had operated an assay office in Turquoise City, but with the falling off
of the mining industry he had devoted himself to the law, had been
admitted to the state bar and was now serving his third term as
prosecutor. “Mica” Jones, formerly assistant to Ryker in the assay
business, was running the assay office for Ryker, and barely making a
living.
Wind River Jim did not like Ryker. He took one look at him and groaned
slightly; but otherwise he remained silent, after his first greeting,
which had not been returned by Jefferson Ryker. The prosecutor stepped
back to the doorway and looked up the street.
“Where’s the sheriff?” he asked.
“He’s eatin’ breakfast.”
Ryker leaned against the doorway and examined a cigar, which was rather
badly unwrapped. He licked it gently in spots, trying to work the
wrapper back into place. Finally he lighted it and puffed convulsively,
but got no results.
“Anythin’ you want around here?” queried Wind River. “I’m doin’ the
sheriffin’ while Roarin’ Rigby nourishes.”
“You are?” Ryker looked curiously at Wind River, who gave him plenty of
opportunity to see the nickel-plated badge.
“Oh, I see.” Ryker came back closer to Wind River. “All right, Wind
River, I want to see the prisoner.”
“The prisoner?”
“Yes--Pete Conley.”
“Huh!” snorted Wind River. “Well, now, from where I set, you’ve got a
fine chance, Ryker.”
“I have a right to see him!” snapped the lawyer.
“Yea-a-a-ah, the devil you have!”
Wind River jerked his feet off the desk and faced Ryker.
“Your rights and wrongs don’t mean nothin’ to me. If you keep your hat
on until I let you see Pete Conley, they’ll have to saw it off when
you’re dead.”
“I wonder how Roaring Rigby ever happened to appoint such an ignorant
person,” said the lawyer.
“Because he couldn’t trust the smart ones, that’s why. The smarter they
are the crookeder they are, Ryker, and I’ve heard that you’re the
smartest man in this valley.”
Ryker walked back to the door, boiling with wrath.
“I’m going to find the sheriff,” he said hotly. “You can’t call me a
crook and get away with it.”
“Well, you’re a friend of English Ed.”
“What has that got to do with it?”
“He’s crooked. You never see a lot of lambs hobnobbin’ with a coyote, do
you?”
Ryker whirled on his heel and left the office.
Wind River Jim chuckled to himself as he uncoiled his length from the
creaking old chair and walked over to a cracked mirror on the wall. He
looked intently at himself.
“You don’t look crazy to me,” he told himself, “but you must be.
Appearances are shore deceptive. But I don’t like that cat-eyed lawyer,
and it was a good chance to let him know it. Anybody who didn’t know me
would think I was mean as dirt.”
The jail adjoined the sheriff’s office, and there was no exit, except
through the sheriff’s office. The front of the jail was a blank wall. At
the side and rear were small barred windows, not large enough for a man
to crawl through. It was not a well ventilated jail, it is true, but it
was built to hold a prisoner.
Roaring Rigby came back a few minutes later, carrying a tray of food for
Pete Conley.
“This is your job after this, Wind River,” he said, placing the tray on
the desk. “What did you say to Ryker?”
“He wanted to see Pete,” grinned Wind River. “I told him to go to hell.”
Roaring grinned widely.
“I thought so. He shore was sore as a boil. Met me at the door of the
restaurant and jumped all over me about you.”
“The devil he did! What did you say, Roarin’?”
“Me? I slapped his old face loose from his hat. Mebby that wasn’t
exactly the right thing for a sheriff to do, but it’s all I could think
of at the time. I never took no oath of office. Anyway, I don’t think
there’s anythin’ in the oath about not slappin’ lawyers. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!
Let’s feed the animal.”
They unlocked the door into the jail and carried the tray in. There was
a short hall, about six feet wide, across the room, at each side of
which were barred doors. Pete Conley leaned against the bars of one
cell, smoking a cigaret.
“Got you some ham and eggs, Pete,” said the sheriff cheerfully.
“Good!” said the half-breed. “What’s new?”
Roaring unlocked the door and put the tray on a chair.
“Nothin’ much. English Ed’s gang is pretty sore. They rode all night.
Ha-haha-ha! Aw, they’ll cool off. Last night they was in a lynchin’
mood, tha’s all. Ryker wants to see you, Pete. Jist remember he’s the
jigger that’ll try to hang you. Don’t tell him a thing, _sabe_? You
don’t have to talk.”
Pete nodded quickly.
“I like see Judge Beal.”
“You can’t, Pete; he’s the judge.”
“He’s good man.”
“Uh-huh--shore, but he can’t see you until you walk into his courtroom.
You’ll have to hire a lawyer, I reckon.”
“What for?”
“To prove you didn’t kill Mallette.”
“What lawyer see who kill him?”
“Oh, hell, there you are, Wind River!” exploded Roaring. “Can you
imagine that? What lawyer seen who shot him?”
“I dunno,” said Wind River innocently. “Did any?”
Roaring stared open-mouthed at Wind River. Finally he closed his mouth
and shook his head sadly.
“Well, I reckon it’s all right,” he said resignedly. “I hired you
because you was honest, Wind River.”
“My old man come town yet?” asked Pete, beginning to eat.
“Not yet.”
“Huh! How soon they hang me?”
“Are you in any hurry, Pete?”
“Not much.”
“Well, that’s fine. They’ll have to try you first, so you’ll jist have
to be patient. First they’ll give you a hearin’ and decide if yo’re
worth hangin’. Then they’ll hold the trial and see when you git hung.
It’ll take quite a while.”
“Nobody ask me if I kill Mallette,” said Pete, his mouth filled with
food. “I like kill him pretty good, but somebody kill him. He stole my
money.”
“You like to kill him, eh?”
“Sure.”
“Uh-huh. You’ll make a hell of a good witness for the State--as long as
you last.”
* * * * *
Roaring left Wind River Jim with Pete and went to see Dr. Shelley, the
coroner, who had an office at the east end of the street. The old doctor
was a short, fat, breathless man, with two double chins and no
waist-line.
“Going to have an inquest, I suppose,” puffed the doctor.
“Shore,” nodded Roaring. “He won’t keep a long while this kinda weather.
You fix up about the inquest, Doc. That’s somethin’ I dunno anythin’
about. Are you shore Mallette didn’t kill himself?”
“Might have shot himself at long-range. No powder marks on his face, and
the bullet went through his head.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Funny thing,” said the doctor. “You know, Mallette wore boots--the
short kind. Well, there was dirt in both boots.”
“What about it?”
“I don’t know; I just mentioned it.”
“Uh-huh. Mallette didn’t look to me like a man who had taken a bath very
often. You fix up about that inquest, will yuh, Doc? You’ve held ’em
before.”
“All right, Roaring. Ryker was down to look at the corpse. He says
there’s no doubt in his mind that Pete Conley killed Mallette. They
chased Conley all night last night.”
“Yeah, I heard they did.”
Roaring didn’t bother to tell the doctor that he had Pete in jail. He
went from the doctor’s office to Judge Beal’s home, where Wong Kee
opened the door for him. The old judge was slumped down in an old
rocker, half dressed, an uncorked bottle of whisky beside him on the
table. On his lap was a much worn copy of the Bible.
“Come in, Roaring,” he said softly. “Sit down and tell me all the news.
We’ve only heard rumors here. Between Wong’s rheumatism and my bottle of
rye, we’ve not been able to get out and gather the news. Have a
drink--it’s good stuff. Wong, bring the gentleman a glass.”
It was evident to Roaring that the judge was mellow with liquor. But
that was as far as he ever got--mellow. No one had ever seen Judge Beal
drunk--as a drunk is measured in Turquoise City.
Roaring took the drink and told the judge what had happened the night
before. The old jurist chuckled over how Roaring drew the lynchers away
from the ranch, while Jimmy Moran brought Pete safely to Turquoise.
“Oh, they’d have hung him, Judge,” assured Roaring. “Pete wasn’t stuck
on comin’ to jail, but he could see that it was the only safe place for
him.”
“That’s very true, Roaring. I got my second warning yesterday.”
“You did? Gosh! What are you goin’ to do, Judge?”
The old judge smiled grimly.
“Die in a good cause,” he said slowly. “Why run away? I’ve no place to
go. After all, I am the judge of this district. English Ed and his
cohorts fear justice, and it may be that English Ed has political
influence enough to get a friendly judge elected, or rather appointed,
in case he can frighten me into resigning.”
“Mebby,” nodded Roaring. “He scared Randall out.”
“But you are not one of his men, Roaring.”
“I hope to die if I am! I’ve got Wind River Jim for a deputy and I’ll
run that office as long as she’s got a wheel to turn on--and when she
ain’t, I’ll keep her draggin’. I dunno much about my office, Judge.
Randall never did tell me much, so I’ve kinda got to run her by ear.
English Ed and his gang don’t like me; but that ain’t goin’ to git me
down. Well, I better go back and see how Wind River is makin’ out. I
plumb forgot to tell him that bein’ a deputy sheriff don’t give him a
right to shoot anybody he happens to get sore at. See you later, Judge.”
* * * * *
The inquest over the body of Mallette created quite a lot of interest,
and the six jurors did not hesitate to bring in a verdict to the effect
that Mallette had been killed by Peter Conley. Roaring Rigby refused to
produce Pete in court.
“That half-breed is behind the bars, neck intact,” he told the coroner,
“and there he stays until he has to go into a reg’lar courtroom. There’s
too much iron among those present, I’ll tell you that.”
Jimmy Moran’s testimony regarding the poker game in which Mallette stole
a card was rather in favor of Pete; and the audience enjoyed Jimmy’s
story of how Roaring was chased by the posse. Jimmy admitted that it was
he who brought Pete to jail that night.
Every one noticed that Jimmy showed Dawn marked attention during the
trial, and Slim was foolish enough to mention this to Jimmy later on.
“Is it any of your damn business?” demanded Jimmy. “You may be in charge
of my father’s cattle, but you’re not in charge of my father’s son. And
get this straight, Slim. If I want to marry--”
“Sure, sure,” nodded Slim hastily. “Excuse me, Jimmy.”
Slim subsided, but he hurried to the telegraph office and sent a long
telegram to Franklyn Moran, explaining what had happened and mentioning
that Jimmy might need a bit of fatherly advice regarding matrimony. Not
that it mattered to Slim, except that he had orders to keep Moran
informed on Jimmy’s activities. Franklyn Moran loved Jimmy, in his own
way, and he wanted Jimmy with the Big 4. According to his views of the
matter, the sooner Jimmy went broke, the better, perhaps, for the
relations between father and son.
Kent Cutter, owner of the 7AL, failed to see any humor in Jimmy’s
recital of the fruitless chase of Pete Conley. Kent went back to the
Black Horse after the inquest, imbibed a sufficient number of drinks to
make him free of speech and then proceeded to tell the world that he
didn’t care very much for Jimmy Moran.
Lovely Lucas, Jimmy’s sole remaining cowboy, was in the Black Horse and
heard Cutter’s loud-voiced, profane opinion of Jimmy. Lovely was a huge
figure of a man. In fact he was so big that his eight and one-half by
six and one-half Stetson did not seem at all out of proportion on his
head. He had a big nose and an enormous mouth. He had been born and
raised in southern Texas, and he had an easy drawl. He sauntered over to
the bar, rested one elbow lazily and considered Cutter.
“You jist kinda like to talk, don’tcha?” he said slowly.
Cutter turned his bloodshot eyes upon the bulky Lucas.
“Mebby,” he said shortly, and turned his back.
“He-he-he-he-he!” chuckled Lovely. He had imbibed a few drinks himself.
“My talkin’ don’t ache you none, does it?” demanded Cutter frigidly.
“It ain’t got that far--yit,” smiled Lovely, “but you’ve done got to
remember that Jimmy Moran is my boss, Cutter. He ain’t no damn angel, so
anythin’ you feel like sayin’ about him might better be said to his
face, ’cause I’ll shore tell him what you said, and I might make it
sound a heap worse ’n you would.”
“Huh!” snorted Cutter. “That’s no dream!”
“I’d prob’ly lie,” said Lovely softly.
“You would,” admitted Cutter incautiously.
Lovely Lucas moved swiftly for a big man. One huge hand caught the back
of Cutter’s muffler, while the other caught the back of his
cartridge-belt and, with a heave, he swung Cutter off the floor.
“Comin’ up!” snorted Lovely, and he swung Cutter over the bar, letting
loose of him in mid-air.
The bartender fell out of the way, giving Cutter plenty of room to catch
his legs across the top of the back-bar, hooking his spurred heels
behind stacks of polished glasses, and bringing everything down on top
of him when he crashed to the floor.
Lovely whirled around and headed for the door, his mouth wide open in a
chuckling laugh. No one tried to stop him. He crossed the street and
went straight to the sheriff’s office, where he found Roaring Rigby and
Wind River Jim. It was several moments before Lovely was able to tell
them what had happened.
“I jist kinda valised him over,” laughed Lovely.
“Yeah, and you’ll wish you hadn’t,” said Roaring. “That whole 7AL gang
will lay for you.”
“But he called me a liar,” protested Lovely. “He said somethin’ ought to
be done about Jimmy Moran marryin’ Dawn Conley.”
Roaring Rigby shifted his eyes and looked down at his boots. Wind River
Jim looked reprovingly at Lovely and shook his head. Wind River knew
more about it than Lovely did. But Lovely didn’t understand.
“If Jimmy wants to wed with that half-breed girl, I reckon we’ll all
step out and help make it a success, eh, Roarin’?”
Roaring rubbed a thumb along the edge of his boot-top.
“Yea-a-ah,” he said slowly. “I reckon you’ve got to stick up for your
friends, Lovely.”
“Shore! That’s why I played ante-over with Cutter. He-he-he-he! I s’pose
English Ed will send me a bill for damages. Cutter’s legs swept every
glass off the back-bar.”
“And you better tell Jimmy to look out for Ed,” advised Roaring. “That
gambler ain’t forgot that Jimmy cooled him off the night that Mallette
was killed.”
“Oh, Jimmy ain’t asleep, Roarin’. Say, I’ll let you in on somethin’, if
you’ll keep still about it. After the inquest, old Mose Conley told
Jimmy to keep away from the Hot Creek ranch; said he appreciated what
Jimmy was doin’ for ’em, but that Jimmy was to keep away from Dawn. I
reckon it was because he hates Jimmy’s pa. He didn’t say that was the
reason. Jimmy got kinda hot and told the old man he was aimin’ to marry
Dawn. He-he-he-he! The old man says Jimmy better think it over a long
time, ’cause Dawn is a half-breed; and Jimmy asks him how long he took
to think things over before he married Dawn’s mother. He-he-he-he-he!
“He had the old man up a stump, but the old man stuck to it. Jimmy asks
him what he’ll do in case he decides to come to see Dawn. ‘I told you
not to,’ says the old man. ‘All men look pretty much the same in the
dark, and I’ve got to protect myself.’ And there you are. I didn’t talk
with Jimmy afterwards; he piled on his bronc and went home.”
Some one stopped at the doorway of the office, and they turned to see
English Ed. He looked coldly at Lovely.
“You owe me forty dollars, Lucas,” said the gambler. “That is the amount
of glassware you broke awhile ago.”
“Forty dollars,” said Lovely softly. “Lotta glasses, Ed.”
“A month’s salary,” said Wind River Jim.
“And here’s a letter to take to Jim Moran,” said English Ed, handing
Lovely an envelope. “You see that he gets it.”
“Yea-a-a-ah? And I owe you forty dollars, eh?” Lovely sat up straight
and glared at the gambler. “Say! You cold-jawed card-slicker, do you
think I’ll ever pay that? Pay you forty dollars for busted glasses! Why,
I wouldn’t give forty dollars for everythin’ in your place, even if
they’d throw in your hide and taller.
“You think you’re runnin’ this town, don’tcha? You runs Jim Randall out,
but the rest of us has kinda got our heels braced, _sabe_? You’ve got a
couple gunmen dealers over there. Mack Ort and Keno Smiley, I’m meanin’.
You had three, until Mallette got hung on the hot end of a bullet.
“Well, you tell ’em to cut loose any old time. See if they can tear
forty dollars’ worth out of my hide, English; and that’s the only way
you’ll ever collect. Yeah, I know all about the warnin’ you sent to Jim
Randall. You scared him out; but you ain’t scared old Judge Beal out
yet. And if I was you, I’d turn right around and go back to my little
playmates, knowin’ well that old man Lucas’ little boy ain’t never goin’
to give you that forty dollars. What do you think?”
English Ed did not change expression, no matter what he felt. It was no
place for him to protest Lovely’s decision. These three hard-bitted
cowboys were closer than brothers and, judging from their expressions,
welcomed any argument he might start. So he merely nodded coldly, turned
and walked away.
Lovely grinned widely and looked at the envelope. It was unsealed, and
Lovely did not hesitate to open it and take out the enclosure. It read:
Jim Moran: Your I.O.U.’s, aggregating over twelve hundred
dollars, are long past due. These must be met at once, or I
shall be obliged to levy an attachment on the Stumbling K.
—Edward Holmes
“Twelve hundred dollars!” exploded Lovely. “Jimmy shore played high and
handsome, didn’t he! Whooee! Levy an attachment, eh? What kind of a
thing is that, Roarin’?”
“Some law thing. I told you English Ed would shut down on Jimmy.”
“And Jimmy can’t pay it,” declared Wind River Jim. “Why, he ain’t got
it. Every time pay-day came around he had to sell enough cows to pay us
off. Betcha he ain’t got fifty head of stock left. The Black Horse
Saloon has got rich off of Jimmy Moran. He owes the bank, too. They’ve
got a mortgage for a couple thousand.”
“Yeah, it kinda looks as though Jimmy was about sunk,” agreed Lovely.
He walked back to the door and looked out. Cutter was crossing the
street, looking down toward the office. He met Ryker in front of the
post-office, and they went up the street together.
“Cutter and Ryker are pretty good friends, ain’t they?” asked Lovely.
“Always have been,” grunted Roaring.
“Cutter’s prob’ly fixin’ to have me arrested,” grinned Lovely. “Mebby I
better go home while the way is clear. How soon do they have Pete’s
trial?”
“Next week,” replied Roaring.
“Before Judge Beal?”
“If he lives that long.”
“Who--Pete?”
“No, Judge Beal.”
* * * * *
The overland train ground to a stop at the little station of Sibley
Junction, unloaded one passenger and a couple of heavy valises, and then
hurried on, as if glad to get away.
Sibley Junction consisted of the depot, a water-tank and a saloon. The
depot and water-tank were on one side of the railroad; the saloon was on
the other. The saloon was a weatherbeaten, false-fronted structure, one
side of which still bore traces of having been decorated with a circus
poster.
There was no sidewalk, no awning. The false-front leaned back, as if
weary of it all. The surrounding hills were hazy with the afternoon
heat, and the dust from the passing train seemed to hang suspended in
the windless atmosphere. There was no sign of life, except two saddled
horses dozing at the hitch-rack beside the saloon.
The lone passenger from the overland picked up his valises and walked
heavily to the waiting-room of the depot, dropped the valises and mopped
his red face. He was a big man, square-headed, heavy-jawed, well
dressed. His baggage was of expensive leather. He looked around sourly
as the head and shoulders of a sleepy-eyed depot-agent appeared at the
ticket window.
“Howdy, Mr. Moran,” said the man with the sleepy eyes. “I kinda thought
somebody got off Number Six.”
“Yeah!” grunted Franklyn Moran.
“Goin’ over to Turquoise City, eh?”
“Yeah. Train on time?”
“Might be here on time tomorrow--not today. They went in the ditch this
side of Wiebold, and the report is that they won’t move nothin’ over
this jerkwater line for at least twenty-four hours, Mr. Moran. I’m
sorry.”
Moran almost exploded. Slim Regan’s telegram had caused him to drop
everything and head for Turquoise City. And here he was, twenty-five
miles away, with no hotel, no livery-stable, no way for him to travel
that twenty-five miles, except on foot.
“That means I can’t get a train to Turquoise until tomorrow, eh?”
“Probably about tomorrow even’.”
“Anybody around here got a horse I could buy or rent?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I saw two horses over at the saloon rack.”
“Couple of strange cowboys. They rode in today from the Outpost country.
Been punching cows for the Muller outfit.”
“I wonder if they’re headin’ for Turquoise City?”
“I don’t think so. They asked about the Long Bend country.”
“Maybe I better take a look at ’em. I’ll leave my baggage here.”
Moran mopped his face again and crossed the track to the saloon. It was
a dusty, fly-specked place. The bartender was humped over in a chair,
reading a paper-backed novel; a gray cat was curled up on the end of the
bar, and at the one card table sat two dusty cowboys, eating canned
salmon, peaches and crackers.
Moran stopped at the bar and looked around. The bartender showed mild
interest, marking the page of his book by crimping a page. The two
cowboys did not even show mild interest. One of them was very tall and
thin, with a long, serious face, which just now he was stuffing with
food. The other was of medium height, broad-shouldered, with very wide
blue eyes and a deeply-lined face. Their well worn garb was typical of
the cow-country.
“I’ll buy a drink,” invited Moran.
The tall cowboy swallowed heavily and shook his head.
“Thank you just the same,” he said pleasantly. “We tried it.”
“They don’t know good liquor,” said the bartender rather plaintively,
and getting to his feet.
“I reckon that’s right,” nodded the tall one, digging into the salmon
can with his pocket-knife.
“Beer?” queried Moran.
The tall one grimaced.
“Hot. There ain’t been no ice here since the glacial period.”
“What’ll you have?” asked the bartender.
Moran considered.
“Anything cold?”
The bartender rubbed his chin ruefully.
“Not that I’ve seen. Been pretty hot lately.”
“I guess I don’t want anything, thank you.”
“Uh-huh.”
The bartender went back to his novel, and Moran sat down near the two
cowboys.
“I’m Franklyn Moran,” he told them, “from Chicago. I own the Big 4 ranch
near Turquoise City.”
“What former experience have you had, and why did you leave your last
place?” queried the blue-eyed cowboy seriously.
“Eh?” said Moran.
“I was just thinkin’ how I’d hate to live here,” said the blue-eyed one
seriously.
“Mm-m-m-m,” muttered Moran. He knew that wasn’t what the cowboy had
said.
“It’s all right, after you get used to it,” said the bartending
bookworm.
“That may be,” smiled Moran. “I expected to catch that afternoon train
to Turquoise City, and find that there’s a wreck which will take
twenty-four hours to clear. I’d give twenty-five dollars for a horse to
ride to the Big 4 ranch.”
“Twenty-five dollars for twenty-five miles?” queried the bartender.
“It’s worth it to me,” declared Moran. “If one of you boys will let me
have a horse--”
“You must be in a hurry,” observed the tall cowboy. He wiped his lips
and prepared to roll a cigaret.
“I am. That’s my offer. I’d even ride double.”
“What kind of a place is this Turquoise City?”
“Wide open town. You boys lookin’ for work?”
“No-o-o-o, lookin’ for a job. We’re too intelligent to look for work,
pardner.”
Moran smiled and offered them cigars, which were declined.
“How about my offer?” he asked anxiously.
The tall one elevated his eyebrows and looked at his companion.
“I’ll tell you what we will do with you,” said the short one. “You can
ride my bronc, if you’ll pay twenty-five dollars and give me a railroad
ticket to that town. I’ll wait for the train tomorrow afternoon.”
“Cinch!” Moran dug in his pocket and drew out a ticket. “Here’s mine.
How soon do we start?”
“Right now, if the bartender will let me have half of his bed tonight,”
said the short one.
“Pleased to have you,” nodded the bartender. “I won’t have to talk to
myself tonight.”
“I’ll leave my baggage with you,” said Moran.
“All right.”
They threw the empty cans outside and went to the horses. The cowboys
helped Moran adjust the stirrups to the proper length.
“My name’s ‘Hashknife’ Hartley,” said the tall cowboy. “This pardner of
mine is named Stevens. Folks call him ‘Sleepy,’ ’cause he ain’t.”