Brick, “goin’ out to see if
there’s anythin’ I can do.”
“I don’t think there is, Brick.” Mrs. Wesson shook her head. “Them two
clumsy doctors are out there and if they can’t kill him, he’s a wonder.
They didn’t tell me to vamoose--not in so many words, but I don’t have
to git hit with a boulder. I’m goin’ home after some clean clothes.”
“Is he--has he said anythin’?”
“Not a word. Doc Meyers thought he was conscious, but Doc Meyers
knows a ---- sight more about ringbone and spavin than he does about
human ills. You know that Scott Martin was almost deaf anyway, and I
reckon this bullet ruins what’s left. He couldn’t hear the crack o’
doom. And here he comes out there with Doctor Winchell. Where’d that
horse doctor get any right to prognosticate on the human form, I’d
admire to know?”
“How’s Jean?”
“Well, she ain’t singin’, if that’s what yuh mean. I asked her if she
didn’t think it was funny that you hadn’t been out, and she said she
didn’t think so under the circumstances. She thinks you shot him, I
reckon.”
“Don’t you, Mrs. Wesson?”
“Good----!” Mrs. Wesson’s eyes bored into Brick’s face.
“Brick Davidson, I’m plumb ashamed of yuh! Don’tcha think I’ve got
any--giddap!”
The ponies sprang forward and the buckboard rattled off down the
road, with Mrs. Wesson humped up in the seat, while Brick sat on his
horse beside the road watching her disappear. Then the lines of his
face relaxed and he patted his horse’s shoulder.
“Button, we’ll show ’em yet. Didja hear what she said? She was mad
at me, ’cause I even thought she believed it. Lafe knows I didn’t,
and Silent and Harp don’t believe it, and now Mrs. Wesson don’t.
Button, we ain’t in the majority, not by a ---- sight, but we’ve got
a fightin’ nest-egg. Now watch our dust.”
Brick headed into the hills. He had no desire to go to Weeping
Tree--today. Mrs. Wesson’s indignant reply to his question had warmed
his whole being. It seemed to clear his mind. He had thought of what
Silent had told him, and had almost decided to resign his office, but
this meeting with Mrs. Wesson had been like handing a loaded gun to a
cornered fugitive.
Brick gave no heed to his direction, and suddenly pulled up his horse
at the top of a butte and looked down upon the rambling ranch-house
and sprawling corrals of the Star Dot. A spirit of daredevilry came to
Brick. For the first time since he had found Scott Martin lying shot,
he became normal. As far as he could see there was no one at the Star
Dot. Several head of cattle browsed around inside one of the corrals,
while in another were several horses.
Brick shook up his horse and rode straight for the house. He rode past
the front porch and around the corner, where he found Jeff Seldon,
tilted back in a chair against the side of the building. Seldon had
changed clothes and had evidently neglected to wear his belt and gun.
* * * * *
Seldon stared at Brick, as though Brick were a ghost. His thin face
seemed to grow thinner and the parchment-colored skin seemed fairly to
crack. For the space of ten seconds neither of them spoke; then Seldon
exploded a curse and swung his chair away from the wall.
“Nice afternoon,” observed Brick seriously.
“Nice ----!” choked Seldon. His hand dropped to his hip, but there was
nothing there except sagging overalls.
He swallowed with difficulty.
“You spoke about two Herefords what had been mavericked,” remarked
Brick.
“You’re ---- right I did! Don’tcha believe me?”
“Like to see ’em, Seldon, if it ain’t too much trouble.” Seldon got to
his feet and led the way to the corral, with Brick riding behind him.
There were several head of cattle in the corral, all Herefords. Seldon
pointed out the two mavericks, or which had been mavericks until the
Weeping Tree had been run on their right shoulder. They were nearly
full-blooded Herefords.
“You could swear that they belonged to you, Seldon?”
“Swear? ’Course I could swear. Any jury in the country would give ’em to
me. The Weepin’ Tree ain’t got no Herefords.”
“They were mavericks,” observed Brick. “Must be nearly yearlin’s.”
“Uh-huh. Fellows found ’em way back in the breaks of Piney Crick. They
was mavericks, but they’re mine, y’betcha. Danged nice pair of animals.”
“If you’ll open the gate, I’ll cut ’em out,” offered Brick.
“Cut ’em out?” Seldon was plainly surprized. “What for--cut ’em out?”
“Take ’em back with me. You swear that they belong to you, Seldon, but
your brand ain’t on ’em. You swear that the Weepin’ Tree ain’t never
had no Herefords. I reckon we’ll turn ’em over to the association and
let ’em decide whether either outfit owns ’em.”
Seldon leaned against the corral fence and grew incoherent. Would he
stand for anything like this? Not by several adjective sights. He’d
see Brick Davidson skating in a mythical region, where heat is said
to be excessive, first. In fact, Seldon exhausted his extensive
vocabulary of “nots and won’ts,” while Brick grinned in silent wonder
that any human being could think of so many curses and have them all
fit the situation.
Seldon started for the house, but Brick swung his horse across Seldon’s
path and asked Seldon where he was going. Seldon informed him that he
was going to town, but first he must get his coat. Brick grinned and
shook his head.
“From that window up there you could salivate me with lead, old-timer.
No, I can’t let yuh go into the house--not today.”
“---- yuh, I don’t want to go into the house!” Seldon’s voice was
high-pitched in spots, like a youngster, whose voice is changing. “My
coat is right there around the corner from the kitchen door.”
Brick glanced at the kitchen door. He could watch Seldon get the coat,
but what would prevent Seldon from jumping around out of sight? Brick
shook his head.
“You stay here, old-timer, and I’ll get the coat for yuh.” Brick got
off his horse and walked to the corner, keeping an eye on Seldon. Just
around the corner, leaning against the wall, was a Winchester rifle.
There was no coat.
Seldon said nothing, when Brick came back, but his eyes narrowed. He was
caught with the goods, and he knew better than to try to lie out of it.
“You’ve got a good tailor,” said Brick, examining the rifle, “but I
reckon we’ll kinda spoil the fit.”
He levered all the cartridges out of the magazine and then motioned for
Seldon to go back to the corral. Brick took the rifle in both hands and
swung it across the top of a post. After three swings there was neither
stock, magazine lever nor mechanism left. Brick threw it aside and
motioned for Seldon to open the gate.
It was but a moment’s work for Brick to send the two yearlings out of
the gate. Seldon was beyond words. His skinny jaws were set, but he
did not look at Brick as he rode past, and followed the two maverick
animals. Brick headed them straight toward Marlin City. Where the road
swung around a high point, about half a mile from the Star Dot, he
looked back, and saw two horsemen riding in from another direction.
Brick let the yearlings drift, while he watched the ranch-house. Few
loose animals will follow a road, unless carefully herded, and these
two Herefords were no exception. They drifted on for a while and
stopped; looked back, and swung back into the hills.
* * * * *
Brick’s patience was rewarded. In about fifteen minutes three riders
left the ranch and swung up the road toward Brick. One of them was
evidently Jeff Seldon, as his pinto was easily distinguished at that
distance.
Brick rode off the grade and down into a tangle of mesquite, where he
was effectually screened from the road. As they rode swiftly past him,
he recognized Seldon and Pete Kane; but the third man was a stranger. As
soon as they were out of sight, Brick rode back to the grade and went
slowly toward town. He had no idea why the three riders were in such a
hurry. Perhaps they figured on overtaking him and getting the yearlings.
Brick did not make any search for the Herefords, knowing that they now
headed into the hills. At any rate, they were of no value to him. They
had been an excuse for a visit to Jeff Seldon, and the visit had turned
out very well.
Brick did not hurry back to Marlin City. He rode slowly to where the
road led off to the Weeping Tree, scanning the road carefully for a
sign of the missing toe-calks, but there were none. Seldon, Kane and
the stranger had ridden two shod horses and one barefooted one. On
the saddled ones the toe and heel calks were plainly visible.
Brick wanted to go to the Weeping Tree, but after due deliberation went
on to town. Protesting his innocence would not do him any good. In fact
Brick did not want to protest his innocence--he wanted to prove it by
finding the guilty parties.
As he rode into town he noticed that there was an unusually large number
of saddle-horses at the hitch-rack beside the Dollar Down; but this was
Saturday, which would account for that. Brick had intended to go to the
office, but when he saw Seldon’s pinto at the hitch-rack he changed his
mind and went to the saloon.
Pete Kane and the stranger were just coming to the door, as Brick
stepped inside. As Brick stepped aside to let them pass, Kane spoke to
the stranger. The man turned his head toward Kane, and then appeared to
stumble into Brick; his toe striking Brick’s ankle. The man had stumbled
on a smooth floor and had gone entirely out of his way to collide with
Brick.
For a moment they were face to face, but the stranger’s eyes held no
hint of apology, rather he appeared to blame Brick. Brick made as though
to pass on into the saloon, but his right foot swung sidewise, catching
around the stranger’s ankle, throwing him completely off his balance and
he crashed to the floor.
Brick had barely stopped in his stride and now he faced Kane, who had
stopped just inside the door, and the fallen man, who was sitting on
the floor staring at Brick. The man was taller than Brick, but of about
the same weight. His features and complexion stamped him as a Spaniard
or a Mexican. He wore a small, well-trimmed mustache on his short upper
lip. His nose was prominent and his close-set eyes were very black. He
was a trifle overdressed; his range clothes extreme in color and cut. A
businesslike gun reposed in a stamped leather holster on his hip, and
his heavy, wide belt was well filled with cartridges.
He glanced around at the crowd and got slowly to his feet. Kane was
almost behind him as he got up, but stepped quickly out of line with
Brick, who was standing easily, feet braced and hand swung idly
beside the holster of his gun. He appeared to hold little animosity
toward Brick, and his mouth twisted into a semblance of a grin. Then
he turned and went out.
“Quitter!” grunted a voice in the group.
Brick turned and looked at them. His eyes singled out Seldon.
“Quitter?” queried Brick wonderingly.
“Started it, didn’t he?” asked Seldon quickly. Brick grinned.
“’Pears to me like he did, Seldon. Who is he?” asked Brick.
“Name’s Smith--Jack Smith,” replied Seldon. “Horse buyer for the English
army.”
Brick considered this, and turned back to the door. Lafe Freeman and
Bunch Thornton came up to Brick and asked him to step outside. They
were both very serious.
“Brick, I’m plumb scared that they’re goin’ to ask yuh to resign,”
stated Lafe. “Lot of these snake-hunters think you shot Scott Martin,
and nothin’ will stop ’em thinkin’ that--except findin’ the guilty
ones.”
“I’m for yuh, Brick,” said Bunch. “I’ll make yuh foreman of my outfit,
if yuh need a job.”
“He won’t.” Lafe Freeman spoke with conviction. “If Brick needs a job,
his old place on the Nine Bar Nine is still waitin’ for him.”
“But I ain’t needin’ a job,” grinned Brick. “I’m goin’ to keep right on
bein’ sheriff.”
* * * * *
“Bill Voorhies is chairman of the board of county commissioners, and
he’s goin’ to take up the matter,” said Lafe. “Bill kinda runs that
bunch of horse-thieves, and Bill’s down on you, Brick. I’ll do all I
can, but----”
“Bill wasn’t in favor of me when Bunty resigned,” remarked Brick.
“Sure, sure,” nodded Thornton, “and Bill’s the worst maverick in the
whole county, Brick. He can’t afford to have yuh spoilin’ his game,
can he?”
“When all is said and done, why should I resign? I haven’t done a danged
thing that was wrong.”
“Old Seldon said yuh came out to his place and herded him around with
a gun and turned his stock into the hills and smashed his rifle. Said
yuh run off them two mavericked yearlin’s, likely to square yourself
with Martin in case he gets well. Voorhies was there and heard it all.
He said there’s due to be a change in your office real soon.”
“Heard anything from Martin?” asked Brick.
“Paralyzed, so Doc Meyers says,” replied Lafe. “Can’t talk nor hear nor
move. Bullet kinda crimped his spine, I reckon.”
“Say, who owns the Weepin’ Tree ranch?” asked Brick suddenly.
“Seldon,” replied Thornton. “He’s got a deed from Zell Mohr. He was
talkin’ about it today. It joins the Star Dot and there’s a couple
of good springs, which flows well all Summer. Kinda funny that none
of us picked up that ranch on account of them springs. Betcha Seldon
never paid Zell nowhere near what the place was worth.”
“It was worth nothin’ to Zell,” grinned Lafe.
“So Mohr sold the Weepin’ Tree to Seldon before he went to the pen, eh?”
queried Brick. “Where does Martin come in on this deal? He’s got a paper
that Zell gave him, which shows that Martin can live as long as he wants
to on that ranch.”
“I dunno.” Thornton shook his head. “Seldon’s got the deed to it, that’s
all I know.”
Brick smiled and turned to Lafe.
“I’m goin’ to keep on bein’ sheriff, Lafe. Ne’mind them commissioners.”
Brick went back to his office and sat down. From a locked drawer he
took a legal-looking document and perused it thoroughly. Suddenly he
stopped and stared at the wall. Before him came the face of the man
he had knocked down in the saloon--the full lips, hooked nose, waxed
mustache. Where had he seen that face before?
He had not given the man’s face a close study as he sat on the saloon
floor, but something seemed to tell him that he had seen this face
before.
“Jack Smith,” wondered Brick aloud. “That’s a ---- of a name for a face
like that. Spaniard, with an American name, buying horses for England.”
Brick wondered why Seldon had said “quitter,” when Smith had left the
saloon. Was there a frame-up to start trouble with him? Silent came in
excitedly.
“Whatcha think, Brick? Barney O’Mera just came in from out on Piney
crick, and he says that somebody has brought in a herd of sheep.”
“Sheep?” Brick stared at Silent, who nodded emphatically. Sheep were
the bugbear that haunted the dreams of cattlemen. Sun-Dog had always
been free of sheep, but they knew that their coming was inevitable,
knew it was only a question of time until the advance guards of that
great, gray army would swoop down upon them and drive the cattlemen
off the ranges. The cattle interests could not afford to buy up the
great amount of range needed for their herds. The coming of sheep
meant war. Legally the sheep had the same rights as the cattle, but
the cattlemen figured that possession was nine points in the law and
that a six-shooter was the best argument.
A sheep war would mean a lot of work for the sheriff; that is, if the
sheriff upheld the rights of the sheepmen.
“Did Barney say how many sheep?” asked Brick.
“Not a big bunch. Few hundred, I reckon; but it ain’t numbers--it’s
sheep!”
“I reckon that’s right,” nodded Brick. “Numbers don’t count.”
* * * * *
The next morning Brick decided to go to the Weeping Tree. He had an
idea, and when Brick got an idea he gave that idea every chance in the
world to bear fruit. The fact that Scott Martin could not move, hear,
nor talk did not affect this idea. Silent grumbled at being left at the
office.
“Might’s well be a chambermaid in a livery stable,” he wailed.
“Anybody’d think yuh was runnin’ a grocery store or saloon, the way yuh
act about this danged old office. Yuh even tore down them pictures that
Bunty had on the wall, and there ain’t nothin’ but them old reward
notices to look at. Danged old walls look like they had small-pox.”
“Ne’mind me,” he grunted, when Brick sought to pacify him. “I’ll git
along. Mebbe I’ll git some ol’ lady to learn me how to knit. Jimminy
gosh, I wish somebody’d git drunk and shoot up the town. Think I’ll
run for Sunday school principal next election. Hurrah for crime and
disorder!” He kicked the door shut behind Brick, who laughed and went
to saddle his horse.
Mrs. Wesson was hanging up a washing when Brick rode up to the Weeping
Tree ranch-house. Jean stood on the steps and watched Brick stop beside
Mrs. Wesson, but turned and went inside. Brick followed her with his
eyes until the door closed and then turned back to Mrs. Wesson.
“What yuh got on your mind, Brick?” mumbled Mrs. Wesson, without
removing the clothes-pin from between her teeth.
“How’s Martin?”
“I dunno, Brickie,” Mrs. Wesson removed the clothes-pin and looked back
at the door. “He ain’t sufferin’ none, I reckon; but he can’t hear nor
talk. Just lays there and looks at the ceilin’. Mebby he knows what’s
goin’ on--I dunno.”
“Can I go in and see him?”
“Why, I reckon yuh can--sure.”
Brick followed Mrs. Wesson inside. Jean was standing near the head of
the bed, looking curiously at Brick, who walked up beside her and
looked down at Martin. The injured man looked at Brick and a ghost of
a smile seemed to flash across his eyes.
“He don’t seem to suffer none,” said Mrs. Wesson, in a half whisper, as
though forgetting that Martin was stone-deaf. Jean turned away.
“If he could only talk,” said Mrs. Wesson. “Them danged
horse-doctors----”
Brick nodded and took a sheet of paper and a pencil from his pocket. He
wrote on the paper and then held it up for Scott Martin to read: “Can
you read this? Shut your eyes once for ‘no’ and twice for ‘yes’.”
Martin blinked twice.
Brick turned and explained it to Mrs. Wesson and Jean. “Well, bless my
soul!” exclaimed Mrs. Wesson. “Brick Davidson, you’re too smart to be
a sheriff. Ain’t that some idea? We tried that writin’ idea, but there
wasn’t no use of it, bein’ as he couldn’t make any answer; but nobody
ever thought about a wink message.”
Brick grinned and wrote again.
“Do you know who shot you?”
Martin blinked just once--“No.”
Brick had banked on Martin being able to tell him who did it, and his
hand trembled over the next question. Mrs. Wesson and Jean were leaning
forward, watching closely. Brick studied Martin’s face for a moment and
then turned to Jean and Mrs. Wesson.
“I ain’t got no right to ask him this question, but I want to find out
what he knows.” Brick wrote the question--
“Were you branding a calf when you got shot?”
Martin stared at the question, but did not respond. Brick wrote--
“Do you know what I mean?”
Martin blinked once.
Brick turned to Jean.
“Your dad had a paper which Zell Mohr gave him, telling your dad that
he could have the use of the Weepin’ Tree ranch as long as he wanted
it, didn’t he?”
“Yes. Zell Mohr gave it to dad after we came here. He said it was legal.
Dad always carried it with him, because he felt it was safer than if he
hid it away.”
“Do yuh know where it is?”
Jean hurried away to make a search, while Brick turned back to Martin
and wrote:
“Zell Mohr gave you a paper, which showed you had the right to use this
ranch. Did you have it with you when you were shot?”
Martin stared at the question for a moment, but blinked twice. “It isn’t
in any of his pockets,” said Jean. “Perhaps it fell out.”
“Uh-huh, I reckon it did,” smiled Brick. He turned to Martin and patted
him on the shoulder. A smile seemed to come to Martin’s eyes, and Brick
turned away.
“Keep this dark, will yuh?” asked Brick of Mrs. Wesson. “You folks can
talk to him, but don’t let anybody----”
Brick had turned toward the open door and saw Kane and the one called
Jack Smith standing in the doorway. Kane nodded and spoke to Jean.
“How’s the sick man?” he asked.
“About the same, Mr. Kane,” said Jean.
“Shucks, that’s too bad.” Kane seemed downhearted and his voice was
sympathetic. Smith tried to appear indifferent to Brick’s presence by
half-turning his back. Brick watched the two men closely. It is hard to
ignore a person under these circumstances, but Smith and Kane succeeded
admirably. Brick looked back at Martin, who was slightly propped up on
his pillow, and waved good-by. He turned to Jean.
“I reckon I’ll be driftin’, folks. Got a sheep deal to look into.”
Jean made no move to follow him, appearing indifferent as to whether
he stayed or went. Mrs. Wesson watched Brick from the doorway, with a
smile, and then shook her head as if to say, “I’m with you, Brick.”
Brick rode straight into the Piney Creek hills, heading for the
sheep-camp; but he was not thinking about sheep. The face of Jack
Smith troubled him. Was it just a chance resemblance to some one he
had known?
* * * * *
Brick had been born and raised in the range country, where there is
small chance of meeting a man without at least a short acquaintance.
Brick couldn’t remember any one who looked like Jack Smith. Very few
Mexican or Spanish cowpunchers ever get to the Northern ranges, and
Brick knew he was not confusing Smith’s likeness with any other
dark-skinned cowboy he had known. Still, Smith’s face was familiar.
Brick was satisfied that Scott Martin was not branding the calf when
he was shot. He felt sure that Martin had been shot from his horse
while traveling on the road, and that the would-be murderers had
framed the rest of the evidence. It looked as though their idea had
been to fasten the crime to Brick, but Brick felt that there was
more to it than merely trying to get rid of the sheriff. They had,
no doubt, believed that Martin was dead, or they would have finished
the job.
“Somebody,” muttered Brick aloud, “somebody is goin’ to lose a lot of
sleep pretty soon, and it ain’t goin’ to be me.” He had no trouble in
finding the sheep-camp. The herders had moved into a small cabin at the
mouth of a small cañon. As Brick rode up to the door of the cabin, the
two herders came out.
Brick noted that there were no sheepdogs in evidence, which proved that
it was not a well-organized outfit. The men were a hard-looking pair;
unshaven and unwashed. Brick mentally classed them as “range-thugs,”
rather than regular sheepherders. There was neither surprize nor
friendliness in their faces.
“Whatcha want?” growled the larger of the two.
“Whatcha got?” grinned Brick.
The big man growled something deep in his throat. Brick glanced around.
“Sheriff?” asked the smaller man. Brick nodded.
“Uh-huh. Thought I’d see yuh before the cattlemen did.”
“Whatcha want?” growled the big man again.
“How many sheep yuh got?” asked Brick.
“Couple hundred.”
“Won’t take yuh long to round ’em up and drift back where yuh came from,
will it?”
“We’ve got a right here,” whined the small man. “You’re the sheriff and
you’ve got to see that we git a square deal.”
Brick grinned.
“Who told yuh that?”
The two men exchanged glances. The big one shrugged his shoulders and
spat copiously.
“Anybody knows that, sheriff.”
The small one began to tirade against the injustice of the range
country, but Brick was not listening. Hanging on a nail, driven into
one of the corner logs of the cabin, hung two horseshoes--two worn
horseshoes, made without toe-calks. The smaller man broke off his
discourse and followed Brick’s gaze.
“Herd sheep on horse-back?” asked Brick.
“Naw.”
“Who left the horseshoes?”
Neither man spoke for a moment and then the big one said, “We dunno.”