“Who do yuh reckon shot him, Bunty?”
The sheriff did not reply--did not meet Brick’s intense gaze, but
fumbled with the papers on his desk.
“Bringin’ us in here thisaway,” muttered Silent, “’pears like yuh was
tryin’ to keep it a secret.”
“You fellers rode out of town with Limpy,” stated Bunty slowly. “I’d
kinda like to know where you left him.”
“At the forks,” replied Harp.
Bunty’s grin was crooked and his voice was mildly sarcastic.
“Looks kinda queer.”
“Wait a minute,” snapped Brick. “You insinuating that we had anything to
do with shootin’ Limpy Squires?”
“No, I ain’t, Davidson; but there’s a few things that----”
“Why should we harm Limpy?” demanded Silent.
“There’s a lot of things that need explaining. That hold-up, for
instance. You two and Limpy come here with a cock-and-bull story about
female road-agents, and then you admit you’re lyin’ about the woman.
You laugh like it was a good joke.
“Davidson, you and Slade stay out at the ranch and send Harp in to town
to see what he can find out. Looks kinda queer to me, if anybody asks
yuh.”
“Yeah?” drawled Brick innocently.
“It does,” stated Bunty, who seemed to grow bolder when he found that
the fiery Brick remained indifferent to the half-accusation.
“I’m waiting for you to talk.”
“Oh!” grunted Brick, recovering from his abstraction.
“Whatcha say, Bunty?”
“I said I was waiting for an explanation.”
“Well, now that’s sure thoughtful of yuh,” nodded Brick. “If yuh only
wait long enough, Sun-Dog County will grow to be a State and you might
be elected governor. Ever’thin’ comes to them who waits, Bunty.”
“I want that explanation right now! _Sabe?_”
“Who’s Topaz Tyler?” asked Brick suddenly. “He’s a new one on me.”
“I know’m,” grunted Harp. “He punched cows for the Diamond H outfit
in Idaho till they caught him cheatin’ in a poker game. Tall, skinny
tin-horn with educated fingers. Wears a six and three-quarter hat and
a number five boot.”
“You used to be in Idaho too, didn’t yuh, Bunty?” asked Brick.
“That ain’t answering my questions!” snapped the sheriff.
“I want you to explain about that hold-up--the truth of it; _sabe?_”
“Yo’re takin’ a lot upon yourself,” smiled Brick. “When in ---- did you
get the right to ask questions, Bunty? ’Pears to me like you’re gettin’
personal.”
“I’m the sheriff, ain’t I?”
“Well,” drawled Brick, “you keep right on bein’ the sheriff and nobody’s
goin’ to molest yuh, Bunty. Speakin’ of Idaho, ’pears like that State’s
well represented around here. Bunty comes from there, and Silent used to
live in that country, and now comes Topaz Tyler. Mebbe we can have a
reunion.”
“Feller what bought the Weepin’ Tree outfit is from Idaho,” volunteered
Harp. “Leastwise I seen a box out there with his name on it and it also
had the words ‘Cottonwood, Ida.’ I-d-a means Idaho, don’t it?”
“And,” added Silent, “if I ain’t so danged badly mistaken, King Cleeve’s
from Idaho. Mebbe not lately, yuh understand, but----”
Silent broke off and stared at the opposite wall.
Then his face broke into a smile of wonderment.
“What’s a joke?” asked Brick, grinning an accompaniment.
“Nothin’, Brick; I was just thinkin’.”
“What’s all this about?” demanded the sheriff testily. “I asks for
an explanation and I gets a lot of fool talk. I want that
explanation--now!”
“And if we refuse to talk--what then?” asked Brick.
“Well, I’ll have to present such facts as I have to the county
attorney.”
Brick grinned at Bunty and shook his head.
“You ain’t got no facts, Bunty, but do the best with what yuh have. A
top-buggy ain’t nothin’ to hunt outlaws in, and if the county attorney
ain’t got no more sense than you have, the two of yuh ought to be able
to hang some half-witted sheepherder for killin’ Limpy. Do yuh want to
arrest any of us?”
“No--not now--not yet.”
“Stutterin’ loosens your teeth,” stated Brick. “Come on.”
The three of them filed out, leaving Bunty Blair glaring down at the top
of his desk, his nerve almost gone. He reflected that it was a good
thing that Brick Davidson had taken it as a joke. Bunty had been forced,
against his will, to demand an explanation from the three cowboys. They
had refused.
The bunch of men were no longer in front of the store. As Brick and his
two companions went up the narrow sidewalk a tall cowboy came across
from the Dollar Down, heading for the store.
“That’s Topaz Tyler,” said Harp.
“Walks like he had club feet.”
“That’s how Brick’s goin’ to walk if he don’t wear proper boots,”
declared Silent seriously; but Brick was studying Topaz Tyler and did
not resent Silent’s implication.
There was no question but what Topaz was wearing tight boots--not only
tight, but also expensive. In fact, his whole make-up bespoke the dandy.
Light-blue silk shirt, lavender muffler, trousers with a diagonal stripe
and the finest of black calfskin boots, with the softest of tops. His
hat was of the “five-gallon” Southwest type, surmounted with a snakeskin
band. In his hand he carried a pair of gray gauntlet gloves, beaded and
fringed. He merely glanced at the three cowboys as he passed and went
into the store.
“Smokin’ one of them Turk cigarets!” grunted Silent, wrinkling his long
nose. “Jockey Club perfume and burnin’ camel-hair. Waugh! I’d kiss him
if he didn’t smoke.”
“Where’d he get the nickname, Harp?” asked Brick.
“Wears ’em,” grinned Harp. “Look at his vest-buttons, Brick. All
topazes. Wears a big one on a rosette to hold his muffler, and he’s got
two or three on his fingers. Kinda nutty, I reckon. Feller told me that
Tyler found a smoky topaz as big as a goose-egg and had a jeweler cut
it up for him.”
Brick nodded and turned into the store. Silent and Harp followed on his
heels. There were several men in the store. Le Blanc the blacksmith,
Cale Wesson the storekeeper, King Cleeve, Lynn Barnhardt of the Lazy H,
Lowdermilk, who bought stock for the Eastern markets, and Topaz Tyler.
Topaz turned from purchasing a package of tobacco and glanced at Brick
and his companions. He glanced at Harp Harris, but turned and began to
roll a cigaret. None of the men said a word, although it was evident
that there had been earnest conversation prior to the coming of the
three cowboys.
“Gimme a pack of smokin’, Cale,” said Brick, moving up to the counter.
“When did yuh leave Smoky Creek, Topaz?” asked Harp.
Topaz turned and stared at Harp, the tobacco trickling from the crimped
paper in his hand.
“Smoky Creek?” he parroted. “I reckon yuh got the best of me, pardner.”
“If I did it’s the first time anybody has--when yuh was lookin’,”
returned Harp seriously.
Topaz let the paper slip out of his hand, but kept his hands above his
waist-line. It looked too much like a challenge for him to drop his
hands.
“Just what do yuh mean?” he asked.
“I used to work for the Diamond H.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Topaz relaxed.
“Sa-a-ay, you’re the feller who used to play the jew’s-harp. Still
twangin’ along?”
“Yeah,” grinned Harp. “Kinda.”
“Smoky Creek,” said Brick thoughtfully, turning. “Name’s familiar
somehow. Didn’t a feller by name of Martin used to live around there?”
Topaz shifted his eyes to Brick’s face and their eyes met. Topaz turned
back to Harp, but neither of them answered Brick’s question.
“Snubbed!” grunted Brick, licking the edge of a cigaret paper. “A fool
and his questions never gits answered,” and then added reflectively:
“She’s kinda funny about so many Idaho folks movin’ over here, ain’t
it? Anybody’d think they quit runnin’ cows over there.”
King Cleeve gave Brick a searching glance, but Brick’s face told him
nothing. Silent was laughing silently, his homely face wreathed in
deep lines. He looked at King Cleeve, and it seemed to convulse him,
but no sound came from his wide mouth.
King Cleeve’s eyes narrowed. Silent’s laugh was almost an insult--that
kind of laugh; and he was looking directly at King Cleeve.
Suddenly the door opened and a man came in. He was about fifty years
of age, sandy-haired, his thin face plentifully sprinkled with
freckles. His arms were long, his shoulders sloping; but he carried
himself with a wiry ease, and the sleeves of his faded shirt seemed
to stretch under the relaxed arm muscles. His gun was tied down to a
rosette on his chaps, the butt swung out at an angle which hinted at
fast work.
His glance quickly took in the inhabitants of the store. For a moment
his eyes shifted from one to another, and then he moved in close to
the counter. Wesson walked up and leaned across the counter. Without
taking his eyes off the group, the newcomer gave his order and leaned
easily against the counter while Wesson tied up the purchases. Then he
paid, half-turned, opened the door and stepped out, still half-facing
the interior. He carried his purchases in his left hand.
No one spoke for several moments after the door closed, and then Le
Blanc said:
“She’s got wan strong look, dees Martin, eh? Bah gosh, she’s tip ovair
cow with hands, I’m bet.”
“Where’d he come from, Cale?” asked Barnhardt.
Wesson shook his head.
“I dunno, Lynn. You know, Cleeve?” King Cleeve shook his head.
“Idaho, I think,” said Brick. “Near Cottonwood or Smoky Creek.”
Silent laughed again, but this time it was not silently. Every man
in the place looked at him, but Silent gave them no heed. Finally he
turned on his heel and walked outside.
“Slade acts like he was loco,” observed King Cleeve.
“Acts like a ---- fool, if you ask me,” stated Topaz.
“If anybody asks yuh,” agreed Brick, and added, “but nobody asked yuh.”
“What do you mean?”
Topaz glared at Brick angrily.
“Want a diagram?” grinned Brick. “If yuh don’t, I’ll just say yo’re
pretty new to be passin’ opinions.”
“Now, now, quit jawin’,” interrupted Wesson, who knew Brick very,
very well indeed. “Sayin’ this ’n’ that back and forth is apt to make
enemies; don’t yuh know it?” and then added meaningly, “There’s been
one killin’ this week and gosh knows that’s a plenty in these quiet
times.”
Topaz, without a reply, walked outside and crossed to the Dollar Down.
Brick grinned.
“Friend of yours; ain’t he, Cleeve?”
“Mine?”
King Cleeve was astonished.
“Not that anybody knows of.”
“Oh! Not that anybody--knows--of.”
King Cleeve slid from his seat on the counter and straightened the
creases in his trousers. He feigned not to have noticed Brick’s tone
of voice, and when he straightened up his face was blandly innocent.
“Me, I’m thinkin’ she’s goin’ to rain.”
Le Blanc stood up and yawned widely.
“Where?” asked Harp. “It ain’t goin’ to rain here, Frenchy.”
“She’s goin’ t’ be long dry spell if she don’,” grinned Le Blanc, and
headed for the door.
“That cinches the drink on you, Harp,” grinned Brick. “C’mon.”
* * * * *
Outside they found Silent sitting on the sidewalk, contemplating a
faded and torn two-year-old circus poster which adorned the building
just across the street. He looked soberly up at Brick and moved aside
to let him sit down.
“What did yuh laugh for, Brick?”
Silent’s tone was mildly reproving.
“I had to,” grinned Brick. “Lemme tell yuh something, which yuh likely
won’t believe; I was in jail once.”
“I don’t believe it,” declared Silent. “You was in jail more’n once.”
“I can remember this one. It was a little town in Idaho where I got
into a argument with a feller. I reckon I was drinkin’ a little too
much. Anyway I licked him. Then two fellers hopped on me and helped
him put me in jail. He was the sheriff. There was only one cell--a
big one. I didn’t mind, ’cause there was a good bed in there.
“I don’t know what time it was--night, I reckon--when I hears two men
come inside. They unlocks the door, and one of ’em shoves the other
feller inside and locks up again. After he’s gone I lights a match and
looks at this feller. He’s been handled considerable and ain’t payin’
much attention to things. I went back to sleep, and pretty soon I’m
woke up.
“The place is full of men. They smashes in the cell door, falls upon me
in a mess and yanks me plumb outside with a rope around my neck. I can’t
holler nor nothin’. I gets yanked and hauled for quite some ways, and
then they stops. I hear somebody sayin’, ‘----, that ain’t no way to tie
a proper knot,’ and then somebody else says, ‘Ain’t yuh goin’ to let him
say anythin’?’
“Then somebody lights a match and takes a look at my face. I seen his
face in the light of that match. It was all bloody and white. Then he
said:
“‘----! This ain’t him, boys!’
“They crowds around me and gets a look.
“‘Git back to the jail!’ orders the feller who looked at me first, and
they left me on my back out there under a tree.
“I found my bronc and I sure rattled his hocks out of there.”
Silent rubbed his neck thoughtfully and grinned widely.
“Yeah,” admitted Brick; “it sure was funny, Silent. What else?”
“Yuh can laugh now,” replied Silent. “The man they throwed into my own
little cell was--King Cleeve.”
“Aw-w-w-w!”
Brick grunted his unbelief.
“I’m sure as ----!” declared Silent. “Always I’ve wondered where I seen
his face, and when he was talkin’ about Idaho----”
“When do we laugh?” asked Harp.
“When I tell yuh that this here jigger that bought the Weepin’ Tree
outfit was the person who lit that match and saved my neck.”
“Martin!” exclaimed Brick.
“Uh-huh.”
“Silent, is this straight goods, or are yuh romancin’?” asked Brick
seriously.
“----’s truth! I carries them faces photygraphed on my brain, y’betcha.
’Course Martin was all bloody-like, but I know that face. I was kinda
bothered about Cleeve, bein’ as he was beat up a lot, and not of much
consequence to me--not like Martin was.”
“Which makes a different color horse,” sighed Brick. “Things are almost
as clear as mud.”
“Cleeve must ’a’ been gone when they went back to the jail,” observed
Harp. “They busted the door and he just walked out; don’t yuh see? After
they takes you away he jist naturally went----”
“As a detective you plays real sweetly on the jew’s-harp,” remarked
Brick. “Let’s go home before Harp explains the whole mystery.”
“Well--” Harp was very serious--“well, of course there’s a chance
that----”
“Chances are you’re right, Harp,” admitted Brick. “I hope the stove-pipe
draws well. Must take a _pasear_ out there again real soon.”
“We must,” agreed Silent; and Harp nodded, but added:
“After observin’ her paw, I’d say we better go one at a time--we’ll last
longer. Let’s have another li’l shot before we go.”
* * * * *
The Whippoorwill men seemed to make little effort to apprehend the
robbers. Limpy was dead; therefore unable to tell of the actual
occurrence. Silent and Brick refused to talk about it.
Bunty Blair hinted at evidence--nothing absolute, but something that
might incriminate a couple of unintelligent cowboys. He did not
designate them by name, but every one knew whom he meant.
Brick, Silent and Harp were stumped. Silent and Harp were sure that
Scott Martin, Jean and Jack Oliver were the guilty parties, but they
were equally sure that they--Silent and Harp--did not want the reward,
and they were also sure that they were going to act as a stumbling-block
to any one else that tried to collect.
Brick spent a lot of time alone, thinking, and his actions were looked
upon darkly by Silent and Harp. None of them had been out to the Weeping
Tree ranch since that one day.
Just now Silent and Harp had come in from repairing a corral at Silver
Spring. Brick was not at the ranch. Sing Moy, the god of the kitchen,
was the only inhabitant. They asked him where Brick was.
“You go--he go,” stated Sing. “Mebby-so go town.”
“Jist like that!” exploded Silent. “Send us out to fix a darned old
corral that nobody ever uses, and then he goes to town. Let’s me and
you go to town. He-e-e-y, Harp! Quit mournin’ on that groan-organ.
Let’s go to town.”
Harp shoved himself away from the side of the house and wiped the back
of his hand across his lips, after which he carefully wrapped the
offending instrument before putting it in his pocket.
The fact that he had sent Silent and Harp to repair a perfectly good
corral, giving him a chance to go alone to Marlin City, was not
stinging Brick Davidson’s conscience. In fact, Brick was very, very
busy, trying to capture a glass of liquor which seemed to elude his
every effort. Brick stepped back from the bar, looking cross-eyed at
the glass, and then cautiously stalked it with his hands.
There is no denying the fact that Brick was beautifully drunk--if such
an adjective may be used to describe his present condition. He was also
very joyful. He loved all the world, and made it publicly known that his
soul was fairly reeking with milk and honey.
He insisted that Topaz Tyler was as near perfect as any human being
could be--and still live. He dilated on the virtues of Topaz. Then he
eulogized King Cleeve, whom he pronounced a “pup-pup-prince.” Brick
did not stammer over any other words but King Cleeve didn’t mind.
Brick was staggering drunk when he entered the Dollar Down and cast his
bleared eyes around the place. Bunty Blair was there, but Bunty did not
linger. Brick was not yet drunk enough to disturb the peace, and Bunty
knew that when Brick got drunk enough to be safely handled he would be
too drunk to disturb any one.
But Brick was not mean. Oh, far from it. He even said, “Thank you,” when
King Cleeve said, “Well, here’s regards.”
Brick grew confidential with King Cleeve. Did Cleeve have any idea who
held up the stage? King Cleeve did not. Brick hinted darkly that he did.
In fact, he had a document that would clear up the mystery.
“What do you mean?” asked Cleeve.
“I never shed,” grinned Brick drunkenly, patting a pocket of his vest,
“I got shome evidence; y’ understand?”
King Cleeve patted Brick on the back and wished him luck. He told Brick
that there was nobody he would sooner see win the thousand dollars.
Then came Topaz Tyler, and King invited him to join them. For a man who
was already drunk Brick stood an amazing lot of liquor. Topaz and Cleeve
mourned over the fact that they could not drink liquor as Brick could.
It was a gift. They boasted over his ability, and Brick’s chest swelled.
Brick admitted that he was a wonder.
But finally a glass of liquor eluded him. Then he stalked it,
cautiously. King Cleeve’s foot was elevated on the bar-rail, his leg
encased in a very expensive, pearl-colored trouser. Brick threw
caution to the winds and scooped the glass off the bar, and its
contents splashed on Cleeve’s immaculate knee.
Brick chuckled with glee and sat down heavily on the floor, while King
Cleeve swore at the ruination of his new trousers. A swamper volunteered
to remove Brick, but Cleeve and Topaz declined his assistance. Wasn’t
Brick their friend?
They lifted him to his unstable feet and piloted him out of the back
door, where they propped him up on some empty kegs, afterward removing
the folded note from his inside vest pocket. Then they staggered up to
Cleeve’s room over the saloon and sat down on the bed. It had been a
mighty job to anesthetize Brick Davidson with whisky, but they were
sure, judging from their own condition, that the job had been
thoroughly done.
King Cleeve read the note with both eyes, and then read it with one
eye shut. Topaz nodded over it and stared at King Cleeve. Then they
both went to sleep.
* * * * *
Silent and Harp tied their horses to the saloon rack and came inside.
Silent approached the bar and asked the bartender if he had seen Brick
Davidson lately. The bartender grinned.
“Went out the back door a while ago, but I don’t reckon he went far.”
“Drunk?” asked Silent.
“Well--” the bartender did not want to reflect any discredit on Brick’s
ability--“well, I--I hope so.”
“Why hope so?” inquired Harp.
“I’ll tell yuh; Davidson was seven-eighths drunk when he came here, and
he drank enough here to float a canoe.”
“Son of a gun!” breathed Silent, and headed for the back door with Harp
on his heels.
Yes, Brick was there. His head jerked sidewise as they came out of the
door, and he looked up at them with streaming, agonized eyes. Tears
coursed down his cheeks and dripped off his chin.
“May I herd sheep if he ain’t bawlin’!” gasped Silent. “What’s the
matter, cowboy?”
Brick shook his head and handed the little bottle which he held in his
hand to Silent.
“Sm-smell it,” he choked.
Silent put the bottle to his nose and sniffed. Like a flash his head
jerked back and he dropped the bottle.
“Uh-h-h-h--woosh!”
Silent’s choking wheeze was very emphatic. Brick sobbed with joy.
“What in ---- is that?”
Silent’s eyes were full of tears and his nose twitched violently.
“Oil of mustard,” grinned Brick. “Ain’t she a humdinger? Doc Lindsay
gave it to me.”
“What’s it for?” asked Harp.
“Soberin’ up. Kicks the booze out of your head, _muy pronto_.”
“Spend your good money for liquor and then blow your head off to get rid
of it!”
Silent wiped the tears off his cheeks and glared down at Brick.
“You’re a disgrace to Sun-Dog County, Brick Davidson.”
Brick got up and yawned. His legs wobbled a little as he walked around
the rear of the saloon and over to the hitch-rack, where he stopped and
apologized to Silent and Harp for acting so disgracefully. Silent and
Harp looked with distrust upon this apology. Brick was very meek.
“Yessir,” nodded Silent as if to an invisible person. “Yessir, when I
come to think about it, I do. Crazy, yuh say? Well, yuh know how it
is--a feller kinda hates to say, but now that yuh mentioned it--yeah,
I reckon you’re right. No, I won’t mention any certain thing,
y’understand, but jist take mostly anythin’ he’s ever done--you’re
welcome, I’m sure.”
Silent nodded and turned back to Brick and Harp. Brick laughed, but it
was not a drunken laugh. Heroic measures had driven the alcohol from
his head, leaving him a trifle unsteady on his feet, but otherwise cold
sober.
Brick’s laugh nettled Silent.
“You hoodoed us away so yuh could come to town alone and git drunk,
didn’t yuh? Yes, yuh did, Brick. Ain’tcha got no feelin’s?”
Brick was busy searching his pockets and ignored Silent’s question.
Brick swore softly.
“Gone,” he muttered.
“What--your feelin’s?” grunted Silent.
“I had a note in my pocket--” began Brick.
“Aw-w-w-w, gosh!” groaned Silent. “You went and lost that note? Yuh
didn’t, did yuh, Brick?”
Brick nodded and searched his pockets again.
“Where did yuh lose it?” inquired Harp.
“Where did he?”
Silent glared at Harp, and then hammered on the hitch-rack.
“Where did he lose it? Harp, some day you’re goin’ to ask a question and
I’m goin’ to kill yuh dead--right when yuh finish askin’. If he knowed
where he lost it he’d know where he was when he lost it, wouldn’t he?”
Silent snorted his disgust.
“He’d know,” nodded Harp. “He’d know where he was when he lost it if he
was sober enough to know where he was when he lost it; but if he----”
Silent clenched his hands and rubbed his shoulder into Harp’s chest,
shoving him slowly backward.
“Please don’t speak, Harp,” he begged. “Don’t speak.”
“Don’t speak to him, Harp,” grinned Brick.
“I won’t,” promised Harp. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say to the ---- fool.
Where do yuh think yuh lost it, Brick?”
“Think!” Silent snorted. “What would he think with?”
Harp looked mildly at the exasperated Silent and then turned his
back. Silent snorted again and went across toward the store, walking
stiff-legged like an angry bear.
“He’s angry with me and you,” grinned Brick. “Mebbe he’ll be mad quite a
while.”
“Let’s me and you go into the saloon,” suggested Harp. “Betcha forty
dollars he brings a peace-pipe, ’cause he’s thirsty.”
The bartender was idly wiping a glass as they came in, and the glass
fell from his fingers, making a dull _plop!_ in the rinsing-tub under
the bar. He stared at Brick, who walked up to the bar, talking to Harp.
There was nothing about Brick’s actions that would indicate he had ever
had a drink.
“Hooch,” said Harp.
“The best yuh got,” added Brick. “I’m dry.”
The bartender’s hand shook as he placed the required articles before
them. He wondered if Brick was one of twins, or if any man could handle
that much---- Well, if he wasn’t one of twins, it was a sinful waste of
liquor.
Bunty Blair came in and sat down at an unused card-table before he saw
that Brick was still there. Bunty had expected that Brick had been laid
away long before this; and Bunty watched, fascinated, as Brick rolled a
cigaret with one hand and never spilled the tobacco. Then Bunty stared
at the table-top. It was beyond him.
Silent came in and leaned against the bar.
“Normal again?” asked Brick.
Silent cleared his throat dryly, and Brick nodded to the bartender. Then
Brick looked at Bunty, who turned away.
Brick nudged Harp, who grinned at Bunty. Then Brick turned to Silent.
“How long since you was in Idaho, Silent?”
“Nine or ten years, I reckon.”
“Did sheriffs use top-buggies to chase outlaws with?”
A man at a poker-table laughed, and several men turned and looked at
Bunty. Brick had plenty of respect for the law, and in spite of his
wild escapades stayed within it, but he detested Bunty Blair.
Bunty got up from the table and faced Brick. Bunty hated ridicule
worse than anything else, and his soul seethed with a desire to
obliterate this red-headed nuisance. He did not speak for a moment,
evidently trying to control his voice, but there was a decided catch
in it when he said--
“There are times when a sheriff can’t even use a top-buggy to follow
outlaws.”
“Yeah?”
Brick leaned back, elbows on top of the bar, and grinned widely.
“When is them times, Bunty?”
“They don’t make saloon doors wide enough.”
Brick laughed, loudly, joyously. Bunty’s hand was at the butt of his
holstered Colt and he had stepped away from the table far enough to
give him room to draw. Brick knew that Bunty was fast enough with a
gun; knew that Bunty would likely take a chance when he had all the
advantage.
* * * * *
Brick was in no position to reach for his gun. In fact, he gave no sign
that he might reach for a gun. He laughed.
Every eye in the place was on Brick. Then Brick’s eyes shifted from
Bunty’s face to a point behind Bunty. Like a flash the laugh died from
Brick’s lips and a look of horror came. He started to speak.
Bunty whirled, falling for an old trick; and before he could recover
Brick had flung himself away from the bar, wrapping his arms around
Bunty, and the two of them went over a chair and crashed to the floor.
Brick staggered to his feet, still holding his grip. He removed Bunty’s
pistol and tossed it away.
Bunty cursed wildly and kicked Brick on the leg; whereupon Brick
whirled Bunty to the doorway and flung him bodily into the street.
Bunty staggered to his feet and limped straight toward his office
without a backward glance. Silent and Harp were backed against the
bar, guns in their hands, watching the crowd for a hostile move.
Brick looked at the crowd.
“I reckon you gents will pardon the confusion, won’t yuh?”
No one objected. Silent and Harp walked over to Brick, and the three of
them went outside and headed for the hitch-rack.
“Now yuh went and done it,” complained Silent, looking back as they rode
out of town. “Yuh antagonized the sheriff a lot, Brick. He won’t forget
that, y’betcha. Yuh went and got drunk and lost that letter and----”
“But with all my faults yuh love me still,” added Brick.
“Well--” Silent shook his head slowly--“well, yuh do the dangedest
things, Brick. I ain’t kickin’ about yuh huggin’ Bunty Blair. She
makes me no never mind how he feels, but that note was important.
Suppose somebody finds it? Tell yuh one thing, though, Brick; I’m
goin’ to----”
“Where did yuh leave that letter?” interrupted Harp.
Brick turned in his saddle and stared at Harp.
“Leave it?”
“We’re all in on this, ain’t we?”
Harp was very serious.
“All right. Yuh can go ahead and tell us why yuh went and got drunk,
Brick. Yuh didn’t get drunk for fun, that’s a cinch. Now, where is
that letter?”
Brick grinned in appreciation of Harp’s deductions.
“What makes yuh think I didn’t lose it, Harp?”
“’Cause yuh never worried about it. I know danged well you’d be r’arin’
around to beat ---- if yuh lost it.”
“It’s hid in the bunk-house.”
“Aw-w-w, ----!”
Silent’s disgust was very pronounced.
“Yuh never lost no note, yuh danged red-headed----”
“Yeah, I lost a note, Silent.”
“Whatcha mean, Brick?”
Brick laughed and looked back down the dusty road.
“I went into the Dollar Down, actin’ as drunk as a shepherd on a
vacation. Mamma mine, I sure was drunk as a boiled owl. I invited
Cleeve to participate, and then Topaz Tyler joined us.
“I drank all I could handle and then I sets down on the floor, after
I dumped a glass of hooch over Cleeve’s ice-cream pants. Cleeve and
Topaz led me out behind the place and swiped the note. They sure was
lit up plentiful.”
“But about this here note,” said Silent.
“I hinted that I had a note; _sabe?_ I said I had evidence in my pocket.
They picked it out of my inside pocket and all it said was--
“Since when did Nature start muzzlin’ coyotes?”
Silent and Harp stared at Brick.
“You’re awful crazy,” declared Silent. “Awful crazy. What good did it do
to let ’em steal that from you?”
“I dunno,” admitted Brick, “but I’m just kinda peckin’ around, like a
woodpecker on a tree. There’s a worm-hole some’ers, and I’m goin’ to
be the early bird.”
“I think you’re crazy,” said Silent, and then to Harp, “You agree with
me, don’t yuh?”
“Think ----! I know he is, Silent.”
“I’m just as happy as though I had good sense,” grinned Brick.
* * * * *
“You fellers just about raised ---- and put a chunk under it.”
Lafe Freeman leaned against the bunk-house door and contemplated the
three bunks, wherein three blanketed figures reposed in deep slumber. A
protruding leg, bare to the knee, was all that would absolutely identify
any of the three humps as being human.
One of the humps choked over a healthy snore and sat up, blinking at
Lafe.
“Whatcha say?”
Lafe Freeman squinted at Silent’s yawning face and repeated his
statement. Silent reached down, picked up a boot and hit the nearest
figure a resounding whack.
“Daylight in the swamp!” he yelled. “Up and at ’em, Brick!”
Brick uncoiled from his blanket, swung his feet around and sprang for
Silent, but Silent was looking for just such a move. His legs shot
out, catching Brick in the chest, and the luckless Brick sprawled to
the floor.
“Take him off!” yelled Silent, as if Brick were beating him. “Take him
off!”
Then he threw the other boot, which hit Harp as he lifted up to see what
the commotion was all about.
“Aw-w-w-w!” wailed Silent. “Brick’s to blame, Harp. Honest to grandma,
he is. I meant to hit him and he ducked.”
Harp rubbed his shoulder and stared at Lafe. Brick got to his feet and
sat down on his bunk.
“The sheriff,” stated Lafe ominously, “the sheriff says that Marlin City
ain’t big enough to hold you fellers.”
“Oh!”
Brick seemed surprized. Then he grinned.
“Goin’ to build her bigger, eh?”
“Says he’s got enough evidence to hold yuh all in jail.”
“He needs stren’th more than evidence,” yawned Harp.
“Well, he can make a lot of trouble for yuh, that’s one cinch. He’s got
warrants all made out, so Le Blanc told me, and he’s goin’ to serve ’em
the first time yuh show up down there.”
“Warrants!”
Brick was properly indignant.
“I suppose we staged that runaway and grabbed the strong-box! Rats! The
fellers that done it are the same ones that killed poor old Limpy.”
“That’s what they’re talkin’ about,” nodded Lafe. “They say he rode
away with you fellers, and that’s the last time anybody seen him
alive. There’s talk that this robbery was all framed, and that Limpy
was killed for his share because they was afraid he might get caught
and squeal.”
Brick stared at the floor, deep in thought.
“Mebbe they’re right at that, Lafe.”
“Betcha forty dollars they are,” agreed Silent.
“Know anythin’ about that new feller that bought the old Weepin’ Tree
ranch?”
The three cowboys looked at Lafe, but none of them admitted that they
did, so Lafe continued:
“His daughter--I reckon it’s his daughter--was in Marlin last night.
Came in after grub, I reckon. After she went away I heard Cleeve talkin’
to Bunty about her. Cleeve opines that they’re kinda mysterious, and
then he asks Bunty what he thinks about your story about the female
bandit. Bunty said it was a ---- of a thing for a feller to imagine, and
wondered if you fellers lied.
“Cale Wesson said it was a shame for a nice-lookin’ girl to not have any
females to wau-wau with, and he said he was goin’ to have Mrs. Wesson go
out and visit her.”
“My ----!” gasped Brick. “Mrs. Wesson would talk the ear off a mule.
What else did they say--Bunty and Cleeve?”
“Nothin’ much. I hears Cleeve asked Bunty why he didn’t go out to the
Nine Bar Nine and serve them warrants instead of waitin’ for you to
come to town, and Bunty said there wasn’t no ---- of a big hurry about
it.”
“Bunty ain’t goin’ to strain himself and get his muscles all sore,”
observed Silent. “I ain’t huntin’ for trouble, but Marlin City is big
enough to suit me.”
“All right, all right!”
Lafe Freeman shook his head violently.
“Go ahead! Git in jail and see if I care; but before yuh get shot or
hung I want you and Harp to go over to the Triangle Dot and bring back
them twelve white-faced yearlin’s. Sam Clayton said he’d have ’em in
the corral;” and then added as an afterthought, “They’re wilder than
white-tail deer, but that ain’t no reason for runnin’ ’em all the way
home.”
Silent and Harp grumbled, which is a usual thing in a case of this kind,
especially as they were afraid that Brick wouldn’t sit down and wait for
them to return. After breakfast they rode away, still grumbling.
Brick watched them disappear over the hills and then threw the saddle
on his top horse, Glory, a hammer-headed gray. He filled half of his
pistol-belt with rifle cartridges and shoved a Winchester carbine into
a saddle scabbard.
Lafe Freeman watched Brick’s preparations, but made no comment. If Brick
wanted to go to Marlin City and call the sheriff’s bluff it was Brick’s
own business. Lafe knew that Brick could take care of himself, in spite
of the fact that he was prone to get reckless. Lafe’s soul yearned to
follow Brick, but he put away his desires.
But Brick was not thinking about going to Marlin City to call Bunty
Blair’s bluff. Brick had an idea; an idea that was not at all clear
just yet. Something seemed to tell him that the answer was written
in the cañon where the hold-up had been pulled off. He was piecing
together some of the things that had happened; but there were many,
many things that he needed to make it complete.
As he swung away from the ranch, with the Winchester under his right
knee, he wondered where the trail would end, and why he was so
interested. It was not because Bunty Blair had hinted that
he--Brick--was mixed up in it.
Brick’s thoughts went to the Weeping Tree ranch. Was the answer there?
He knew that Jean was not guilty. What did Scott Martin know? Would any
man carry a note like that to the scene of the hold-up and take a chance
on losing it? Brick shook his head.
Why was Limpy killed? Did Limpy know who held him up? Where was Limpy
going when he was killed? Was he afraid that his knowledge of the
bandits---- Again Brick shook his head, but would not admit to himself
that he was baffled. He would work on the theory that Limpy knew who
held him up.
King Cleeve had incurred the displeasure of a mob, according to Silent’s
story. Martin led that mob. Why hadn’t Martin recognized Cleeve? Did
Cleeve know Martin? Brick scowled over these perplexing questions.
He went slowly down to the county road, and drifted along until he came
to the second curve of the Whisperin’ Creek grade, where he stopped. The
wrecked stage had been taken away, and there was nothing left to mark
the spot except the deep ruts where the wheels had cut into the soft
hillside.
Brick visualized as much as he could of the robbery, but there was
nothing to give him any clue. He decided that the woman, and possibly
one of the men, had jumped or been knocked off the grade into the brush
out of sight. The other had stayed with the stage until it reached the
pine thicket. But their manner of escape from the crash had nothing to
do with their apprehension.
Brick swung his horse off the edge of the grade and rode down to where
the bank broke sharp to Whisperin’ Creek, where he dismounted.
Brick felt sure that the bandits would not carry that heavy box very
far. The reasonable thing, he thought, would be to open it, divide the
contents and then go on. There was little water in the creek-bed, which
was piled high with boulders.
Brick slid down to the creek-bed and began casting around. About fifty
feet from where he struck the creek he found footprints of three
people--two men and a woman. The half-wet sand had caught and held the
prints perfectly.
“Men wearin’ about number nines,” muttered Brick.
Half the men in the country wore about that size boot. The woman wore
what Brick would designate as a fair average size.
The tracks led across a sandy spot, all three prints well defined,
especially those of the woman, whose heels made small circles. The
tracks all led to a rock, which jutted up in the center of the
sand-plot. The marks showed that the three had stopped for consultation
or to wait for some one.
Brick studied the jumble of prints as he started to light a cigaret.
Suddenly he stared at the tracks, while the match burned up and scorched
his thumb. He dropped the match, circled the tracks and sprang to the
top of the rock, where he perched like a buzzard, staring down at the
sand.
The woman had walked to the rock, but had never walked away! Her
footprints came up to the rock, but none went away. A jumble of men’s
tracks led to the opposite side of the ravine, but there was no sign
of a woman’s tracks.
Brick lighted his cigaret and pondered over this.
“My ----!” he exclaimed to himself. “She must ’a’ just e-vaporated.”
He studied it from every angle, but shook his head. Then he walked over
to a big boulder, which he climbed, and looked around. He happened to
glance down the far side of the big boulder, and there he saw the iron
treasure-box, half-covered with brush.
Brick lost no time in getting down to it. The padlocks had been forced;
one of them still dangled from the staple. Brick lifted the lid and
stared down at a jumble of black cloth, which resolved itself into three
black masks. Brick shook them out and then looked down at the untouched
contents of the box--untouched except for examination.
Brick dropped on his knees beside it and lifted one of the heavy bars,
weighing it in his hands. Then Brick closed the box carefully and
examined the masks.
They were made of cheap material--sacklike affairs, with rough circles
cut for eyeholes. An examination proved to Brick that they were not all
made by the same person, as the sewing was crude, each one a different
stitch and with different-colored thread.
He started to put them back into the box, but changed his mind and
placed them, folded, inside his shirt. Then he piled more brush on the
box, climbed back across the ravine and went back to his horse.
“Glory,” he confided to the gray, “I’ve found out more in ten minutes
than all the rest have since the hold-up, and--and I don’t know a danged
thing, yet. That’s the ---- of bein’ a detective.”
Brick did not stop in Marlin City; neither did he hurry through. The
main street was not over three blocks long, and Brick walked his
horse the full length of town, looking neither to the right nor left
but seeing everything. Several cowboys in front of the Dollar Down
looked expectantly at Brick, and voiced their disappointment when he
passed the hitch-rack.
Three Star Hennessey saw Brick ride through town. Three Star was strong
for self-preservation, so kept right on reading a year-old magazine.
Bunty had boasted that he was going to arrest Brick as soon as he came
into town, but that was all right with Three Star. He had made no
boasts.
Le Blanc was fitting a hot shoe on a mule when Brick rode past, but the
Frenchman forgot business long enough to go outside. The shoe was cold
when Le Blanc came back in, and he swore fluently at the mule.
“Ba gar--” Le Blanc got confidential with the mule as soon as his
disappointment was past--“ba gar, dis Breek she’s ain’t afraid for
scare, an’ I’m wonder why she don’t stop. I’m mak’ you little bet
dat pretty soon dere be gut for de bear to chew. She’s ride wit’
Winchester under her leg. Somet’ing be do pretty soon, you bet me.”
Topaz Tyler saw Brick, too. Bunty Blair was sleeping after a hard night
at poker, but it did not take him long to wake up when Topaz sent a
swamper from the saloon to tell him about Brick Davidson.
Bunty conferred with Three Star. They went over to the saloon, where
Brick Davidson was the topic of conversation. King Cleeve grinned at
Bunty, and Bunty grew explosive.
“He walked his horse through town,” King informed Topaz.
Bunty wondered aloud where Brick could have been going alone. King
Cleeve settled that wonder by saying--
“Isn’t there a lady out at the Weeping Tree ranch?”
Bunty nodded, and exulted to himself. If there was a woman mixed up in
this hold-up, why couldn’t it be--? Bunty smiled. At least it meant that
Brick was alone.
Of course, Brick alone was enough to make trouble, but Brick alone was
not as formidable as Brick and Silent and Harp. Bunty announced that he
would attend to Mr. Davidson at once.
Three Star was inclined to be pessimistic.
“Packin’ a Winchester. I seen him shoot the tin can off a dog’s tail
oncet, and that dog was fannin’ the breeze.”
“Accident,” said Topaz.
“Mebby-so.”
Three Star was unconvinced.
“Mebbe she was a accident, but that didn’t save the can, and yuh can’t
never make me believe that accidents are all through happenin’.”
“This time,” stated Bunty, “there won’t be no accidents.”
“Gee cripes!” grunted Three Star. “I didn’t say it was a accident, did
I? I hope there won’t be no intentionals either.”
* * * * *
Brick knew that his ride through Marlin City had caused comment, but
nothing more. Bunty and Three Star were the least of his troubles, and
the fact of the warrants did not disturb him, as he felt that he could
clear himself before any jury in Sun-Dog County.
He rode straight to the Weeping Tree ranch-house and swung off his
horse near the doorway. As he started for the open door Scott Martin
confronted him, and Brick stopped.
Martin had stopped with his weight resting on his right leg, his body
swung a trifle forward and his right hand hanging loosely at his side.
Brick recognized the pose; knew that Scott Martin was one of the old
school of gun-fighters, and that right now he was in position for fast
work.
There was nothing friendly-looking about Scott Martin. His face was
set in stern lines, his eyes coldly blue, and his lower jaw seemed
molded to a fighting angle. Brick wondered if this man ever smiled.
Scott Martin gave one the impression of implacable power--power of
purpose and physique. He did not speak, but his eyes seemed to
challenge Brick.
“You’re wrong, pardner. You don’t know me, but I bring a pipe.”
“Injun talk?”
Martin’s tone was colorless.
“Y’betcha. White belts, pardner.”
Martin relaxed easily, but before he could reply Jean came to the door
and saw Brick.
“Hello there!” she called, and her voice was friendly.
“Howdy, ma’am,” grinned Brick. “Nice day.”
Martin glanced from Brick to Jean.
“Dad, shake hands with Mr. Davidson. He’s the man who fixed that pipe
for me.”
“Oh!”
Martin smiled and shook hands with Brick, who withdrew his hand as
quickly as possible. Brick’s hands were muscular and tough, but Martin’s
grip was like that of a steel vise.
“Pardner, I hope yuh never take hold of me for anythin’ but a
handshake.”
Brick flexed his fingers painfully as they went into the house.
Jean had done wonders with the living-room of the old ranch-house.
Dainty curtains hung at the windows, a canary sang from a home-made
cage against the wall, and the whole room glowed with cleanliness and
cheer. An oblong piece of bright-colored rag carpet covered the center
of the floor. On a little table was a jumble of colored cloth, on top
of which was a fancy sewing-basket.
Brick examined the curtains, paying close attention to the sewing.
“Did yuh make all these things?” he asked.
“Yes. Are you interested in sewing?”
Jean’s eyes danced.
“Kinda,” admitted Brick, smiling at her. “I--I kinda wanted to see how
yuh sewed.”
“Going to turn seamstress?”
Brick colored and shook his head.
“No, ma’am.”
“What’s the idea?”
There was a trace of suspicion in Martin’s voice.
Brick walked over to Martin.
“Pardner, I don’t exactly _sabe_ the idea myself. Yuh don’t have to
answer no questions, y’ understand, and I don’t want yuh to get sore
at my conversation. I want yuh both to look at this thing like I do.
Spread your cards if yuh want to, or keep ’em face down. I’m spreadin’
mine.
“There’s a warrant out for me and Silent Slade for robbin’ the stage of
a box of gold on July 15th. There was a woman mixed up in it.”
Brick had watched Martin’s face, but it never changed a line. Jean
looked only mildly curious. Brick continued:
“They’re talkin’ about you folks down in Marlin. I found this in the
dust where the stage was robbed.”
Brick handed the note to Scott Martin. Martin glanced at his own name
on the dirty envelope and looked searchingly at Brick’s face. He slowly
took out the note and looked down at it.
Brick could see Martin’s face lose its ruddy hue and grow blue--like
taking hot steel from a forge and plunging it into cold water. Martin
handed the note to Jean and the two men watched her read.
“What--where did you----”
Martin put his hand on her arm.
“Let him do the talkin’, girl.”
“There’s three of us that have seen the note--me and Silent and Harp,
ma’am. It looked kinda bad. Of course we didn’t know your initial was
J, and we didn’t know yuh had a man by the name of Oliver workin’ for
yuh.”
“Jack isn’t here yet,” said Jean. “He stopped----”
“What do you think?”
Martin’s tone was very cool.
“I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinkin’,” grinned Brick, “but it ain’t got
me much. There’s somethin’ crooked, pardner. The evidence against yuh
is--too--danged--good. If yuh know anythin’----”
Brick reached inside his bosom and drew out the three masks.
“I found these today. They---- Look at the sewin’, will yuh, ma’am? It
sure don’t resemble your work a-tall.”
Jean picked up one of the masks, while Martin held the other two in his
hands, watching her.
Came a sound at the door, and they turned to look into muzzles of two
rifles, held in the hands of Bunty Blair and Three Star Hennessey. For
a moment there was silence, and then Bunty Blair laughed aloud.
“Don’t move your hands,” he cautioned; and then his eyes caught the
significance of the black cloths.
* * * * *
It was a very inopportune time for the three people, each holding an
incriminating mask. Circumstantial evidence, it is true, but evidence
that no jury would overlook. Brick realized their danger, and his mind
worked fast.
Bunty chuckled and Three Star grinned.
“Caught with the goods,” said Bunty, relishing his own words. “Gettin’
all ready for another job, eh? Kinda lucky, I am.”
There was not a ghost of a chance for anything except surrender. Scott
Martin looked at Brick, and the friendliness had all left his eyes. His
look was an accusation. Brick glanced at Jean, but she was looking down
at the table-top, looking at one of the masks. Her face was white and
her lips tightly compressed. None of them had put up their hands.
Bunty gloated. It was his moment and he was going to enjoy it.
“Unbuckle your belts,” he ordered. “Careful with your hands. Now, hand
’em to me.”
Bunty stepped inside, holding his cocked rifle at his hip, while Three
Star covered them from just outside the door. Brick slowly unbuckled his
belt.
Scott Martin was holding out his belt, but Bunty was watching Brick, and
did not take it. Bunty was afraid of a trick.
Brick held out his belt and gun, but before Bunty could take it he let
it fall to the rag carpet. Bunty stepped forward as if to pick it up,
but changed his mind.
“No, yuh don’t, Davidson.”
Bunty was determined to take no chances.
“Pick it up yourself. You can’t fox me this time.”
Brick grinned at Bunty as if in appreciation of Bunty’s caution; but he
was in reality grinning at his own cleverness. Bunty had been foxed,
but did not know it. It was a desperate chance, but Brick delighted in
taking chances.
He half-knelt to pick up the belt and gun, but his hands grasped the
rag carpet instead; and with a sudden backward heave he yanked the
carpet from under Bunty’s feet, throwing him upside down.
As Bunty fell Brick threw himself forward and into Bunty, and they
rolled almost into the startled Three Star, who was unable to shoot
for fear of hitting Bunty.
With a twist of his body Brick crashed Bunty against the side of the
door, where he plucked Bunty’s pistol from its holster and sent a bullet
so close to Three Star’s ear that Three Star lowered his rifle and felt
to see whether he had lost an ear or not.
Scott Martin had snatched his own pistol from its holster and was
covering Three Star, who capitulated audibly. Bunty’s head had hit the
wall so hard that he had little interest in present conditions.
“I told him,” wailed Three Star. “I told him.”
“What did yuh tell him?” asked Brick.
“I told him to wire the governor to send out a troop of cavalry. I ain’t
got a danged thing against yuh, Davidson.”
“Workin’ under protest?”
“Yeah. Soon as he wakes up I’m goin’ to resign. I’ll take my forty a
month and punch cows.”
Bunty took plenty of time to wake up, but awoke audibly. His feelings
were hurt, and he felt it entirely within his rights to give vent to
his feelings in profanity; but Brick promptly gagged him with a
handkerchief, much to Bunty’s indignation and disgust. The handkerchief
was none too clean.
It had all happened in less time than it takes to tell about it. Martin
had buckled his belt on again, and now he handed Brick’s gun and belt to
him.
“That was what a Frenchman would call a ‘fox pass,’” grinned Brick.
“Them darned masks made things look kinda bad for us; eh?”
Bunty gargled something, but Brick gave him a withering look and his
eyes dropped to sullen contemplation of his toes. Three Star shifted
his feet nervously.
“I--I don’t understand.”
Jean shook her head.
“Neither do I,” admitted Brick, “but I’m havin’ a lot of fun in my
ignorance.”
“You knowed Bunty had a warrant for yuh, didn’t yuh?” asked Three Star.
Brick nodded. He turned to Martin.
“Do yuh know King Cleeve?”
Martin shook his head.
“No, only by sight.”
Brick wrinkled his brow and wondered if Silent had been mistaken.
“You used to live in Idaho?”
“Yes; we came here from Idaho.”
Brick stepped against the building, where he could keep an eye on Three
Star and Bunty. Then he said to Martin:
“About eight or ten years ago you almost lynched the wrong man. Do yuh
remember it, Martin?”
Martin’s eyes grew wider and wider until they were almost complete
circles; then they snapped back to mere slits, venomous as the eyes of
a rattlesnake. The lines of his face stiffened into a mask and his body
seemed to lengthen until the shoulder seams of his shirt threatened to
snap under the strain. His lips did not seem to move as he breathed:
“Davidson, who are you? For ----’s sake, say something!”
Brick glanced at Jean. She was leaning forward, looking at Martin, her
hand raised as if to reach for his arm. Brick snapped a glance at Three
Star and Bunty.
“Can’t yuh talk?” gritted Martin.
Brick stooped and picked up a coiled rope beside the door-step, and
turned to Martin.
“We’ll tie up our visitors, pardner; then talk.”
Martin relaxed and stepped forward.
“You’ll pay for this!” snarled Bunty as the gag slipped from his mouth.
“You can’t tie up the sheriff----”
“Mebbe not,” replied Brick, “but we’ll do our little best. There’s worse
places for a rope than around your hands and feet. You don’t mind, do
yuh, Three Star?”
“Nawsir. Help yourself, Brick.”
Martin opened the door and they put the trussed officers into the next
room, which was unused. Bunty made many rash promises, but no one seemed
interested.
Back in the living-room Martin faced Brick, and Brick noticed that
Martin had aged years in the last few minutes. His eyes had lost their
glare, and his hand trembled as he drew it across his eyes.
“Davidson, if you know--anything--let me--give me a chance, will yuh?”
Martin’s voice was pleading, and Brick wondered at the change.
“Pardner, I ain’t goin’ to cheat yuh out of anythin’. I don’t know
much--yet. Will yuh tell me a few things? Mebbe what I know will fit
in with yours.”
Martin nodded.
“I’ll tell all I can, Davidson.”
“Who did yuh buy this ranch from?”
“A man by the name of Mohr.”
“Zell Mohr?”
“Yes.”
“Whatcha know about that?”
Brick frowned down at the floor.
He had not known that Zell Mohr had owned the Weeping Tree.
“Suppose yuh tell me about that night in Idaho,” Brick suggested.
Martin looked at Jean and then walked over by the open door, where he
leaned against the side and looked off across the hills. Jean stepped
in closer to Brick, but neither of them spoke. Finally Martin turned
and came back.
“Davidson, I reckon you’re a square-shooter. I thought--when the sheriff
showed up--us havin’ those masks----”
“Did look bad,” smiled Brick; “but mebbe we can spoil the looks of it.
Go ahead.”
“Davidson, I used to be an outlaw.”
If Martin expected Brick to show surprize he was disappointed.
“Did yuh ever hear of the Sandy Creek gang?”
* * * * *
Brick nodded. The fame, or rather infamy, of the Sandy Creek gang had
never died out, although they had seemingly disbanded eight or ten years
before. None of them had ever been brought to justice.
“I was the leader of that gang,” said Martin slowly. “For two years
I rode at the head of that outlaw clan, and then I met the woman I
married.
“Jean is not my daughter. Her mother was a widow, and Jean was ten years
old when I met her. Men said that Mary Magone was beautiful. Women were
scarce in that country--good women; and God never made a better one,
Davidson.
“I rode into Cottonwood one day and met her. Two weeks later we were
married and I left the old gang. Mary never knew I was an outlaw. She
wasn’t the kind you could tell things like that to--and the Sandy Creek
gang had been accused of a lot of devilish things they never did. I knew
she could never understand, so I did not tell.
“Our game was to take the clean-ups of the mines. We had information on
every ounce of gold, and very little of it ever got past us.
“I had a little saved up. I told Mary I had sold my cattle. We moved
away from there. I was a gambler, Davidson, and my money did not last. I
had to get a job, and of all the jobs on earth for me to take--I went to
drivin’ the stage between Sweetgrass and the Ophir mines.
“Davidson, I was happy. I had a little home, the sweetest wife on
earth, and little Jean. The past kinda faded out, and it seemed like I
had always been straight. There was a reward of five thousand dollars
for the leader of the Sandy Creek gang.
“I heard a feller say once that there’s only the thickness of a cigaret
paper between heaven and hell. He was right. I walked out of heaven one
day when I met ‘Black’ Ames and Pete Rawls, members of the old gang.
“They laughed at me when I told ’em I was livin’ straight. Rawls said
they were going to get their share of the gold from the Ophir mines and
were willin’ to split it three ways with me.
“I refused to listen to them. They laughed and went away.
“Two days later they came to me again. I refused to help them. They
laughed at me. Wasn’t there a fat reward for the leader of the old
gang? Wouldn’t folks like to know who was driving the Ophir stage?
“Then Ames sprung his hole-card by telling me that my wife would be glad
to find me out.
“Davidson, I should have killed them both right there. It would have
caused trouble, but would have been better. That night I heard two
men, standing in the dark, talking. One of them was Ames, and he was
saying:
“‘That’s the idea. We’ll put a note in his pocket to show who he is. Did
yuh ever see his wife?’
“The other one said--
“‘You’re danged right I have, and I’m thinkin’ I’ll see a lot more of
her pretty soon.’
“I knew they were talking about me. After they were gone I had figured
out what they meant. They were going to kill me at the hold-up. Somebody
was going to find my body with the note on it and claim the reward.
Somebody else was going to try to get my wife, Davidson.
“I think that Rawls and Ames were the ones who pulled off the dirty
deals that were credited to the Sandy Creek gang. It was impossible to
prove it at the time. They demanded that I tip ’em off to the next big
shipment of gold.
“I didn’t know what to do, Davidson. I finally decided to lie about a
shipment and fight it out with them at the hold-up. I thought there
might be a third man in the deal, on account of the conversation I had
overheard, but I took a chance. I knew they were going to try and kill
me, but they didn’t know that I knew this, which made it safer for me.
“I expected to have three men hold me up, but there were five of ’em.
Ames and Rawls were not masked, but the other three were. They did not
look for trouble from me, but when my hands came up I gave Ames and
Rawls each a dozen buckshot from my shotgun. They never moved. They were
going to double-cross me, but I beat ’em to it. Then a bullet struck me
in the head, and when I fell I must ’a’ kicked loose the brake and the
team ran away.
“When I woke up I was in a saloon at Sweetgrass and the doctor was
sewing up the gash in my head. A man had come to the door of the
saloon and yelled that the stage had been smashed up and the driver
killed. Then he rode away. They had brought me to town. It was dark.
I went home. Yes, it was only a scalp wound, but I was bruised up
pretty bad.
“I found the note in my pocket--the note that would tell folks who I
had been. I destroyed it and went in the house. No one had told Mary,
but she was worried because I was so late. I was tryin’ to explain
that I was all right, when the door opened and a masked man came in.
Mary and I stood there together and looked at him. He said:
“‘We thought you was dead, Martin, but it don’t matter. You
double-crossed us today and you’re goin’ to pay.’
“All this time he’s got a gun pointed at us. He whistled, and two more
men came in.
“‘What do you want?’ asked Mary, and the first man laughed.
“‘You,’ he said. ‘Pretty women are too scarce to waste on a dog like
you’ve got.’
“I did not have a gun--nothing but my bare hands, but I sprang for him.
I felt his bullet burn my cheek, and then there came a scream.”
Martin’s face was agonized and his hands clutched at the table-cover.
Then he looked up at Brick, and his face was bloodless.
“Yes, that bullet killed her, Davidson--the bullet that was meant for
me. Another shot at me as I caught my foot in the rug and fell. I
guess they thought I was done for, so they left. The shots were heard
and people came.
“Little Jean had come out from her bed and saw it all. I guess that
saved me, because folks thought I had done it. I think I went crazy
then.
“I got a gun and went hunting for the man who shot my wife. I think
I just wanted to kill somebody. I had lost all that made life worth
while, and I wanted to find something or somebody that would fight
me.
“I knew that Ames and Rawls were dead, and I had no idea of who these
three men could be. I didn’t know but what it was my neighbor--anybody.
I don’t know how I expected to find ’em, but I went into the main
street, looking.
“A horse had fallen in the street and hurt the rider. I met the sheriff,
who was taking the injured man away. The sheriff looked like he had been
fighting.
“I went to the saloon, where men shrank away from me. I don’t blame
them. I--I wanted to kill somebody.
“A man was telling about the horse falling. He said that there were two
men. They raced into the street and one of the horses fell. I asked him
who they were. He did not know.
“Then I knew it was one of the men who killed my wife. I told them. We
went to the jail and took him out. I wanted them to let me have him,
but they wanted to hang him. I think I tied the knot. For some reason
or other I lit a match and looked at him.
“It was the wrong man. This man was over six feet tall and had no marks
of injury. I think he was half-drunk. We left him and went back, but our
man was gone. We found the sheriff at his shack, but he knew nothing.
“Since then we’ve kinda moved around, Jean and I. Something seems to
tell me that some day I’ll find that man. Something will tell me who
he is when we meet.”
Martin finished his tale and put his arms around Jean.
“What was the sheriff’s name, Martin?”
“Zell Mohr. He always was sorry for me, and tried to make me give up the
idea of hunting for that man. I reckon he felt sorry for Jean, ’cause I
kinda was unsatisfied in any one place, and when he got this old ranch
he wrote me to come out here.”
Brick stared at the floor. If Zell Mohr had been the sheriff, why hadn’t
Silent recognized him?
“Does Zell Mohr look the same as he did then?”
“Well, mebbe a little older, but----”
“He doesn’t wear a beard any more, daddy,” said Jean.
“That’s right, girl. He did used to wear whiskers.”
Brick rolled a cigaret slowly, and then looked up with a smile.
“Martin, did yuh ever see a hound catch a coyote?”
Martin frowned over the seemingly irrelevant question.
“Why, I--uh--yes, I have.”
“Could three greyhounds catch a coyote and not get cut up a bit?”
Martin smiled and shook his head.
“No, I don’t reckon they could, but they might.”
“Could three greyhounds catch four coyotes on the same day and not show
a mark?”
“No!”
Martin’s reply was very decisive.
“The coyote would cut some of them, that’s a cinch.”
“What have hounds and coyotes to do with it?” asked Jean.
“I dunno,” admitted Brick; “but somethin’, I think. Did yuh ever know a
crippled feller by the name of Limpy Squires?”
Martin stared at Brick.
“Limpy Squires? Where is he?”
“He’s dead. He was drivin’ the stage that got held up, and later on he
starts out with a ridin’-horse and pack-animal, and somebody plugged him
in the back.”
Martin stared down at the floor and his lips twitched.
“The fellers that robbed that stage likely killed him,” said Brick.
Martin looked up.
“Limpy Squires was my best friend, Davidson, but I did not know he
was in this country. He was one of the old gang, and got his limp
when he stepped between me and a bullet from one of our own gang. He
had to quit the gang on account of that injury. But why did anybody
kill him?”
“Mebbe,” suggested Brick, “mebbe somebody was afraid you two might
meet.”
Martin leaned closer to Brick and his voice was tense.
“Do you think that some of the gang--somebody wanted to get me? Did they
plant that note--and they killed Limpy?”
“Looks kinda like it,” nodded Brick; and then he told Martin of what
happened at the hold-up, the finding of the note, and of the baffling
footprints.
“What I want to know is this; where did that woman go? She didn’t jist
evaporate.”
Martin shook his head and glanced at the connecting door between the
living-room and the empty room where the prisoners had been placed.
“Can they hear, do yuh think?” asked Brick.
Jean walked across the room and opened the door. She glanced inside and
turned quickly.
“They’re gone!” she exclaimed.
Brick sprang across to the door and looked inside. On the floor were
Three Star’s hat and several pieces of cut rope.
“Kinda complicates things, pardner,” observed Brick soberly. “Wonder how
much they heard?”
“Too much, if anything,” replied Martin. “What will we do now?”
“Meet ’em half-way,” grinned Brick, going to the door.
At the corner was Bunty’s horse and buggy, and coming around that was
another horse and buggy. On the seat was a tall, raw-boned woman,
handling the lines like a veteran. She jumped out and tied her horse
and came toward the door.
“Howdy, Mrs. Wesson,” greeted Brick.
“Well, well, if it ain’t ol’ man Davidson’s prodigal son!”
Mrs. Wesson threw back her head and laughed.
“Well, Brickie, ain’t yuh goin’ to introduce me? Where’s your manners?”
Brick managed to introduce her to Jean and Martin. Mrs. Wesson beamed
upon Jean and patted her shoulder.
“Honey, I jist found out that there was a girl at the old Weepin’ Tree.
Cale Wesson has knowed it several days, but he ain’t never told me. I
gave him ---- for it, too, and you know what he said? He said I’d talk
the limb off a yucca-tree, and he was sparin’ yuh. Ha, ha, ha! I told
him I had the closest tongue in the world, and he said, ‘Yes--closes’
to words.’
“Ain’t men the dangdest things? Look at Brick Davidson, will yuh?
Wild-ridin’, good-for-nothin’ cowpuncher, but some day some girl will
up and marry him. Fact. Oh, I’ve seen girls make some awful mistakes.
“Brick’s handsome--I’ll say that much for him; but, honey, them handsome
men don’t always provide hot cakes for your breakfast. But Brick won’t
cuss a woman. I hate a man who cusses at women. I’m goin’ to bend a gun
over Bunty Blair’s head some of these bright afternoons, y’betcha.
“Met him and Three Star Hennessey about half-way between here and town.
Walkin’. Fact. I stops and says--
“‘If you’re just exercisin’ I’ll give yuh a lift up the road a piece and
let yuh get a fresh start.’
“Know what Bunty said? He told me to go somewhere. I told him that the
chairs was all reserved for sheriffs, and I’ll be danged if I’d stand
up. Ha, ha, ha! Three Star ain’t so bad, but he’s in bad company.
Talkin’ about standin’ up reminds me of---- Honey, let’s go in out of
the sun.”
Jean led Mrs. Wesson inside, where she immediately began another
discourse, breaking off to eulogize Jean’s taste in room decoration.
“Get your bronc,” said Brick. “Let her entertain Jean. I think that me
and you have got a job ahead of us.”
Martin nodded and listened to Mrs. Wesson talking.
“She’s the goods, Davidson. Rough as a file, but I’ll bet she’s got a
solid-gold heart. Put overalls and boots on her and she’d look just
like a man.”
Brick looked at Martin and then stared at his horse. He visualized Mrs.
Wesson in male garb, and a smile crossed his face. He started to put
his foot in the stirrup, but stopped. Then he turned to Martin, who was
putting a saddle on a tall star-faced bay.
“Say, pardner, that woman didn’t neither fly nor evaporate.”
Martin turned.
“Where did she go, Davidson?”
“Walked away with the men.”
“I thought yuh said she never left the rock.”
“I was loco.”
“How did she leave?”