AROUND the horse corral at the San Antonio Rancho some half-dozen
cowboys were squatted on their heels, cowboy-fashion, swapping the news
of the day. They had ridden in from various points of the compass, and
two or three of their horses, those of the latest comers, still stood
saddled outside the enclosure, the reins dropped loosely over their
heads, which for the trained cow-pony is just as effective an anchorage
as any stake and rope.
Two or three cigarettes were a-light, and the “makings” were passing
from hand to hand among those not yet engaged in the leisurely blowing
of smoke rings. The topic of conversation was the rumored sale of the
ranch, which some declared to be assuredly impending, while others
dismissed the possibility of such a big deal going through as the merest
moonshine.
Jack Rover was among those who had no illusions as to the future.
“Believe me, fellers,” he was remarking, “it’s no false alarm this time.
The old rancho is as good as sold, the stock is a-going to be shipped
out, the farmers is a-coming in, and in a few months’ time we’ll all be
hunting jobs if there’s any more cow-punching jobs left in this blamed
new topsy-turvy world. And that’s the straight goods—hell!”
Just as this terse and vigorous summation of the whole dispute found
utterance, all eyes were turned in a particular direction. It was young
Thurston’s riderless steed that had attracted attention as it swept
toward its accustomed quarters in the corral.
“It’s Marshall’s horse,” observed one of the boys.
“Off again, on again, gone again, Flannigan,” laughed another—an
adaptation of a popular story that evoked a general grin.
But one youth had sprung to his feet, and skilfully caught the bridle of
the panting animal as it passed him.
“Whoa, beauty!”
The others had not stirred. The involuntary dismounting of the young
boss was too familiar an episode to provoke anything more than a laugh
tinctured with mild satisfaction—
“No Easterner can ride a Western broncho, anyhow.”
“Pass your baccy, Bob,” came a voice from the ring. But the cowboy
holding the riderless horse now brought them all to instant attention.
“By God, he’s been shot! There’s blood on the horn, and here’s the rip
of the bullet.”
Everyone was on their feet now, and the situation was being eagerly
discussed while the saddle was undergoing confirmatory inspection.
“Something’s happened, boys,” exclaimed the big husky fellow addressed
as Bob, conclusively, if somewhat obviously. “And I guess we’d better
investigate.”
As he spoke he swung himself into his saddle—he had been one of the late
arrivals and his horse was all ready for the road or the range.
“Up toward the hills then,” remarked another, indicating the direction
whence the riderless horse had come. And a moment later he, too, was
astride his broncho.
“I’ll borrow your pony, Ted,” cried out Jack Rover as he jumped astride
a third mustang.
And a moment later all three riders were pelting along the road leading
to La Siesta. There was no difficulty whatever in picking up the long
galloping strides on the dusty highway, and the speed of the trackers
depended only on the swiftness and endurance of their mounts.
Meanwhile the boy who had caught Marshall’s horse had disencumbered it
of saddle and bridle, and turned it into the corral with a kindly pat on
its heaving flank.
“Guess I’ll report to the boss,” he called out, as he picked up the
saddle and moved away toward the ranch home.
“Look out for yourself,” shouted one of the group. “Old Thurston will be
madder than hell.”
But it was terror, selfish terror, not anger nor grief, that came into
Ben Thurston’s eyes when he saw the saddle horn smeared with fresh blood
and scarred by a bullet.
“My God, and I believed Don Manuel was dead,” he whispered in a hoarse
voice to Leach Sharkey.
The two had been, as usual, in close companionship; Sharkey reading a
weekly newspaper, while the employer he was paid to protect, restlessly,
as was his wont, paced the room.
“Disappeared and dead ain’t exactly the same thing,” replied the
sleuth as he critically examined the saddle. “And there may be another
explanation to this. What about Dick Willoughby?”
“Yes, yes, Dick Willoughby,” eagerly assented the trembling man.
“You saw them quarreling the other day—they hate each other like
poison,” continued Sharkey. “Where’s Dick Willoughby now?” he enquired,
with a swift glance at the cowboy.
“Good Lord, that’s just where he is—searching the canyons below the
forest for mavericks,” was the reply.
Sharkey smiled blandly; the informant looked disappointed, yet
confident.
“I couldn’t have believed that of Dick,” he added, regretfully.
“Well, clear out now,” said Sharkey. “Mr. Thurston and I will want to be
alone. You say Jack Rover and two others have gone out to search? Well,
we can’t do more till they bring us in some news. Let us know at once
when they return.”
Ben Thurston had collapsed onto a chair, then raised himself, and was
leaning eagerly forward now. He met Sharkey’s glance of hardly concealed
contempt.
“That’s right,” he murmured, “It has been Dick Willoughby’s work. I knew
Don Manuel was dead.”
“And what about your boy?” asked the sleuth curtly.
“Oh, yes, poor Marshall! I forgot about him. But perhaps he’s only
wounded. We’ll send to Bakersfield for a doctor.” And he half rose from
his seat.
“You’ll just wait patiently here,” replied Sharkey, as he pushed
Thurston back into his chair. “All that is possible for the present is
being done.”
And the rôles were now reversed—it was the bodyguard who slowly and
meditatively paced the room.
Meanwhile Dick Willoughby had ceased from his ruminations, and was
beginning to take practical steps for getting Marshall’s body home. He
had no thought of coroner’s regulations that a corpse should be left
undisturbed till the proper official investigation had been made. He
had got his riata ready, and was just going to sling the body across
his saddle and tie it there, when the rhythmic thud of clattering hoofs
smote upon his ear. Thank God! Help was coming. There would be others
to assist him in his gruesome task. So Dick patiently waited while the
sound grew nearer and nearer, until at last the three cowboys dashed
round the bend.
“I heard the rifle shot,” Dick explained, “and rode up from the canyon
below to have a look. I found him here, huddled up just as you see him
by the side of the road.”
“Who the devil did this?” asked Jack Rover, contemplating the corpse.
“God only knows,” replied Dick. “You take him on your saddle, Bob,” he
added, addressing the big cowboy, whose horse was a full hand taller
than the other ponies and more stalwart in proportion.
And so the cortege was formed, Jack Rover leading the way, with Bob and
the body following and Dick Willoughby bringing up the rear.
The sun was low when at last they gained the rancho. They made their way
quietly round to the bunk house and quite tenderly swathed the mortal
remains of the young boss in a blanket, before carrying it to his
father’s home.
At the sound of approaching footsteps old Ben Thurston, with Leach
Sharkey close on his heels, emerged onto the verandah. There was no need
to announce the death of his son—the ominous bundle told its own sad
tale. The ranch owner stared at it, horrified, inarticulate from a
conflict of emotions, the hunted look of terror again in his eyes. Leach
Sharkey took up the work of interrogation.
“How did it happen?” He was addressing Jack Rover, who chanced to stand
next to him after helping to deposit the body on a bench that stood
conveniently against the wall.
“Dick Willoughby heard the shot up among the woods, and found him lying
dead on the road.”
Sharkey advanced a pace or two and confronted Dick.
“Who fired the shot?”
“How should I know?” retorted Dick, reddening slightly from the
brusqueness of the enquiry.
“I reckon I can tell,” cried Sharkey. And with a swift, experienced
movement he grabbed Dick by both arms and clicked a pair of handcuffs on
his wrists before anyone, Dick least of all, had fathomed his intention.
Dick Willoughby was a square-shouldered, powerful fellow, but the great
husky bodyguard, Leach Sharkey, towered above him. In the first flush of
anger and surprise Dick struggled to break the shackles of ignominy. But
the sleuth grabbed him by both shoulders with a grip that rendered its
recipient absolutely powerless.
“Go easy, young man.”
Dick’s muscles relaxed, and Sharkey was content to release his hold.
“Go easy. If you have any answer to make to the charge of murdering that
boy, you’ll have the chance all in good time.”
“What right have you to arrest me?” demanded Dick, somewhat recovering
his poise.
“Oh, I’ve a special constable’s star all right,” replied Sharkey,
throwing open his coat and displaying, close to his armpit, the badge of
the office he had claimed.
“Guess that’s good enough for you and all others here. And now take my
advice, Willoughby. You’ll come quietly with me to Bakersfield. I’ve
no special grudge against you, but have my obvious duty to perform. You
threatened young Marshall more than once in all our hearing, and it will
be up to you to prove yourself guiltless of his death. You bring round
Mr. Thurston’s automobile, Rover. We start right now.”
Everything had happened so rapidly that none of the cowboys, had they
so desired, could have protested or interfered. Meanwhile the news had
spread, for others among the ranch hands were coming up and crowding
toward the verandah rails. General sympathy was obviously with Dick
Several of the onlookers advanced and shook his manacled hands. “All
right, Mr. Willoughby.” “You’ll be home again tomorrow,” “Buck up,
it’s a ridiculous charge”—these were among their expressions of
encouragement. Dick just smiled his thanks—a wan, wistful smile. He now
had himself under perfect control—even his resentment toward Sharkey had
been allowed to evaporate.
“Very well,” he said quietly, addressing the sleuth. “I’ll give you no
trouble, Sharkey. Let us get away from here as quickly as possible.”
Just then Lieutenant Munson came hurriedly onto the scene. For a moment
he looked thunderstruck when he saw the handcuffs around Dick’s wrists.
“Great Scott, Dick! What’s the meaning of this?” Then without waiting
for a reply he turned to the sleuth.
“I’ve just heard about young Thurston’s death, but you’re surely not
going to mix up Dick Willoughby’s name with it, Mr. Sharkey? You must
know that he would have nothing to do with such a cowardly crime.”
“He can prove all that at the proper time and place,” was the cool,
determined rejoinder.
“Don’t interfere, Munson,” interposed Dick. “Mr. Sharkey considers
that he is doing his duty. That’s an end to all argument. I’ll have no
difficulty in obtaining my release once we get to Bakersfield.”
“And the lieutenant can come along with us if he likes,” observed the
sleuth, conciliated by his prisoner’s sensible view of things. “As Mr.
Willoughby’s best friend, you can see that everything’s done right, Mr.
Munson.”
“But why these handcuffs?”
“I know my own business,” replied the sleuth, with returning severity,
as he touched the constable’s star on his breast. “And as a soldier you
should know the wisdom of letting it go at that, sir.”
Munson turned to Mr. Thurston. All through the colloquy the ranch-owner
had spoken not a word. He had dropped onto the bench beside the still
swathed body of his son, and was sitting there with bowed head and
stolidly fixed eyes.
“You are no party to this accusation, Mr. Thurston?” the lieutenant
enquired. “I am sorry for the blow that has fallen on you. But you can’t
seriously believe that Dick Willoughby’s the man who fired that shot.”
As he spoke he pointed at the dead rigid form.
Thurston raised his eyes. There was a dull glare of fury in them, a
savage snarl on his parted lips.
“Mind your own business, young man. He killed my boy, and by God he’ll
hang for it.” While speaking he rose to his feet, holding forth a
denouncing arm toward Willoughby, “Yes, he’ll hang for it,” he growled
again with savage determination, turning round to the open door.
With a gesture to the cowboys standing nearest, he bade them carry the
body within. He stood aside to let them pass with their burden, then
followed and slammed the door behind him with an angry bang.
Despite the tragedy of it all, a little smile went round the group
of onlookers. It meant to say that that was just Ben Thurston all
over—irascible and vindictive. But some faces looked grave.
“May go mighty hard with Willoughby,” murmured one voice, that of the
old grey-headed man, the blacksmith at the rancho for twenty years or
more. “I wouldn’t like to feel the weight of the old devil’s hand.”
But just then the automobile came round the house, piloted by Jack
Rover. Sharkey began to make his dispositions for the journey.
“Do you want to take anything with you, Willoughby?” he asked in a
considerate manner.
“Nothing,” was the prompt reply.
“Well then, you’ll ride with me on the front seat. Lieutenant, you can
share the tonneau with Mr. Thurston.” There was a slight grin on the
sleuth’s face as he signified the arrangement.
“Mr. Thurston?” queried Munson, taken somewhat aback. “Does he come,
too?”
“Sure,” replied Sharkey. “Who’s going to make the charge, I’d like to
know? Willoughby, I just need your promise that you won’t move from this
verandah till I return.”
Dick nodded assent. “You have my word,” he said with quiet dignity.
“Then I’ll be back in a minute,” added the sleuth, his hand on the door
knob.
Ben Thurston was standing alone in the centre of the living room, the
body with its bearers having passed to an inner apartment. His arms were
folded across his breast in an attitude of deep dejection. But it was
with the scared look of a hunted beast that he started away at the touch
of Leach Sharkey’s hand upon his shoulder.
The sleuth smiled understandingly.
“You don’t want to be left here all alone, do you?”
“No, no. For God’s sake, no. I had forgotten that.”
“Then you’ve got to come with me to Bakersfield. In any case you will be
wanted to swear the information. And you can also make arrangements for
the funeral. So get your hat and overcoat. We are all ready outside.”
“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” faltered Thurston. “Wait for me, Sharkey,” he
added, as with nervous fingers he detached his overcoat from a rack on
the wall.
And a few minutes later the automobile, with Sharkey at the wheel, the
handcuffed prisoner by his side, and Thurston and the lieutenant seated
frigidly apart in opposite comers of the tonneau, was spinning
through the gathering dusk of evening on its way to the county town of
Bakersfield.