The three officers rode back toward Red Arrow, riding knee-to-knee along
the dusty road.
“Well, what do yuh think, Slim?” asked Chuck, after a long period of
silent riding.
The sheriff shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the bobbing ears of
his mount.
“Looks bad,” he said seriously. “That bump on his head might ’a’ been
caused by a fall from a horse.”
“That’s what I thought of, Slim. But, by golly, he’s cool. His face
didn’t show nothin’ when yuh told him. I watched him close.”
Slim drew up his horse and looked back, his brows drawn together in a
thoughtful frown. Then--
“Scotty, you go back to the end of that cut, and camp where yuh can
watch things. If old Rance knows his saddle horse is lyin’ dead near the
end of that cut, still wearin’ his saddle, he’ll prob’ly try to get it
away.”
“That’s a chance we don’t want to take,” agreed Scotty. “If he comes,
what’ll I do, Slim?”
“Stop him, Scotty.”
“The proper thing to have done would have been to arrest him on the
evidence we’ve already got,” said Chuck.
“Mebby you’re right,” agreed Slim. “But there’s two ways of lookin’ at
it. If he got one of the millions you talk about, arrestin’ him won’t
get it back. He won’t run away and leave his ranch; so we don’t need to
be in a big hurry.”
“That’s sense,” agreed Scotty. “I’ll see yuh later.”
He turned his horse and rode back toward the south, while Slim Caldwell
and Chuck Ring continued on toward Red Arrow.
Scotty McKay didn’t like the idea of spending the day out there,
standing guard over the body of a dead horse, but he realized the wisdom
of protecting their main exhibit. He had turned back just short of the
old wagon bridge across the Red Arrow River and headed back toward
Curlew Spur. The going was very rough through the brushy hills, but
Scotty was not in any great hurry.
He was about five hundred yards from the end of the big cut, following
fairly close to the right-of-way fence, when a bullet droned so close to
his ear that he almost fell off his horse. The hills echoed back the
rattling report of the rifle, but there was no question in Scotty’s mind
as to which direction the bullet came from. He slid quickly off his
saddle, jerked his rifle from the boot, and ducked low in the tangle of
brush. The horse turned and trotted back along the fence, hooked the
reins around a snag, and stopped short.
Scotty squatted on his heels and debated thoughtfully.
“Not over two hundred yards away,” he decided. “Report of gun was plenty
audible.”
He put his hat on the end of his rifle barrel and lifted it above the
brush, jiggling it from side to side. But there was no shooting. He put
the hat back on his head, scratched his chin reflectively. Scotty was no
reckless fool. He realized that he had everything to lose and nothing to
gain by exposing himself.
He considered his next move carefully. To his left was a wide expanse of
small, brush-filled ravines where he would be able to find plenty of
cover. So much cover, in fact, that he would be unable to see anything
himself. To his right was the right-of-way fence, a steep bank--and the
railroad track.
To crawl through this fence and slide down the bank would be a simple
matter. And once in the wide open space of the railroad cut it would
also be a simple matter for the other man to fill him full of lead. But,
reasoned Scotty, the other man might think the same thing, and not
expect him to take such a big chance.
He crawled under the lower wire and out to the edge of the cut, where he
leaned out as far as he dared, scanning the bank along the tracks. As
far as he could see there was no one in sight. After a minute of
deliberation he turned around and lowered his legs over the steep bank.
Slowly he let himself down, gripping the top of the bank with his
elbows. He was almost stretched out full length down that bank, working
his knees into the soft dirt, getting all ready to let loose and slide
to the bottom, when----
Whap!
A bullet thudded into the dirt just under his right hip.
Splug!
Another ripped into the dirt, higher up, and filled his right ear with a
spray of gravel. Scotty was stretched out so completely that he was
unable to act quickly for a moment, but when he did get going he rolled
clear under the right-of-way fence, tearing a great rip across the back
of his shirt.
“Whew!”
He sat up and shook the dirt out of his ear, before reaching back to get
his rifle. His nose was beaded with perspiration, and the hand that
reached for his cigarette-papers trembled exceedingly.
“For a moment I was what an insurance agent would call a bad r-risk,” he
muttered aloud. “What a fool a man may be! And still, all I got was a
dir-r-rty ear and the scare of me young life.”
He laid the rifle across his lap, lighted his cigarette and inhaled
deeply.
“If ye want me,” he grinned softly, “ye know where I am.”
For the better part of fifteen minutes Scotty McKay remained motionless.
He heard a locomotive whistling for Curlew Spur, and in a few minutes a
freight train came along, creaking and groaning, the single engine
working hard to pull the long train up the grade. Scotty pinched out the
light of his second cigarette, stretched his arms, picked up his rifle
and sneaked down through the brush.
Inaction had palled upon him, and he was going to try to find out who
had been shooting at him. Slowly he moved ahead, most of the time on his
hands and knees. It took him at least thirty minutes to cover a hundred
yards, where he came out on the top of a little knoll, heaped high with
boulders.
From this vantage-point he could get a good view of the surrounding
country. As far as he could see, everything was serene. Farther ahead
and to the right was an open swale with the railroad fence across the
upper end of it. On the other side of that fence was the end of the big
cut, and just beyond the swale, in a clump of brush, was Rance McCoy’s
saddle horse, dead. A bullet had smashed through its head.
Scotty could not see the horse, but he knew where it was, and he was in
a position to see if any one came to molest it. He squinted at the sun,
estimated that it would be some time before Slim or Chuck would come to
relieve him, made himself as comfortable as possible and prepared to
watch.
Slim Caldwell and Chuck Ring went straight back to Red Arrow and
dismounted at the depot, where the telegraph operator handed Slim a
telegram, which read:
MOVE CAREFULLY FIVE THOUSAND REWARD FOR RETURN
OF STOLEN PACKAGES SENDING OPERATIVE AND DETAILS
WELLS FARGO
“Didn’t I tell yuh?” said Chuck. “I said all along that we ought to go
careful. They want them packages back. Betcha anythin’ yuh want to bet,
they got away with a million.”
“With all yore hindsight, it’s a wonder to me that you never amounted to
somethin’,” growled Slim. “They never got any million dollars, but they
did get enough for the express company to advise movin’ carefully.”
They mounted their horses and rode back to the courthouse, where Slim
had a conference with Albert Merkle, the prosecuting attorney. Merkle
was as round as a barrel, with a face like a full moon, serving his
first term as county prosecutor and taking his position very seriously.
Merkle read the telegram, listened closely to what Slim had to tell him,
and then propounded wisely:
“That evidence won’t last long unless we take steps to protect it, Slim.
A couple of nights, and the coyotes will ruin it for our use.”
“Well, we can’t file it away in my office,” protested Slim.
“No, that’s true. I’ll go out with you and look at it.”
They secured a horse for Merkle at the livery stable, and headed back
toward the scene of the robbery. Merkle wanted to have Rance McCoy
arrested at once, but Slim demurred.
“Wait’ll we find out what he got, Al. It was a one-man job, and if he
got a big haul, he’s got it planted. He’ll never confess, and he’ll
never tell where the stuff is hid.”
“My end of the affair is only interested in a conviction, Slim.”
“Yore end of the affair is only interested in justice,” corrected Chuck
Ring. “Don’t be so civilized, Al.”
“I guess that’s right,” laughed Merkle. “It’s easy to overlook that
angle of it.”
They made no attempt at concealment, but rode in at the lower end of the
swale. Scotty saw them and stood up among the rocks, calling to them;
after which he clawed his way through the brush to the clearing.
“Where’s yore horse?” asked Slim.
“Aw, he’s back along the railroad fence. Anyway, that’s where he was the
last time I seen him.”
As rapidly as possible Scotty told them what had happened to him.
“Were they trying to kill you, McKay?” asked Merkle.
“Well, I dunno what was on their mind at the time,” said Scotty
seriously. “It had all the earmarks of intent to kill, Mer-r-rkle.”
“And yuh didn’t see anybody, eh?” queried Slim anxiously.
“I did not. Ye missed the sight of your life. I tell ye, I was hangin’
by my elbows, without any foothold whatever, and I upended myself over
the bank and under that wire so fast that I surprised myself. Look at
the back of me shirt, will yuh?”
Slim scratched his chin reflectively and scanned the surrounding
country, while Merkle shifted uneasily in his saddle.
“We might as well look at the evidence,” said Slim.
“Yes; let’s get it over with,” agreed Merkle heartily.
They rode up to the fence, accompanied by Scotty on foot, and tied their
horses. Slim led the way over to where the horse was stretched out in
the low brush.
“F’r the love of gosh!” exploded Slim. “Look at that!”
The saddle was missing, and from the upturned rump, which had been
graced with the Circle Spade brand, had been skinned a spot about twelve
inches square. On the shoulder was another skinned patch, one ear had
been cut off close to the head, and the left front leg had been skinned
from knee to fetlock.
“And the shoes have been yanked off!” snorted Scotty. “I remember that
the animal was shod.”
“And there goes yore old evidence,” said Chuck dolefully.
Slim whistled unmusically between his teeth.
“They kept me away while they destroyed evidence,” said Scotty.
“That was the idea,” admitted Slim sadly. He twisted his neck and looked
toward the Circle Spade ranch.
“But even at that, you three men saw the animal,” said the prosecutor.
“You can swear it was a Circle Spade horse; the riding horse of Rance
McCoy.”
“Sure,” nodded Slim quickly. “We saw it, Al. And not only that, but we
recognized the old man’s saddle.”
“What kind of a saddle was it?”
Slim looked quickly at Chuck, who scratched his nose and looked at
Scotty.
“I can’t tell yuh,” said Scotty. “I seen it, too.”
“Pshaw!” snorted Slim. “We all seen it, Al; but there ain’t a damned one
of us that can describe it. I could pick it out, but I can’t describe
it.”
“Not such good evidence,” admitted the attorney. “Maybe we better go
back to town.”
“Yea-a-ah,” drawled Slim. “Go get yore bronc, Scotty.”