by W. C. Tuttle
It was early morning in the town of Pineville; so early, in fact, that
there was little activity. The lamps were still burning in the Stormy
River Saloon, where tired-eyed cattlemen, ignoring the fact that this
was Sunday morning, shuffled and dealt poker hands, drinking
occasionally.
At the long hitchrack in front of the place nodded a dozen cow horses,
whose owners had forgotten them since early in the evening. A man came
from the saloon, carrying two big buckets, which he proceeded to fill at
a squeaky old pump, breaking the stillness of the sleeping town.
Two men were standing in front of the sheriff’s office. One man was tall
and thin, with a sad face; the other was a small, wiry, sharp-faced man,
with graying hair. The tall man was dressed in wrinkled black clothes
that did not fit well, a white shirt, polished of bosom, and an extra
high stiff collar. He wore no vest, and his glaring red four-in-hand
necktie gave him the appearance of a man who had had his throat cut. He
leaned against a porch post, shifting his weight from one foot to the
other, as if his new boots were just a size or two too small.
“You say you busted it all to hell, eh?” said the small man, who was Pat
Lynch, the sheriff of Stormy River County.
Oscar Johnson, the black-clad deputy, nodded sadly.
“Tryin’ to drive with one hand, Oscar?”
“No, sir.”
“Had a girl with you, didn’t you?”
“Shore, Annie Hall was with me, Pat. I was drivin’ with both hands,
though. I dunno. Mebby the horse flipped his tail over the lines. It was
dark. First thing I knowed, he kicked the dash off the buggy, and then
started runnin’. Busted dash didn’t mean nothin’. I says fer her to set
tight, and we come a-runnin’. ’Course, everythin’ was all right, until
we hits that culvert jist outside of town, and we does a
‘thank-yuh-ma’am’ that jist caved in the wheels. But I hung to the
lines, and when we lit—well, as soon as I gets untangled from Annie, I
finds the horse upside down and the buggy fit fer fixin’. I gets the
horse to his feet and managed to drag the buggy behind the blacksmith
shop. And that’s where she is now, Pat.”
“Annie Hall?”
“Hell, no! The buggy. Annie went home.”
“Wasn’t she hurt?”
“Nothin’ special; kinda limped.”
“And you in that new black suit, Oscar.”
Oscar sighed deeply and looked down at himself.
“I thought of that, Pat; but there wasn’t no time to make a change. I’m
sorry about the buggy.”
“You ought to be. Cost me a hundred and sixty dollars in Cheyenne—almost
new. Damn good buggy, I’ll tell you!”
“One of the best I ever smashed.”
“You don’t need to be funny about it, Oscar.”
“Think I ort to cry about it? You’re lucky to have me back alive.”
“Some folks have a queer idea of what constitutes luck,” said the
sheriff dryly.
“Oh, it wasn’t all luck; I used my head.”
“Yea-a-ah, I’ll betcha. Well, let’s go over and look at the wreck. I
reckon you’d like to see me git it back in the same condition it was
when I loaned it to you, Oscar.”
“Like to—yes; but it ain’t hardly possible.”
“I mean, I don’t like to have to pay for fixin’ it.”
“I don’t blame you, Pat. Won’t hardly be worth it. Anyway, you don’t
need no buggy.”
“Well, you was the one who busted it.”
“You can’t argue with me. I did.”
The sheriff snorted disgustedly. He didn’t like to come right out and
ask Oscar to pay for the fixing of the buggy and he knew that Oscar
never would do it voluntarily.
“That was a great dance at Garnet,” offered Oscar, as they crossed the
dusty street toward the blacksmith shop, which was near the Stormy River
Saloon.
“Best callin’ I ever heard. My hoofs shore feel like I’d been on hard
pasture for a long time. Fact of the matter is, I wouldn’t know I had
any feet, unless I look down at ’em, they’re that numb. Good crowd, too.
Lotsa girls.”
“You ort to wear boots that fit you, Oscar.”
“Fit? I got into ’em, didn’t I?”
“You wouldn’t call the skin of a sausage a perfect and comfortable fit,
would you? Some of you cowpunchers make me sick. Ain’t got brains enough
to wear comfortable boots. My Lord, you’d think there was a prize
offered for the most uncomfortable feet.”
“There’s your buggy,” said Oscar sadly, as they halted at the rear of
the shop, which was littered with the running gears of wrecked wagons, a
wheelless cart and all the refuse of a cow town blacksmith shop.
“Yeah, that’s my buggy,” admitted the sheriff. “If it wasn’t fer that
yaller paint on the wheels, I’d never recognize her. You shore massaged
it a-plenty, Oscar.”
“The top’s all right, Pat.”
“Yea-a-ah, and one shaft. Why didn’t you bust off that shaft and use it
to beat hell out of the top? Might as well have made it unanimous.”
“I s’pose. Still, old Sam Hall is a pretty good blacksmith, and he might
put her together ag’in.”
“Oh, yea-a-ah! Take the blacksmith’s daughter to a dance and—— Whatcha
tryin’ to do—git in good with old Sam?”
“Aw, I didn’t do it on purpose, Pat. ’S far as I’m concerned, I don’t
give a darn whether he fixes it or not.”
* * * * *
Pat Lynch straightened up from an examination of a smashed wheel, sighed
deeply and considered his deputy.
“Sometimes I almost hate you, Oscar.”
“Tha’sall right, Pat. Everybody is entitled to their opinion. I won’t
argue with you. Fact is, I’m too sleepy and sore to argue with you.
Remember, I got drug about forty feet, with Annie on my lap. She ain’t
no feather piller, you know. Jist about ruined my new suit. I’m inclined
to be sorry about that buggy, but at the same time—”
Oscar’s voice trailed off to a stop as he stared at the corner of a
little corral, which enclosed a small stable behind the Stormy River
Saloon. The sheriff turned and gazed in the same direction.
“What’sa matter, Oscar?” he asked.
“I dunno.” Oscar spat dryly. “Feller layin’ on the ground over there by
the corner of the fence. Mebby he’s jist drunk, but he’s in a funny
position.”
The sheriff stepped past Oscar, where he could get a better view.
“Too much liquor,” he decided.
But Oscar wasn’t sure. He walked over to the corral and looked at the
man.
“You better come here, Pat,” he called softly. The sheriff left the
wrecked buggy and came quickly.
The man was lying flat on his face, arms spread out, fingers clutching
the dirt. His hat was lying several feet away. The back of the man’s
head had been smashed in, and he was a welter of blood. Neither the
sheriff nor the deputy spoke for several moments.
There was no use of an examination; no use in turning the body over.
They both knew that it was Buck Dennig and that he was dead. Oscar
reached out and braced himself against the corral fence, as he wet his
dry lips with his tongue.
“Somebody’s killed Buck Dennig,” he said softly.
“Somebody did,” nodded the sheriff. “Been dead quite a while, too;
prob’ly couple of hours, or more.”
Oscar nodded slowly, and they considered the murder in silence.
“We ought to tell about it,” suggested Oscar.
He stepped farther toward the other corner and looked between the poles
of the corral. On the opposite side of the corral, tied to the fence,
was a tall sorrel horse.
“That’s Buck’s horse,” said Oscar. “He mostly allus ties him back there.
Said that the sorrel scares easy and might break loose from the
hitchrack. Who do you suppose killed Buck?”
“This ain’t no guessin’ contest. C’mon.”
* * * * *
They went back through the alley and entered the Stormy River Saloon.
Only one poker game was still in progress; around the table sat Hootie
Cooper, a merchant, Frank Shell, a gambler, Mort Heffner, prosecuting
attorney, Lester Cline, another merchant, Dobe Severn and Bud Hough, two
of the TD cowboys.
They nodded to the sheriff and the deputy. Heffner yawned widely and
looked at his watch, not realizing that it was already daylight.
“When did Buck Dennig leave?” asked the sheriff casually.
“About two o’clock,” replied Dobe Severn sleepily, “and it’s about time
for us to foller suit, Bud.”
“Yeah, or get me somethin’ to prop my eyes open with,” grunted Bud,
intent on his cards.
“Well, he didn’t git far,” said the sheriff seriously. “He’s layin’ out
there by the corral, with the back of his head smashed in.”
The players blinked at the sheriff, hardly understanding what he had
said. Heffner got slowly to his feet, his hands on the table.
“You mean that somebody killed Buck?” he asked.
“Jist that, Mort. Smashed in his head.”
“Well—well,” faltered Bud vacantly, “he was all right when he left
here.”
“That shore sounds intelligent,” grunted Oscar.
None of them waited to cash in their chips. They filed out through the
rear entrance, which was only about sixty feet from where the body lay.
“Don’t touch him,” warned the attorney. “One of you go and get the
coroner. Just let the body alone. There isn’t a thing you can do now.”
Dobe Severn ran down the alley, hotfooting his way after the coroner,
while the rest of the men stood stiffly around the body.
“Looks pretty damn bad,” said Hootie Cooper, a thin-faced little man,
with a huge nose and a squeaky voice.
“For Blanco,” said Lester Cline, a much younger man than Cooper.
They were business rivals in everything except kerosene. Hootie wouldn’t
handle it, because it had been the cause of his burning out his store at
one time.
The sheriff turned his head quickly and looked at Cline.
“What about Blanco?” he asked sharply.
“That don’t prove anything,” said Shell, the gambler, quickly.
“No, it shore don’t,” agreed Cline, “but just the same—”
“What’s this all about?” demanded the sheriff.
“Buck Dennig and Blanco quarreled last night,” said the gambler. “Buck
just the same as accused Blanco of stealing a card. I didn’t see it;
mebby Buck had been drinking.”
“I didn’t see it,” said Hootie. “I was watchin’ the play. Blanco was
dealin’. Looked to me as though it was square.”
“Did they fight?” asked the sheriff anxiously.
“No,” said the gambler shortly.
“They was mad enough,” yawned Bud. “Blanco’s lips were as white as
anythin’ you ever seen. And he never turned a hair, when Buck—”
“Don’t say too much,” advised the gambler. “Just because two men
quarrel—”
“I want the straight of this,” interrupted the sheriff. “You say they
didn’t fight, eh? Did Blanco leave the game?”
“He did. It must have been about one o’clock. He never even stopped to
cash in his chips. I’ve still got ’em for him—about sixty dollars’
worth.”
“And Buck left about an hour later, eh?”
“I looked at my watch,” said Hootie. “It was a quarter of two.”
Little more was said, and in a few minutes the coroner came with Dobe.
The coroner was an old cow town doctor, short of speech, familiar with
the ailments of everybody within a radius of twenty-five miles. His
examination of the dead man was very brief. Except for the smashed
skull, Buck Dennig had not been touched.
“One good swipe would have done it,” said Hootie.
“One _good_ swipe,” admitted the doctor grimly. He had known Buck for a
long time.
“Take him out to the ranch?” queried Dobe.
“Take him to my office,” said the doctor shortly.
After they had taken the body away, the sheriff and the prosecutor went
back across the street to the sheriff’s office, with Oscar tagging
behind them.
“You better go to bed,” said the sheriff. “And for the love of gosh, git
that collar and shirt off!”
“All right,” sighed Oscar. “I’m sorry about that buggy.”
“I hoped you would be.”
The sheriff and the prosecutor sat down in the little office and looked
at each other.
“What do you think, Mort?” asked the sheriff.
The lawyer stroked his unshaven jaw. A full night session of poker did
not tend to make him abnormally bright, not that he was a tower of
wisdom at any time.
“I don’t know, Pat,” he replied vaguely.
“You was there when they quarreled?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Any threats?”
“Hm-mm. Well, there usually is at a time like that. I don’t remember
just what was said—everybody talking, you know. But Blanco was mad, and
so was Buck. In fact, Buck was mad when he came there last night.”
“Mad about what?”
“Oh, I don’t know what was the matter with him. Buck was usually good
tempered. But something was wrong. You know, there has been a bad
feeling between the TD and the Blanco outfits. Nobody has ever preferred
any charges, but I think it was over some alleged rustling.”
“I’ve heard the same thing, Mort, but never from either side. Things
like that leak out, you know. But what do you think? Is there enough to
base an arrest on?”
“To arrest Blanco?”
“Yeah.”
The attorney shook his head quickly.
“Not in my opinion. Blanco may be as guilty as hell, but we can’t prove
it. Not yet.”
The sheriff sighed with relief. He didn’t want the job of arresting Tex
Blanco, owner of the B Arrow outfit.
“We may be able to gather some evidence,” said the lawyer reflectively,
and then yawned widely.
He was a sallow-faced, angular sort, with heavily pouched eyes. He wore
a celluloid collar, cut well back to give plenty of room for his Adam’s
apple, and celluloid cuffs, with huge cameo cuff buttons.
“We may be able to,” agreed the sheriff dubiously, “but it looks to me
like one of them crimes that you can’t hang on to anybody. If Blanco
killed him, and keeps his mouth shut, how are you goin’ to put the
deadwood on him, Mort?”
“I dunno,” said Mort, yawning again. “I guess I better go to bed.”
“How did Buck quit the game?”
“Lost about fifty dollars, I think. Ho-o-o-hum-m-m! Well, I’ll see you
this afternoon, Pat.”
He stopped in the doorway and turned to the sheriff.
“Buck had more money with him, Pat. Had a roll of bills, fastened with a
rubber band. Might see if he’s still got it on him.”
“All right, Mort. See you later.”
* * * * *
The Tolman-Dennig cattle outfit, known by its brand as the TD, was the
biggest outfit in the Stormy River country. Cleve Tolman had been the
original owner, but ten years before the killing of Buck Dennig, Buck
had drifted into the valley, a youth of twenty-three, with a bankroll
big enough, in the vernacular, to choke a horse.
Buck was not a cowboy in those days; merely a wild youth, who had come
down through the country, pitting his luck against the games of chance.
He landed in Pineville with more money than he knew how to handle. Cleve
Tolman needed a partner and Buck needed an investment; so they became
partners, registered a new brand and proceeded to build up a big cattle
business.
Buck was a handsome, likable sort of chap, and he soon learned the
cattle game, plunging into the business with the same dash he had used
in beating cold-eyed gamblers, whose abilities had been as nothing
against his phenomenal luck.
No one knew anything of Buck’s past life—of his family or whence he
came. This was no novelty in the cattle ranges. Men told their past if
it pleased them to do so; nobody asked. Buck played on the square with
everybody, and that was all that was required.
Cleve Tolman was a big man, with the square jaw of a fighter, but rather
short of speech. He always seemed content to sit back and let Buck do
it. Some of the men said that Cleve was lazy. He liked to gamble, but
his bad luck was proverbial.
Neither Tolman nor Buck had ever married. They employed from six to
twenty cowboys, according to the season. Buck had always acted as
foreman. Tolman was a director in the Pineville Bank and always had a
finger in the local politics, although he had never aspired to an
office.
The TD ranch was located about five miles southwest of Pineville, on
Lobo Creek, the buildings almost hidden away in a big grove of
cottonwoods. Little money had been spent on the ranch buildings, and
none for paint. The ranch house was a rambling one-story building, that
sprawled hither and yon among the cottonwoods, as if the architect had
started something he didn’t know how to finish. The bunkhouse was a
long, low building, with a swayback. The big stable also swayed badly
along the ridgepole, as did the sheds and other buildings.
But in spite of all this, the TD was a prosperous outfit, with rather a
happy-go-lucky crew, until Dobe Severn and Bud Hough rode in that
morning and told them that Buck Dennig had been murdered. Cleve Tolman
and Shorty Gallup were in the kitchen, getting a list of provisions from
old Luke Jones, the TD cook, when the two cowboys brought the news.
Old Luke dropped a dozen eggs on his own feet and never even looked down
at them; and Luke was a thrifty cook, too.
“You ain’t jokin’, are you, Dobe?” asked Shorty hoarsely.
“I wish t’ hell, I was, Shorty. He’s dead, all right. Somebody smashed
in his head, and he’s laid out at the coroner’s office right now.”
Dobe went on to explain how the body had been found and what had been
done; but Tolman did not wait to hear the details. He was heading for
the stable to get his horse.
“What did the sheriff say?” asked Shorty.
“What could he say? He don’t know no more about it than we do.”
Matt Sturgis, Alex McLean and Eddie Grimes, the other cowboys were at
the stable and heard the news from Cleve Tolman; so they came up to the
house, eager for more details from Dobe and Bud, while Tolman mounted
his horse and rode swiftly up the road toward Pineville.
Bud and Dobe gave them plenty of details, and they were willing
listeners.
“It kinda looks to me as though Blanco’s cinch was kinda gettin’ frayed
out,” said Shorty Gallup meaningly.
Shorty was about thirty-five years of age, five feet six, of tough
muscles, stringy, colorless hair, pale blue eyes deeply set on each side
of a crooked nose over a thin-lipped mouth. Shorty’s reputation included
a willingness to fight anybody or anything at any time.
His bunkie, Matt Sturgis, was a tall, thin, grimy-featured cowboy who
wore his holster tied down and said little.
“Looks thataway,” he said, in response to Shorty’s observation.
“Don’t prove nothin’,” said Eddie Grimes, who was inclined to be
technical. He added hastily, “Oh, I know how it looks, but just because
they quarreled over a poker game—”
“You worked for Blanco one time, didn’t you?” asked Shorty.
“I shore did, Shorty. And Tex Blanco never struck me as bein’ a
murderer. Anyway, his punchers think he’s on the square, and he’s darn
nice to his old woman.”
“She’s a funny old woman,” grinned Dobe. “Sets out there on the porch,
smokin’ a cob pipe. Betcha she’s seventy years old.”
“Sixty-nine,” corrected Eddie, “and she shore can cook. She thinks a lot
of Tex, and the punchers like her, too.”
“The first thing we know we’ll be right neighborly with the B Arrow,”
said Shorty sarcastically. “Eddie, you ought to tell all this to
Tolman.”
“No, I don’t need to do that, Shorty. Every man is entitled to his
opinion, you know. I’m not boostin’ the Blanco outfit and I ain’t tryin’
to prove no alibi for Tex. But he was square with me, and I’d like to
bet that a lot of the stuff he’s blamed for, he never done.”
“Let’s arise and sing hymn number thirteen,” said Shorty Gallup
seriously.
Eddie smiled shortly and turned away. He knew that Shorty was looking
for trouble, and he had no desire to carry the matter any further; not
that Eddie wasn’t perfectly capable of holding his own, but he could not
see where anything could be gained by fighting.
“Well, you shore run your sandy on him, Shorty,” laughed Sturgis, as
they watched Eddie enter the bunkhouse.
“Looks thataway,” agreed Shorty.
“You did like hell!” snorted Luke Jones, standing in the kitchen
doorway. “You jist think you did. Any old time Eddie Grimes backs down
it’s ’cause he don’t want to take advantage of a weaker man.”
“Go on back to your mulligan, you old spav!” growled Shorty. “What do
you know about war? You never cocked a cannon.”
“War? Say, I could take a umberelly and chase a whole damn brigade of
jaspers like you plumb down to the mouth of Stormy River and never lay a
hair. You’re allus lookin’ fer trouble, and hopin t’ hell you never find
it. Some of these days somebody is goin’ to saw off your horns; and if
you git comical with me, folks will point me out and say, ‘There goes
Luke Jones, the feller who made a hoop out of Shorty Gallup and rolled
him out of the State!’”
The door slammed shut, and they heard old Luke laughing to himself.
Shorty’s ears were fiery red and he started for the door, but Dobe
Severn blocked him.
“Don’t be a fool, Shorty,” he advised. “You know Luke.”
“The dirty old sheep waddy!” rasped Shorty.
“Aw, I know,” grinned Dobe, “he shore can git under your hide. But he
does it for fun. He couldn’t whip nobody, but he shore can make you mad.
Let him alone, Shorty.”
“I suggest that we go to town,” said Bud. “There won’t be no work done
on this ranch on Sunday, that’s a cinch. And it might look better if we
went down.”
“Suits me,” growled Shorty. “I reckon you’re right, Bud.”
* * * * *
Cleve Tolman found several people at the coroner’s office, and they
greeted him with a certain sympathy. He looked at the body, asked a few
perfunctory questions and went up to see the sheriff.
He found the sheriff talking with Lester Cline and Frank Shell, the
gambler. They had gone over the cause of the quarrel between Buck Dennig
and Tex Blanco, and they detailed it to Tolman again.
“But there’s no evidence that Tex killed him,” said the sheriff.
“He was pretty mad,” offered Cline. “It looked as though they might
start shooting it out right there.”
“Did Blanco steal a card?” asked Tolman.
“Nobody seems to know,” smiled Shell. “Buck was pretty mad; so I reckon
he thought Blanco stole it. Do you know—it seemed to me as though Buck
was looking for trouble.”
“What do you mean?” asked Tolman quickly.
“Well, sort of irritable.”
“He came down early, didn’t he?”
“Sure, I saw him in the middle of the afternoon.”
“It wasn’t a case of robbery,” said the sheriff. “He had a hundred and
sixty-five dollars in his pocket.”
“Makes it look worse than ever for Tex Blanco.”
“I’d like to notify Buck’s relatives, if we knew where they are,” said
the sheriff.
Tolman shook his head.
“He never mentioned any, Pat.”
“Did Buck ever have any trouble with anybody else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, did he ever have a quarrel or a fight—I mean, lately?”
Tolman looked closely at the sheriff for several moments, as if
wondering what had prompted the question. Then he shook his head
shortly.
“No.”
“Uh-huh. Well, it looks as though we was kinda up a stump. We could
arrest Tex on circumstantial evidence, I reckon; but Heffner says it
wouldn’t do us any good.”
“Probably not,” said Tolman slowly. “When is the inquest?”
“Tomorrow mornin’.”
“I’ll be down.”
Tolman walked away from the office, and the three men looked at one
another curiously.
“He’s a cold blooded fish,” said Shell. “I don’t suppose Buck’s death
affects him at all. I think he knows something, Pat.”
“Knows somethin’? What about, Frank?”
“Didn’t you notice the look he gave you when you asked him if Buck had
had a quarrel or a fight lately?”
“You don’t think Tolman knows how Buck got killed, do you?”
“Probably not; but your question froze him up, just the same.”
“I guess we’re all lookin’ for somebody to suspect,” said the sheriff
dryly. “And there’s too damn much talk about Tex Blanco; too much talk
and too little evidence. Tex is hot-headed, and about the time he hears
what’s bein’ said, somebody will get pistol-whipped.”
“Don’t you suppose that the TD outfit will kinda ask Tex how about it?”
queried Cline.
“Prob’ly. I’ll bet I know what he’ll tell ’em. But I hope they won’t.
There’s been bad blood between ’em for a long time, and somethin’ like
that might touch off the fireworks. Cleve Tolman is pretty level-headed,
as a rule, but he might accidentally make a fool of himself.”
Shell walked over by the door and stood there looking up the street.
“The rest of the TD outfit just arrived,” he said. “I guess I better go
over and open up a game.”
As Shell started to step off of the wooden sidewalk, he looked down the
street and saw Tex Blanco and Frank Judd, one of Tex’s cowboys, riding
up the street toward him. He hesitated for a moment, but stopped and
waited for them to ride up. The sheriff and Cline came out, and Tex
reined his horse over to the edge of the sidewalk. Judd rode on to the
front of a store, where he dismounted.
Tex smiled pleasantly and spoke to the three men as he dismounted. He
was a trifle over six feet tall, well built and graceful. His brown eyes
and olive tinted skin showed his Spanish blood, as did his coal-black
hair, slightly gray at the temples. His nose was slightly hooked and his
teeth were whiter than those usually displayed in the range countries.
He wore a gray Stetson, nearly new, adorned with a silver band of
Spanish workmanship. His shirt was of blue silk, and around his throat
was a red silk handkerchief. Around his waist he wore a multi-colored
sash, with the beaded ends hanging down his left hip, and a wide
cartridge belt, sagging heavily to one side from the weight of his
holstered gun. He wore gray trousers, tucked in the tops of his fancy
stitched, high-heeled boots.
There was no denying the fact that Tex Blanco was what is generally
known as a “fancy cowboy”; perhaps just a bit more picturesque than the
average, but his clothes fitted him well, and these touches of
aboriginal color were by no means glaringly objectionable.
He stepped up on the sidewalk, still holding his reins, while the tall
sorrel came in close behind him. His saddle was hand stamped and
decorated in silver, tarnished to a soft gray.
“Well, what do you know, Sheriff?” he queried pleasantly.
“Not very much, Tex.”
The sheriff was uneasy. Across the street and a little farther up the
block was the Stormy River Saloon hitchrack, where all the TD horses
were tied. He was afraid of what the TD outfit might do if they
discovered Tex.
Tex seemed to feel that something was wrong. He followed the sheriff’s
gaze, but saw only the string of horses at the hitchrack. Shell was
looking curiously at Tex.
* * * * *
“What’s the matter with you fellers?” asked Tex bluntly.
“You didn’t hear about it, Tex?” asked the sheriff.
“Hear about what?”
“Somebody killed Buck Dennig last night.”
Tex frowned slightly, narrowing his eyes as he looked from one to the
other.
“Buck Dennig killed? Who killed him?”
“Nobody knows, Tex. I found him this mornin’, out behind the Stormy
River Saloon, layin’ almost against the little corral fence. He’d been
hit on the head—from behind.”
Tex’s eyes swept the other side of the street, and his right thumb
hooked carelessly over the top of his belt, just above his holster.
“That’s shore news to me,” he said slowly. “Wasn’t there no clue of any
kind?”
“Not a thing, Tex. He’d been dead several hours. Left the poker game
about two o’clock and was prob’ly killed on the way out to his horse. He
kept it tied to the corral fence, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” said Tex evenly.
“Well, most everybody did,” said the sheriff quickly.
Tex rubbed his freshly shaven chin thoughtfully as he looked at Shell.
“Me and Buck quarreled last night,” he said. “You was there, Frank.”
“Yes, I was there, Tex.”
“I didn’t steal that card, Frank.”
“I didn’t see it, Tex. None of the rest saw it; but that’s all past. I
guess Buck made a mistake. He was drinking quite a lot.”
“But he wasn’t drunk. I suppose everybody knows about the quarrel by
this time, eh?”
The sheriff turned from looking at the saloon.
“They do, Tex. Too bad it happened. Nobody accusin’ you or anybody else,
but I wish you’d pull out before that TD outfit see you. You know what I
mean, Tex. They’ll be drinkin’, and there’s always been bad blood.”
“I usually do my runnin’ straight ahead, Pat,” said Tex coldly.
“I know you do, Tex. I’m your friend, ain’t I? Do this for me. Give that
wild bunch a chance to cool off. The odds are all against you, if
anythin’ starts, and it will start if they run into you. Give ’em
twenty-four hours, and they’ll see things different.”
“Meaning that I killed Buck Dennig, and that I better give the TD outfit
a wide berth, eh?”
“Oh, Tex, have a little sense.”
Tex’s brown eyes flashed with resentment for several moments, but
finally he laughed softly and slapped the sheriff on the shoulder.
“All right, Pat, I guess you’re right. You can tell Tolman and his gang
that—no, I’ll tell ’em, when the time comes up.”
Judd came from the store and Tex motioned for him to come down the
street. Without saying anything more, Tex mounted his sorrel, joined
Judd, and they rode back the way they had come.
The sheriff sighed with relief and shook his head.
“I reckon I rubbed him the right way. I shore was scared he was goin’
over and meet the whole gang. And he’d do it, too.”
“Didn’t seem so awful surprised over Buck’s death,” observed Cline.
“What did you expect him to do—faint?” asked the sheriff caustically.
“How did you act when you heard it?”
Cline grinned sourly, but did not reply. They walked up the street to
the front of a small store, where they met Guy Shearer, the cashier of
the Pineville bank. Shearer was about forty years of age, stockily
built, and wore glasses. He had been with the bank for several years.
“I heard about Buck Dennig getting killed,” he told the sheriff. “Wasn’t
it awful? Things like that are an awful shock. Any idea who did it?”
“Not an idea,” said the sheriff.
“Queer, isn’t it? Buck was in the bank yesterday afternoon just before
closing time, but he didn’t have much to say. I asked him if he was
buying more cattle, but he either didn’t hear me, or didn’t care to
answer.”
The sheriff pricked up his ears quickly.
“Just what made you think he was goin’ to buy cattle?”
“From the amount of money he drew, I thought—”
“How much did he draw, Shearer?”
“Ten thousand dollars. It was a lot of money to draw from a bank the
size of this one. But I gave it to him.”
“Ten thousand dollars?” wondered the sheriff. “Drew it on a check?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, I’ll be damned! Huh! That puts a new angle on it. Who knew he
drew all that money?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. I was alone in the bank when he drew it; so if
any one else knew it, he must have told them.”
“That’s an awful lot of money,” said Cline slowly.
“Lot of money to have somebody steal from you,” said the sheriff. “The
question is—who knew about it?”
“Well, he must have had a reason for drawing it,” replied the cashier.
“Somebody else must have known about it.”
The sheriff nodded and went straight across the street to the Stormy
River Saloon, where he found the boys from the TD ranch at the bar. They
had absorbed a number of drinks and were in the right mood for anything.
“The law is among us,” declared Shorty Gallup, seeing the sheriff step
through the doorway. “Hyah, Paddy?”
“All right, Shorty.”
Cleve Tolman was at the back of the room, talking with Mort Heffner, the
prosecutor, who had slept only an hour. They came back to the front of
the saloon, when they saw the sheriff, and the three men went outside
together.
“You got any opinion on this, Pat?” asked Tolman.
“I have not,” replied Pat firmly.
“I’ve been trying to convince Tolman that there isn’t a bit of evidence
to connect Tex Blanco with it,” said Heffner.
“And I don’t agree with him,” said Tolman coldly. “Tex and Buck had it
in for each other. They’ve never been friends. And you can see for
yourself that it was purely a case of revenge. His money was not
touched.”
“And here,” said the sheriff slowly, “is just where your theory gits all
shot to hell, Cleve! Yesterday afternoon Buck drawed ten thousand
dollars from the bank.”
Heffner whistled softly. Tolman blinked nervously and seemed unable to
speak for several moments. He cleared his throat harshly.
“Ten thousand dollars,” he said hoarsely. “That’s a lot of money.”
“A hell of a lot,” agreed Heffner. “Who told you, Pat?”
“Shearer. Buck cashed his check just before the bank closed yesterday.
And Buck had a hundred and sixty-five dollars in his pocket when we
searched him at the coroner’s office.”
“How much did he lose in the poker game?” asked Tolman.
“Not over fifty dollars,” replied Heffner.
“Did Tex lose very heavy?”
“I think he was ahead of the game, but he never stopped to cash his
chips; he was too mad. But he’ll get his money.”
“Now the question is: Who knew Buck had that money?” said the sheriff.
“Shearer knew, of course; but as far as he knew, Buck disposed of it
right away. Anyway, Shearer ain’t the kind of a person to do a thing
like that. Cleve, did you know that Buck was goin’ to draw that money?”
Tolman’s eyes narrowed slightly, and it was at least ten seconds before
he replied—
“No!”
“Buck had his own bank account?”
“Yeah.”
“Wasn’t there a company account?” asked Heffner.
“No.”
“Well,” said the sheriff, “it looks as though Buck was killed for his
money.”
“Not necessarily,” replied Tolman. “Most any man could use ten thousand
dollars.”
“Sure,” nodded Heffner. “That’s a lot of money.”
“It’s a funny deal,” sighed the sheriff. “No evidence at all. Tolman, I
hope you’ll order your men to let Blanco and his outfit alone. It’ll
only start trouble. Tex was in town a while ago, and heard all about it.
I didn’t want him to meet your gang today, so I induced him to go back
home. But he knows what everybody’s thinkin’.”
“He does, eh?” Tolman smiled grimly. “I reckon you didn’t have to argue
much with him to get him to pull out.”
“Tex is no fool. You’ll speak to the boys, Cleve?”
“Is the law goin’ to lay down on the job?”
“Not by a damn sight!”
“I’ll speak to ’em, Pat.”
* * * * *
It was a week after the murder of Buck Dennig that Marion Evans,
erstwhile of Chicago, later of Cheyenne, climbed aboard the stage at
Garnet, while Windy March, the stage driver, roped her trunk to the
boot, and cast quizzical glances toward the back of his lone passenger.
Windy was thin of form and face, and tanned to the texture of old
parchment. His face was not classical, due to numerous and sundry
encounters, and his average chew of tobacco gave him a mumpy appearance.
As a dispenser of local news, Windy was an animated bulletin board, but
he was just a trifle timid around the weaker sex.
He had taken one look at Marion Evans, knocked his sombrero off when he
tried to be polite, and almost swallowed the contents of his capacious
mouth. She was quite the prettiest girl he had ever seen. In fact, he
had never seen any girl with such a lovely complexion. The girls of the
Stormy River country were tanned from the sun and wind. None of them had
such big brown eyes, that looked steadily at you. And her clothes were
different. Windy leaned against the rear wheel of the stage and wished
he didn’t have to sit beside her all the way to Pineville.
But there was no way out of it. She had climbed unbidden to the driver’s
seat. He took plenty of time in arranging his load, but he was finally
obliged to climb up beside her and drive out of town. A close observer
might have noticed that Windy had failed to fill his mouth with tobacco,
and that he did not anathematize his four half-broken horses.
For a mile or more they rode in silence. The sun was warm, and a breeze
sent the dust cloud behind them. The road was not too bad, and the stage
was well enough ballasted to make easy riding.