_“Tung-g-g-g, bong-g-g, zung-g-g-g, hung-g-g”_
“My ——!” wailed Silent, shoving away from the fence. “How hard do I have
to get hit to save me from that danged jews’-harp? I reckon I’ve got a
awful hard head, but my ears are awful sensitive. Aw-w-w ——! He won’t
quit, Brick; so we might as well go away. I’m hungry—c’mon.”
“Give me that gun, Silent,” said Brick. “I’ll feel better if I’ve got
it. You talk too danged much.”
“Leaves me crippled,” wailed Silent. “I’ve got enemies; don’tcha know I
have, Brick?”
“Home-made ones,” grunted Brick, passing his own gun to Silent. “If yuh
lose my gun I’ll run yuh plumb into Canada.”
“Whatcha want that yaller-handled smoke-pot for?” asked Harp.
“This,” said Brick, fitting it into his holster, “this here
yaller-handled gun is the one Dale packed.”
“Heaven is my home!” grunted Silent. “Dale’s gun? Did he get drunk and
throw it away, Brick?”
“Dale wasn’t drunk until after midnight, and nobody seen him take a
drink after that.”
They walked back past McGill’s place. Silent turned and looked at the
windows.
“They done me wrong in there,” he declared, “and I’m goin’ back and see
what they’ve got to say. Ain’t goin’ to let nobody pat me over the head
without me remindin’ ’em of it.”
Romeo was not there when they went inside. McGill, the lone inhabitant,
looked up from his paper and visibly flinched at the sight of Silent’s
blood-streaked features and Brick’s bare head. It looked like trouble to
McGill and he didn’t want trouble. He knew this trio well enough to know
that they were not to be trifled with.
“Somebody tapped me over the head,” stated Silent, looking around and
back at McGill. “They took my money and my gun, McGill. I was still
inside yore place when said tappin’ was done. Bow to the gentlemen and
recite yore piece.”
“And nothin’ but the truth,” added Brick meaningly.
“Honest to ——, I dunno anythin’,” declared McGill. “If you remember,
Slade, I ducked behind the bar. I can’t stand shootin’, honest I can’t.
After you and Klein shoots at each other I gets all kinda trembly-like,
and I was afraid you’d smoke somebody else up; so I ducked. Don’tcha
remember me duckin’, Slade?”
“Just like you remember who hit me,” grunted Silent.
“I tell yuh I dunno,” wailed McGill. “Duggan helped Klein out of the
place, I know that. I think yuh hit him twice in the same arm. Anyway
he’s sick. Romeo never left until a few minutes ago, but none of ’em
mentioned that you got hit. Mebbe yuh fell against the door—or
somethin’.”
“Yeah!” snorted Silent. “Mebbe I threw away my money and my gun. I’ve
got a —— good notion to shoot yuh right loose from yore shirt, McGill.
I’m bettin’ that yuh know who hit me and you’ve likely got that money in
yore till right now; but we’ll let her go as she lays—for now. I ain’t
noways grudgin’ anybody what shoots at me, but I sure do hate —— out of
a danged head-hunter.”
McGill opened his mouth several times, as though searching his soul for
placating words, but the three indignant cowpunchers turned and walked
outside. McGill went to the door, where he stood for several minutes.
Then he sacrificed gain for safety by blowing out his lights and locking
his doors.
Brick got his hat at the restaurant, and left Silent and Harp devouring
large quantities of ham and eggs. They were both too hungry to question
him, and Silent propped his head with one hand while he ate. A lump the
size of an egg had raised on the side of his head, which he explored
tenderly, as he ate.
Brick had several questions which he wanted to ask Malvene, who lived
just at the outskirts of the town in a small cottage.
Brick knew the place, although he never had been there.
* * * * *
A light was shining under the drawn curtain of the large front window.
Brick picked his way carefully up the narrow graveled walk, with its
sidelines of white boulders, until he came to the small porch, which was
partly covered by a climbing rose. The porch creaked with the weight of
his feet and he listened for a moment before knocking softly on the
door.
A tall, angular woman answered Brick’s knock, and he asked for Malvene.
“He ain’t here right now,” she replied. “Want to come in and wait fer
him?”
Brick did want to. The woman led him through a narrow, uncarpeted hall
and into a living-room, where a shaded oil lamp dimly lighted up the
room. Brick glanced around. Hanging on the opposite wall was a large
crayon-portrait of a hard-faced man, standing stiffly in all the glory
of a frock coat, head thrown back as if challenging the world, and with
one hand buried to the wrist inside the buttoned bosom.
Several red plush chairs were placed at regular intervals around the
room. A small parlor organ stood in one corner, with an unlighted lamp
on each side-bracket. Brick could see an embroidered motto framed on the
wall, which showed dimly, “We Mourn Our Loss.”
A large chair, with a high back, was beside the table, and as Brick
looked around, a man suddenly got up, like a jack-in-a-box and looked at
him. He was a dark-complexioned, anemic-looking person, wearing heavy
glasses. He was collarless and in his shirt-sleeves.
The woman turned to Brick.
“What—I don’t believe you spoke yore name.”
“No,” said Brick, “I don’t reckon I did. Yo’re Mrs. Malvene, ain’t yuh?
I thought yuh was. I’m Brick Davidson.”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Davidson, meet Mr. Nestor.”
“Yeah,” drawled Brick, as they shook hands. “Yore the cashier of the
bank, ain’t yuh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Glad to meetcha, Nestor. I’m the sheriff.”
“Oh, yes,” replied Nestor vacantly. “Well, won’t you sit down.”
Brick sat down and leaned back in the chair.
“Down here on a case?” asked Nestor.
“Uh-huh.”
“Mr. Nestor rooms and boards with us,” volunteered Mrs. Malvene.
“Uh-huh,” nodded Brick indifferently.
A moment later Malvene came in. He hurried into the room, but stopped
short at the sight of Brick, who was getting out of his chair.
“Well!” he grunted. “Visitor, eh?”
“Not exactly,” grinned Brick. “I just wanted to ask yuh what become of
Dale’s gun. It didn’t show up at the inquest.”
Malvene squinted his left eye and rubbed the side of his face
thoughtfully—
“M-m-m—I dunno, sheriff. Must ’a’ got lost in the shuffle.”
“What kind of a gun was it?”
“The one Dale had? I ain’t sure, but I think it was a .44 or a .45.”
“Likely,” said Brick dryly.
“Perhaps the robbers took it with them,” suggested Nestor.
“What robbers?” asked Brick quickly.
“Why, the—uh—the ones what shot him—the two road-agents.”
“Robbers? Was the stage robbed?”
Nestor and Malvene both looked vacantly at Brick.
“There wasn’t no robbery,” Brick shook his head. “Dale was murdered.”
“How do you figure that out?” asked Malvene.
“Why wasn’t the stage robbed?” retorted Brick.
“Well,” Malvene squinted and pursed his lips, “well, perhaps they got
frightened after they killed Dale. Maybe they heard Sawyer coming.
You’ve got to figure things like that, sheriff.”
“That,” declared Brick, “is just what the murderers aimed to have me do,
but I—” Brick turned to Nestor—“You’ve been handlin’ money a long time,
ain’tcha?”
Nestor nodded.
“Know good money from bad money?”
“Why—I—I don’t know what you mean?” Nestor seemed confused, but
interested. “What about bad money, sheriff?”
“Remember the money yuh sent to Marlin City bank the time Romeo Kendall
was held up?”
“Yes, I remember it; why?”
“It was all counterfeit when it arrived.”
“Is that a fact?” gasped Malvene.
Nestor dumbly rubbed his chin.
“It sure is,” grinned Brick. “Ten thousand dollars in bad money. Who
owns the Marlin City bank?”
“I do not know,” said Nestor quickly. “Very likely a number of men.”
“Know anythin’ about the Redrock bank?”
“Not a thing,” declared Nestor.
Brick nodded his head and turned toward the door.
“Much obliged, folks. If yuh hear anythin’ about that gun of Dale’s,
lemme know, will yuh, Malvene?”
“Sure I will,” nodded Malvene. “If I can help you in any way, let me
know, sheriff.”
“Yuh never can tell,” laughed Brick. “Much obliged.”
Brick went outside and walked back toward the street. The trail was
still dim, but he was not a bit discouraged. He knew that there was a
link between Dale’s death and the counterfeit money, and he felt that
the pistol in his holster was one of his best bets in unraveling the
mystery. The counterfeit business was relegated to the background and he
thought only of Dale’s death; feeling that the solving of this murder
would clear up the other issue. Somewhere was the key to it all.
Brick suspected that Klein, Nebraska and Duggan knew something about it,
but none of them was mentally able to conceive ways of flooding the
country with bad money, much less manufacture it. Neither was Romeo
Kendall nor Buzzard Bailey mentally capable of doing anything which
required brains. Somehow, his thoughts reverted to Soapy Caswell. Still,
Soapy was no mental giant.
Brick walked slowly back to the street. A man and a woman were coming
down the sidewalk, and as they came into the light from a window, he
recognized Felix Bray, the banker. They stopped in the shadow of a
building and conversed for a moment. Brick stepped back into the alley,
and watched. Bray turned and went back the way he had come, and the girl
walked slowly past Brick. He watched her go to the alley between Otto’s
place and a small general store, where she disappeared toward the rear
of the saloon. It was Rosie, the singer.
Brick smiled to himself. It was rather amusing to think of the precise
Felix Bray in the same breath with a honkatonk girl.
Bray was a married man. Brick had seen his wife, who was of the same
type as her husband.
“The old son-of-a-gun’s steppin’ out,” smiled Brick. “Mostly all eggs
look alike on the outside. Even a stick of dynamite looks kinda nice and
slick on the outside, but she’s —— inside. I reckon it won’t hurt me
none to talk to Mr. Bray.”
Felix Bray lived in the most pretentious house in Silverton, as befitted
his position. It was a remodeled ranch-house, and was the only house in
Silverton which had been painted since Brick could remember.
It was also the only house in Silverton which had any shade trees. This
gave it an air of distinction, and also made it difficult of approach in
the dark. No light was visible and Brick stumbled over the uneven
planks, which had been laid from gate to porch during wet weather. Wet
weather and hot sunshine had warped them, until it was like walking
along the inside of a giant barrel stave.
Felix Bray answered Brick’s knock, carrying a small lamp in his hand,
which he held high above his head to illuminate his visitor. Brick did
not waste time in generalities.
“Who owns the Marlin City bank, Mr. Bray?”
“Why, I—I am not positive, sheriff; but I have been informed that Mr.
Caswell but recently—ah—within the last few months—acquired control of
the institution.”
“Soapy Caswell? Is that a fact? Who owns the bank at Redrock?”
“I think that is also controlled by Mr. Caswell.”
Brick grinned foolishly.
“Soapy’s gettin’ things kinda corraled, ain’t he?”
“Mr. Caswell is investing very wisely, I think,” Felix Bray was on the
defensive.
“He don’t own your bank, does he?”
“He does not. Will you please tell me why you ask these questions, Mr.
Davidson?”
“Well,” said Brick slowly. “Well, I’ve asked every other kind of a
question and they ain’t got me nothin’; so I start in on banks. Does
your cashier know that Caswell owns them banks?”
“Mr. Nestor? Certainly he does. Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity,” grinned Brick, “curiosity killed a cat oncet upon a time,
but there ain’t no record of it doin’ any harm to a red-headed sheriff.
Much obliged, Mr. Bray.”
“If I can be of any assistance, Mr. Davidson——”
“Yuh never can tell,” replied Brick. “Much obliged.”
Brick walked slowly back to the main street. He had worked every angle
he thought worth while. Nestor had lied. Bray’s statement of the
ownership of the two banks had let Soapy Caswell out of any duplicity in
the business, for the reason that no man would send counterfeit money to
his own bank. If Dale was mixed up in the counterfeiting gang—why was he
killed? Why had Nestor lied? Brick shook his head, yawned at the moon
and headed for the hotel.
“—— delight!” he muttered. “No wonder Sherlock Holmes shot himself full
of hop.”
* * * * *
Brick found Harp and Silent in the lobby of the little hotel the next
morning. Silent’s head was very sore and he was not in the best of
humors. They ate breakfast and went to the livery-stable, where they
saddled their horses. McKeever was curious to know what they had found
out, but they volunteered no information. They rode out of town and
headed up the road toward Redrock.
“We don’t care where we’re goin’,” said Silent, after a mile ride. “It’s
a lot better to be surprized, ain’t it, Harp?”
“I ain’t never surprized at what Brick does,” Harp grinned.
“We’re goin’ out and take a look at the place where Dale was killed,”
said Brick. “I’ve kinda got a hunch.”
The road led mostly over high ground, a dusty, rutty highway, with the
scanty timbered hills to the left and the heavier foliage farther down
in the valley; where willow, poplar and cottonwood took the place of the
mesquite and bull-pine, which grew on the hillsides.
Bridges cost money, therefore Sun Dog County roads circled the heads of
the ravines, instead of going across them, which made the roads go a
long ways to cover short distances.
Brick knew the exact spot, and other evidence bore out the fact that he
was right. There were the wheel-marks of the stage on the outer edge of
the small grade, while at the upper side were the wheel-marks of
Sawyer’s rig, where he had crowded into the bank in order to pass the
stage.
They swung off their horses. Brick walked along the edge of the grade,
looking down into the thick brush, which made a dense fringe beside the
road. Suddenly he slid into the brush and came tearing his way out
again. In his hand was a Colt pistol. Harp and Silent crowded around him
and looked at the gun. Silent’s mouth opened in stunned astonishment.
“Mum-my ——!” he gasped. “My gun! Whatcha know?”
“That was my hunch,” grinned Brick, looking at the gun.
It was filled with cartridges. It was exactly like all Colt pistols of
that model and caliber, except for a spot on the barrel, where Silent
had tested the steel with a file. It was not noticeable except to those
familiar with the gun.
“What does it mean?” asked Silent wonderingly.
“She was put there for me to find,” grinned Brick. “Dale had to have a
gun, didn’t he? He lost his in the horse-trough.” Brick handed Silent
the gun.
“Gimme back my gun and wear your own.”
Silent exchanged with him, and Brick shoved his own gun into its
holster.
“Kind of a case of ‘gun, gun, whose gun yuh got?’ ain’t it?” asked Harp.
“We’re right where we was before Silent got runty and lost his gun.”
Brick grinned and they swung back into their saddles.
“I wish this here gun could talk,” said Silent. “I’d sure admire to know
who petted me on the head last night. Bein’ a deputy sheriff is hy-iu
stuff and I like it fine, but I don’t like to have folks hammer my head.
Brick, yore so awful danged smart—tell me, when do we shoot somebody?”
Brick laughed and swung sideways in his saddle, looking back:
“Mebbe there won’t be any shootin’, Silent. This here job is goin’ to
take more brains than bullets, and——”
Came a sound which can only be heard—not described. A hiss, a thud,
blending so quickly that one could not tell which sound came first.
Brick jerked almost from his saddle, crumpled sideways and fell into a
heap, while his horse whirled and clawed its way up the side of the
grade.
Following the sound of impact came the _whang!_ of a rifle, which echoed
clatteringly from hill to hill, destroying all chance for Silent and
Harp to locate its origin.
Both Silent and Harp were off their horses, guns in hand, almost as
quickly as Brick had fallen. Their horses blundered off the grade into
the brush, snorting wildly. Silent grasped Brick by the shoulders and
dragged him off the road into the brush, where he trampled down a space
to lay him down.
“Brains,” panted Silent. “Brains, ——!”
“Is he—he dead?” faltered Harp, craning his neck to view the open road
below them.
“He is,” declared Silent chokingly. “He’s too —— dead to skin.
Aw-w-w, ——! Lemme find the bushwhacker what fired that shot! I’ll eat
his ears, Harp; honest I will!”
“I count coup on one of ’em,” objected Harp. “The best you can figure on
is one lug. ——, I wish I had a rifle.”
Their rifles were on their saddles.
The two cowboys strained their ears and eyes, but there were no further
shots, no movement. A chickadee danced up and down a dead branch,
chattering happily. Down in the brush a family of magpies argued, as
only a magpie family can argue; disturbed, no doubt, by the clatter of
the rifle shot.
Came a rustling noise behind them, and they both whirled. Brick’s arms
were spread wide and his hands were opening and shutting spasmodically.
His face was purple and his lips fluttered gaspingly.
“Passin’ out!” groaned Harp. “Can’tcha think of nothin’ to do for him,
Silent?”
“Why don’t you do somethin’!” snapped Silent. “Standin’ there with yore
mouth wide open like a fly-trap. My ——, yo’re a helpless human, Harp
Harris!”
“Can’tcha see he’s huntin’ for air?” wailed Harp. “Why don’tcha blow in
his mouth?”
There was no doubt of this, but neither man seemed capable of starting
it. When they did, they started together and bumped heads over Brick’s
face. Silent’s head, being the harder of the two, won out. Silent set
his lips over Brick’s half-open mouth, after filling his enormous lungs
with air, and gave Brick Davidson the benefit of it all.
“My ——, don’t bust him!” warned Harp. “Use a little judgment, Silent.”
Silent lifted his head and glared at Harp malevolently.
“Who in —— is doin’ this blowin’, cowboy?”
Before Harp could reply, Brick exhaled—a long, shuddering breath. His
lips drew in, his chest seemed to jerk, but this time he inhaled without
assistance. The purple seemed to drain from his face and a chalky hue
took its place.
“Hear him rattle?” whispered Harp. “Folks always rattle thataway before
they die.”
“Rattlesnakes rattle before they strike, too,” reminded Silent.
Brick drew his arms in across his abdomen, stretched his full length and
then turned over on his belly, bracing himself with one elbow. Silent
and Harp watched him in awed silence. There was no doubt but what Brick
Davidson was a very sick man. Finally he turned over weakly and blinked
at Harp and Silent.
“You—you ain’t dyin’, are yuh, Brick?” faltered Harp.