“Soapy is goin’ to raise Susie to be a old maid, don’tcha know it?
Cashier of a bank ain’t so bad.”
“Soapy’s got so danged much money that he likely wants Susie to marry
some prominent galoot,” said Harp.
A tall, cadaverous individual was going down the street, but hurried
across when he saw Brick and Harp.
“Howdy, Doc,” greeted Brick.
Doctor Bridger shook hands with them solemnly. Doc always appeared
solemn. He was a fixture in Silverton, and had a sure-thing business. He
was the only M. D., owned the only drug store in the town, and was
coroner and undertaker. No matter whether the patient survived or
not—Doc profited thereby. It was a business in which levity had no part.
“Suppose you’re down here on the Dale case. Hold an inquest as soon as
the stage gets in tomorrow,” said Doc.
“Have yuh examined the body?”
“Yes. Dale was shot with a .45 caliber gun. The bullet severed an artery
near the heart. Death was instantaneous.”
“Bullet go plumb through him, Doc?”
“No, not quite. It ranged downward. Malvene says that Dale was a very
good shot, but he did not have a chance, I suppose.”
“I don’t reckon he did, Doc. I’ll be plumb glad to hear what Buzzard
Bailey has to say.”
* * * * *
Buzzard Bailey was not unlike the bird after which he was named. He was
slight of frame, stoop-shouldered and with a parchment-like scrawny
neck, which appeared wattled at times. His face was bony and his nose
prominent.
His testimony showed that Dale had been a passenger on the stage and had
resisted the attempt of two masked men to rob the stage, during which
time he was shot and killed. Sawyer had appeared on the scene, coming
toward Silverton, and had offered to take Dale’s body to town. Buzzard’s
testimony was short and to the point.
“Where was Dale going?” asked Doctor Bridger.
“Redrock,” replied Bailey.
“Paid his fare?” asked Brick.
“N—not to me,” said Bailey. “He said that Malvene——”
“I wouldn’t take his money,” said Malvene generously.
“Was Dale on the seat with you?” asked Brick.
“Yeah—sure he was.”
“When yuh left Silverton?”
“He was drunk when the stage left,” volunteered Malvene. “Too drunk to
ride outside; so we put him inside the stage.”
“He sobered up and made me stop and let him onto the seat,” said Bailey.
“We just got to the curve on that little grade this side of the Camp
Creek crossin’ when these fellers popped out of the brush. Dale went for
his gun, but they beat him to it. They made me dump off the money box.
One of ’em held a gun on me and told me to mind my own business. I dunno
what the other one was doin’, but all to once they both vamoosed into
the brush and then Ed Sawyer came along.”
“Yuh don’t know how much they stole, do yuh?” queried Brick.
Bailey shook his head.
“Nothin’, I reckon. The box was there on the road behind the stage. I
put her back on and turned it over to the bank at Redrock. If there was
anything stolen the bank never said nothin’.”
“How much money did you have in the box?” asked the doctor.
“——, I dunno, Doc. She’s locked when I got it.”
“The man who fired the shot—was he down on the lower side of the grade,
Bailey?”
“Uh-huh—in the brush.”
“Any more questions you care to ask, sheriff?” inquired the doctor.
Brick smiled and shook his head.
“No, I reckon I’ve found out all I expected to; which may be
sufficient.”
“Got an idea, sheriff?” asked Buck Pelham.
“Y’betcha, Buck. C’m on, boys—” this to Silent and Harp.
“What I don’t know is this,” said Harp, “I——”
“Don’t start recitin’,” begged Silent. “What you don’t know would take a
danged long time to tell.”
They sauntered down to the livery-stable and sat down on the
horse-trough, which was in the shade. The trough was about half full of
water, with six inches or so of muddy sediment at the bottom. Brick was
slowly rolling a cigaret and staring down at the surface of the water,
where a few flaky crumbs of tobacco had fallen. Suddenly he leaned
closer and peered downward.
Pulling back the sleeve of his shirt he reached to the bottom of the
trough and brought out a muddy Colt pistol. The light had flashed on the
metal across the bottom of the butt, all of the gun except that part
being buried in the sediment.
“For —— sake!” grunted Silent staring at the dripping weapon. “Whatcha
know about that?”
Brick dried the gun on a handkerchief. It was a .44 caliber, with yellow
bone handle, but without any distinguishing marks to identify it.
“Now, who in —— throwed their gun in the trough?” wondered Harp. “Must
’a’ been drunk or crazy.”
“Here comes somebody,” whispered Silent. Brick shoved the gun inside his
chaps and turned to see “Nebraska” Yocum and “Curley” Klein coming near
them. Nebraska was a mouthy sort of a cowboy, but Klein was a sullen
sort, who wore his holster tied down.
Nebraska was thin-faced, with close-set colorless eyes and a shock of
blond hair scraggled over his forehead below the line of his sombrero.
He had one front tooth missing from his thick-lipped mouth. Klein was
small and dark, with a Hebrew cast of features and close curling, black
hair. The whites of his eyes were shaded darkly, like the eyes of an
Indian. Both men were wearing gay colored shirts and gayer colored
mufflers. Nebraska affected bat-winged chaps; but Klein wore
tight-fitting pants, tucked in the tops of his boots.
“Hi-yah, sheriff,” greeted Nebraska loudly. “Waitin’ for some
horse-thief to ride up to water his horse?”
“Mebbe,” grinned Brick.
Klein walked on into the stable, but came back out in a moment and
circled the trough as though looking for something.
“Find it?” asked Nebraska.