thoughtfully, as he looked down at the unmistakable features of Loring,
the San Francisco lawyer, who had been killed in the café gun battle;
the man he had knocked into the muddy street.
“Jack Keene?” queried Cultus.
Faith Keene nodded. “Did you know him?” she asked softly.
Cultus shook his head and turned toward the door.
“I’m mighty glad to have seen yuh, ma’am,” he said, as he held out his
hand.
“It was kind of you to carry the packages for me,” she replied. He shook
hands gravely with the little boy, and went down to the main street,
wearing his sombrero pulled down over his eyes. He was finding out more
than he had expected.
Jack Keene was the man who was sending the woman to pose as the niece
of Jud Ault, and it was very evident to Cultus that Keene, or Loring,
as he was known in San Francisco, was in some plot to loot the Lazy A.
But Keene was dead, and Cultus did not think that either Lane or Breen
knew of the shooting. The girl, Janice Lee, was probably dead or in a
hospital, and possibly she did not know enough about the details of
the plot to ever let Lane and Breen know what happened.
As Cultus sauntered up the crooked street, Miles Lane rode in and took
his horse to the livery stable. Cultus leaned against a post in front
of the Oreana saloon until Lane went to his office, and then crossed
the street.
Lane greeted him pleasantly and they sat down together in the office.
Lane told him that he had just returned from the Lazy A.
“I was just talkin’ to Mrs. Keene,” said Cultus.
“A nice girl,” said Lane briskly. “Too bad she lost out on the Lazy A.
Possibly Jud Ault was too severe. But he hated Jack Keene, and---- Oh,
well, it was his business, I suppose. What have you found out in regard
to the missing cattle?”
“Not very much. What do yuh know about the Cross Arrow?”
“Less than nothing--except hearsay. I know the Hill family to speak to
them. They haven’t a good reputation.”
“And the Star X?”
“You’ve heard about the feud?”
“Sure. They staged a battle in the street here the night I came. Breen
talks about ’em killin’ Lazy A stock, and all that, but I can’t quite
swallow it, Lane. The Star X is as big as the Lazy A, and they don’t
need to kill Lazy A cattle.”
Lane looked up quickly. “Have you been at the Star X?”
“I was out there yesterday and had a talk with the Wheelers.”
“And they knew you were from the Lazy A?”
“They knew I was from the Association,” corrected Cultus.
Lane smiled crookedly. “That information won’t help you any, Jones.”
“Mebbe not,” smiled Cultus. “Yuh see, I wasn’t the one that told ’em.”
“No? Who do you suppose----?”
“They say you did, Lane.”
“That I told them? Why, that is preposterous, Jones!”
“And old man Hill----”
“Did he say I told him?”
“Shif’less did.”
“Pshaw!” Lane colored, tried to swallow, failed. “I don’t know why they
would say such a thing, Jones.”
“Nor you,” said Cultus softly. “Unless yo’re tryin’ to get me killed
off.”
“Why, the idea is ridiculous. Jones. I haven’t any interest in your
affairs, except as they affect the Lazy A. I have been attorney for
Ault for years, and naturally I am interested in anything affecting
the Lazy A ranch. Idaho Breen wants you to clean up this rustling.
Why, I’d be the last person on earth to seek to injure you, Jones.”
“Well, that’s fine of yuh,” drawled Cultus. He shook hands with Lane
and sauntered out. Dude Wheeler was just going into the post office,
and waved a salute to Cultus, who walked up and met him.
“I want to ask yuh somethin’, Jones,” said Dude, a bashful grin on his
face. They moved close to the door of the post-office. “Yuh know I met
Miss Ault the night she came in.” said Dude. “She’s sure a nice girl.”
Cultus grinned widely. “Go ahead, cowboy.”
“I’m glad yuh understand,” sighed Dude. “It’s thisaway, Jones. I ain’t
seen her since that night, and yuh see I can’t very well go out there
to the Lazy A. I wrote her a letter and posted it to her this mornin’.
I just found out that Miles Lane took the Lazy A mail out to the ranch
today.
“And Miles Lane,” Dude hesitated. “He’s dressin’ up to go out there. Yuh
see, I don’t trust him, and I’m wonderin’----”
“If he delivered the letter, eh?”
“Yuh might put it thataway, Jones. I know him pretty well.”
“All right,” grinned Cultus. “What can I do for yuh?”
“Will yuh hand her a note from me?”
“Yeah, I’ll do it. I ain’t seen her to speak to for a long time, but if
it’s possible, I’ll see that she gets it.”
Dude secured some paper and an envelope, and when Cultus rode back to
the Lazy A he carried the note to Mary. It was almost supper time, and
the boys were all at the ranch. Cultus went to the long wash-bench just
outside the kitchen door, and began washing, while Hop stood in the
kitchen door, dangling a ladle in his hand.
“Hop, do you happen to know a Chinaboy in Frisco, whose name is Wang
Lee?” asked Cultus.
Old Hop smiled widely. “Yessa--my clousin. He lun chop-suey lestlant.”
Cultus grinned and nodded his head. “That’s the feller, Hop. Wang Lee
good friend of mine.”
This was not true, because Cultus did not know Wang Lee, and only knew
of a popular chopsuey restaurant of that name. But old Hop beamed. “Wang
Lee velly lich--my clousin.”
“That’s fine,” Cultus mopped his face with a towel, as he moved in
closer to the Chinaman. “Wang Lee my friend, Hop. You, his cousin,
must be my friend. You sabe?”
“Yessa.”
“Good.” Cultus took the envelope from his pocket, caught it in a fold of
the towel and handed it to Hop.
“That note is for Miss Ault, Hop. Nobody must see.”
The old Celestial accepted the towel, slipped the envelope inside his
shirt and turned away without a word. It was evident that Mary received
the note, but her reply was to Cultus, which was given to Cultus by old
Hop, after they had finished supper. She wrote:
Am virtually a prisoner. Tell Mr. Wheeler I will see
him as soon as possible. Would like to talk with you,
but Breen says I am to talk with no one. If Hop will
carry notes, it will be of some help to us. They are
treating me all right.
The note was unsigned. The fact that she was a prisoner was no news
to Cultus, and he knew Dude Wheeler was right in suspecting that
Miles Lane had not delivered the letter to Mary. Cultus realized
that under the law, it would require nearly a year to probate the
will of Jud Ault, advertise for creditors, and to follow out all the
legal phases of the instrument, but he also knew, that, while hardly
ethical, it would be legal for an heir to sell out his or her
interests to anyone who was willing to take a chance on the legality
of the will in question.
And if Breen and Miles Lane intended doing such a thing, there was
nothing he could do to prevent it. Mary, without the advice or
assistance of anyone, would be obliged to sign the name of Mary Ault to
a bill of sale to the Lazy A. Of course he could notify the authorities
of fraud, possibly defeat the purpose of Breen and Lane; but only serve
to throw the will into courts indefinitely--or until it might be proved
that no Mary Ault existed.
Cultus decided that there was nothing for him to do, except to wait
until something happened that would give him a chance to puzzle out a
solution of the case. In the meantime he decided to keep working on
the cattle stealing end of the case. He had a talk with Idaho Breen
about the cattle that night, but the Lazy A foreman did not seem
interested. He tried to lead Breen into a discussion of Jack Keene,
husband of Faith Ault, but Idaho side-stepped the subject; so Cultus
dropped it and went to bed, after deciding to visit Welcome Creek the
next day.
* * * * *
Earlier that afternoon Shif’less Hill had ridden to Oreana City, and
gone to the depot. He had sent a rifle to a San Francisco gunmaker
for some repairs, and it was due back. He paid the express charges
and took the package outside, where he sat down on the edge of the
station platform and unwrapped the rifle. It had been encased in a
light wooden box and packed tightly with newspapers.
Shif’less tried the action, found it functioning perfectly, and began
putting the papers back in the long, narrow box, when his eyes happened
to get a flash of a pictured face on one of the wrinkled newspapers.
Quickly he spread it out, emitting a grunt of wonderment.
The unmistakable features of Jack Keene stared up at him, along with
the face of a pretty girl, beneath whose portrait was the name Janice
Lee. But the name beneath Keene’s picture was J. Loring. Connecting
the pen and ink scroll, which joined the two portraits, was an
artist’s conception of the gun battle between two men, and behind one
of them was a girl, dressed in a traveling suit.
The story told of a gun battle in a San Francisco café, in which J.
Loring, an attorney, and Speed Evans, alleged gangster and dope
peddler, had killed each other. Janice Lee had been struck twice and
had died twelve hours later, without regaining consciousness. It had
little to say about Loring, except that he was little known outside
the tenderloin.
Shif’less read it through twice, the rifle lying across his lap. There
was no question in his mind about this man being Jack Keene. He noted
the date of the paper, carefully tore out the article and put it in his
pocket.
Picking up the rifle and the box, he walked around the depot, threw
the box into a weed patch and went back to his horse. He rode back up
the street to Miles Lane’s office. It was getting late, but he found
Lane there.
“What’s on your mind, Shif’less?” asked Lane, when Shif’less placed
his rifle on the desk and drew out the clipping. The Oreana City
attorney took the clipping and stared at the picture of Jack Keene.
And as he read the story he seemed to sway slightly and his eyes
blinked painfully.
He lifted a hand and wiped the tears from his eyes; not tears of grief
or remorse, but tears like a man might get whose eyes had stared into a
bright light. For a long time he did not speak, although Shif’less knew
he had read the article.
“What do yuh know about that?” asked Shif’less softly.
“My God!” breathed Lane hoarsely. “Jack Keene dead!”
“Well, he’d prob’ly finish thataway,” said Shif’less.
Lane looked at Shif’less blankly. “What did you say?” he asked.
“I said he’d prob’ly finish thataway.”
“Oh--yes,” Lane looked at the clipping again. Shif’less had torn it
through, leaving the dateline at the top of the page. Lane looked at
this and glanced quickly at a calendar on the wall.
“We’ve got to keep Faith from finding it out, Miles,” said Shif’less
softly. “We can’t let her know.”
“Faith? Oh, yes. Yes, we must keep it quiet, Shif’less. You won’t tell
anyone, will you? I can trust you, can’t I?”
“Well, I’d be the last to tell her,” drawled Shif’less. “Heck! I
wouldn’t have her find it out--not now.”
“That’s fine!” Lane almost pawed for Shif’less’ hand. “We’ll keep it
dark, eh? Don’t let anybody know. If one person finds it out, they’ll
all know it.”
“I won’t tell,” Shif’less shook his head. “Nossir. Say, Miles, Jack
must ’a’ been pretty tough, eh? I wonder if that was his girl. Prob’ly
was. Faith still thinks he’s all right,” Shif’less looked wistfully out
through the window. “Still thinks he’s all right, Miles.”
“Yes, yes,” impatiently. “You never can figure a woman, Shif’less.”
“Nor anybody else,” softly. “Jack Keene took a different name and left
his wife----”
“I know how you feel, Shif’less. You love Faith Keene. No, don’t shake
your head. Maybe she thinks a lot of you. I’ll help you.”
“I don’t need no help, Miles. I asked her the other day why she didn’t
get a divorce from Jack, and she said he was still supportin’ her; and
that she couldn’t never marry anybody as long as Jack was alive. Now,
Jack’s dead--and we can’t tell her. Still, what difference does it
make? If she’d marry----”
“No, don’t tell her!” Lane grasped him by the arm. “Don’t do it,
Shif’less. Anyway, it isn’t for you to do. Don’t you see, she’d think
you--you were trying to hurry things? Don’t you see?”
“Yeah, I see,” Shif’less nodded slowly. “I reckon we better keep it
dark for a while. Well, I’m headin’ home. Miles. Hang onto that piece
of paper, won’t yuh?”
“Oh, I’ll keep it safe, Shif’less. Good night.”
Shif’less mounted his horse and rode out of town, carrying the rifle in
the crook of his right arm, while Miles Lane locked his front door and
flopped in his office chair, trying to gather his scattered senses. He
studied the clipping again. Janice Lee! That was the name on the note
of identification! It was evident that the girl out at the Lazy A was
not Janice Lee. But who was she? Miles Lane’s brain whirled. Did this
Association detective, Jones of Oklahoma, have anything to do with it,
he wondered. Where did this girl come from, and where did she get the
identification papers?
Jack Keene, alias J. Loring, was the man who wrote the note--and he
was dead. Lane wondered if this girl at the Lazy A had stolen the
papers at the time of the gun battle. And if she did, who was behind
her masquerade?
Lane drew a big bottle from a desk drawer and took a drink. He left the
bottle uncorked, and every few minutes he would lower the contents
perceptibly. He decided to go to the Lazy A ranch and show the clipping
to Idaho Breen, but the quart bottle was empty when he got his horse at
the livery stable--and Mr. Lane was very drunk.
In fact, he was so muddled from drink that he took the wrong road out
of Oreana City in the dark, and when he sobered to the extent that he
cared to realize anything he found that he was not on any road, had
no sense of direction--and nothing to drink. So he just rode on and
on, wondering dully if the moon would ever come up and show him some
familiar landscape.
After a while he saw the silhouette of an old building, which he
recognized as being the deserted stamp-mill and buildings of the
abandoned Suicide mine. It had not been worked for several years. Jim
Scott, the original owner, had sunk every cent he owned in it, failed
to make it pay, and hung himself in the shafthouse--thus giving it a
new name. Others had tried in vain to make it pay, and it was finally
abandoned.
Lane did not realize that the night was nearly over; so he was not going
to take any chances on getting lost. As long as he had the buildings of
the old mine as landmark, he knew it would not be difficult in daylight
to cut across the hills to the Lazy A.
He struck one of the old trails and rode up closer to the old
shaft-house, where he intended to dismount. A cold breeze was sweeping
across the hills, and Miles Lane, not dressed too warmly, needed
shelter.
Suddenly he saw the dull gleam of a light shining through a crack in
the old building, and almost at the same instant he realized that he
had ridden in beside a saddled horse. He was still a little dazed
from the liquor, but instinct told him that something was not just
right.
Turning his horse around he rode slowly back down the trail, turned
his horse into the shelter of a mesquite clump in a dry wash, and
dismounted. Curiosity prompted him to climb back up the trail again,
but this time he circled to the opposite side of the building. He
took plenty of time and was particular about making unnecessary
noises.
He came in against the wall of the building and worked his way around
to when a broken board gave him a fairly good view of the interior.
The machinery had been moved away, but there still remained the old
framework of the hoist parts of the old trades, and the huge timbers
were where the hoisting engine had stood.
But Miles Lane was not interested in the details of the old building.
An old lantern hung from a nail in the old hoist frame, and in its
faint illumination Lane could see the huge bulk of a man, his shadow
dancing grotesquely on the walls, as he skinned out the carcass of a
steer, which was also suspended from the hoist-frame.
Another whole beef, all dressed, hung near him. Lane could recognize
him now. It was Shif’less Hill. He was working swiftly, his skinning
knife flashing in the yellow light. Lane licked his lips and swallowed
heavily. He could see the lantern light flash on the cartridge-heads in
his belt, and against the wall near him stood a Winchester rifle. Lane
was unarmed, and he suddenly realized that it might not be healthy for
him, in case Shif’less suspected his presence. As though fascinated he
leaned against the building and watched the big cowboy strip off the
hide. He did not realize that daylight was creeping over the hills.
Shif’less finished skinning the animal and threw the hide down the
shaft. Lane grinned to himself. He had plenty of evidence to send
Shif’less Hill over the road for a long time--in case he needed to
use it.
He shoved away from the wall, realizing it was daylight, and crept away
in the direction of his horse. He did not want Shif’less Hill to find
him there.
* * * * *
The three Lazy A cowboys were a snoring trio when Cultus left the
bunkhouse and went to the stable, where he saddled his horse. It was
still early, and Cultus knew that Hop would not serve breakfast for
another hour, at least: so he decided to postpone his morning meal
until he reached Welcome Creek.
Cultus had never been to Welcome Creek, but he knew it was not over
fifteen miles east of the Lazy A, and that by traveling past where
Idaho Breen had found Lazy A hides in the prospect hole, he would
strike the wagon road, which led from Oreana City to Welcome Creek.
Cultus mounted and rode away from the south. Breen had given him a
tall roan gelding, which had plenty of speed, and the cool of the
early morning gave it plenty of condition to go ahead. The going was
fairly good, and Cultus let the roan pick its own speed.
Cultus had never seen the old Suicide Mine, but had heard the boys speak
about it. He rode around the side of a hill and came in view of the old
buildings, shortly after daylight. His horse made little noise in the
sandy soil, and he was within a hundred yards of the old shaft-house,
when he saw Miles Lane sneaking away from beside the building. Cultus’
horse was poorly masked by the brush; so Cultus quickly dismounted. He
recognized Lane immediately. Leading his horse to the post, he was able
to watch the lawyer, who walked down a dry wash, mounted his horse
behind a mesquite clump, and rode quietly away, going toward the Lazy A.
“That’s kinda queer,” observed Cultus. “Now just what was a lawyer doin’
there this time in the mornin’?”
Cultus watched Lane ride across a ridge and disappear, before moving on
down to the shaft-house. He dropped his reins and walked boldly to the
sagging old door, where he stepped inside and jerked to a standstill,
when he found himself looking the muzzle of a rifle in the hands of
Shif’less Hill.
It was still half dark in the old building. Shifting his eyes from the
menacing gun muzzle, Cultus could see the two beeves hanging. Neither
of the men spoke for several moments. The gun muzzle did not waver.
“Well, what about it?” asked Shif’less in a flat voice.
A smile chased across Cultus’ lips and he shook his head.
“I reckon that’s up to you, Shif’less.”
“Yeah? I’m wonderin’ how yuh guessed I’d be here.”
“I didn’t,” grinned Cultus.
“No? Kinda early in the mornin’, ain’t it?”
Cultus nodded. “Yeah. I was on my way to Welcome Creek.”
“And jist stopped to look, eh?”
“Well, no-o-o. Yuh see, I didn’t have no idea of stoppin’ here until I
seen our friend the Oreana City lawyer sneak away from outside there,
grab his horse and fog for the Lazy A.”
“Miles Lane?”
“That’s the feller.”
Cultus could see that the big cowboy was puzzled.
“What was Miles Lane doin’ here?” he demanded.
“Search me: but he was here. Put down the gun, Shif’less.”
“I suppose I might as well, Jones. I’m caught with the goods. If Lane is
headed for the Lazy A, he’ll prob’ly bring back the whole gang.”
Cultus walked past him and looked at the beef. “Threw the hides in the
old shaft?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Intendin’ to pack the meat to Welcome Creek tonight, eh?”
The big cowboy leaned against one of the uprights and nodded gloomily.
“I dunno how yuh guessed it; but yo’re right.”
“That wasn’t hard to guess. You killed those animals that wore all them
Lazy A hides----”
“That Breen found,” finished Shif’less. “Yeah, I did.”
“Welcome Creek was the only possible market, I figured. You couldn’t
sell all that beef. Breen had an idea that the Star X was the ones that
was killin’ off his stock; but the Star X don’t need to kill beef.”
“I’ve been killin’ oft Lazy A beef for over a year,” said Shif’less
slowly. “I couldn’t handle much at a time. It’s quite a job for one
man. Dad wouldn’t help me. He said I was a damn’ fool; and I sure
was. Now, what are yuh goin’ to do about it?”
“How deep is this shaft?”
“Two hundred feet. There’s big stopes, of course.”
“All right. How could the Lazy A find those hides? Is there any way to
get down there?”
“Not unless they go down on a rope.”
“Which they won’t do,” said Cultus. “Where’d they ever find a two
hundred foot rope? Lane thinks you don’t know he saw yuh; so we’ll
just heave them two beeves down the shaft, which will destroy all the
evidence. What little blood is scattered around won’t convict anybody.
C’mon, let’s get busy.”
“What’s yore game?” queried Shif’less.
“Helpin’ out a damn’ fool.”
The Lazy A was at breakfast when Miles Lane rode in. Breen left the
table and met him at the front door.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Breen. “You look pretty tough,
Miles.”
The lawyer took hold of Breen’s sleeve and drew him off the porch and
around the corner.
“Is Jones and the girl still here?” he asked.
“The girl is; Jones has gone to Welcome Creek. What’s the matter?”
Lane drew out the newspaper clipping and showed it to Breen.
“There’s what’s the matter, Idaho. Jack Keene is dead. Look at the
date-line on that paper. That girl’s name is Janice Lee, and she’s
dead.”
Idaho lifted his eyes from the paper, staring blankly at the lawyer.
“But what does it mean?” he whispered.
“What does it mean? It means that this girl is not Janice Lee; that
she is somebody else! This is not the girl Jack Keene sent us. We’ve
been double-crossed, Idaho!”
“You think----?”
“I know! What’s behind it--I don’t know. But this girl came on the
same train with Jones, the detective. Idaho, we’ve got to work fast.
They don’t know that I know this; so that helps.”
“Does anybody else know it, Miles?”
“Shif’less Hill. He gave me the clipping.”
“Then we’ve got to stop him from meetin’ Jones. I’ll bet Jones knows
that Keene is dead, and he figures we don’t. If he knows that we
know----”
“I’ve got the goods on Shif’less Hill!” exclaimed Lane, and then he
told of seeing Shif’less butchering cattle in the old shaft-house of
the Suicide mine.
“By God, we’ll get him!” snorted Breen. “Here’s what we’ll do. You beat
it for town and get the papers. I’ll send the boys over to investigate
this butcherin’ and we’ll make this female sign the paper while they’re
gone. Jones is headin’ for Welcome Creek, and when he comes back we’ll
settle with him.”
“And turn this girl loose to tell all she knows?”
“What you don’t know won’t hurt yuh. Get yore bronc and go after them
papers.”
Lane got his horse and rode back toward Oreana City, while Breen went
back to the dining-room. The cowboys were rolling their after-breakfast
cigarette when Breen called them outside.
“You fellers saddle up and go to the old Suicide mine,” he ordered.
“Lane just brought word that somebody has been doin’ a job of butcherin’
down there in the old shaft-house, and we’ve got a hunch that Shif’less
Hill is the one who has been doing it. If yuh find Hill around there,
yuh better watch him.”
“All right,” said Pie Ide shortly. “Supposin’ we go and _get_ him,
Idaho?”
“Yo’re runnin’ that end of it, Pie,” said Idaho grimly. “Better be
sure--first Shif’less will fight. He threw the hide in the old shaft,
and the devil himself couldn’t get down there to find ’em; we’ve got
to take a chance that he killed Lazy A cattle. You’ll find the beef
in the shaft-house.”
The cowboys hurried after their horses. Not that they disliked
Shif’less Hill, but that they desired action. They rode away with
their rifles, and Idaho went back to the house, where he found Mary
in the living-room.
“I’m goin’ to talk turkey to you,” he told her. “In an hour or so.
Miles Lane will be out here with the papers for you to sign--and you
better sign ’em without any argument, sabe?”
“What papers, Mr. Breen?” Mary was frightened at Breen’s tone.
“The bill of sale to the Lazy A,” growled Breen. “He’ll have it all made
out, and all you’ll have to do is to sign ’em. You turn the whole works
over to me.”