"Last night, I reckon. You see, Ed had promised to ride down to my
place this morning and help me to raise a shed, and when he didn't come
I got oneasy and went up to see what kept him, and the first thing I saw
when I opened the door was him layin' on the floor, shot through and
through." Here his voice grew savage. "And by that Kauffman woman!"
"Hold on, Abe!" called the ranger, sharply. "Go slow on that talk. What
makes you think that woman--any woman--did it?"
"Well, it jest happened that Ed had spilled some flour along the porch,
and in prowling around the window that woman jest naturally walked over
it. You can see the print of her shoes where she stopped under the
window. You've got to go right up there--you're a gover'ment
officer--and stand guard over the body while I ride down the valley and
get the coroner and the sheriff."
"All right. Consider it done," said Hanscom, and Kitsong continued his
frenzied pace down the valley.
The ranger, his blood quickening in spite of himself, spurred his horse
into a gallop and was soon in sight of the Shellfish Ranch, where Watson
had lived for several years in unkempt, unsavory bachelorhood, for the
reason that his wife had long since quit him, and only the roughest
cowboys would tolerate the disorder of his bed and board. Privately,
Hanscom was not much surprised at the rustler's death (although the
manner of it seemed unnecessarily savage), for he was quarrelsome and
vindictive.
The valley had not yet emerged from the violent era, and every man in
the hills went armed. The canyons round about were still safe harbors for
"lonesome men," and the herders of opposition sheep and cattle outfits
were in bitter competition for free grass. Watson had many enemies, and
yet it was hard to think that any one of them would shoot him at night
through an open window, for such a deed was contrary to all the
established rules of the border.
Upon drawing rein at the porch the ranger first examined the footsteps
in the flour and under the window, and was forced to acknowledge that
all signs pointed to a woman assailant. The marks indicated small,
pointed, high-heeled shoes, and it was plain that the prowler had spent
some time peering in through the glass.
For fear that the wind might spring up and destroy the evidence, Hanscom
measured the prints carefully, putting down the precise size and shape
in his note-book. He studied the position of the dead man, who lay as he
had fallen from his chair, and made note of the fact that a half-emptied
bottle of liquor stood on the table. The condition of the room, though
disgusting, was not very different from its customary disorder.
Oppressed by the horror of the scene, the ranger withdrew a little way,
lit his pipe, and sat down to meditate on the crime.
"I can't believe a woman did it," he said. And yet he realized that
under certain conditions women can be more savage than men. "If Watson
had been shot on a woman's premises it wouldn't seem so much like
slaughter. But to kill a man at night in his own cabin is tolerably
fierce."
That the sad, lonely woman in the ranch above had anything to do with
this he would not for a moment entertain.
He turned away from the problem at last and dozed in the sunshine,
calculating with detailed knowledge of the trail and its difficulties
just how long it would take Kitsong to reach the coroner and start back
up the hill.
It was nearly four o'clock when he heard the feet of horses on the
bridge below the ranch, and a few minutes later Kitsong came into view,
heading a motley procession of horsemen and vehicles. It was evident
that he had notified all his neighbors along the road, for they came
riding in as if to a feast, their eyes alight with joyous interest.
The coroner, a young doctor named Carmody, took charge of the case with
brisk, important pomp, seconded by Sheriff Throop, a heavy man with
wrinkled, care-worn brow, who seemed burdened with a sense of personal
responsibility for Watson's death. He was all for riding up and
instantly apprehending the Kauffmans, but the coroner insisted on
looking the ground over first.
"You study the case from the outside," said he, "and I'll size it up
from the inside."
As the dead man had neither wife nor children to weep for him, Mrs.
Kitsong, his sister, a tall, gaunt woman, assumed the role of chief
mourner, while Abe went round uttering threats about "stringing the
Kauffmans up," till the sheriff, a good man and faithful officer,
jealous of his authority, interfered.
"None of that lynching talk! There'll be no rope work in this county
while I am sheriff," he said, with noticeable decision.
In a few moments Carmody, having finished his examination of the body,
said to the sheriff: "Go after this man Kauffman and his daughter. It
seems they've had some trouble with Watson and I want to interrogate
them. Search the cabin for weapons and bring all the woman's shoes," he
added. And while the sheriff rode away up the trail on his sinister
errand, Hanscom with sinking heart remained to testify at the inquest.
A coroner in the mountains seven thousand feet above the sea-level and
twenty miles from a court-house must be excused for slight informalities
in procedure, and Carmody confidentially said to the ranger:
"I don't expect for a minute the sheriff will find the Kauffmans. If
they did for Watson, they undoubtedly pulled out hotfoot. But we've got
to make a bluff at getting 'em, anyway."
To this the ranger made no reply, but a sense of loss filled his heart.
As soon as the jury was selected the condition of the body was noted,
and Abe Kitsong, as witness, was in the midst of his testimony (and the
shadows of the great peaks behind the cabin had brought the evening
chill into the air) when the sheriff reappeared, escorting a mountain
wagon in which Kauffman and his daughter were seated.
Hanscom stared in mingled surprise and dismay--surprise that they had
not fled and dismay at the girl's predicament--and muttered: "Now what
do you think of that! It takes an Eastern tenderfoot to kill a man and
then go quietly home and wait for results."
Kauffman glared about him defiantly, but the face of the girl remained
hidden in her bonnet; only her bowed head indicated the despair into
which she had fallen.
With a deep sense of pity and regret, Hanscom went to meet her. "Don't
be scared," he said. "I'll see that you have a square deal."
She peered down into his face as he spoke, but made no reply, and he
conceived of her as one burdened with grief and shame and ready for any
fate.
The sheriff, his face showing an agony of perplexity, turned over to the
coroner all the weapons and other "plunder" he had brought from the
house, and querulously announced that he couldn't find a shotgun
anywhere around, and only one small rifle. "And there wasn't a pointed
shoe on the place," he added, forcibly.
"That proves nothing," insisted Abe. "They've had time to hide 'em or
burn 'em."
"Well, bring them both over here and let's get to business," said the
coroner. "It's getting late."
As Hanscom assisted the accused woman from the wagon he detected youth
and vigor in her arm. "Don't be afraid," he repeated. "I will see that
you are treated right."
Her hand clung to his for an instant as she considered the throng of
hostile spectators, for she apprehended their hatred quite as clearly as
she perceived the chivalrous care of the ranger, and she kept close to
his side as he led the way to the cabin.
Kauffman was at once taken indoors, but the young woman, under guard of
a deputy, was given a seat on the corner of the porch just out of
hearing of the coroner's voice.
Carmody, who carried all the authority, if not all the forms, of a court
into his interrogation, sharply questioned the old man, who said that
his name was Frederick Kauffman and that he was a teacher of music.
"I was born near Munich," he added, "but I have lived in this country
forty years, mostly in Cincinnati. This young lady is my stepdaughter.
It is for her health that I came here. She has been very ill."
Carmody nodded to the sheriff, and Throop with a deep sigh and most
dramatic gesture lifted the shroud which concealed the dead man.
"Approach the body," commanded the coroner, and the jurors watched every
motion with wide, excited eyes, as though expecting involuntary signs of
guilt; but Kauffman calmly gazed upon the still face beneath him.
"Do you recognize this body?" demanded the coroner.
"I do," said Kauffman.
"When did you see him last?"
"Oh, two or three days ago," answered Kauffman.
"You may be seated," said the coroner.
Under close interrogation the old man admitted that he had had some
trouble with Watson. "Once I forced him to leave my premises," he said.
"He was drunk and insulting."
"Did you employ a weapon?"
"Only this "--here he lifted a sturdy fist--"but it was sufficient. I
have not forgotten my gymnastic training."
Prompted by Kitsong, who had assumed something of the attitude of a
prosecuting attorney, the coroner asked, "Has your daughter ever been in
an asylum?"
Although this question plainly disturbed him, Kauffman replied, after a
moment's hesitation, "No, sir."
"Where were you last night?"
"At home."
"Was your daughter there?"
"Yes."
"All the evening?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you sure she did not leave the house?"
"Perfectly sure."
The coroner took up a small rifle which the sheriff had leaned against
the wall. "Is this your rifle?"