“Harp, if I ever catch you unconscious——”
Harp grinned, wiped the back of his hand across his lips and got to his
feet:
“Don’t brag about hittin’ folks when they’re down, Silent. Let’s find
them broncs.”
Their horses had become tangled in the brush and were not hard to
secure. There was no further sign of the bushwhacker, but they took no
unnecessary chances.
Brick got painfully into his saddle. He was still sick and weak, but
thankful that it was no worse than a bruise and a shock. He swung his
horse off the grade and headed southeast, in the general direction of
which the bullet must have come.
“Spread out,” ordered Brick. “Don’t give anybody a chance to shoot at
more than one of us.”
They separated about a hundred yards apart and rode slowly. Clumps of
mesquite, scattering groups of willows and a few cottonwoods dotted the
broken hills. Cattle were ranging through this bunch of hills, the Nine
Bar Nine and Circle Cross brands predominating.
Three coyotes trotted into the open, took one look at the riders, and
faded away like three blurred streaks. Farther on a white-tail deer
stepped gracefully out of a clump of cottonwoods. An instant later it
flashed away into the trees, flag held high.
Under ordinary conditions the coyotes would have been greeted with a
hail of pistol bullets, fired more for effect than for injury; while the
deer would have been followed for a mile or so by a yelling rider, who
hoped to get near enough to cast a lariat. But these three riders gave
no heed to coyote or deer, riding straight ahead, guns swinging in their
hands.
The wide valley narrowed to a pass, below which stretched the range-land
of the Circle Cross. Southwest of this pass, hidden by ranges of rolling
hills, was Silverton. The three riders gathered at the top of the pass.
“That bushwhacker likely pulled his freight out of there right after he
fired that shot,” said Silent. “He was sure he nailed Brick and he
didn’t wait any longer.”
“Like huntin’ for a whisper in a big wind,” complained Harp. “Where do
we go now, Brick?”
“Circle Cross,” replied Brick. “I’ve got to have a talk with Soapy
Caswell.”
“Do yuh suspicion Soapy?” asked Silent, as they spurred down the hill,
but Brick did not heed Silent’s question. Harp grinned at Silent and
Silent’s mouth opened in a silent laugh. They were both tired of
following Brick around while he asked questions, and craved action.
There were men at the Circle Cross who were likely willing to act
swiftly.
Duggan would not forget that Silent had used him as a bullet shield; and
Duggan was a reputed gunman. Possibly they would run across Klein. The
thought of it permeated the soul of Silent Slade, and he lifted his
voice in song:
“She-e-e never came ba-a-a-ck, she-e-e never came ba-a-a-ck,
be-e-e-yu-u-u-te-e-ful Rosie O’Neil.
My tear drops are fa-a-a-llin’, my heart is ca-a-a-llin’
for my won-n-n-der-r-r-r-ful Rosie O’Neil.”
Harp spurred in closer to Brick.
“And that whipoorwill has the gall to kick about jew’s-harp music,
Brick! Ain’t some folks got queer ears?”
Brick did not even turn his head. He was thinking of just where to
begin. The guilty parties were beginning to show their hand, because
they knew he was uncovering some of the evidence, but Brick was not at
all sure of what he had uncovered. The finding of Silent’s pistol proved
that Dale had been murdered, and that at the time of the murder the
guilty parties had neglected to plant evidence which would point to the
fact that Dale was killed for resisting a holdup. But why was Dale
killed? Where was the counterfeit money coming from? Was Felix Bray——
Brick pulled his hat lower over his eyes and grinned to himself.
* * * * *
The Circle Cross was a trifle more pretentious than the usual Sun Dog
ranch. Soapy Caswell had started to build the ranch-house of brick; but
it took too long to haul it over heavy roads, and he felt satisfied with
half-brick and half-lumber, making it look like a frame building on a
tall, brick foundation. A wide veranda, sans railing, extended around
the north and east sides.
A collection of stunted trees were planted in orderly lines in the front
yard, half-smothered in patches of timothy hay. Down the slope from the
house was the bunkhouse. The barn was a huge structure, and was almost
surrounded with pole corrals. The Circle Cross ranch buildings almost
filled the space at the mouth of a dry ravine, and commanded a broad
view of the range. There was nothing to recommend it in Summer, and the
Winter winds had free sway, as they swept up from the North. A huge
gate, with an arched top, opened from beside the road.
They rode in through the big gate at the Circle Cross and up to the
bunkhouse, where some one was playing on a banjo. They dismounted and
opened the door.
Nebraska Yocum was tilted back in a chair with the banjo on his lap,
while seated on the edge of a bunk, his right arm in a sling, was Curley
Klein.
Klein glared vacantly at the three men, but did not speak. Nebraska
unhooked his heels from the rungs of his chair, and tossed the banjo on
to the bunk.
“Hi-yah, sheriff,” he said pleasantly. “How come yuh wanders so far away
from home? Come in, can’tcha?”
Brick grinned and shook his head.
“Lookin’ for Soapy Caswell. Is he home today?”
“Yeah, he’s up in the house, I reckon. What’s he done?”
Brick shook his head.
“I dunno—yet. Where’s Duggan?”
“Duggan?” Nebraska pondered the question deeply. “I’m danged if I know,
sheriff. I’m the foreman—not a keeper.”
Klein said nothing. His averted face was purple with rage against Silent
Slade, who was grinning broadly at him.
“Didja ever find that gun, Klein?” asked Harp innocently.
Klein shot Harp a malevolent glance, but did not speak.
“Funny thing,” mused Brick aloud. “Somebody hit Silent on the head the
other night, took his gun away from him, and today I found it in the
brush where Dale was killed.”
“Silent’s gun?” Nebraska looked queerly at Brick, who nodded. “Yessir.
Whatcha know about that? They took his gun because it was inside his
shirt, but they left the gun they wanted, which was in Silent’s
holster.”
Brick laughed loudly. Silent and Harp grinned, but Nebraska and Klein
did not seem to see the joke.
“Well, I’ve got to see Soapy,” said Brick. “After I find out a few
things which he knows I’m goin’ to put Dale’s murderers behind the
bars.”
“I reckon Soapy’s up at the house,” said Nebraska absently. “Was there a
while ago.”
“Much obliged,” nodded Brick, and the three of them turned around and
went up to the spacious ranch-house.
Just as they reached the rambling porch Soapy Caswell came out of the
front door. He scowled at Brick, but Brick grinned widely at him.
“Howdy, Mr. Caswell.”
“Howdy, ——!” grunted Soapy. “Any time you come talkin’ Mister stuff to
me I’m warned. What’s on yore vacant mind?”
Brick sat down on the steps and produced the makings of a cigaret, and
Soapy, after a grunt of disgust, sat down near him. Silent and Harp
squatted on their heels beside the house.
“Go ahead and uncinch,” grunted Soapy, squinting sideways at Brick, but
Brick finished his cigaret before he spoke.
“If they don’t stop makin’ bad money in Sun Dog county, yore goin’
broke, Soapy.”
Soapy Caswell owned a real “poker-face,” but his nose twitched for a
moment. He spat dryly and squinted off across the hills.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” replied Brick.
“That,” said Soapy slowly, “that is a copper-riveted cinch, Brick. Didja
think I didn’t know it?”
“I reckoned yuh did,” nodded Brick. “I never knowed a thing about it
until the other day. Why wasn’t I told?”
Soapy took a fresh chew and settled himself against a post.
“It’s a Gov’ment case, sheriff. Yo’re all right when she comes to
smokin’ up rustlers and such critters, but this here bad-money job
requires—brains.”
“Oh!” grunted Brick.
Silent and Harp chuckled joyously, but Soapy Caswell’s face was devoid
of humorous intent.
“Whatcha doin’—waitin’ for brains to grow?” asked Brick, after a few
moments’ silence.
Soapy shook his head.
“Nope.”
“Brains ain’t savin’ much money for you, are they?”
Soapy spat violently and shook his head.
“Can’t say they are, Brick. ’Pears that she’s a delicate thing to
handle. I ain’t sayin’ you can’t run yore own office, but they seems to
opine that yuh might get to b’ilin’ around and chase ’em away. The U. S.
A. wants them mockin’-birds plumb bad, and the only way to get ’em is to
let ’em think they’re gettin’ away with the job. They’ll uncover pretty
soon. _Sabe?_”
“By the time yore two banks are busted, Soapy. Where do you get off?”
“I dunno,” admitted Soapy sadly. “I’m leavin’ it all to Jim Clelland,
the U. S. marshal at Helena. I ain’t heard from him for a week, but he
told me that things was comin’ along as well as yuh could expect.”
“Who do yuh reckon it is?” asked Brick.
“Me? Huh! Say, if I even thought I knowed—” Soapy shook his head. “Got
me hawg-tied, so they have. She’s a cinch that it’s two fellers, and
they’re slicker than grease.”