“Walked away on her two feet.”
Martin tied off his cinch and swung into his saddle.
“Reckon we ought to take the sheriff’s rig back to town with us?”
Brick shook his head, and they circled the ranch-house, headed for
Marlin City.
* * * * *
It was a long, hot walk for Bunty and Three Star. Bunty had managed to
work one hand loose and secure his knife, and the rest had been easy.
They would have had to pass the open door of the living-room to reach
their rig, and if they circled the house to reach the other side they
might be seen or heard. Three Star advised extreme caution, and Bunty
was willing to accept the advice.
Bunty was sore, but Three Star was indifferent. Bunty swore he was
going to get a posse and go right back. Three Star wished him the best
of luck, and his well wishes nettled Bunty.
“Quittin’, are yuh?” snarled Bunty.
“Not quittin’--quit,” corrected Three Star.
“You ain’t got no guts,” declared Bunty. “Let ’em treat yuh thataway and
then quit.”
“I didn’t ‘let’ ’em,” said Three Star, “and yuh can take it from me,
they ain’t going to get another chance. Next time they’ll likely take
your little knife and make yuh swaller it. As far as Brick Davidson is
concerned--I pass.”
The spectacle of the sheriff and deputy walking into town excited
amusement and interest. Several cowboys were in front of the Dollar
Down, and they lost no time in making an audible demonstration.
Sitting in front of Wesson’s store were Silent and Harp, the latter
dealing out mournful music, while Silent sang softly and very much off
the key.
“Looky!” grunted Harp, pointing up the street. “Bunty and Three Star
hammerin’ their own hocks.”
“Whatcha know?” wondered Silent.
“Mebbe they know where Brick is--the danged red-headed son of a gun.”
Bunty and Three Star went straight for the saloon. Silent and Harp went
across the street, arriving there just in time to hear Bunty say--
“How many of you fellers want to get in on a reward?”
Cowboys as a rule are skeptical of such an invitation.
Zell Mohr came out of the saloon and walked up to the crowd. Bunty
glanced around expectantly, but none of the cowboys seemed to consider
his invitation.
“I reckon I’ve got to deputize some of yuh,” stated Bunty.
“Did yuh lose your horse and buggy?” asked Silent.
“How much reward for gettin’ it back?” asked Bill See, a Triangle Dot
puncher.
Bunty glared at Silent, but did not speak.
“What’s the trouble, Bunty?” asked Mohr.
King Cleeve, attracted by the crowd outside, had left his game and come
out. Bunty saw Cleeve and turned to him.
“I’ve found the road-agents,” stated Bunty. “Discovered ’em with the
masks in their possession.”
“Discovered is right,” grinned Three Star. “Bunty talked so much that
they had to muzzle him.”
Three Star laughed and looked at Zell Mohr.
“Friends of yours, Mohr. At least, they spoke about you.”
“Who yuh talkin’ about?” growled Mohr.
“Brick Davidson and that Martin person,” replied Bunty. “Them two and
the woman are the ones what robbed the stage.”
Silent elbowed his way to Bunty’s side.
“Don’t let your cinch slip too much, Bunty.”
Bunty looked around at the circle of faces, but there was only
curiosity.
“I’ve got a dead immortal cinch on them,” stated Bunty. “They got the
drop on me and Three Star, but we got away. Now I want help to go and
get ’em.”
“Me and Harp will help yuh,” said Silent.
Topaz Tyler added his gaudy presence to the assemblage, stepping easily
that he might not soil his polished boots.
“Take Topaz,” grinned Silent. “He’ll dazzle ’em and then yuh can hit ’em
from behind.”
Bunty glared at Silent.
“Kinda lookin’ for trouble, ain’t yuh, Slade?”
“Well,” grinned Silent, “I ain’t packin’ no extra spokes for fear I
might get a wheel smashed.”
Bunty whirled as the crowd laughed, and went straight for his office.
The sheriff of Sun-Dog was disgusted and tired. Three Star started to
follow him, but stopped.
“Forgot I resigned.”
Three Star removed the badge of office from the lapel of his vest and
sent it spinning across the street.
King Cleeve watched Three Star shed his authority, and as the crowd
drifted back into the saloon he stepped in close to Three Star and
said--
“What happened out there?”
“Just what I expected,” said Three Star. “Brick Davidson made a pair of
monkeys out of me and Bunty. They tied us up, but Bunty got his knife
and cut us loose.”
“What did they talk about?”
“I dunno--much.”
Three Star shook his head seriously.
“I didn’t _sabe_ much they said, but I’m bettin’ that between them
two--Brick and Martin--there’s goin’ to be ---- turned loose in
somebody’s wickiup.”
“Threats?”
“Nawsir. I heard yours and Mohr’s name mentioned.”
Three Star started to go inside, but Cleeve took hold of his sleeve.
“I’ll make it worth your while to remember what they said.”
Three Star scratched his chin and then shook his head.
“Nope. I’m all through buttin’ into Brick Davidson’s business; and
besides I’m gettin’ so I like the ---- fool.”
Mohr was standing beside the door, and he gave Three Star a searching
glance as he passed. Cleeve went slowly in behind Three Star, and he and
Mohr exchanged glances, but neither of them spoke. Mohr started as if to
go to the hitch-rack, but changed his mind and went inside the saloon.
Bunty Blair was mad at the world in general and Brick Davidson and Scott
Martin in particular. Here was a chance for him to land two men, whom he
believed guilty of robbery, and to satisfy his revengeful nature at the
same time.
Bunty was merely incapable as a peace officer. Bunty knew this--knew it
too well for his own conscience. He knew that Brick Davidson thought him
a joke, and it cut deep into Bunty’s tender feelings. Perhaps other men
thought the same as Brick, but they concealed their feelings.
Bunty slapped his hat on the table. He lifted it up and slapped it
down again. At least neither the table nor the hat would fight back,
and Bunty needed a safety-valve.
He glowered down at the hat as if it were an inanimate mass of battered
felt, and then walked over to the door. To go after Brick and Martin
single-handed was suicide; to ignore their actions meant ridicule from
the whole county.
Bunty glanced up the street, and his body stiffened. Coming into the
upper end of town was Brick Davidson on his hammer-headed gray, and
beside him was Scott Martin, on a tall bay.
Bunty gasped. Of all the unadulterated nerve! Coming right into Marlin
City! Suddenly Bunty laughed aloud; but his laugh contained little
mirth. Brick and Martin must have thought that he and Three Star were
still safely roped in that room.
Bunty watched them ride up to the hitch-rack, and then he sat down in a
chair to think. His first thought was a glad one--glad that he was not
in the saloon.
* * * * *
Brick and Scott Martin had ridden the whole distance from the
ranch-house in silence. Martin did not know what Brick was going to
do in Marlin City, and Brick did not enlighten him.
Martin studied Brick’s set features and wondered what was to come next.
“Ridin’ into a noose?” he mused to himself. “If the officers reached
town and told their story, why hasn’t a posse been organized? What has
this red-headed spit-fire in his mind?”
But the red-head was silent until Marlin City was before them, and then
he said:
“Pardner, there’s goin’ to be trouble, I reckon; but you let me start
it, will yuh? Mebbe yuh won’t _sabe_ my talk, but don’t let that worry
yuh none. I’m goin’ to force a showdown, and some folks are goin’ to
have some bad cards.”
Martin nodded. He was pinning his faith to Brick Davidson.
They entered the saloon and walked up to the bar. Topaz Tyler was
standing at the bar, talking with another man. King Cleeve, in shirt
sleeves and eye-shade, was sitting in a lookout chair at the stud
game, facing the bar. Beside him sat Zell Mohr, hat pulled low over
his eyes, a substantial pile of blue chips in front of him.
Over at the roulette layout a half-drunken cowboy was trying to shake
the attentions of a dance-hall girl long enough to see if his number
won, while a couple of other cowboys urged the girl to get a rope and
hogtie the spendthrift.
The room hummed with voices, the rattle of chips, the clink of
glassware, and above it all sounded the tin-panny rattle of a piano.
Brick and Scott Martin stopped mid-way of the bar and turned facing the
center of the room. Their entrance had attracted no attention, and for a
space of twenty seconds nobody noticed them.
Suddenly Zell Mohr glanced from under the low-pulled brim of his hat,
straight at the two men. Mohr’s eyes were shaded so it was impossible
to see any change of expression, but his lips never moved.
“First king bets,” intoned the dealer; but Zell Mohr made no move to
bet.
“Passin’, Zell?” asked one of the players; but still Mohr made no move
to play.
King Cleeve looked down at Mohr, and then glanced over at the bar. Brick
Davidson was looking straight at him. King Cleeve blinked perceptibly.
The dealer sensed the tension of Mohr and Cleeve, and looked over at the
bar. For perhaps ten seconds there was no change in the hum and rattle
of the room, and then the noise died down--down--down, like the slowing
of a big piece of machinery.
The bulk of the noise stopped; but here and there an extra word, the
rattle of a dropped poker-chip, the last few notes from the piano, as
if played with nervous fingers.
Then silence.
Topaz Tyler had half-lifted a glass of liquor to his lips, but his
eyes shifted suddenly and the glass slipped from his fingers, rolled
in a noisy circle on the bar and then fell to the floor.
Every eye in the place focused on Brick and Scott Martin.
Brick’s eyes shifted to Topaz, who was half-turned away from the bar,
and his voice was mildly humorous.
“Losin’ your grip already, Topaz?”
Topaz did not reply. His hand started toward his face as if to wipe his
lips, but halted short of his chin. He stopped in the attitude of either
deep thought or total abstraction.
Brick’s eyes flashed back to King Cleeve, but the humor had all gone
from his eyes. Brick was deadly cool. His hands hung loosely at his
sides, but his elbows were half-bent, and his feet were planted far
apart as if to withstand a shock.
The bartender pussyfooted the length of the bar, getting out of line
with Brick and the crowd. Brick’s eyes flashed sidewise, and then a
grin overspread his face. He appreciated the bartender’s views on the
matter.
The half-drunken cowboy started to say something, but another cowboy
jerked his sleeve and clapped a hand over the inebriated one’s mouth.
Brick’s eyes flashed from face to face, and then he looked directly at
Zell Mohr, while his hand brushed easily back and forth past the butt
of his holstered gun.
“What kind of a rifle do you use, Mohr?”
Mohr stared at Brick for a moment.
“I shoot a .45-90, it’s any of your business, Davidson.”
“Did yuh run out of shells the day of the hold-up?”
Mohr continued to gaze at Brick. Then he looked up at King Cleeve as if
seeking an answer to a foolish question. Then he shook his head slowly.
“Then why did yuh use a .45-70 ca’tridge when yuh shot at Silent Slade,
down there at the wrecked stage?”
Mohr leaned forward; a natural enough movement, but it gave him a chance
to move his hands.
“Keep your elbows on the table!” snapped Brick.
Silent and Harp moved slowly away from the crowd, and were now standing
nearer the door. Brick’s eyes flashed toward them and then back at Mohr.
Topaz Tyler still stood in the same position, but now his eyes were upon
Cleeve and Mohr as if waiting their next move. Scott Martin was standing
half-facing Topaz, wondering what was to come next.
“Yuh might answer my last question,” said Brick easily.
“Who in ---- do you think you are--the judge?” growled Mohr.
“Mebbe.”
Brick leaned forward and snapped his next words:
“I ain’t no lawyer, Zell Mohr, but I’m goin’ to pass on your case right
here and now! Set still!”
Brick’s eyes shifted to Cleeve’s set features, and then seemed to
consider his next question.
“Cleeve, you’re a man of intelligence, ain’t yuh? No, yuh don’t need to
answer that. You and Zell Mohr was huntin’ coyotes on the day the stage
was robbed, wasn’t yuh?”
Cleeve nodded and started to speak, but Brick continued:
“Zell Mohr’s three greyhounds caught four coyotes for yuh that day.
After the hounds caught them coyotes yuh had to shoot the coyotes,
didn’t yuh?”
Cleeve nodded.
“Yuh shot them coyotes with a .45-90, didn’t yuh? Uh-huh. After them
nice slick greyhounds caught the coyotes--you shot ’em.”
“What are you--” began Cleeve; but Brick continued--
“As I said before, you’re a man of intelligence, Cleeve; so I don’t see
why in ---- yuh wanted to lie about them coyotes.”
Cleeve leaned forward, and his long, tapering fingers seemed to clutch
at the knees of his trousers.
Mohr leaned back and shifted his feet.
“Set still!” snapped Brick. “You ain’t started to get tired yet.”
“What’s all this coyote talk about?” snarled Cleeve. “Nobody lied. The
hounds caught the coyotes----”
“Yeah?”
Brick’s tone was very sarcastic.
“Yuh say they did? Well, now, I’m wonderin’, Cleeve. Them hounds were
as fresh as the mornin’ dew, and not one of ’em had a single scratch.
Did yuh pull the coyotes’ teeth before yuh sent the dogs after ’em?”
“What are you drivin’ at?” asked Mohr.
“Drivin’ at the fact that them coyotes was never caught by hounds.”
“Suppose you want us to prove it to you,” sneered Cleeve, relaxing and
trying to force a smile.
Brick smiled back at him, but only with his lips. The crowd shifted
uneasily. Topaz Tyler glanced at Brick and then back at Mohr and Cleeve.
“Cleeve,” observed Brick, “yuh might like to know that I was cold
sober to begin with on the day that you and Topaz Tyler got me drunk
and stole that note out of my pocket. You thought I had the note you
planted at the robbery, and I wanted to be sure that you wanted it
bad enough to steal.”
King Cleeve’s eyes flashed to Topaz and then back at Brick. Scott Martin
seemed to slide one foot forward as if getting set for a quick move.
“I don’t know what you mean,” breathed Cleeve.
“It’s all rot!” snarled Mohr; but his face was green.
“Y’betcha it’s rot!” exploded Brick. “As rotten a thing as I ever heard.
Set still, Mohr!”
Silent and Harp had slowly moved closer. Three Star was standing at the
edge of the crowd, but nearer the door, resting both hands on the back
of an empty chair.
“I’m goin’ back quite a ways,” began Brick as if telling a
matter-of-fact story--“back to the time when Zell Mohr was a sheriff
in Idaho. Remember it, don’t yuh, Mohr? You ought to.
“Durin’ that time an ex-outlaw was drivin’ a stage. He had reformed
and was goin’ straight. Two of his old pals got in with three other
men, and they framed this stage-driver. The scheme was to force him
to tell them when a big shipment of gold was to be made. This was
all they asked of him; but he overheard their plan to kill him. One
of these polecats wanted this stage-driver’s wife.
“The stage-driver didn’t know there was more than these two men goin’ to
hold him up, y’understand. He was livin’ straight, and he wanted to keep
on livin’ straight, but they wouldn’t let him. He told ’em of a shipment
comin’ through--a shipment that existed only in his own mind. They held
him up. He was lookin’ for ’em, and he killed the two men who framed
him. Remember it, Mohr?”
Mohr’s lips did not move. Cleeve’s hands had moved off his knees and
were slightly twitching back along his thighs.
“Hands nervous, Cleeve?” asked Brick. “Have a little patience. These
other three men shot this stage-driver and thought he was dead. There
was no gold on the stage. But the driver wasn’t dead, Mohr. Some folks
went out and got him. He was hurt kinda bad, but managed to get home
to his wife and little girl.
“These three men went to his house at night to take this man’s wife,
and they found him there--the man they thought they had killed. They
told him they were going to take his wife, Mohr. Yes, they were goin’
to take her, but he put up a fight. He didn’t have no gun. One of ’em
shot at him, and the bullet killed the woman.”
Brick stopped talking. Scott Martin was leaning forward, his eyes
searching the faces before him, while his powerful hands opened and
shut as if hungering for something to crush. Cleeve’s face had gone a
shade paler, and his head seemed to droop lower between his hunched
shoulders.
“I’m goin’ to tell more,” said Brick softly. “They shot at the
stage-driver again and thought they had killed him, but were mistaken
again.
“Then they pulled out--fast; that is, two of ’em did. A horse fell with
one of ’em--fell in the street.
“Remember that, Mohr? You was the sheriff at that time. Do yuh remember
takin’ this man whose horse fell and puttin’ him in jail? He was hurt,
but you didn’t take him to a doctor. No; you was afraid a doctor might
ask questions, or somebody might.”
Mohr licked his lips.
“I--I don’t see----”
“Remember havin’ a fight with a big, tall cowboy that day, Mohr? He
licked yuh, but yuh got help and put him in jail. You only had one
cell in that jail, and yuh had to put this injured man in with the
big feller. You thought that the big feller was too drunk to pay any
attention, didn’t yuh?
“Remember the mob that went down there to lynch this feller whose horse
fell with him? They knew he was one of the men who killed the woman.
They got the wrong man, but they found it out before they lynched him,
and when they came back the--murderer--was--gone. He never was tried,
because you went there after the mob left--and--took--him--away.”
* * * * *
The crowd had hung upon every word, and now all eyes were turned toward
Zell Mohr to see how he was going to take Brick’s accusation. They knew
that Zell Mohr was a gun-fighter.
Mohr licked his lips and tried to smile at Scott Martin. Then he looked
at Brick.
“Why--uh--you’re wrong, Davidson. Martin knows--why, I--I’ve been his
friend----”
Mohr’s voice was pitched very low, and men leaned forward to hear his
words.
“I--I felt sorry for him.”
“Did yuh?” grated Brick. “Yuh did--felt sorry for him, like a buzzard
feels sorry for a sick calf.”
“What does all this talk mean?” asked Topaz Tyler slowly.
Brick’s eyes shifted, and Topaz glanced down at his feet, seemingly
sorry that he spoke. Brick glanced down at Topaz’ feet.
“Yuh got small feet, Topaz,” he observed, keeping his eyes on Mohr and
Cleeve but watching Topaz out of the corner of one eye. “Small feet
and small hands. A skirt and a veil is about all yuh need to make you
a perfect lady.”
Topaz lifted his head and looked directly at Cleeve; but Cleeve seemed
to evade his eyes.
“Speakin’ of shoes,” said Brick, “you changed yours in a bad place,
Topaz. Why didn’t yuh keep on them high-heels until yuh got out of the
sand?”
Topaz seemed to stiffen at the question.
“That cut yuh got on your forearm when the stage was upset never did
heal good; did it, Topaz?”
Like a flash Topaz lifted his arm and glanced down at it.
Brick’s sudden question had taken Topaz off his guard, and he had
trapped himself. Topaz realized it, and his eyes shifted like the
eyes of a trapped animal, but he was afraid of the consequences of
any sudden break.
Brick smiled and began:
“Cleeve, you and Mohr and Tyler waited a long time to get even with
Scott Martin for that day he busted up your party and didn’t have that
big shipment of gold. You framed that note to implicate Scott Martin,
Jack Oliver and Martin’s daughter. Yes, yuh did.”
“Now, looky here,” growled Cleeve, sliding off his chair, “you’ve
accused----”
“Stand still!” snapped Brick. “Hands where they are, Cleeve! I’ll tell
yuh when to move. The prosecution ain’t through yet. You three framed
that robbery with Limpy Squires, and yuh killed him for double-crossin’
yuh. You wanted to kill him just like yuh wanted to kill Scott Martin
that time. I’m bettin’ that Limpy knew you was the ones what pulled off
that Idaho job, and he was Scott Martin’s friend, and when yuh opened
that treasure-box----”
Brick stopped. Not a man moved. It might have been a painting or a
group of lay figures for all the movement. Every man in the room was
tensed--nerves taut as fiddle-strings; waiting for the inevitable
crash.