At that epoch I prided myself on being a man of resource; and I
proceeded to prove it in a fashion that even now fills me with
satisfaction. I annexed the remainder of that bottle of soothing syrup;
I went to Sol Levi and easily procured delivery of the other five. Then
I strolled peacefully to supper over at McCloud's hotel. Pathological
knowledge of dope fiends was outside my ken--I could not guess how soon
my man would need another dose of his "hop," but I was positively sure
that another would be needed. Inquiry of McCloud elicited the fact that
the ex-jockey had swallowed a hasty meal and had immediately retired to
Room 4. I found Room 4 unlocked, and Brower lying fully clothed sound
asleep across the bed. I did not disturb him, except that I robbed him
of his pistol. All looked safe for awhile; but just to be certain I took
Room 6, across the narrow hall, and left both doors open. McCloud's
hotel never did much of a room business. By midnight the cowboys would
be on their way for the ranches. Brower and myself were the only
occupants of the second floor.
For two hours I smoked and read. The ex-jockey did not move a muscle.
Then I went to bed and to a sound sleep; but I set my mind like an alarm
clock, so that the slightest move from the other room would have fetched
me broad awake. City-bred people may not know that this can be done by
most outdoor men. I have listened subconsciously to horsebells for so
many nights, for example, that even on stormy nights the cessation of
that faint twinkle will awaken me, while the crash of the elements or
even the fall of a tree would not in the slightest disturb my tired
slumbers. So now, although the songs and stamping and racket of the
revellers below stairs in McCloud's bar did not for one second prevent
my falling into deep and dreamless sleep, Brower's softest tread would
have reached my consciousness.
However, he slept right through the night, and was still dead to the
world when I slipped out at six o'clock to meet the east-bound train.
The bag--a small black Gladstone--was aboard in charge of the
baggageman. I had no great difficulty in getting it from my friend, the
station agent. Had he not seen me herding the locoed stranger? I
secreted the black bag with the five full bottles of soothing syrup,
slipped the half-emptied bottle in my pocket, and returned to the hotel.
There I ate breakfast, and sat down for a comfortable chat with McCloud
while awaiting results.
Got them very promptly. About eight o'clock Brower came downstairs. He
passed through the office, nodding curtly to McCloud and me, and into
the dining room where he drank several cups of coffee. Thence he passed
down the street toward Sol Levi's. He emerged rather hurriedly and
slanted across to the station.
"In about two minutes," I observed to McCloud, "you're going to observe
yon butterfly turn into a stinging lizard. He's going to head in this
direction; and he'll probably aim to climb my hump. Such being the case,
and the affair being private, you'll do me a favour by supervising
something in some remote corner of the premises."
"Sure," said McCloud, "I'll go twist that Chink washee-man. Been
intending to for a week." And he stumped out on his wooden foot.
The comet hit at precisely 7:42 by McCloud's big clock. Its head was
Brower at high speed and tension; and its tail was the light alkali dust
of Arizona mingled with the station agent. No irresistible force and
immovable body proposition in mine; I gave to the impact.
"Why, sure, I got 'em for you," I answered. "You left your dope lying
around loose so I took care of it for you. As for your bag; you seemed
to set such store by it that I got that for you, too."
Which deflated that particular enterprise for the moment, anyway. The
station agent, too mad to spit, departed before he should be tempted
beyond his strength to resist homicide.
"I suppose you're taking care of my gun for me, too," said Brower; but
his irony was weak. He was evidently off the boil.
"Your gun?" I echoed. "Have you lost your gun?"
He passed his hand across his eyes. His super-excitement had passed,
leaving him weak and nervous. Now was the time for my counter-attack.
"Here's your gun," said I, "didn't want to collect any lead while you
were excited, and I've got your dope," I repeated, "in a safe place." I
added, "and you'll not see any of it again until you answer me a few
questions, and answer them straight."
"If you think you can roll me for blackmail," he came back with some
decision, "you're left a mile."
"I don't want a cent; but I do want a talk."
"Shoot," said he.
"How often do you have to have this dope--for the best results; and how
much of it at a shot?"
He stared at me for a moment, then laughed.
"What's it to yuh?" he repeated his formula.
"I want to know."
"I get to needing it about once a day. Three grains will carry me by."
"All right; that's what I want to know. Now listen to me. I'm custodian
of this dope, and you'll get your regular ration as long as you stick
with me."
"I can always hop a train. This ain't the only hamlet on the map," he
reminded me.
"That's always what you can do if you find we can't work together.
That's where you've got me if my proposition doesn't sound good."
"What is your proposition?" he asked after a moment.
"Before I tell you, I'm going to give you a few pointers on what you're
up against. I don't know how much you know about Old Man Hooper, but
I'll bet there's plenty you _don't_ know about."
I proceeded to tell him something of the old man's methods, from the
"boomerang" to vicarious murder.
"And he gets away with it?" asked Brower when I had finished.
"He certainly does," said I. "Now," I continued, "you may be solid as a
brick church, and your plans may be water-tight, and old Hooper may
kill the fatted four-year-old, for all I know. But if I were you, I
wouldn't go sasshaying all alone out to Hooper's ranch. It's altogether
_too_ blame confiding and innocent."
"If anything happens to me, I've left directions for those contracts to
be recorded," he pointed out. "Old Hooper knows that."
"Oh, sure!" I replied, "just like that! But one day your trustworthy
friend back yonder will get a letter in your well-known hand-write that
will say that all is well and the goose hangs high, that the old man is
a prince and has come through, and that in accordance with the nice,
friendly agreement you have reached he--your friend--will hand over the
contract to a very respectable lawyer herein named, and so forth and so
on, ending with your equally well-known John Hancock."
"Well, that's all right."
"I hadn't finished the picture. In the meantime, you will be getting out
of it just one good swift kick, and that is all."
"I shouldn't write any such letter. Not 'till I felt the feel of the
dough."
"Not at first you wouldn't," I said, softly. "Certainly not at first.
But after a while you would. These renegade Mexicans--like Hooper's
Ramon, for example--know a lot of rotten little tricks. They drive
pitch-pine splinters into your legs and set fire to them, for one thing.
Or make small cuts in you with a knife, and load them up with powder
squibs in oiled paper--so the blood won't wet them--and touch them off.
And so on. When you've been shown about ten per cent, of what old Ramon
knows about such things, you'll write most any kind of a letter."
"My God!" he muttered, thrusting the ridiculous derby to the back of his
head.
"So you see you'd look sweet walking trustfully into Hooper's claws.
That's what that newspaper ad was meant for. And when the respectable
lawyer wrote that the contract had been delivered, do you know what
would happen to you?"
The ex-jockey shuddered.
"But you've only told me part of what I want to know," I pursued. "You
got me side-tracked. This daughter of the dead pardner--this girl, what
about her? Where is she now?"
"Europe, I believe."
"When did she go?"
"About three months ago."
"Any other relatives?"
"Not that I know of."
"H'm," I pondered. "What does she look like?"
"She's about medium height, dark, good figure, good-looking all right.
She's got eyes wide apart and a wide forehead. That's the best I can do.
Why?"
"Anybody heard from her since she went to Europe?"
"How should I know?" rejoined Brower, impatiently. "What you driving
at?"
"I think I've seen her. I believe she's not in Europe at all. I believe
she's a prisoner at the ranch."
"My aunt!" ejaculated Brower. His nervousness was increasing--the
symptoms I was to recognize so well. "Why the hell don't you just shoot
him from behind a bush? I'll do it, if you won't."
"He's too smooth for that." And I told him what Hooper had told me. "His
hold on these Mexicans is remarkable. I don't doubt that fifty of the
best killers in the southwest have lists of the men Old Man Hooper
thinks might lay him out. And every man on that list would get his
within a year--without any doubt. I don't doubt that partner's daughter
would go first of all. You, too, of course."
"My aunt!" groaned the jockey again.
"He's a killer," I went on, "by nature, and by interest--a bad
combination. He ought to be tramped out like a rattlesnake. But this is
a new country, and it's near the border. I expect he's got me marked. If
I have to I'll kill him just like I would a rattlesnake; but that
wouldn't do me a whole lot of good and would probably get a bunch
assassinated. I'd like to figure something different. So you see you'd
better come on in while the coming is good."
"I see," said the ex-jockey, very much subdued. "What's your idea? What
do you want me to do?"
That stumped me. To tell the truth I had no idea at all what to do.
"I don't want you to go out to Hooper's ranch alone," said I.
"Trust me!" he rejoined, fervently.
"I reckon the first best thing is to get along out of town," I
suggested. "That black bag all the plunder you got?"
"That's it."
"Then we'll go out a-horseback."
We had lunch and a smoke and settled up with McCloud. About
mid-afternoon we went on down to the livery corral. I knew the keeper
pretty well, of course, so I borrowed a horse and saddle for Brower. The
latter looked with extreme disfavour on both.
"This is no race meet," I reminded him. "This is a means of
transportation."
"Sorry I ain't got nothing better," apologized Meigs, to whom I had
confided my companion's profession--I had to account for such a figure
somehow. "All my saddle hosses went off with a mine outfit yesterday."
"What's the matter with that chestnut in the shed?"
"He's all right; fine beast. Only it ain't mine. It belongs to Ramon."
"Ramon from Hooper's?"
"Yeah."
"I'd let you ride my horse and take Meigs's old skate myself," I said to
Brower, "but when you first get on him this bronc of mine is a
rip-humming tail twister. Ain't he, Meigs?"
"He's a bad _caballo_," corroborated Meigs.
"Does he buck?" queried Brower, indifferently.
"Every known fashion. Bites, scratches, gouges, and paws. Want to try
him?"
"I got a headache," replied Brower, grouchily. "Bring out your old dog."
When I came back from roping and blindfolding the twisted dynamite I was
engaged in "gentling," I found that Brower was saddling the mournful
creature with my saddle. My expostulation found him very snappy and
very arbitrary. His opium-irritated nerves were beginning to react. I
realized that he was not far short of explosive obstinacy. So I conceded
the point; although, as every rider knows, a cowboy's saddle and a
cowboy's gun are like unto a toothbrush when it comes to lending. Also
it involved changing the stirrup length on the livery saddle. I needed
things just right to ride Tiger through the first five minutes.
When I had completed this latter operation, Brower had just finished
drawing tight the cinch. His horse stood dejectedly. When Brower had
made fast the latigo, the horse--as such dispirited animals often
do--heaved a deep sigh. Something snapped beneath the slight strain of
the indrawn breath.
"Dogged if your cinch ain't busted!" cried Meigs with a loud laugh.
"Lucky for you your friend did borrow your saddle! If you'd clumb Tiger
with that outfit you could just naturally have begun pickin' out the
likely-looking she-angels."
I dropped the stirrup and went over to examine the damage. Both of the
quarter straps on the off side had given way. I found that they had been
cut nearly through with a sharp knife. My eye strayed to Ramon's
chestnut horse standing under the shed.