Author of “Hashknife--Philanthropist,”
“The Devil’s Dooryard,” etc.
An observer might have said that it was cruelty to animals to drive a
team at high speed over such roads. Perhaps the two men, sitting on
the seat of the swaying lumber-wagon, might have replied that it was
cruelty to human beings for a team to act in that hurried manner.
There was no question but what the team of pinto horses had taken the
matter into their own hands--or rather feet--and the two men had
nothing to say about it.
The equipage swept around the curving grade, skidding and bouncing,
while the two men clung to the sides of the seat, staring straight
ahead.
Suddenly they whirled around another curve, the wheels of the
lumber-wagon spinning dangerously near to the outer end of the grade,
and just ahead of them, blocking the road, stood a stage-coach and
four horses, headed in the same direction as the runaway. The
sharpness of the curve and a strong wind blowing down the cañon had
effectively masked the approach of the runaway, and there was no time
for either man to jump nor for any of the people at the stage to get
out of the road.
At the side of the coach stood a woman. Just beyond her stood a
masked man, rifle in hand. The driver was humped on his seat, lines
held between his knees, while another masked man stood on the hub of
a front wheel tugging at a heavy iron box which was partly wedged
under the seat. The two men saw all this in a flash, and then the
runaway team crashed into the rear of the stage.
The force of the impact drove the tongue of the wagon into the flimsy
body of the stage, whirling it half-around and turning it off the grade;
the four horses rearing and plunging as they whirled off the road and
went down the sharp embankment.
The pinto team was flung sidewise, jackknifing with the stage; the
wagon, going sidewise, caught in the deep rut and turned completely
over, following the wrecked stage off the grade.
The two men were thrown from the wagon-seat; one of them turning a
complete somersault and landing on his hands and knees against the
upper bank, while the other sprawled in the road, turned over several
times and finally stopped in a sitting position with his legs dangling
over the edge of the grade.
The one at the side of the bank blinked his eyes several times and then
ran his hand through his mop of brick-red hair. Then he got painfully to
his feet, walked to the edge of the grade and looked around.
The other, a giant of a man at least six feet six inches tall, with a
long, crooked nose and a wide, humorous mouth, retained his position,
except that he took a red-silk handkerchief from his hip pocket and
blew his nose violently. Then he said--
“Brick, old Lafe is goin’ to be real put out about them there pintos and
that wagon, y’betcha.”
The red-head nodded sadly. Then he turned and spat out some sand.
There was nothing heroic-looking about “Brick” Davidson. His hair was
the color of new-baked bricks, and his thin, sensitive nose was
plentifully besprinkled with freckles. His eyes were very blue and very
ready to search out the humorous things in life. He looked below medium
size, comparing him to the bulk of “Silent” Slade, but Brick was not a
small man.
He spat out some more sand and looked at Silent.
“Whatcha drop them lines for?”
“You argued with me, didn’t yuh?”
The big man’s tone was querulous.
“Yuh always argue with me, Brick Davidson, and you know danged well I’ve
gotta gesture.”
“Gesture!”
Brick Davidson spat again contemptuously.
“Gotta, eh? Why didn’t yuh go to a school where they teaches yuh to talk
with your mouth? Write me a note next time, Silent. Floppin’ your arms
like a he-buzzard gittin’ ready to fly don’t convey no thoughts to my
mind.”
Silent Slade got slowly to his feet and peered down the hill. The stage
had stopped in a clump of jack-pines, and the four stage horses, almost
stripped of harness, had tangled with the limbs of a fallen pine.
One of the pintos stood near the wrecked wagon, front feet tangled in
lines and neckyoke, kicking viciously at a dangling tug. The other
pinto was unfortunately past kicking at tugs, unless ghost horses wear
harness.
“Brick!” exclaimed Silent. “Brick, I didn’t see much before the
ca-tas-trophy, but somehow I gets the fool idea that there was a woman
beside the stage.”
“Whatcha tryin’ to do-o-o! Whatcha tryin’ to do-o-o!”
A long, lean face--a face that was scratched and dirty, with a long
lock of grizzled hair sticking straight up like an interrogation point,
suddenly appeared from behind a mesquite-bush at the edge of the grade
as its owner scrambled slowly back to the road level.
He stared at Brick and Silent, and his jaws worked spasmodically as if
trying to loosen something distasteful to his palate.
“It was thisaway, Limpy,” began Silent.
“I’d rather hear Davidson tell it,” interrupted Limpy Squires, the
stage-driver. “You kinda alibi yourself before yuh tell anythin’.”
“There was a woman--” began Silent.
Limpy turned and looked down toward the wrecked stage; then back at
Silent and Brick, masticating furiously. Brick’s toe described a circle
in the dust as he averted his glance from the old stage-driver.
Limpy looked back down the hill and Brick stooped swiftly and picked
something off the ground. His sudden motion caused the others to turn,
but they only saw Brick’s hand coming away from his hip pocket, dangling
a package of smoking-tobacco.
“Yuh ain’t mentioned the hold-up,” remarked Brick. “Have yuh forgot it,
Limpy?”
Limpy scratched his tousled head, while his tongue explored the interior
of his mouth. Then he nodded.
“You fellers sure busted up a regular party. I wonder----”
Limpy slid down the bank toward the stage, and Brick and Silent followed
him.
Limpy led the way into the thicket and climbed up on one of the front
wheels. He peered under the seat, then got down and limped around to
the other side, where an iron box was lying upside down.
“They never got it,” grinned Limpy, patting the box with his toe.
“What’s in it?”
Brick knelt down and looked at it closely.
“I dunno. Sent out by the Whippoorwill mine. Danged thing must weigh
about a hundred pounds.”
“Who was the woman?” asked Brick.
Limpy rubbed his hands on his hips and squinted at Brick.
“I ain’t in the habit of asking passengers for their names. She didn’t
do no talkin’, and she wore a veil.”
“Reckon them there robbers kidnaped her?”
This from Silent.
“Kidnaped, ----!” grunted Limpy. “She wasn’t no kid. We’ll have to take
this here box----”
“Yuh needn’t worry about the box,” said a voice behind them; and they
turned to look into the muzzle of a rifle, backed up by a masked man.
* * * * *
The mask was of black material with two eyeholes, and it covered him
from the crown of his hat to below his shoulders.
The three instinctively put up their hands, and just then the bushes
parted and out stepped another masked man and a masked woman. The
woman’s dress was badly torn, and there was a smear of blood across
her wrist. In her right hand she carried a heavy pistol, while the
man carried a rifle. At a nod from the first man the woman took the
rifle and leveled it at the group, while one of the men appropriated
the pistols from Brick, Silent and Limpy.
Then the two men picked up the iron box and carried it down the hill
out of sight, while the woman still covered the three men. She made no
motion to follow her companions. Brick shifted his weight to his right
leg and grinned at her.
“Yuh don’t need to point that at me, sister. It wasn’t my little iron
box.”
“Nor mine,” added Limpy. “Under the circumstances, I don’t even know
what box yuh refers to.”
But the woman refused to speak.
“Never knowed it could be possible,” drawled Silent. “It ain’t noways
reasonable to suppose that a woman can keep from talkin’ thataway. No
offense, ma’am; but are yuh married?”
The woman seemed to be laughing under her mask, but did not reply.
“’Cause,” Silent pointed out, “’cause if yuh ain’t---- No, I want to
see your face before I goes further in these here ne-go-ti-a-tions.
Your disposition suits me to a gnat’s eyelash, but I’m kinda finicky
about faces.”
From down in the timber came a shrill whistle, and the woman turned
and started away, turning her back on the three men. She disappeared
into the brush.
“Well,” said Brick, “you fellers might as well take your hands down.”
Silent grinned and lowered his hands. Limpy rubbed his hands together
and masticated viciously, staring at the others. Silent started for
the spot where the woman had entered the brush, but a bullet flupped
past his head and thudded into the body of the coach. From down in the
ravine came the _whang_ of a rifle.
“No.” Silent shook his head. “No, I reckon I won’t try to make a mash on
her while she’s got a chapey-rone like that.”
“Held up by a woman,” chuckled Brick. “Sufferin’ sunfish! Next thing yuh
know they’ll be drivin’ stages and----”
“Go ahead and laugh!” rasped Limpy. “Your hands went as high as mine
did.”
“Higher,” admitted Brick. “I’m taller than you, Limpy. Let’s each take a
horse and go to Marlin City. Mebbe the sheriff would like to hear about
it.”
“Whatsa use?” argued Silent. “‘Bunty’ Blair’d never catch any
road-agents.”
“He’s a elegant sheriff,” nodded Limpy. “Swell-elegant.”
“You helped elect him,” accused Silent.
“I didn’t!” snapped Limpy. “I voted for Brick.”
Brick stopped half-way up the sloping side of the grade and laughed.
“If yuh did, Limpy, there was crooked work at the polls. I only got
seven votes. Silent, ‘Baldy’ McPherson, Sam Clayton, Bill See, Lafe
Freeman, ‘Happy’ Sinclair and me. Them six was campaignin’ for me,
and I know I voted for myself.”
Limpy masticated violently. The evidence seemed against him.
“I kinda thought yuh had a good chance, Brick,” he stated, ignoring
Brick’s implication. “Happy told me that yuh had three hundred votes
pledged.”
“I did. Election showed me one thing, Limpy.”
“What?”
“That there’s three hundred ---- liars in Sun-Dog County.”
Limpy scratched his nose reflectively and nodded.
“More’n that, Brick--seven more; only you wasn’t in no position to
discover the other seven.”
Brick laughed. Brick was always ready to laugh, even if the joke was on
him, and the recent election had surely been a joke--as far as Brick was
concerned.
It was the first time that there had been a split in the Democrat and
Republican vote in Sun-Dog. Bunty Blair, the fortunate candidate, had
won over Zell Mohr by six votes.
There was no question but that the Nine Bar Nine outfit and supporters
could have swung the election to Mohr, but there was little choice
between Blair and Mohr. Bunty owned a small horse outfit a few miles
from Marlin City, while Mohr owned a big saloon in Silverton, sixteen
miles west.
Mohr was a burly, silent man, swarthy as a Mexican, but his nerve had
never been questioned. Bunty, on the other hand, was slight of
physique, prone to alibi himself out of all trouble--and to keep out.
Limpy’s expression, “swell-elegant,” covered Bunty better than any
description.
Men agreed that Brick Davidson might make a good sheriff--but Lafe
Freeman, owner of the Nine Bar Nine, announced openly in the Dollar
Down Saloon the night before election:
“No, Brick won’t git elected, and I’ll tell yuh why. He knows too
much for the size of the jail. He’d have to build a bull-pen to hold
the overflow. With Bunty Blair or Zell Mohr on the job we could tear
down the jail and they wouldn’t miss it durin’ their term.”
Zell Mohr heard this statement but made no reply. Lafe Freeman knew
that Mohr was there, and Mohr knew that Lafe said it for his benefit.
Lafe had notches in his old single-action Colt, and Marlin City knew
how he got them. Therefore, Zell Mohr feigned not to have heard the
statement.
* * * * *
The sheriff’s office interior proved that Bunty Blair was
“swell-elegant.” The ages-old reward posters had been torn from the
walls and in their place hung works of art. The subjects of these
framed ornaments were not at all decorous, but they pleased the eyes
of Bunty and his deputy, “Three Star” Hennessey, who affected red
vests and perfume.
Three Star was ornamental, but very unpractical. His classic features
were marred by an old knife-scar which circled one of his cheeks, and
his nose had come in contact with a heavy object at some past date which
had moved it out of a straight line; but Three Star had decorative ideas
as to raiment, which seemed to satisfy Bunty Blair’s conception of what
a deputy sheriff should wear.
Easy-chairs had replaced the old whittled relics, and there was little
left to suggest a sheriff’s office except the weather-beaten sign over
the door. The county paid the sheriff the munificent sum of a hundred
dollars per month, which was far too small a sum considering the danger
connected with wearing a star in Sun-Dog County. Sun-Dog was fortunate
in being able to dispose of the office.
The voters seemed willing to follow the lines of least resistance, and
to elect a sheriff that would do likewise.
Just now Bunty and Three Star were sitting in the office. Bunty lolled
back in a chair, his feet on the table, half-asleep, while Three Star’s
long nose delved deep into the pages of an ancient magazine.
Sitting in the doorway, back against one side and feet braced
against the other, was “Harp” Harris, one of Bunty’s hired men. Harp
was of peculiar physique. His shoulders were narrow--so narrow, in
fact, that when he stood upright one noticed that it was a straight
line from the point of his shoulder to hip, and thence down his long
leg to a pair of big feet. A pair of bat-ears extended well out from
his head, completing the straight line from head to heels. His face
was habitually sad; caused, no doubt, by the mental effort of trying
to remember certain tunes. Just now Harp’s two big hands were cupped
around his mouth, from which came the doleful twanging of a
jew’s-harp. While other cowpunchers soothed their nerves with
cigarets, Harp relaxed over the vibrating little instrument.
Suddenly he wiped his lips with the back of his hand and stared up the
street.
“Somethin’,” stated Harp, turning to Three Star, “somethin’ has come to
pass.”
Up to the hitch-rack came Brick, Silent and Limpy, all mounted on
harnessed horses and leading two more. They tied the horses to the rack
and then came over to the office door. Bunty and Three Star came to the
door. Limpy masticated violently, scratched his nose and looked up at
Bunty.
“Held up.”
Bunty craned his neck for a look at the horses.
“Did they steal your stage?” asked Harp.
Limpy ignored this pleasantry.
“Get anything?” asked Bunty.
“Somethin’,” nodded Limpy.
“One man?” inquired Three Star.
“Two men.”
“Oh!” grunted Bunty.
“Was yuh expectin’ more?” asked Brick.
“Where?” Bunty ignored Brick.
“Whisperin’ Crick grade. Know where them two curves is? It was the one
this side. There’s a lot of brush----”
“I know the place. Where’s the stage?”
“Ditched.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“There was a female--” began Limpy, but caught a look from Brick and
stopped.
“Was she hurt?”
“Not so awful danged bad,” said Brick.
“I’ll ask Limpy to do the talking,” stated Bunty. “Where is the woman?”
“I dunno,” grunted Limpy.
Bunty stared at Limpy and then at Silent and Brick, who were grinning.
“This is the ----est conversation I ever heard!” snapped Bunty, and then
turned to Harp. “Go hitch up my horse.”
“Ain’tcha goin’ to take a posse?” asked Silent. “Yuh sure ain’t goin’
huntin’ road-agents with a top-buggy.”
“Since when did you start running my office, Slade?”
Harp went around behind the building, and Bunty and Three Star went back
into the office, leaving Silent, Brick and Limpy looking at one another.
“This country is goin’ to the dogs,” declared Limpy.
“Mark an X in front of their name instead of tyin’ a can on their
tail--what do yuh expect?” demanded Brick.
Limpy turned back to the horses, unhooked the mail-sack from over a
hame and limped up the street toward the post-office. Brick and Silent
grinned and crossed the street.
“What did yuh find down there in the road, Brick?”
Brick looked sharply at Silent, but Silent’s expression showed that
he was not merely guessing that Brick had picked up something at the
scene of the hold-up. They were at the door of the Dollar Down, and
Brick shook his head warningly and they went inside.
It was too early in the day for much animation in King Cleeve’s place.
Several men were lolling around the place. A gambler sat at a table,
idly turning cards from a dealing-box. Over at the piano a dance-hall
girl was trying to pick out a tune with one finger, and grimacing with
the effort of picking out the right key.
The bartender slid a bottle down the bar and reached for glasses.
“Where’s Cleeve?” asked Brick.
“Huntin’.”
The bartender grinned as if it were a joke.
“Huntin’ what?”
“Coyotes. Zell Mohr brought his three greyhounds from Silverton, and him
and King went huntin’. Reckon they’re goin’ to run ’em down. They’ve
been talking about it for quite a while.”
“Sun-Dog County sure is gittin’ civilized,” nodded Brick. “Women holdin’
up stages, sheriff huntin’ outlaws in a top-buggy and gamblers ridin’ to
hounds.”
“Which all happens when?”
The bartender was interested.
“Today. The stage was held up a while ago.”
“Women do it?”
“Woman,” corrected Brick.
The bartender turned away to serve a customer.
“’S ---- funny that nobody gits excited,” complained Silent, and then
whispered, “What did yuh find, Brick?”
Brick drank and turned away from the bar. Silent shook his head and
followed Brick outside. Harp Harris was leaning against a post in front
of the Boston Café, twanging dolefully on his jew’s-harp, while from Le
Blanc’s blacksmith shop came the not unmusical clanging of steel against
steel.
“This here place,” declared Silent; “this here place needs a
Sunday-school to wake her up. Let’s go and eat.”
They crossed the street and stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, where
Brick pointed his nose toward the sky and gave a soft imitation of a
coyote howl. Harp grinned and wiped the back of his long hand across
his lips.
“Bunty and Three Star went buggy-ridin’,” he stated.
“Gosh!”
Silent appeared shocked.
“Did they go armed?”
Harp grinned and shrugged his narrow shoulders.
“I’d hate to tell for fear it might leak out.”
“Sure,” grinned Brick. “Bein’ as you’re Bunty’s hired----”
“Period,” grunted Harp. “I ain’t with him no more.”
“When did yuh quit?”
“Thank yuh, Brick, but I didn’t quit.”
“What did he fire yuh for, Harp?”
“Well--” Harp licked his lips thoughtfully--“well, I told him to be sure
and lock up the jail ’cause somebody might steal the hinges off the cell
doors.”
Brick grinned.
“Want to work for the Nine Bar Nine?”
“Gotta work,” observed Harp.
“You’re hired. Come and eat with us, hired man.”
Harp asked nothing about the robbery, and they ate silently.
Their meal over, they sauntered outside just as a roan team, hauling a
buckboard, was driven up in front of the restaurant by Lafe Freeman.
“Brick, what happened to the team and wagon?” he rasped.
“Ran away. Silent accident’ly dropped the lines.”
“Did, eh?”
Freeman glared at Silent.
“Accidental, eh? Pinto dead and that Schuttler wagon all busted
to ----!”
Lafe shifted his eyes to Brick.
“You’re fired. Do yuh hear that? Both of yuh fired.”
Brick nodded sadly and turned to Harp, who was starting to put the
jew’s-harp between his lips.
“I’ve gotta cancel that job, Harp.”
“Thanks,” grunted Harp, “I’d hate to work for a man who was that mean.”
Lafe Freeman started to kick off the brake, but changed his mind.
“Met the sheriff and his ornyment down there,” motioning down the road.
“Said there was a hold-up.”
“Yeah,” nodded Brick. “Yeah, there was, Lafe.”
Freeman held the lines between his knees while he filled his old pipe.
He smiled down at the pipe and turned to Brick.
“Whatcha say, Brick?”
“I didn’t say,” drawled Brick, “but I was jist thinkin’ about hittin’
yuh for a job.”
“Say yuh was?”
Lafe’s tone was indignantly sarcastic.
“Huh! Yuh was, was yuh?”
He shifted his eyes to Silent and Harp and back to Brick.
“S’pose yuh want a job as foreman, eh? Yuh do? Then you’ll go and
hire Silent Slade and that danged harp-twanger over there. My gosh,
don’tcha know wagons cost money? Don’tcha know that there pinto horse
was worth----”
“Sure, sure,” nodded Brick, “I knowed we’d git fired. Silent says to
me--‘Brick, my heart bleeds for Lafe, but----’”
“Don’t lie!” snapped Lafe. “You’ve done enough without that. C’mere and
tell me about that hold-up, will yuh?”
“A female!” gasped Lafe, as Brick described the hold-up. “Female? I tell
yuh it’s gittin’ so we can’t trust our weak sex.
“Held a Winchester right on the three of yuh. Whatcha know about that?
Petticoats and perfumed sheriffs. Next thing yuh know we’ll have to do
the crowshayin’.”
“Here comes Limpy,” stated Silent. “Been down to the telegraph office.”
Limpy was hurrying as fast as his game leg would permit and working
his jaws overtime. He shuffled to a stop beside the buckboard and spat
copiously.
“Sent a message to Teton,” he volunteered. “They’ll send it to the
Whippoorwill.”
“What do yuh reckon was in that box, Limpy?” asked Brick.
“We-e-ell--” Limpy squinted up the street--“well, the Whippoorwill’s
a free-gold producer, and they ain’t shipped in a long time. That box
weighed about a hundred pounds, and folks don’t generally ship junk,
do they?”
“Hundred pounds of gold!” gasped Lafe. “Thirty thousand dollars or
thereabouts! ---- fools ought to lose it when they send it without
protection. Thought they was smart, didn’t they? Nobody expects a
unguarded stage to haul money. Don’t believe in it myself, y’betcha.
Goin’ to the ranch, Brick?”
“Not now. Me and Silent can borry a couple of broncs from Wesson. You’ve
got a outfit, ain’t yuh, Harp? Harp’s workin’ for us now, Lafe.”
“Work ----!” Lafe exploded. “Never had a puncher yet that would work.
All right, all right. Come out and visit us, Harp. Forty a month for
visitin’ punchers. I’m goin’ to fasten that heatin’-stove on the back
of this buckboard. Ought to ’a’ done that instead of sendin’ a couple
of danged fools and a pinto team after it. Giddap.”
Limpy turned and went down the street. Harp yawned and opined that he
would buck the wheel for a while, being as he had a new job and didn’t
have any use for the last money that Bunty would ever pay him.
Brick and Silent sat down in the shade of a building. Silent watched
Brick roll and shape a cigaret, and then he said:
“Yuh might tell me what it was. I say, yuh might, but the ---- only
knows if yuh will or not.”
Brick lighted his cigaret and pinched out the lighted match before
grinding it under his heel. Then he reached into his hip pocket and
took out a soiled envelope, which he held in his cupped hands. There
was just a name on it: