Doctor Meyers drew Brick aside and spoke softly—

“Has any one ever threatened Baldy Malloy, Brick?”

“Threatened him?” Brick gulped some strong coffee. “Not that I know of,

doc. Why do you ask?”

“He was shot.”

“Shot?”

“Yes. When Baldy Malloy drove off the Elk Cañon grade, he was dead,

Brick. There was a bullet through his heart.”

Brick’s jaw set tightly and the hand that held the cup of coffee dropped

to his side, spilling the fluid onto the floor.

“He was shot before he went off the grade, eh? Shot through the heart.”

“Yes. It was either a revolver bullet, or possibly a rifle, fired at

long range. The bullet was still in him, Brick. It is a .45 caliber.”

Brick glanced quickly around. The men were busy with the coffee and none

of them had heard what the doctor had told.

“Doc, can yuh keep this a secret?” queried Brick. “Mebbe we better let

Harp in on it. Can yuh do this? It might be easier that-a-way.”

“You are the sheriff,” replied the doctor softly. “I am ready to do as

you say. Every one thinks that Malloy accidentally ran off the grade. We

can always exhume the body, you know.”

“All right,” nodded Brick. “And I’m much obliged, doc.”

“That’s all right, Brick. And there was no sign of the child?”

Brick shook his head wearily and went back after more hot coffee. Miss

Miller and Mrs. Wesson were talking to Harp, who was too tired to even

be bashful. But they were not joking him now.

The men gradually drifted away to get a few hours sleep before renewing

the search. Brick, Harp and Silent went down to the office, with the

intention of going to bed, but they had only been there a few minutes

when Bill Grant came in, accompanied by the stranger who had met Brick

and Harp on the road.

“Hello, Brick,” greeted Grant. “I want yuh to meet Mr. Santel.”

“I’ve met the sheriff before,” grinned Santel. “In fact I owe him a sack

of tobacco.”

Brick introduced Santel to Harp and Silent.

“Can we talk to yuh alone for a few minutes, Brick?” asked Grant.

“Sure thing.”

Brick grabbed his hat and followed them outside. They walked up the

street a short distance and stopped.

“Mr. Santel is the man we told yuh about, Brick,” said Grant.

“The detective?”

Santel smiled.

“Not exactly a detective. Leach seemed to think that I could kinda clean

up some of the crime around here; so here I am.”

“You with the Cattle Association, Santel?” queried Brick.

“No. I’m not connected with any outfit right now. The men in the

association are too well known.”

“I s’pose,” nodded Brick thoughtfully. “Still yuh wasn’t able to find

the right road, yuh know.”

Santel laughed softly.

“That’s right, sheriff.”

“Grant, you heard about Baldy Malloy, didn’t yuh?”

Grant hadn’t. He and Santel had just ridden in from Grant’s ranch, the

old Star-Dot, located about six miles due north from Marlin City, on

Whispering Creek.

It did not take Brick long to tell of the wreck, the finding of Malloy’s

body and of their futile search for the youngster.

“Well, how in the —— did Malloy happen to drive off the grade?” wondered

Grant. “He was a good driver.”

“I dunno,” sighed Brick. “It was one awful smash-up.”

“Was it back on those grades beyond where I met yuh?” asked Santel.

“Uh-huh. About the highest point.”

“Where’s the body?” asked Grant.

“Down at Doc Meyers’ office.”

“Let’s go and look at it,” suggested Santel.

* * * * *

They walked down to the office and the doctor met them at the door.

Malloy’s body had been laid out on some planks, and a heavy sheet thrown

over it. The doctor threw back the sheet enough to disclose the head,

but not enough to show any of the body.

Santel stepped in close and peered at the face of the dead man. Brick

noticed the muscles of Santel’s jaw set tightly and the blood quickly

drained from his face. Grant was talking to the doctor and did not

notice this.

For several moments Santel stared into the face of the dead man before

he slowly drew back and turned away. Grant had stepped in closer and was

looking closely. Then he grasped the sheet and drew it down, exposing

the bare chest and arms.

“What the —— is this?” he grunted, turning to the doctor. “This man has

been shot.”

Santel whirled quickly and leaned forward, looking at the blue circle on

the dead man’s breast. Grant had turned and was staring at Brick and the

doctor.

“We both knew it, Grant,” said Brick slowly. “Somebody shot Baldy

through the heart before he went off the grade; and we thought it might

be easier to find out who done it, if it wasn’t generally known that

such a thing was done.”

Grant squinted thoughtfully, half-nodding in agreement.

“He never knew what hit him,” said the doctor softly. “It was a center

shot.”

“A forty-five,” added Brick quickly.

Santel’s right hand dropped to his holster, but jerked away.

“You shoot a forty-five?” asked Brick.

Santel’s eyes slowly turned to Brick, a narrow-eyed stare and a slow

nod.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I shoot a forty-five.”

“A lot of us do, Santel,” said Brick slowly.

“Do yuh think it was a hold-up?” queried Grant.

“We won’t know until we find out what Baldy was carryin’ from

Silverton.”

“How long has he been driving this stage?” asked Santel.

“About seven or eight months, I think,” replied Brick.

“What did he do before he got this job?”

“I dunno, do you, Grant?”

“No. I never seen Baldy until he started drivin’ stage. Prob’ly the only

job he ever had in Sun Dog.”

“Have any enemies?” queried Santel.

“Never heard of any,” said Brick. “Baldy was kind of an inoffensive

jigger.”

“Not exactly,” Grant smiled slowly. “He knocked McGill down the day you

rode the grizzly, Brick.”

“I heard about that,” smiled Brick. “Still a poke in the nose wouldn’t

cause a man to do murder—not this long afterward, anyway.”

“Who is McGill?” asked Santel.

“A saloon-keeper in Silverton. Not exactly a worthy citizen, but

tolerated. No, I don’t reckon that McGill shot Baldy.”

They left the doctor’s office and walked back to the street. Grant

offered to buy a drink, but the other two men declined with thanks.

Santel was very serious, and Brick thought very sad.

“Is Santel goin’ to stay with you, Grant?” asked Brick.

They had halted in front of Wesson’s store, and as Brick spoke Mrs.

Wesson and Miss Miller came out of the store and walked past them. Brick

and Grant spoke to the ladies. Miss Miller glanced keenly at Santel, but

he did not pay them the slightest attention.

“Yeah, he is goin’ to stay at my ranch,” replied Grant, after the women

were out of ear-shot. “I’ve hired him to punch cows.”

“Well, he looks capable,” grinned Brick.

Santel looked up quickly. He straightened his shoulders and shifted his

heavy cartridge-belt slightly.

“Are they goin’ to hunt for the kid again today?” he asked.

Brick nodded.

“Y’betcha. I’ve got to grab a little sleep. We’ll probably pull out of

here about noon. The boys were kinda fagged out, but they’ll be on

deck.”

“I’ll go along,” volunteered Santel.

“Me, too,” said Grant quickly. “By grab, I hope we find that poor kid.

He was a dinger of a little feller, Brick—him and his spurs.”

“He quit wearin’ spurs,” said Brick sadly. “He told me yesterday that

stage-drivers didn’t wear spurs.”

“What was his name?” asked Santel.

“I dunno. Baldy called him ‘Whizzer.’”

Santel looked curiously at Brick, his eyes narrowed to slits, as if

looking into a strong light. Then he turned away and looked across the

street.

“Well, you go and grab an eye-full of sleep, Brick,” said Grant. “We’ll

be ready to ride when you show up.”

Brick nodded and went back to the office. Harp and Silent were already

stretched out on the two cots and were snoring a duet. Brick went into

the back room and kicked off his boots. He was half-asleep before he

stretched out on the bed, but his mind was running in wide circles.

“Who is Santel?” he asked himself. “Why did he act that-a-way when he

looked at Baldy Malloy?”

Brick yawned widely and drew the blanket up around his neck.

“I dunno how much of a detective he is,” decided Brick, “but he’s a

gun-man, if there ever was one. Mister Santel, me and you may not

travel well together, but I ain’t goin’ to choose you in case I’m

lookin’ for trouble. You’re a salty son-of-a-gun, even if yuh do

decorate yore leather panties with dude buttons; and if you don’t mind

I’d kinda like to be on yore side.”

* * * * *

The search for Whizzer Malloy was a failure. Several men came from

Silverton and Barney Devine sent out a big crew from the Red Hill mine,

but to no avail. Every inch of the big cañon and the mountains

surrounding it had been explored, but there was not even a footprint to

show where the little fellow had passed.

“She’s not leave de track,” declared Mose La Clede, who had joined the

search. “Up de cañon ’bout mile be-ond where de stage go bus’, I’m find

de track of beeg griz-i-lee. By gosh, she may be so dat de griz-i-lee

find her firs’.”

“Aw ——!” snorted Silent. “Even if a grizzly caught the kid, we’d sure

find some evidence of it, Mose.”

“I’m be not so —— sure. Griz-i-lee pick her up jus’ like you pick up ol’

hat. Dat —— bear she’s strong. She’s pick up de sheep—w’y not de leetle

keed, eh?”

“Well,” growled Silent, “you don’t need to get such —— pleasant

thoughts.”

It was hard for the men to give up the search, but there was nothing

else to do; so they went back to town. Santel had been with the

searchers, as had Grant, Leach and Hendricks. Brick had told Harp and

Silent who Santel was, and both of them, while they did not admire

Santel, admitted that he looked able to take care of himself.

Hank Stagg hired another stage-driver in the person of Sidney Howley,

who had formerly been a “swamper” in the Short Horn saloon. In other

words, Howley had been employed to clean up the place.

Howley was an angular-built young man, with a bony face, long nose and

lack-luster eyes; sort of a colorless person, with only enough

initiative to roll cigarets and use a mop. Stage driving was not exactly

a lucrative occupation, and perhaps Hank might have been forgiven for

adding Howley to his staff.

And, anyway, Hank was too busy electioneering to spend his valuable time

in examining applicants for the position. From a word dropped here and

there, Brick felt that Sam Leach was behind Hank’s campaign.

“Still there ain’t nothin’ funny about that,” decided Brick. “Me and

Hank and Sam all belong to the same political party—and Sam don’t like

me. Naturally he picks Hank.”

“Well,” remarked the philosophic Harp, “if yo’re beat, mebbe I’ll get a

little rest. This here ——ed deputy job costs me a lot of sleep. And I’ve

always got to be goin’ around, lookin’ like I knowed somethin’, when I

don’t know a —— thing.”

“There’s a difference of sixty dollars a month between yore present job

and punchin’ cows,” reminded Brick.

“Lot of difference in the sleep, too. By golly, I can go back to the old

Nine-Bar-Nine and play m’ jew’s-harp unmolested, too.”

“Nobody stoppin’ yuh from moanin’ it around here, is there?”

“Yeah—moanin’! By golly, you ain’t got no appreciation for music, Brick.

Moanin’ ——! Yuh got to sing through it. How in —— do yuh expect me to

play it, if I don’t sing into it?”

“I don’t expect yuh to play it, Harp. Nobody hankers for yuh to play it.

Hang the thing up and let the wind play it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Or go over and serenade Mrs. Wesson. She speaks highly of yore ability.

I’d be ashamed to let Sam Leach beat me out of a girl.”

“The —— you would? Well, he’s beatin’ yuh out of a job.”

“I reckon that’ll hold me for a while,” grinned Brick.

Harp had got to his feet and was starting for the door, when Silent

Slade came stomping inside. He advanced to Brick’s desk and slapped a

piece of fairly fresh cow-hide down on its polished top. It landed with

a wet thud and the concussion knocked several papers to the floor.

“Get that dirty thing off my desk!” snapped Brick. “What do yuh think

this is—a tannery?”

“Look at that!” snorted Silent, pointing at the offending object. “Look

at that piece of hide, dog-gone yuh!”

“All right, I’m lookin’!” retorted Brick.

“Do yuh see it? Yuh do? See the Nine-Bar-Nine brand on that section of

cow skin? See the edge has been burned? Yuh do? Huh!”

“Yeah, I see all them things,” grinned Brick. “Why didn’t yuh herd the

cow in here? The sample looks all right.”

“Funny, ain’tcha?” Silent poked his finger at the piece of hide

carefully as though expecting it to snap at him.

“Well, what’s the joke?” asked Harp. “You’ve made a lot of medicine over

that piece of eppy-der-mis. What was the matter with the old

critter—have dandruff?”

“——’s delight!” roared Silent. “That’s a Nine-Bar-Nine cow. Somebody

killed it and burned the hide. But they missed on the important part of

the thing. See where it was burnt?”

“Where did yuh find it, Silent?” queried Brick seriously.

Silent sat down and rolled a cigaret. He had excited their curiosity and

now he was going to take his own sweet time in answering their question.

“Yuh hadn’t ought to have asked him that, Brick,” said Harp. “He prob’ly

don’t remember.”

“Yeah?” Silent shaped his cigaret and scratched a match on the sole of

his boot.

“I found that hide in Big Elk Canon.”

“Yo’re the one that’s tellin’ the story,” reminded Brick.

“I got to thinkin’ about that poor little kid,” stated Silent

thoughtfully. “I knowed it wasn’t no use lookin’ for him after all this

time, but I went anyway. I rode in close to the mouth of the cañon and

took plenty of time. About a mile or so up the bottom I cut into one of

them side gulches, kinda lookin’ around.

“I seen horse-tracks and cow-tracks, and I got to figurin’ that was why

the grizzly was hangin’ around the cañon. Pretty soon I runs onto the

remains of an old fire. It’s several days old, and right there I

discovers a piece of cow-hide.

“It looks like it’s been burned, don’tcha know. I turns it over with my

foot, and that old Nine-Bar-Nine brand looks up at me. The ground is

kinda hard, and I can’t find no tracks, but I sure finds where an animal

has been butchered.”

“Somebody needed meat, eh?” mused Brick.

“That’s all right,” nodded Silent. “There ain’t nobody goin’ to begrudge

a hungry person a hunk of beef; but whoever killed that animal didn’t

set down there and eat it. They burned the hide, and took the rest of

the animal away with them.”

“Well,” grinned Brick, “it was probably somebody that needed meat pretty

bad. The loss of a cow won’t break Lafe Freeman.”

Silent shook his head slowly and blew rings at the ceiling.

“Nope,” he said slowly. “Losin’ one cow won’t hurt him none, Brick. I

don’t reckon there’s a man in Sun Dog that would yelp less over the loss

of one cow. After I found that piece of hide I rode on up the cañon.

“There’s half-a-dozen of them side gulches that come in from the west,

and in most every one of them there’s places where hides have been

burnt. I tell yuh, Brick, somebody is grabbin’ off a lot of slow-elk

meat. I dunno whether it’s all Nine-Bar-Nine stock or not—but one of ’em

was, that’s a cinch.”

Brick frowned at his boot toes and shifted restlessly.

“Meat burglars, eh?” he said slowly. “My gosh, what a place to butcher!

If yuh herd a cow into Big Elk Cañon she’s yore meat.”

“Cinch,” agreed Harp. “A cow ain’t goin’ to climb out. She’d head into

one of them side gulches and they ain’t much more than blind cañons.

I’ve been in there, but quite a while ago.”

“I’m glad yo’re interested,” said Silent dryly. “When a sheriff takes up

ridin’ grizzlies and his deputy spends his nights serenadin’ married

wimmin, it’s sure hard to interest ’em in such common things as rustlin’

cows.”

“If yuh don’t like our stock of goods, yuh might go and see what Mister

Santel has to offer,” replied Harp.

“That hard-faced pelican!” snorted Silent. “I met him out there between

here and the Star-Dot. He jist nodded and rode on.”

“What did yuh expect him to do—kiss yuh?”

Silent made a dive for Harp and they went rolling across the floor in a

grunting tangle, colliding with one of the cots, each one striving with

muscle and voice to stay on top of the other. Silent finally managed to

secure the advantage and proceeded to straddle Harp and bounce his head

on the floor.

“Get smart with me, will yuh?” panted Silent.

“Leggo my ears!” yelped Harp. “Leggo, I tell yuh!”

“Get up, you two-year-olds!” snorted Brick. “What do yuh think this

place is—a saloon?”

“Mind papa,” chuckled Harp.

His indifference to the situation caught Silent off his guard and he

managed, with a sudden twist of his body to dump Silent sidewise into

the cot, and they both stumbled to their feet.

Harp made a feint to grab a chair and Silent ducked for the doorway; but

Harp turned from the chair, grasped the piece of cow-hide off Brick’s

desk, and hurled it at Silent.

The piece of heavy, wet hide sailed like a blue-rock shot from a trap,

missed Silent by two feet and stopped with a dismal _splat_, after it

had passed through the doorway.

Silent ducked back inside, his mouth wide with astonishment, while from

without came a vitriolic curse, and Sam Leach stepped just inside the

door, wiping his face with the sleeve of his coat.

“Who in —— hit me?” he demanded.

“Hit yuh?” queried Harp, choking back his laughter.

“Some —— thing,” Leach looked back, spitting angrily.

“Oh, it must ’a’ been that piece of hide,” said Harp slowly. “I throwed

it outside. It—it was kinda spoiled, Leach.”

“Um-m-m!”

Leach felt of his face and sniffed disgustedly. Then he whirled on his

heel and went away, while the three men proceeded to relieve their

feelings with tears.

“Hit him right in the mouth!” choked Silent. “_Ker-splat!_”

“I wonder what he was coming here for?” panted Brick.

“He wasn’t,” Silent shook his head. “He was just goin’ past. When I came

to the door he kinda slowed up and looked at me—and that’s when the old

hunk of hide hit him dead center. Didn’t yuh hear it _splat_?”

“Hear it?” chortled Harp. “Never heard sweeter music in my whole life.

The only thing I’m sorry about is that I didn’t hit him with the whole

cow.”

“And it didn’t smell none too sweet,” chuckled Silent. “He sure acted

plumb distressed over it, and he’ll likely be gunnin’ for our little

playmate, eh, Brick?”

“Tha’sall right,” Harp grinned widely. “That jasper can’t start trouble

none too soon to suit me, by golly.”

“They’re rivals,” Brick whispered to Silent. “Leach thinks that Harp is

tryin’ to beat him out of his girl. Harp don’t want her a-tall.”

“Certainly not!” thus Silent indignantly. “Harp ain’t got no use for a

girl. Why, he can’t even support himself.”

“The —— I can’t!”

Harp started for Silent, who ducked out of the door, heading for the

Dollar Down with Harp close behind him. Brick grinned and sat down in

the doorway.

Brick knew that Sam Leach had gone to the Dollar Down, and that Harp and

Silent had gone over there to have a drink and to sympathize with Sam

Leach. Their sympathy would be with a reverse English, as usual. A

couple of little kids were coming from school and behind them came Miss

Miller, carrying an armload of books.

“When yuh teach the young idea how to shoot, you’ve sure got to pack a

lot of ammunition, ain’t yuh?” smiled Brick, as she came up to him.

“Yes indeed,” replied the teacher, a trifle wearily.

“Let me pack them books,” offered Brick, taking them from her. “I’ll

walk down and see Mrs. Wesson.”

“But I can carry them,” she protested.

“Sure yuh can—but not just now,” grinned Brick.

They walked slowly up the street and were opposite the Dollar Down, when

Harp and Silent came outside. The two cowpunchers stopped at the edge of

the sidewalk and stared at Brick and the teacher. Brick grinned

covertly. He could tell by their attitude that Harp and Silent were

making uncomplimentary remarks about him.

A horseman was riding into town, heading for the rack at the Dollar

Down. It was Santel. Miss Miller looked toward him and turned to Brick.

“Mr. Davidson, do you know that man?” she asked.

“Yes’m. His name is Santel.”

“What is he doing here?”

“Well, I reckon he’s workin’ for the Star-Dot outfit, ma’am.”

“For Mr. Grant?”

“Yes’m.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“No, ma’am—not a thing. Did you ever see him before?”

“Yes. It was about a year ago, I think—in Idaho. This man was mixed up

in some cattle and sheep trouble. It seems that he was hired as gun-man

by the sheep interests. Anyway, a couple of cowboys were murdered, and

every one seemed to think that this man was the guilty party. But he

left the country ahead of the sheriff.”

“Tha’sso?” Brick was interested. “Are yuh sure this is the same man?”

“As sure as I can be. I have never met him, and he probably does not

remember ever seeing me.”

“Well, that kinda makes him worth watchin’,” grinned Brick, as they went

up to Wesson’s porch. “You just kinda keep still about this will yuh,

ma’am? It won’t help none to scatter that kind of information; but I’m

sure much obliged to yuh for tellin’ me about it.”

“You are certainly welcome, I am sure.”

Mrs. Wesson opened the door. She had seen them from the window, but

simulated great surprize.

“Heavenly dove!” she exclaimed. “Brick Davidson!”

“’Lo, Mrs. Wesson.”

Mrs. Wesson squinted at Miss Miller, shaking her head slowly.

“My, my! You girls sure do swing a wide loop. A new one every day. It

wasn’t that way in my time. Well, I reckon you can take a look at Cale

Wesson and see that I didn’t have much choice.”

“I heard Cale say about the same thing one day,” offered Brick

innocently.

“Yuh did? Did that lantern-jawed—say, he picked me out of a whole herd.

Ha, ha, ha, ha! Come on in, Brickie.”

“Can’t do it, Mrs. Wesson. I’ve got to go back now and square myself

with Harp.”

Miss Miller thanked Brick and went into the house.

“No sign of the little Malloy boy?” asked Mrs. Wesson softly.

Brick shook his head.

“No, I guess the kid is a goner, Mrs. Wesson. I don’t _sabe_ it at all.

He was a dinger of a little feller. Kinda up and comin’ all the time.”

They considered the mystery silently for a while. Then:

“Well, I’ll be goin’,” said Brick. “There’s a lot of work to bein’ a

sheriff.”

“Like packin’ schoolbooks and all that.”

“Uh-huh,” grinned Brick. “So-long, Mrs. Wesson.”

“G’-by, Brick.”

Brick went to the Dollar Down, but did not find Harp and Silent. A poker

game was in progress and Leach was in the game. Santel was one of the

spectators. He nodded to Brick pleasantly, but not so Leach. He scowled

at Brick and devoted the rest of his attention to his cards.

Brick went back to his office and found Silent and Harp, lying on the

cots, reading some year-old magazines. Neither of them paid any

attention to Brick, who rolled a cigaret and sat down on top of his

desk.

“Miss Miller is a danged nice girl,” offered Brick.

“Yeah?” Thus Harp sarcastically.

“Yeah. I don’t care much for a girl that talks all the time about

another feller.”

“Who’d she talk about?” demanded Harp quickly.

“If you don’t know, I’m not goin’ to tell yuh.”

“Leach?”

“Nope; never mentioned his name.”

“Huh!” Harp arose and yawned widely. “Is Mrs. Wesson at home?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I think yo’re a liar, Brick.”

“Well, why don’tcha go and find out for yourself, Harp?”

Harp grinned and sauntered into the back room, from whence came the

sounds of razor stropping and splashing water. Silent groaned aloud.

“You touch my red tie and I’ll massacree yuh,” warned Brick.

“Where do yuh think I’m goin’—to a bull-fight?” spluttered Harp. “I’ve

got a green one.”

“You must have,” observed Silent meaningly. “She must have astigmatism,

too.”

Silent sneaked softly out and Brick went out behind him, while Harp

swore softly and searched for something to throw at them.

* * * * *

The following day Brick rode through Big Elk Cañon alone. He found

plenty of evidence that cattle had been butchered, but was unable to

find anything that would show who owned the animals nor who had done the

killing.

It was well past noon when he arrived at the Red Hill mine and found Sam

Leach and Hank Stagg in Barney Devine’s office. They were all smoking

cigars, and a half-empty whisky bottle was on the table. Brick knew that

Hank Stagg was electioneering.

The men were all civil enough, but Brick knew that Leach and Stagg were

not at all pleased at his appearance.

“How’s the sheriff?” queried Hank Stagg thickly. Hank had imbibed much

of his own liquor.

“He’s just about right,” grinned Brick.

“It’s a good thing that he thinks well of himself,” observed Sam Leach

sarcastically.

“’Cause nobody else does, eh?” grinned Brick.

“You said it yourself,” reminded Leach, helping himself to a drink.

Brick laughed and stretched his legs.

“There’s no use of quarrelin’, Leach. You don’t like me, and I sure hate

—— out of you; so let’s let it go as it lays.”

“What’d I ever do to you?” demanded Leach.

“Some folks don’t have to do anythin’ to me,” said Brick coldly. “I’m

not that particular.”

“Aw, let’s be friends,” suggested Hank Stagg. “Have a drink, Brick.

There ain’t none of us perfect. Sam has had too many shots out of the

old bottle today, and it’s kinda soured on him.”

But Brick grinned and declined the drink. Sam got to his feet and picked

up his hat.

“You don’t mind if we go and talk to some of the men, do yuh, Devine?”

he asked.

“Go to it,” smiled Barney. He had imbibed enough to make him feel kindly

toward every one.

Hank corked the bottle, shoved it into his hip-pocket and followed Leach

outside, where they headed for the mine bunkhouse. Devine laughed and

held out a handful of cigars to Brick.

“Might as well smoke on Hank Stagg, Brick. I’ve tried five of ’em, and

not one will draw. But that hooch has authority.”

Brick accepted one, lit and discarded it in a moment for a cigaret.

“What’s on your mind?” queried Barney.

“You use a lot of meat don’tcha, Barney?”

“Darned right we do. You can’t feed a crew like we’ve got and not use a

lot of fresh meat.”

“Who do yuh buy from?”

“Hm-m-m.” Barney frowned thoughtfully, reached for a book and skipped

through the pages. “Here it is—Mostano; J. Mostano. I think they call

him Joe.”

“Joe Mostano, eh? He’s that ’breed back on Lick Creek. Bought out that

old Hopper ranch, didn’t he? Brands with a big H. Covers half the

animal.”

“I don’t know,” replied Barney. “Art Fields runs the commissary and

takes care of the buying. You got some beef to sell, Brick?”

Brick shook his head and got to his feet.

“I wonder if I could have a little talk with Fields?”

“Sure thing. He’s in that big building on the other side of the

cook-shack. You know him?”

“Nope, but I can find him.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Barney got his hat and they walked to the commissary building. Hank

Stagg and Leach were talking to several men near the bunk-house. Leach

said something to the men, which caused them to laugh.

Art Fields was a little, fat man, with an almost totally bald head and a

serious face. He shook hands with Brick and waited for him to state his

business.

“Yes, we buy from Mostano,” he said, in answer to Brick’s question. “He

has been supplying us with beef for several months. It is cheaper than

having it freighted in. Mostano packs it in on his horses. His ranch is

only about six miles from here, I think.”

“Is it good meat?”

“Fine.”

“Does he bring the hides with it?” asked Brick.

“The hides? Why, I don’t think so. We don’t buy hides.”

“Sure yuh don’t,” grinned Brick, “but it’s a law, Fields. When yuh sell

meat that-a-way you’ve got to show the hide.”

“Oh-h-h, I get the idea.” Fields looked very wise. “I never thought of

that, sheriff. Why, sure, it would be easy to kill somebody’s cattle and

sell ’em to us. I don’t know whether Mostano knows about this or not,

but I’ll see that he does. Next time he shows up, he better have the

hide.”

“Has somebody been killing cattle?” asked Barney softly.

“I don’t think so,” smiled Brick. “I got to thinkin’ about you havin’ to

buy so much meat, and I thought yuh ought to know what the law was. It

might save yuh trouble.”

“That’s right,” agreed Barney. “We want to stay inside the law, you

bet.”

“I guess that Mostano is all right,” said Fields. “He seems to be a

pretty good ’breed, and he is sure prompt on delivery. He will bring in

a load tomorrow some time.”

“Well, I’m much obliged,” smiled Brick. “See yuh later.”

“Come any old time.”

Brick and Barney walked back toward the office, and met Hank and Sam

Leach, who were coming toward the commissary.

“Land any converts?” asked Brick.

“Got a lot of promises,” grinned Hank drunkenly. “Thish here polit’cal

business is hard on the stummick.”

“Aw, come on!” snorted Leach.

“Foller papa,” laughed Brick.

Leach snorted and started to say something, but evidently changed his

mind. A man was riding in on a pinto horse and Barney called Brick’s

attention to him.

“That’s Mostano, Brick.”

The rider was of medium height, rather heavy, sitting humped in his

saddle, his face completely shaded by a wide sombrero. He rode around

the corner of the cookshack, heading toward the commissary building.

Brick stopped and looked back.

“I reckon I’ll go back there, Barney,” he said. “I’d kinda like to get a

look at Mostano.”

Brick started back and Barney went with him. They stopped at the corner

of the building, where they could hear the men talking. It was evident

that an argument had started, in which Hank and Leach had joined.

“It’s none of my business,” said Fields, “but it’s the law. You’ve got

to have the hide of the animal, Mostano. I didn’t know it until the

sheriff told me about it today.”

“Aw, to —— with the sheriff!” Thus Sam Leach. “Let’s all have a drink.

Fields, I want you to meet Hank Stagg. Hank is our next sheriff.”

Fields grunted an acknowledgment.

“Why do I bring hides?” queried Mostano. “My meat is good.”

“I’m not kicking about the meat,” replied Fields. “I’m just telling

you—”

“Nobody pays any attention to that law,” interrupted Leach. “It’s a law

all right, but what the ——? We’ve got too many laws.”

“Hides make big load,” complained Mostano. “I have to pack one more

horse. Too much work.”

“That’s right,” agreed Leach. “Here, have a drink, Fields. That ——ed

sheriff is too officious. Wait until Hank is elected.”

There was silence while the bottle was being passed, and then Mostano’s

voice grew a trifle more belligerent.

“I no like to pack hides.”

“All right,” grunted Fields. “Take a chance, if you want to. You never

know when the sheriff is going to pop up on you. It’s your funeral—not

mine.”

“He don’t come out here very often, does he?” asked Leach.

“I never met him until today. I may not be any judge of human nature,

but I don’t want him catchin’ me breaking the law.”

“Aw, he ain’t so much,” said Hank thickly.

“You better take your sheriff prospect and put him to bed,” observed

Fields, laughing. “He’s buckling at the knees.”

“I no bring hides,” declared Mostano.

Brick touched Barney on the arm and they walked back to the office.

Brick was very thoughtful over what he had heard.

“That’s what whisky does,” said Barney. “Fields was all right, until he

got that drink.”

“Don’t worry about him,” smiled Brick. “He’s just human. We’d all say

the same thing, if we were in his place. Hank and Leach have the idea

that whisky and cigars will bring votes. Maybe it would, if they could

vote ’em right at the time. Well, I’ve got to be driftin’, Barney. Don’t

say anythin’ to Fields.”

“It won’t get him into trouble, will it, Brick?”

“No-o-o. Maybe it’s better that way. So-long.”

* * * * *

Brick mounted and went slowly down the road about a quarter of a mile,

where he swung up the side of hill, heading northwest of the Red Hill

property. A narrow hog-back ridge led back to the top of the hill, from

where he could get a bird’s-eye view of the big mine.

As he rested his horse he saw Mostano ride away from the mine, traveling

in the same general direction as Brick was heading. Brick waited for

Mostano to disappear in the timber before going on.

The ridge led back through fairly heavy timber, forcing him to travel

slowly. About two miles from the mine he stopped. He knew that the old

Hooper ranch was located about due north of where he was, and that

Mostano must cross that ridge on his way home.

In a few minutes he was rewarded by seeing Mostano ride up the side of

the hill, cross the ridge about two hundred yards beyond him and ride

down into the next cañon. Brick moved on and found the trail. He gave

Mostano plenty of time before following him.

The trail led around the head of the next cañon, twisted down the

opposite side and came out into more open country. There were several

head of cattle on this side, and Brick noted that all of them were

branded with the big H.

The trail led to the edge of a high bluff, where he drew rein. Below the

bluff, about half a mile away, he could see the buildings of the old

Hooper ranch, standing in the middle of a big, partly cleared meadow.

But he could see nothing of Mostano now.

There was no sign of life about the place. The corrals were empty. Brick

considered the place for quite a while. He was suspicious of Mostano.

Whoever was killing the beef must have a ready market for meat. There

were other big mining crews at Redrock, but that was too far away for

any one to transport the meat at a profit.

Finally he decided to take a closer view of the place; so he spurred

down the bluff trail and rode boldly up to the old ranch-house. A

half-breed woman came to the door, as he dismounted, shading her eyes

from the sun. She was a slatternly looking woman, poorly dressed, bare

of feet.

“Howdy,” grinned Brick. “You Mrs. Mostano?”

“Um-m-m.” She was not at all friendly.

“Where’s Joe?” he asked.

She squinted at him and shook her head. A number of mongrel dogs came

from behind the house and created a din with their barking. Brick

slapped at them with his hat and they went yelping for cover. It was

evident that Mostano had taught them their place.

“Nice dogs yuh got,” offered Brick.

“Um-m-m.”

“Me and you don’t seem to be able to find things to talk about,” grinned

Brick. “Don’tcha get lonesome livin’ up here?”

The woman squinted down at her bare feet and up at Brick.

“W’at you want here?” she demanded.

“I want to talk to Joe?”

“W’y you want Joe?”

“Mebbe I want to buy some cheap meat.”

She considered this thoughtfully. Brick thought he had made an

impression, but this was quickly dispelled by—

“I think you —— liar.”

Then she turned, stepped into the house and shut the door. Brick laughed

and swung back onto his horse.

“Mebbe that’s right, too,” he chuckled. “My reputation must ’a’ got here

ahead of my winnin’ personality.”

He rode past the house and looked over the corrals. There was no sign of

any one having butchered stock there, and Brick decided that Mr. Mostano

must do the butchering in the hills. He was sure that Mostano had not

come home, as there was no sign of himself nor of the pinto horse.

As he rode back past the house he noticed that the place commanded a

fine view of the high bluff and trail. It would be impossible for any

one to approach the ranch unseen in daylight from that direction.

At the top of the bluff he looked back, but there was no sign of any one

moving around the house. He swung to the left, heading in almost a

direct line toward Marlin City, taking a chance that he would be able to

strike the Big Elk grades about where they sloped down onto the lower

ground.

Brick had never been through that part of the hills, but felt that it

would be easier than going back to the Red Hill mine. The timber was

fairly heavy and that side of the hill was grown up with jack-pine and

willows, making it rather difficult traveling.

He had just skirted a willow thicket and was looking for a good place to

cross a rocky swale, when he caught a glimpse of a rider skirting the

side of the hill about an eighth of a mile beyond him. The heavy cover

made it difficult for him to catch more than a glimpse.

Brick drew his horse into the cover of a willow bush and waited. His

sorrel horse blended in well with the colors of the hillside, and he was

curious to know who this rider might be.

But try as he might he could not locate him again. He felt that the

rider was not coming toward him, because it would be impossible for a

horse to travel silently. He scanned the hills in all directions. There

was something further up on the hill—something that moved.

“Prob’ly a cow,” said Brick to himself. “That jigger couldn’t ’a’ got up

there that quick.”

Then came the smashing report of a gun. The echoes clattered from hill

to hill, dying away in diminishing echoes. Brick dropped out of his

saddle, gun in hand. He had not heard the bullet. Whoever it was, they

were not shooting at him.

Again the rifle awoke the echoes. Brick grinned to himself.

“Shootin’ cattle,” he told himself. “Somebody is killin’ a load of meat

for the Red Hill mine, and here’s my chance to put the deadwood upon

him.”

There was no more shooting. Brick squatted on his heels and waited. He

intended to give the man a chance to get busy on his butchering before

making a search. He knew that this man might wait quite a while after

his kill, to make sure that no one was going to make an investigation of

the shots. Brick was a good waiter.

It was possibly fifteen minutes after the last shot had been fired, when

Brick heard a noise. It came from below him, and sounded like the

snapping of a dry stick. Brick’s horse was well concealed by the willows

from any one coming up the slope.

Just below Brick was a jack-pine thicket, growing up out of a tangle of

rocks and old logs, and he studied this closely. One of the jack-pine

tops jiggled, as if something had struck it slightly. Brick humped a

little lower and drew back the hammer on his six-shooter.

Something was coming out through the thicket within ten feet of Brick.

At first he thought it was a bear. Brick did not want trouble with a

bear just now. A six-shooter is an unreliable bear weapon—and Brick was

after bigger game.

Then the bear resolved itself into a man—Santel. He lifted his head

slowly, his eyes searching ahead—and looked into the muzzle of Brick’s

six-shooter.

For several moments they looked at each other. Then:

“It’s yuh, eh?” said Santel softly.

“Yeah,” nodded Brick. “Yuh better let go that gun, Santel.”

“I know it.”

Santel sat up, leaving his gun on the ground, while Brick moved down and

secured it. Then he sat down and they considered each other.

“Where’s your rifle?” queried Santel. He did not seem greatly concerned

over his capture.

“I haven’t any,” replied Brick.

“No?” Santel wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. “No rifle? Huh! Yuh didn’t

kill my horse with a six-gun?”

“I didn’t even shoot at your horse,” declared Brick.

“No?” Santel’s brows lifted slightly, and a grin twisted his lips.

“Well, somebody did, sheriff. My horse is dead—neck broke.”

“Yeah?” Brick’s blue eyes squinted thoughtfully. “This must ’a’ been a

three-handed game, Santel. Just what are yuh doin’ over here?”

“Just lookin’. No law against lookin’ around, is there?”

Brick grinned and handed Santel his gun.

“Not a bit.”

“Thanks,” Santel holstered his gun. “What was it all about?”

Brick shook his head. He was as much in the dark as Santel. He told

Santel what he had seen, but he did not say that he was of the opinion

that the shots were fired by a meat-thief.

Santel got to his feet and looked around. Brick walked back to his horse

and picked up the reins.

“You ride a sorrel, too, eh?” remarked Santel thoughtfully. “My horse is

a sorrel.”

“Mebbe,” said Brick seriously, “it was a good thing for me. We’ll cache

yore saddle and ride my horse double.”

They found Santel’s horse, unsaddled it and hid the saddle in the heavy

foliage of a fir-tree. Santel studied the landmarks to get his bearings,

mounted behind Brick and they headed for Marlin City.

“Have yuh got any idea who done that shootin’?” asked Santel.

“Not for publication,” replied Brick. “Anyway, the county commissioners

told me to let yuh alone, Santel. They said that yuh wouldn’t need my

help in findin’ out things.”

“Tha’sso?”

“Yeah, yo’re supposed to be a regular finder, yuh know.”

“I’m tryin’ to find out some things, sheriff.”

“Well,” laughed Brick, “they can’t expect to have yuh find out

everythin’.”

“They probably will be ——ed sorry if I do.”

“Oh, yeah,” grunted Brick. “I’ll betcha that’s right.”

But Brick hadn’t the slightest idea what Santel meant.

They rode to the Star Dot ranch, where they found Hank Stagg and Sam

Leach sitting on the porch, talking with Bill Grant. Their coming,

mounted on one horse, must have caused a certain amount of speculation

in the minds of the three men, but no questions were asked.

Santel dismounted and held out his hand to Brick.

“I’m sure much obliged to yuh, sheriff,” he said.

“Same here,” smiled Brick.

“Get off and rest yore feet, Brick,” invited Grant.

Brick shook his head and gathered up his reins:

“Not today, Bill, thank yuh. I’m kinda busy these days, lookin’ after

the morals of our feller-men.”

“That’s a good job for you,” declared Sam Leach.

“Y’betcha. There’s a lot of ’em that need lookin’ after, Leach. I don’t

want to be personal, but I will say that there’s a lot of loose cinches

in this country, and if they ain’t tightened up pretty quick—somebody’s

saddle is goin’ to turn.”

“Meaning what?” queried Leach.

Brick swung his horse around and headed for the gate, without answering

Leach’s question. In fact, he couldn’t have answered it. He disliked

Leach, and he knew that such a statement would rankle in Leach’s bosom

for quite a while.

That someone had mistaken Santel for him—Brick—was almost a certainty,

Brick decided. Just what Santel was doing in that part of the hills,

he had no idea. Brick had left the Red Hill mine and had ridden up the

hog-back in full view of the mine. It was possible that Mostano had

seen him and had tried to kill him.

It was not a place frequented by cowboys, and it would have been easy

for Mostano to mistake Santel for Brick, as they were both mounted on

sorrel horses. At any rate, thought Brick, Joe Mostano was worth

watching.

Santel’s statement regarding the county commissioners set Brick to

thinking. Just what would it make them sorry for him to find out,

he wondered? Miss Miller had recognized Santel as being a bad man—a

gun-fighter. According to her, Santel had been a hired gun-man for the

sheep interests, and had been suspected of murdering two cowpunchers in

Idaho.

Brick was willing to discount the murder statement. He knew that, under

those circumstances, an ordinary killing would be termed murder. Santel

did not look like a murderer, but he did look like a gun-man, whose gun

might be for rent.

“Well,” Brick resolved, “I’m not goin’ to worry about Santel. Mebbe

between us we can kinda launder old Sun Dog and hang her out to dry in

the sun. Anyway, somebody has fired the first gun of the battle—and all

they got was a horse.”

* * * * *

It was several days later that Soapy Caswell came to Marlin City,

driving a spirited pair of bronchos, hitched to a buckboard. He tied

them at the Dollar Down hitch-rack and met Brick in front of Wesson’s

store.

“Goin’ some place, or just got there?” queried Brick.

“If I wanted to go some place, I wouldn’t stop here,” grunted Soapy.

“Don’t like yore town. What do yuh think of that?”

“That’s fine,” grinned Brick. “Mebbe we better call a meetin’ and let

everybody grieve. What do yuh know, Soapy?”

“Danged little, Brick. Doin’ any good for yoreself?”

“Not much.”

“Uh-huh.” Soapy lowered his voice. “Did that detective ever show up?”

“Been here quite a while, Soapy. Name’s Santel.”

“Tha’sso? I reckon I might as well expect to get all that stolen money

back pretty soon, eh?”

“Yuh might as well expect to, Soapy.”

“Gosh, that’s fine! I’m all excited, like an old lady. It’s too bad he

wasn’t here to find the little Malloy boy.”

“He was here. He helped hunt for him, Soapy.”

“Pshaw! Then he ain’t no wizard, is he? Well, mebbe I won’t get that

money back. What are yuh doin’ today, Brick? Anythin’ special?”

“Nope.”

“Then come and take a ride with me, will yuh? I’ve got to go out to the

Red Hill mine and see Barney Devine, and I sure hate to travel alone.

We’ll be comin’ right back. What do yuh say?”

“Well, all right, Soapy. I’ll tell Harp that I’m goin’.”

Brick went to the office, where he found Harp stretched out on a cot,

groaning out an alleged tune on his jew’s-harp.

“I’m goin’ to Red Hill with Soapy Caswell,” stated Brick. “If anybody

tries to break into jail—stop ’em, Harp.”

“Aw-w-w right. Leave me plenty of shells for the riot-gun and I’ll sure

keep the place sanitary. I’ve got a new tune, Brick. Listen to this,

will yuh? It’s a dinger. Wa-a-ait a minute!”

But Brick ducked out through the doorway and hurried up to the

hitch-rack, where Soapy waited for him. Harp got up and went to the

doorway, where he watched Soapy and Brick drive out of town.

Slim Hunter was dismounting in front of Wesson’s store, so Harp wandered

up there. Slim was talking to Cale Wesson about putting up an

announcement in his store, when Harp came in.

“Hello, yuh long-geared ant-eater,” greeted Harp.

“Same to you, you bat-eared cattywampus,” grinned Slim. “How are yuh?”

“Finer ’n frawg-hair. Watcha doin’, Slim?”

“Advertisin’ a dance.”

“Tha’sso? Where—Silverton?”

“Y’betcha. Next Friday night. Oyster supper, too. Goin’ to have some

reg’lar music, too, Harp. Yuh want t’ be there.”

“Friday night, eh?”

Harp was thinking fast. Here was his chance to take Miss Miller and he

was not going to lose any time in asking her.

“See yuh later, Slim,” he grunted, turning to the door. “I’m kinda in a

hurry right now.”

Harp went outside and headed for Wesson’s home, going as fast as he

could walk on high heels. Mrs. Wesson answered his knock, squinting at

him quizzically.

“Miss Miller to home?” asked Harp.

Mrs. Wesson shook her head.

“No, she is still at the schoolhouse, Harp. She won’t be home until

after four o’clock.”

“Uh-huh.” Harp shifted his feet nervously. “There’s goin’ to be a dance

at Silverton next Friday.”

“So I heard.”

“Yuh did? Who told yuh, Mrs. Wesson?”

“Why, Sam Leach was here kinda early this mornin’ to ask Miss Miller to

go with him.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Harp in a far-away voice, “Uh-huh. We-ell, I reckon

they’ll have a real nice dance. Much obliged, Mrs. Wesson.”

“I’m makin’ some doughnuts,” offered Mrs. Wesson, knowing Harp’s

fondness for such delicacies. But this was one time when Harp’s sweet

tooth had turned sour.

“Just as much obliged,” he said painfully. “I’ve been havin’ a touch of

inde-jest-shun. Mebbe next time, thank yuh. Nice weather we’re havin’,

Mrs. Wesson. Well, I’ll be jiggin’ along.”

Mrs. Wesson stood in the doorway and watched Harp go back to the street,

walking dejectedly. She tried to laugh, was a failure; so she went back

to her kettle. Harp went back to the street and headed for the Dollar

Down.

His soul was sore within him and he needed a bracer. Slim Hunter had

given the bartender one of the notices to put on the back-bar, and Harp

gazed upon it with sad eyes.

“Drinkin’ anythin’?” queried Slim.

“Yeah—anythin’,” replied Harp sadly. “My stummick is kinda antegodlin’,

and mebbe a shot or two will fix her up.”

They had a drink on Slim, one on Harp and then the bartender opened his

heart enough to shove out the glasses. After these three drinks, Slim

began to dilate upon the wonders of the coming dance.

“Naw, I don’t want to listen to it,” declared Harp sadly. “If you’ve got

any tale of sufferin’—tell it to me, Slimmie. My soul is in the slough

of despond. Stummick trouble sure does paint things blue.”

“You ought to do somethin’ about it,” stated Slim. “Feller like you

ain’t got none too many insides; so yuh got to protect what yuh have

got. Mebbe another drink, eh?”

“Yuh sure diagnose, cowboy,” applauded Harp.

But liquor only served to make Harp more sad. He became maudlin in his

grief, trying to tell the story of his life and only remembering some

sad stories he had read. His grief affected Slim, and they cried

crocodile tears on the top of the bar and swore eternal friendship,

while the bartender begged them to go away and let him sleep.

* * * * *

While Harp bathed his soul in tears, Brick and Soapy rode along the Big

Elk grades, rattling along at a good pace over the narrow road. They

were nearing the spot where the stage had gone over the edge, and Brick

was telling Soapy about how he and Harp had passed the wreck without

knowing it.

Suddenly the team swerved widely on a hairpin turn, throwing one rear

wheel off the grade. Brick grabbed the side of the seat, as he was

thrown violently over the side, and his eyes caught a flash of a masked

man just ahead of the horses, his rifle pointing at them.

The next moment he landed in a heap on the steep side-hill and rolled

into a clump of brush, so badly jarred that he was unable to move. It

was possibly a minute before he could realize what had happened to him.

He sat up and looked around at a landscape that would not hold still.

His eyes gradually regained their focus on objects and he got painfully

to his feet. He was bruised all over and his face was bleeding from

several cuts. He looked back at the grade, but was unable to see

anything on account of the extreme angle.

He remembered the flash he had had of the masked man. His holster was

empty, but about half-way up to the grade he found his gun, wedged in

the rocks. It was a stiff climb back to the grade, where he found Soapy

trying to untangle his team.

Soapy gawped at him and swore wonderingly.

“By ——, I thought you was killed,” he told Brick.

“I was,” panted Brick. “What in —— was it, Soapy? Was it a hold-up?”

Soapy yanked the team straight on the grade.

“Whoa! You ——ed rattle-brains! Was it a hold-up?”

“Well, was it?” queried Brick, hanging to a rear wheel.

“Git in,” ordered Soapy. “I can’t keep these ——ed hummin’-birds on the

grade, if we don’t git goin’.”

Brick climbed into the seat and Soapy got in beside him. The team

started with a jerk and they rattled away toward the Red Hill mine.

Brick noticed that Soapy’s jaw was set at a belligerent angle and that

his profanity was even more cutting than usual.

“Mind talkin’ about it?” queried Brick. “Yuh must remember that I

unloaded early in the game, and all I got was a glimpse.”

“You was pretty ——ed lucky, at that,” said Soapy. “Did yuh notice the

stuff I had in the back of the rig? That old gunnysack and an old rug?”

Brick glanced back. There was nothing in the rear of the buckboard now.

“Yeah, I remember it, Soapy. Where’d it go?”

“It didn’t go—it was taken. I’ve been held-up, by ——!”

“Held-up? Then it was a——”

“Appears that it was,” dryly. “Do yuh remember—” Soapy jerked the team

to a slow trot—“do yuh remember me tellin’ yuh once that I was the

biggest ——ed fool I had ever met?”

“Yeah, I remember it,” grinned Brick, wiping some blood off his face.

“Well, I ain’t been improvin’,” stated Soapy bitterly. “That old

gunnysack and that old rug was concealin’ the monthly payroll of the Red

Hill mine.”

“Love of gosh!” exploded Brick. “The payroll? Why, Soapy, that must ’a’

been——”

“Right dog-gone close to twenty-seven thousand dollars.”

Brick caressed his bruised face and tried to collect his thoughts.

“I’m smart,” said Soapy bitterly. “I was afraid to take a chance on the

stage. Just one man, Brick; one man with a Winchester. He didn’t say

much. By ——, I don’t think he said anythin’, come to think of it.

“The team swerved into the bank, after you fell out, and I stopped ’em.

He motioned for me to get out—and I got. He made me unbuckle my belt and

drop it. Then he walked past me, kicked the belt and gun along with him

and lifted the sack out of the buckboard.

“It was a mighty heavy sack, Brick. The team got to fussin’ and I had my

hands full with them. When I looked back, he was gone around the

turn—and that’s all.”

“What did he look like?” asked Brick eagerly.

“I dunno. The hole in the muzzle of that rifle was perfectly round—if

that’s any description. He knowed how to do it.”

“Didn’ yuh get any idea of what he looked like, Soapy? Was he a big man,

small man, thin man, or what did he look like?”

“He sure was,” nodded Soapy seriously. “I’ll betcha that’ll cover him to

a T. He was wearin’ clothes, too.”

“And he didn’t talk, eh?”

“——, he didn’t need to, Brick. A man with a gun don’t have to tell me

what to do. Now, I’ve got to go to the Red Hill and tell Barney to wait

another day. Tomorrow is pay-day, too.”

“Twenty-seven thousand dollars,” muttered Brick. “That’s a lot of money,

Soapy.”

“Uh-huh. There’s over two hundred men at that mine, and their wages runs

about five dollars a day apiece. Figure it out for yourself. I’m the

loser, Brick.”

“Soapy, yo’re the best loser I ever seen,” complimented Brick seriously.

“No, I ain’t. If I had any sense, I’d get so mad that I’d bite myself.

Yessir, I’d just faunch around until I got me a temperature, bust a

blood-vessel or a ham-string. But I’m just —— fool enough to set down

and make fun of myself.”

“Well, why didn’t yuh tell me what yuh was carryin’?” asked Brick. “I’d

’a’ brought the sawed-off shotgun and we’d ’a’ stopped his play.”

“Yeah, you’d sure looked fine doin’ a high-dive with a short shotgun in

your hands, wouldn’t yuh? Prob’ly shot yourself and me, too.”

“Who knew you was goin’ to carry the payroll?”

“Not a danged soul. I hope Barney won’t be put out about it. “I suppose

I should ’a’ sent it by stage, with half a dozen guards—but I didn’t.

No-o-o, I got real smart and tried to take it in for myself, thinkin’

that nobody would think that I had the danged stuff. Too ——ed much

thinkin’, tha’sall.”

* * * * *

It was almost four o’clock when Harp began to get back to normal. Whisky

had only made him feel his troubles more keenly. He left Slim arguing

with the bartender and started back toward the office. He was not on

exactly an even keel and his vision was slightly impaired.

As a result he almost ran into Mrs. Wesson, who was coming out of the

store, carrying some groceries.

“How doo-o-o,” he said thickly.

“Hello, Harp,” she smiled. “Did you see Miss Miller?”

Harp scratched his head and gawped at her.

“Shee Miss Miller? Whaffor?”

“Wasn’t you goin’ to ask her to the dance at Silverton?”

“Oh!”

Harp rubbed his long nose and reflected deeply, with both eyes closed.

Then—

“But you said she was goin’ with Sam Leach.”

“I didn’t say she was goin’ with him, Harp. I said that he asked her to

go with him. She told him that she had already been invited.”

“By whom had she been invited—by whom?” asked Harp.

“I don’t think she has been invited by any one, Harp. I know she didn’t

want to go with Leach; so that was her excuse.”

Mrs. Wesson bustled on down the sidewalk, leaving Harp looking after

her. He cuffed his hat over one ear and hitched up his belt, as he

headed for the office. He wanted to find a place where he could sit down

alone, because his soul was filled with joy and he wanted to express his

feelings with music.

It was nearly supper-time when Brick and Soapy drove into Marlin City.

Soapy had promised Barney Devine to have the money for the payroll out

to the mine by noon the next day, and now he hungered for a session of

poker. Brick was stiff and sore from his fall off the grade, but he got

a bite to eat at the restaurant, saddled his horse and headed for

Silverton.

Brick was certain that someone knew about Soapy going to take the

payroll money to the Red Hill mine. Soapy had sworn that no one knew

about it, but Brick knew that Soapy was just a trifle absent-minded.

Brick tied his horse to the Short Horn hitch-rack and went into the

saloon. The games were in progress, but there were few players. Several

men nodded to Brick as he came in and went to the bar. Brick knew

Charley Meecham, the cashier of the bank, but did not know where Meecham

lived; so he inquired of the bartender.

“Charley Meecham? Yeah, I know where he lives.” The bartender leaned on

the bar and drew an imaginary map on the top of the bar with a stubby

finger.

“That’s the old Wheaton house, ain’t it?” queried Brick.

“Yeah, sure. Meecham has been livin’ there nearly a year now. Nice

feller, Charley is.”

Brick nodded and went down the street, past McGill’s saloon, turning to

the left and going to an old two-story dwelling-house, which was set

back considerable distance from the street.

Mrs. Meecham answered his knock. Brick had never met her, but knew her

by sight. Mrs. Meecham was a thin, angular, rather young woman, with a

mop of blond hair and a knack of talking about everything that was none

of her business.

“Charley’s up at the bank,” she told Brick. “He went up to do a little

work. Won’t you come in? You’re Mr. Davidson, the sheriff, ain’tcha?

Uh-huh, I’m Mrs. Meecham. Come on in and set down in the parlor.

“Nice weather, ain’t it? Charley will be back pretty soon, I think. How

is everythin’ in Marlin City? I met your new school-teacher at the last

dance. Nice girl. Take that chair over there. This one looks solid, but

it ain’t. Sam set down on it the other night and it spread out on him.”

Brick sat down and balanced his sombrero on his knees. Mrs. Meecham made

him feel nervous. The parlor was a stuffy little room, high-ceiled, with

the walls plentifully hung with crayon portraits. An upright organ

occupied one corner, and Brick prayed internally that Mrs. Meecham

wouldn’t attempt to entertain him with music.

“We’re going to have another dance Friday night,” continued Mrs.

Meecham. “You ought to come, Mr. Davidson. I hear that you are quite a

dancer. I sure do love a good dance. Sam is a good dancer. He had the

Marlin school-teacher down here to the last dance. He’s kinda crazy

about her.”

“Sam Leach?” asked Brick.

“Yes. Sam’s my brother. He’s over here quite a lot.”

“Oh, yeah.” Brick crossed his knees and leaned back in his chair. “Your

brother, eh? I didn’t know that.”

“Say, you go ahead and smoke, if you want to. Charley and Sam smoke all

the time, and I don’t mind it. Keeps out moths.”

Brick nodded and began rolling a cigaret.

“You been livin’ here long?” he asked.

“About a year—in this house. We’ve been in Silverton for about two

years.”

“Like it here?”

“Not so very. Still, it’s all right. Silverton folks are real sociable,

what there is of them. Charley’s got a good job and I ain’t got no kick

comin’.”

“You came here from the East, didn’t yuh, Mrs. Meecham?”

“I should say not! My folks came from Ohio, but I was born up in the

Okanagan country. I never been East. In fact, I ain’t never had no

hankerin’ for the East. We came here from Idaho. That’s where me and

Charley were married. I liked it up there. It was more like home. Of

course we knew everybody, and that helps a lot.”

“Yeah, it sure helps,” agreed Brick, inhaling deeply. “Is Sam from up in

that country?”

“Oh, sure. He came down here a couple of years before we did. You know

Hank Stagg, don’tcha? Sure, you do. Hank used to be up there. I never

knew him, but Sam did. Hank used to drive a stage up there. Him and

Baldy Malloy worked for the same outfit. Wasn’t it too bad about Baldy’s

little kid. Gee whillikens, that was awful! Just think of that poor

little tyke getting lost like that. And Baldy getting killed. I wonder

if he went to sleep and ran off the grade.”

“I think so,” said Brick slowly. “Yeah, I don’t think he knew when he

went off.”

“That must have been it. Baldy was a good driver, too. You and Hank are

rivals for the sheriff’s office, ain’tcha? Well, that don’t have to make

enemies out of folks. Hank is a good scout.”

“Well,” grinned Brick, “I ain’t sore at anybody.”

“Sure you ain’t. I’ve always heard that you was good-natured.”

The front door opened and Mrs. Meecham got to her feet.

“That’s Charley. Hoo-hoo, Charley! C’mon in; I’ve got company.”

Meecham came to the doorway and squinted at Brick. He was a fleshy,

black-haired man of about thirty-five, quietly dressed. His eyes were

deep-set, cheeks florid and his mouth full-lipped. He smiled and came

into the room.

“Hello, Davidson,” Meecham held out his hand to Brick. “How are you?”

Brick shook hands with him and they both sat down.

“I’ve been doing a little work,” explained Meecham.

Brick smiled and rolled a fresh cigaret.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions,” stated Brick slowly. “Did you get

a good look at the man who held you up in the bank?”

“Well, there were three of them, sheriff. Anyway, I think there were

three. I’m sure that one stayed near the door. The one who did the

talking was a thin sort of a fellow.”

“Couldn’t recognize his voice, if yuh heard it?”

“Hardly. Still, I might.”

“Wasn’t there a fire broke out about that time?”

“Yes, there was,” said Mrs. Meecham quickly. “It was down at Baldy

Malloy’s shack. His wood-shed burned down.”

“Didja ever hear how it got started?”

Meecham pursed his lips and shook his head wisely.

“Mebbe it was set on purpose, eh?” suggested Brick.

“Possibly.”

Brick got to his feet and picked up his hat.

“Well, I reckon that’s about all. It kinda looks like somebody was

gettin’ rich off Sun Dog banks. It sure hits Soapy Caswell hard. I

reckon I’ll have to ride out and see him soon.”

“I saw him this morning,” volunteered Mrs. Meecham. “He was in front of

the bank in a buckboard.”

“He uses a buckboard most of the time,” said Meecham.

“Gray team?” queried Brick.

“Yes.”

“By golly, that must ’a’ been him at the Red Hill mine. I was back on

the hill and saw the rig drive up to the mine office. I never thought

about it bein’ Soapy. A little later I was down at the office and talked

with Barney Devine, but he never mentioned that Soapy had been there.”

As Brick manufactured this out of whole cloth, Meecham stepped over to

the organ and arranged the scattered sheets of music. He turned back to

Brick, nodding indifferently.

“Possibly he drove out there,” he said. “He didn’t say where he was

going.”

“He wasn’t there long—if it was Soapy,” added Brick. “I seen ’em take

something from the buckboard and take it into the office. They were in

there just a minute, when one of ’em came out, got into the buckboard

and drove back down the road. Well, I reckon I’ll be movin’, folks.”

“You ought to come to that dance Friday night,” urged Mrs. Meecham.

“We’ll sure have a good time.”

“I’ll betcha yuh will,” smiled Brick. “I dunno whether I’ll have time or

not. I’ve got a lot of work mapped out ahead of me and I’ll prob’ly be

too busy.”

“Electioneering?” queried Meecham.

Brick thought there was just the hint of a sneer in the question.

“Nope. Just tryin’ to make good on what’s left of this term of office,

Meecham.”

“Oh, I see. Well, come and see us again, sheriff.”

“Thank yuh,” nodded Brick. “Come and see me too. _Adiós._”

Brick walked back to the Short Horn saloon, but did not go inside. Leach

was in there, standing at the bar, talking to several other men. Brick

went to the rack and got his horse, mounted and headed for Marlin City.

He had found out several worth-while things, which paid him for the ride

to Silverton. It was interesting to know that Meecham was Leach’s

brother-in-law, and that both of them, together with Hank Stagg and

Baldy Malloy, were from Idaho. Leach had come first. Brick decided that

he would find out from Soapy just how he happened to employ Charley

Meecham.

“It’s kinda danged funny, anyway,” observed Brick, as he rode back

through the night. “Leach got established, and then he gets his

brother-in-law to come down. Then comes Hank Stagg and Baldy Malloy.

They used to work for the same outfit. I’ll sure have to talk with

Soapy about this. But if Meecham knew anythin’ about Soapy takin’ that

payroll to the Red Hill he didn’t show it. Mebbe I’m barkin’ up the

wrong tree, I dunno.”

* * * * *

It was after nine o’clock when Brick got back to Marlin City and stabled

his horse. Soapy’s team was still at the rack; so Brick felt sure that a

big poker game was in progress. He was tired and sore, so he rubbed his

bruises with liniment and went to bed. There was no sign of Harp, but

Brick knew that Harp would never think of going to bed as long as there

was anything going on in town.

And Brick was right. Harp sat between Soapy Caswell and Bill Grant at

the poker-table, trying to make his meager stack of chips weather the

storm. Harp knew that he had no business in a game with these two men.

Banty Harrison, owner of the livery-stable, and Lew Slater, a

professional gambler, were the other two in the game.

Harp played carefully, hoarding his money, and drinking hard liquor at

regular intervals. He had failed to get up nerve enough to ask Miss

Miller to go to the dance with him. Luck and keen judgment kept Harp in

the game until three o’clock in the morning, when he grew bold enough to

try and make two deuces beat Bill Grant’s full house.

“I’m through,” announced Harp. “I’ve done well to last this long.”

“I’ve got a-plenty, too,” agreed Soapy.

They shoved back from the table, while Slater counted their chips, and

then all went to the bar for a final drink. Harp was the first one to

leave the place. He stopped on the porch of the saloon and gulped in

deep breaths of the cool air.

He turned his head quickly and glanced toward the corner of the

building. It seemed to him as though someone or something had moved

there. But he was unable to see anything. Anyway, it was probably a dog

or a cat.

He stepped off the sidewalk and started to cross the street, going

diagonally, toward the office. He heard someone step out onto the

sidewalk, and a moment later came the roar of a heavy gun-shot.

Harp almost fell down, as he whirled quickly, jerking out his gun. But

there was nobody in sight. A gust of smoke drifted past the open

doorway, showing that the shot had been fired from near where he had

heard the noise.

Men were crowding out of the doorway now; so he trotted back to the edge

of the sidewalk. Someone was stretched out on the boards, and now Bill

Grant scratched a match, looking down at the man on the sidewalk.

“What in —— happened?” queried Harp.

“It’s Soapy!” grunted Grant. “Somebody help me take him inside.”

They carried him into the saloon and laid him out on the floor. He was

unconscious and bleeding badly.

“I’ll get the doctor,” offered Slater, and went out of the door on the

run.

“Now, who in —— shot him?” demanded Grant. “By ——, they must have waited

for him to step out.”

“I heard somebody there,” offered Harp. “When I went out I heard a noise

over by the corner, but I thought it was a dog.”

“Well, he’s still alive,” said Banty Harrison. “While there’s life

there’s hope. By ——, I’d like to get my hands on that dirty murderer.

I’d sure——”

Banty stopped when Brick Davidson, half-dressed, came through the

doorway. He squinted around at everyone, stepped in close to Soapy and

looked down at him.

“I heard the shot,” said Brick. “Tell me about it, somebody.”

“Not much to tell, Brick,” said Grant. “Soapy stepped out on the porch

and somebody shot him. They must have been layin’ for him. Slater has

gone after Doc Meyers.”

A few moments later the doctor came, half-asleep, half-dressed. He knelt

down beside Soapy, while Brick assisted him with his examination.

“Buck-shot,” said Brick angrily. “They wasn’t takin’ no chances, boys.”

The doctor was counting the wounds and estimating just what to do.

“What’s his chances, Doc?” queried Brick.

“Odds against him, I’m afraid. Five of them hit him above the waist and

he’s got a couple in his thigh. Somebody get a blanket for a stretcher

and we’ll carry him down to my place. None of the lead hit him in a

vital spot, but he will have a fight ahead of him. I suppose that some

of ’em will be hard to locate, but we’ll do our best.”

“I’ll beat it for Silverton to tell his family,” offered Banty.

They carried Soapy to Doctor Meyers’ office, where the doctor

immediately went to work, trying to locate the buckshot. Brick and Harp

went to the office and sat down. Brick held his head in his hands,

thinking of every angle of the affair; trying to find a reason why

anyone would murder Soapy Caswell.

“They waited for him,” said Harp hoarsely. “—— ’em, they was there when

I came out. But why did they shoot old Soapy? Why, he’s a good old

jigger, Brick. Soapy barked a lot, but he never bit anybody.”

“They rohbed him of twenty-seven thousand dollars today,” said Brick.

“He had it in the back of that buckboard, and we were held up on Big Elk

grade, near where Baldy went over the edge.”

“You jokin’, Brick?” Harp did not believe.

“Look at the skin off my face,” suggested Brick. “One wheel went off the

edge and I took a header down the hill. One man pulled the trick. He was

masked—and he knew Soapy was carryin’ that payroll money, Harp.”

Harp swore softly and looked closely at Brick. He still thought that

Brick was joking.

“Twenty-seven thousand dollars, Brick? My ——, how much money is that?”

“Well, it’s twenty-six days’ wages for over two hundred men. Soapy said

that their wages would average about five dollars per day. Figure it

out, cowboy.”

“Well, I’ll be ——ed, if this country ain’t gettin’ awful salty, Brick.

But what can we do? When they start shootin’ buckshot from ambush in the

dark, what’s the use of us, I’d like to know? By cripes, I’d sure like

to swap lead with the jigger that shot Soapy.”

“I hope we will, Harp. In fact, I’m kinda sure we will.”

“When?” Harp jumped out of his chair and grabbed Brick by the shoulders.

“When do we start, Brick?”

“As soon as we find out who shot him.”

“Aw-w-w, ——!” Harp exploded his disgust and walked to the doorway. “I

thought you had some idea who done it.”

“It was somebody who wanted to kill Soapy Caswell—and they wanted it bad

enough to bushwhack him with a shotgun. Now, if we can find out who

wanted him dead——”

“That ought to be easy, Brick. We’ll start askin’ questions as soon as

it gets daylight, eh?”

But the sarcasm of Harp’s question was lost upon Brick, who sat staring

intently at the floor, trying to convince himself that certain things

might be true. Bill Grant came to the office and sat down with them.

“Doc’s pickin’ out shot,” he told them hopefully. “Soapy don’t know what

it’s all about, but he’s doin’ a lot of cussin’ over it. Soapy’s a tough

old customer and he’s got a fightin’ chance, boys.”

“We’re pullin’ for him, Bill,” said Harp. “Brick is pullin’ for him—or

for somethin’. When Brick gets to thinkin’ that-a-way, somethin’ is due

to rattle real hard.”

Brick looked up, his brow furrowed deeply.

“Got an idea, Brick?” queried Grant.

Brick sighed and reached for his cigaret makings.

“It’s far-fetched, Bill. Mebbe it’s too ——ed far-fetched, but I’m goin’

to work on it.”

They sat and talked until daylight, when they went over to the Dollar

Down and searched for evidence. Some distance away from the saloon they

found the empty shotgun cartridge. It was a 12 gage, brass shell. Brick

examined it closely and dropped it into his pocket.

“No clue in that,” he told them. “Every shotgun in the country is 12

gage, and mostly every one reloads their own shells.”

They went down to the doctor’s office and found that Soapy was doing as

well as possible. Grant got his horse and rode back to his ranch, while

Harp and Brick went back to the office to get some sleep.

“You goin’ to that Silverton dance Friday night?” asked Brick, as they

pulled off their boots.

“I dunno,” Harp shook his head sadly. “I was goin’ to ask Miss Miller,

but I kinda lost my nerve. I found out about that dance after you went

away yesterday; so I went right down to Wesson’s. Mrs. Wesson told me

that Leach had been there early that mornin’ to ask Miss Miller to go

with him.

“I thought that ended it. Later on I met Mrs. Wesson and she said—” Harp

snapped off a boot and flung it across the floor—“Mrs. Wesson’s the

dangdest josher I ever seen, Brick. She said that she only told me that

Leach had asked Miss Miller; but she didn’t say that Miss Miller refused

him.”

But the point of the joke was lost on Brick, who was looking straight at

Harp, a queer expression in his blue eyes.

“Leach asked her, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“Before you knew about the dance, Harp?”

“Yeah. It must ’a’ been before Miss Miller went to school.”

“Uh-huh.”

Brick rolled a cigaret thoughtfully, but did not light it. Then he

removed his clothes, placed the cigaret on a chair beside the cot and

got into bed.

“Well,” Harp yawned and rolled into his blankets, “you’ve lost yore

sense of humor, Brick—or didn’t yuh hear what I told yuh?”

“I heard it all right, Harp, and I thank yuh.”

“Yuh thank——”

Harp raised up and squinted at Brick, but there was nothing to see,

except the mop of tousled red hair against the pillow. Harp snuggled

back down into his blankets and grinned to himself. He knew that Brick’s

mind was pretty busy, when he failed to see a joke.

* * * * *

It was nearly noon when someone hammered on the office door and awoke

Brick, who wrapped a blanket around himself and went to the door. It was

Barney Devine. He stepped inside and Brick closed the door behind him.

“Kinda forgot to wake up,” smiled Brick, shoving out a chair for Barney.

“Set down while I put on some clothes.”

Harp awoke and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Hello, Barney,” he said hoarsely. “How yuh comin’?”

“With a little news,” said Barney seriously. “I heard about Soapy

Caswell a few minutes ago, and I’m bringing more grief. Last night, or

rather about two o’clock this morning, somebody dynamited my safe.”

“Dynamited your safe?” Brick had his shirt half-way on, and his head

popped out the collar like a jack-in-the-box.

“Completely,” nodded Barney. “In fact they ruined it.”

“I’ll be ——ed!” exploded Harp.

“What did they get?” asked Brick.

Barney spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders.

“About ten dollars. They ruined some books and a quart of good

whisky—and a good safe. They also ruined one of the walls of the

office.”

“They must ’a’ thought there was money in that safe, didn’t they?”

queried Harp.

Barney looked questioningly at Brick, who grinned.

“I told Harp about the hold-up, Barney.”

“Well, what’s the answer?” asked Barney. “It looks to me like two gangs

working, Brick. One of them evidently thought that the payroll got there

O. K. Don’t it look like it to you?”

Brick picked up the cigaret he had rolled before going to bed, moistened

it with his tongue and scratched a match on the floor.

“Yeah, it looks somethin’ like that, Barney.”

“What about your payroll?” asked Harp.

“I’ll have to take it from here, I suppose. Soapy told them that the

payroll money would go from here today. It’s a lucky thing he spoke to

them about it, because I’ve got to have that money at the mine before

quitting-time today.”

“We’ll go with yuh, Barney,” stated Brick softly, and added, “And I hope

somebody tries to hold yuh up. Get yore clothes on, Harp. We’ll devour

some ham and eggs right away, Barney; and then we’ll see that yuh get

safely to the mine, if we have to shoot every crook in Sun Dog County.”

“They won’t try any monkey business with us,” declared Harp.

“Tha’sso?” Brick grinned and buckled on his belt. “Yuh must remember

that my presence didn’t help much yesterday.”

As a measure of precaution and convenience they split the money into

three parts, and rode away. Harp and Brick carried Winchesters handy,

and after they reached the Big Elk grades they rode in single file,

about fifty feet apart.

And there was no wild riding this time. They took plenty of time, and if

there were any hold-up men on the Big Elk grades they changed their mind

about trying to hold up the second payroll of the Red Hill mine.

Barney was profuse in his thanks and asked them to stay a while, but

Brick shook his head. Barney had enough trusted men to look after the

money until pay-time, and Brick was anxious for action. They rode back

along the grades to where Soapy and Brick had been held up.

Beyond the curve, where Brick had been thrown off the grade, they

dismounted and led their horses along the upper side of the grade,

trying to find where the robber had left the road. About a hundred yards

beyond the curve, where the road curved sharply around the head of a

ravine, they discovered an old trail, which angled up through the brush.

They mounted and followed the old trail to the top of the divide, where

it disappeared. There was nothing to show that the bandit had taken that

trail, except that it was the nearest available place where he could

have left the grade and traveled under cover.

It was not far from where Santel’s horse had been killed; so they rode

down there and found that Santel had taken his saddle away. Brick had

told Harp about his suspicions of Mostano, and they decided to ride over

and take a look at Mostano’s place.

But instead of approaching it from the bluff, Brick led the way around

to the east, where they came out on the side of a hill about half a mile

from the ranch-house. From their elevation they were able to command a

good view of the place. There were two horses in the corral, and the

half-breed woman was out in the yard.

“Too danged bad we haven’t a pair of glasses,” mused Brick. “I’d like to

get a good look at that place.”

“Let’s go down there,” suggested Harp.

They had dismounted, and as they climbed into their saddles and started

angling down the hill, they heard the report of a rifle. The shot had

been fired from considerable distance away. They drew up and studied the

house. The woman was hurrying into the house, as though the rifle shot

had been a signal for her to get under cover.

Brick laughed and began rolling a cigaret.

“No use goin’ down there now, Harp,” he said. “We’ve been spotted.

Mostano is no fool. My visit to his place warned him that we might be

dangerous; so he’s watchin’ for us. I’m bettin’ that he sees everybody

that comes over Big Elk grade. Next time we won’t play the game to suit

him, and he’s goin’ to be a sorry half-breed. Let’s go home.”

“Do you think he had anythin’ to do with the shootin’ of Soapy?” asked

Harp.

“Prob’ly not. Mostano is a meat thief, Harp.”

“Well, what has meat thieves got to do with all this dirty work?”

demanded Harp.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Brick yawned and swung his horse around. “I’ve just

got a fool idea, tha’sall. C’mon.”

* * * * *

“And I’m here to state that Brick Davidson is jist about all through

bein’ sheriff of this county.”

Ike Welden, driver of the Redrock stage, hooked his prominent

shoulder-blades over the top of the Dollar Down bar and spat viciously.

Ike was a sallow-complexioned young man, with wry-neck, tobacco-stained

chin and very bony wrists.

Ike had little imagination, which made him dangerous. Danger had little

terrors for him, because his mind was of the single-track variety, and

his future did not extend beyond the next meal time. Just now he was

rather drunk and inclined to be quarrelsome. His thin waist-line sagged

sidewise under the drag of the heavy, holstered gun on his thigh, as

though weakening under the strain.

There was a motley crew in the Dollar Down, but only one of them, Silent

Slade, paid any attention to Ike’s remark. Silent was standing beside a

poker table, watching the play, but now he considered Ike Welden

closely.

Several of the men were from Silverton, who had come to Marlin City upon

receipt of news regarding Soapy Caswell. Leach was in the poker game, as

was Al Hendricks. Santel was tilted back in a bar-room chair, seemingly

paying little attention to anyone. Banty Harrison and Slim Hunter were

engrossed in a game of pool, while several others stood around the table

and offered advice.

“And I know ——ed well what I’m talkin’ about,” declared Welden loudly.

Hank Stagg came into the room, nodded to everyone who paid him any heed,

and went to the bar.

“Ain’t I right, Hank?” queried Ike.

“I dunno what yo’re talkin’ about, but I’ll bet yuh are,” laughed Hank.

“Have a drink?”

“I can’t refuse,” grinned Ike widely. “I’m a he-buzzard and I’m soarin’

strong. I jist said that Brick Davidson is all through in this county,

Hank. Nobody had guts enough to say that I was wrong. No, I don’t want

no water with mine. I’m a he-buzzard. Here’s how.”

A moment later Ike squealed like a rabbit. As he lifted his glass of

liquor, a strong hand grasped his collar, while another gathered up the

slack of his pants. He twisted his head enough to see that Silent Slade

was behind him, and then he was lifted bodily, carried to the door and

cast out into the street.

Ike landed on his hands and knees on the hard ground, busting the knees

out of his overalls and bruising his hands on the gravelly earth. His

gun went spinning out of its holster and skidded into the dust.

It was an ignominious thing to happen to a man such as Ike thought he

was. He got slowly to his feet, cursing wickedly, and looked at Silent,

who stood in the doorway. He turned from Silent, dusted off his sore

knees with his sore hands and went to his gun. As he stooped over to

pick it up, the dust fairly exploded under his hand, while from behind

him came the crashing report of Silent’s six-shooter. Ike yanked away

and almost fell down.

“Yo’re kinda ignorant, ain’t yuh?” queried Silent coldly. “Better leave

that gun alone until yuh sober up.”

Ike squinted at Silent for a moment, straightened up and went across the

street. He stopped in front of Wesson’s store and looked back, before he

headed down the street. Silent went back into the saloon, where the

poker game was resuming play. Banty Harrison and Slim Hunter had crowded

in behind Silent, carrying their billiard cues, and now they whooped

loudly and dragged Silent to the bar.

“That’s bouncin’ ’em!” applauded Banty. “I’ll betcha he won’t do much

crawlin’ for a while. I just knowed that Ike was goin’ to talk himself

out of here.”

Banty lowered his voice and glanced at Hank Stagg, who had moved over by

the poker table.

“Look out for Ike, Silent. He’s a dirty little pup, and he’s a streak

with his gun.”

“Kill him first, that’s my motto,” grinned Slim.

“That’s right,” nodded Banty. “Every man that Slim has killed has been

killed in just that way.”

They finished their drinks and went back to their game. Silent remained

at the bar, where he could watch both front and rear. He noticed that

Santel had paid no attention to the trouble, not even getting out of the

chair to see what was going on outside.

“A salty gent,” decided Silent, “and worth watchin’!”

Silent had hoped to find Brick and Harp in town, but had been informed

that they had ridden away with Barney Devine. Soapy Caswell was still

unconscious, but the doctor was optimistic.

Slim and Banty finished their game and Silent joined them.

“Yore fussy friend decided to sleep off his jag, I reckon,” opined Slim.

“Mebbe.” Silent wasn’t so sure. “How does it come that Ike ain’t drivin’

stage today?”

“He quit the job,” laughed Slim. “It was prob’bly too much for his

brain. The strain must ’a’ been awful.”

They walked outside and stood on the porch. Ike’s gun was not in the

street and they all noticed this.

“Sneaked back and got it,” said Silent seriously. “It’ll take him quite

a while to clean the dust out of it, I’ll bet.”

Brick and Harp were riding into town and the three men crossed to the

office to meet them.

“Hyah, pleecemen,” greeted Silent. “What do yuh know that’s worth the

wear and tear on our ear-drums?”

“Not much,” grinned Brick, turning his horse over to Harp, who took them

away to the little stable at the rear of the office.

“Silent just throwed Ike Welden out of the saloon,” laughed Slim. “Took

him by the collar and the seat of his pants and throwed him plumb into

the middle of the street.”

“What for?” queried Brick.

“Too much talk about you.”

“Yeah,” Brick grinned affectionately at Silent. “What’s the latest from

Soapy?”

“Last report said he was still alive,” rumbled Silent.

Bill Grant and Al Hendricks came out of the Dollar Down and went toward

the doctor’s office. In a few moments Santel came out and went to the

hitch-rack, where he mounted a gray horse and rode toward the Star-Dot.

Banty and Slim started arguing over their respective pool abilities, and

adjourned to the Dollar Down to settle the championship of the world, as

far as they were concerned.

Silent, Brick and Harp went into the office and sat down.

“I ain’t gettin’ a square deal,” declared Silent seriously. “There’s a

lot of dirt blowin’ around and I ain’t in on it, Brick. Somehow, I’ve

kinda got a feelin’ that somebody is goin’ to burn powder, and that I

ain’t goin’ to smell none of it.”

“Just be danged thankful yuh ain’t, Silent.”

“How in —— do yuh figger it? I’m a strong, good-lookin’ young feller,

and it ain’t noways fair. I just had a taste of action a while ago, and

I kinda hankers for somebody to shoot at me.”

“Yo’re crazy all right,” declared Harp. “Any old time that I wish

somebody to shoot at me, he don’t. I ain’t been shot at for quite a

while, but with all these things happenin’ around here, I’m gettin’ so’s

I duck every time anybody sneezes.

“Sun Dog is gettin’ so she ain’t no place for to live into. Every day

there’s a hold-up or a murder. When I think of these ——ed fools fightin’

for the sheriff’s office, I have to laugh. They sure must seek suicide,

by golly.”

“All right,” grinned Silent. “You resign, Harp. I’m willin’ to take yore

job, if yo’re gettin’ scared. No use frazzlin’ out all yore nerves,

cowboy.”

“Yeah?” Harp stretched out on a cot and crossed his knees. “Any old

time, Silent. It ain’t because I hanker for the job, but I’d hate to

leave Brick in the lurch. Right now he needs a man with brains—so I stay

with him; _sabe_?”

* * * * *

At supper-time there was no change in Soapy Caswell’s condition. His

wife and daughter had come from Silverton and were with him at the

doctor’s home. Ike Welden had come back to the Dollar Down, but now he

minded his own business and drank alone.

It was nearly dark when Brick called Harp aside.

“Sneak the horses out, Harp,” he said, “and tie ’em back of the stable.

Don’t let anybody see yuh, if yuh can help it. Mebbe yuh better wait

’till it’s a little darker.”

“Y’betcha,” grinned Harp.

He had visions of a ride and of possible trouble. Silent had taken a

seat at the poker-table and would stay there as long as the game, or his

money, lasted.

A little later Harp joined Brick at the saloon, where they stayed until

about nine o’clock.

“Want to set in on the game, Brick?” asked Grant.

Brick yawned and shook his head.

“No-o-o, not tonight, Bill. I’m goin’ to fold up a little of the sleep

stuff.”

“Same here,” grinned Grant. “I’m gettin’ old, I guess. Just a few more

hands and I’ll be ridin’ toward the blanket.”

Brick got up and started for the door, with Harp behind him. They went

to the office, drew the curtains, lighted the lamp and sat down.

“What’s the idea?” queried Harp.

Brick did not reply, so Harp did not repeat the question. For probably

fifteen minutes they sat there before Brick blew out the light. Then

they went to the rear of the place, crawled out through a window,

closing it carefully behind them, and went out to their horses.

They led the horses quite a distance from the stable before mounting,

and then Brick led the way straight back toward the Big Elk grades.

There was no moon to light their journey, but Brick set the pace at a

steady gallop until they reached the upgrade of Big Elk cañon. Harp

asked no questions. He knew that Brick would explain things to him when

he got good and ready, and not before.

They turned off the grade at the little trail and wormed their way up

through the brush to the top of the divide. There the rising moon

silvered the timbered hills and lighted their path, making it much

easier for Brick to lead the way to where he and Harp had been when the

warning shot had been fired.

Here they stopped and rested the horses. There was a dull glow, as from

a fire, at Mostano’s place, but it was impossible for them to tell

whether it was within the house or outside. Then they saw someone go

from the house to the fire, carrying a lighted lantern.

“We’ll take a li’l trip over and look at ’em,” decided Brick. “But we’ve

got to be danged careful, Harp.”

They rode down the hill, circled the ranch, and came in on the opposite

side from the fire. At a tumble-down corral they left their horses and

went on afoot. There was no light in the house, so they sneaked up to

the side and circled toward the rear.

At the corner they were able to get a look at the fire, which seemed to

be burning inside the corral. There was an odor of burning hair, mixed

with wood-smoke, and Brick chuckled to himself, as he instructed Harp:

“They’re butcherin’ inside the corral and burnin’ the hides. We’ve got

’em dead, Harp; but look out. Keep down low.”

Brick led the way toward the corral, both of them almost crawling the

last fifty feet. They gained the side of the corral unseen, and it was

then that Brick realized that he had miscalculated on the gate. It would

be suicide to try to climb the fence, and possibly disastrous to try to

arrest them from that distance. And it would be almost impossible to go

as far as the gate without being detected.

The fire was burning briskly, but the green hides were cutting off the

blaze to such an extent that it was impossible for them to see how many

men were there and just what they were doing. The lighted lantern was

sitting on the ground, but it did little to light up the scene.

“Got to take a chance on ’em, Harp,” breathed Brick. “If they look this

way they’ll see us. C’mon.”

Slowly, cautiously, they raised up, gun in hand, and started to climb

the fence. Someone picked up the lantern swung it around and the yellow

light picked them up instantly.

Came a quick word of warning, a guttural grunt, and the lantern was

dashed out. Then a tongue of yellow light flashed at them, and Brick

felt the bullet brush his cheek. He and Harp were only half-way up the

side of the fence, and in a bad position to shoot.

Brick climbed swiftly to the top, while Harp dropped to the ground and

raced for the gate. Two more shots licked out into the night toward

Brick, who was shooting at the flashes, while Harp was pounding along,

trying to block the one exit.

He gained the gate, shooting swiftly at a shadowy figure, when he felt a

thudding blow against his shoulder and the gun fell from his fingers.

Someone darted past him and faded into the night. Brick came running

across the corral, calling to Harp, who was leaning against the fence,

searching dizzily for the thing that was searing his shoulder.

Brick almost ran into him.

“Where’d they go, Harp?” he panted.

“I dunno,” muttered Harp. “Come and help me, will yuh, Brick? I’ve got

hit with somethin’.”

“You got hit, Harp? For —— sake! Wait a minute.”

Brick lighted a match and held it between them. Then he whistled softly.

“Hang onto yourself, Harp,” he cautioned. “They knifed yuh. Grit yore

teeth, cowboy.”

They both grunted softly and Brick laughed shortly.

“There she is, Harp. I don’t think it was deep enough to be dangerous.

Does it hurt much?”

“Not so much now.” Harp’s voice sounded weary. “The ——ed thing kinda

paralyzed my whole arm. It feels a lot better, but it’s soakin’ me

a-plenty. Didja get any of ’em, Brick?”

“No, I don’t think so. How many did you see, Harp?”

“Just one—the one that threw the knife at me. I think it was the squaw.

Now what do we do?”

“Go back and have your arm fixed up. Aw, ——, this was a fizzle. We don’t

know any more than we did before, except that we’re dead sure that

Mostano’s outfit are the meat-thieves.”

Brick went over to the smoldering fire and kicked the green hides aside.

The flames flared up, and as Brick leaned over to search for brands on

the hides, a bullet splatted into the fire and threw sparks up into the

air.

Brick swore at himself for being such a fool, and ran back to Harp,

dragging the hides with him.

“We better be high-tailin’ it out of here,” panted Brick. “Can yuh run

all right, cowboy?”

“I never got hit in the leg,” retorted Harp. “—— this moonlight! C’mon!”

They ducked low and started back toward the house, running as fast as

possible. A rifle bullet screamed past them and hit the old ranch-house

a resounding _thwack_. Brick had glimpsed the flash of the rifle and

knew that the shooter was off to their right; so he ducked to the left

and led the way around the other side of the ranch-house, where he

halted their headlong flight.

They were in the heavy shadow now. Brick stepped back to the corner and

peered in the direction where he had seen the flash, but the light was

not good enough to distinguish objects clearly. The fire in the corral

was blazing merrily, painting the old pole corral with red high-lights.

“We’ve got to bust out across that open space to the horses,” declared

Brick. “Mebbe we better separate quite a ways apart, ’cause one man is a

hard target in this light.”

They went to the other corner of the house and looked in the direction

of the horses. Brick grasped Harp by the arm and pointed toward the

bluff trail, where two shadowy objects were plainly visible in the

moonlight, going away.

“Our broncs!” snorted Harp. “By ——, they’ve set us on foot, Brick!”

“It sure has all the earmarks of such a deed,” agreed Brick sadly. “Our

rifles are on them saddles, too; and we’ll have one sweet waltz home,

cowboy. How’s the arm?”

“Feels kinda numb, but I think it has quit bleedin’. I don’t care a dang

how sore it gets, but I can’t afford to lose a lot of blood. What’s the

next thing to do, I wonder?”

“Walk home, I reckon.”

“Yeah—and get plugged when we start.”

“Looks that-a-way,” reflected Brick, squinting out into the hazy

distance. “We bit off more than we could chaw, cowboy. If we’d had any

sense we’d ’a’ cached them broncs.”

“Hind-sight ain’t noways valuable,” sighed Harp, and a moment later a

bullet showered splinters off the side of the house.

They dropped flat on the ground and swore foolishly.

“Somebody is prospectin’,” opined Harp. “A foot lower and they’d ’a’

made a strike. Mebbe yuh like this, Brick, but old man Harris’ offspring

desires a change of climate. Right above me is a window-sill, Brick; and

from my point of view, I’d rather be inside that house.”

“Might be a happy idea,” admitted Brick. “Get up and see if the window

is locked.”

“Thank yuh very kindly—but that ain’t my suggestion, Brick.”

Brick slid to a crouching position, straightened up close to the wall

and examined the window. It slid up silently.

“C’mon,” whispered Brick.

Swiftly they slid in through the window and the cheap calico curtain

dropped behind them, leaving them in total darkness.

* * * * *

Silent Slade lowered his head and looked at himself in the back-bar

mirror. He tilted his hat down over his eyes, lifted his head as he

sang—

“When I’m dead don’t bury me a-ta-a-a-a-all,

Pickle m’ bones in alcoho-o-o-ol.

Put a bottle of boo-o-o-oze at m’ head and feet

And then I kno-o-ow I’ll surely kee-e-ep.”

He turned and looked at Sam Leach, who was leaning on the bar, looking

solemnly at a glass of liquor. The poker game had just broken up,

leaving Silent Slade winner. And Silent was just intoxicated enough to

crow over his poker-playing ability.

“Aw, you were just kinda lucky,” observed Leach.

“Tha’sso?” Silent laughed. “Lucky, eh? Any time you whippoorwills from

Silverton mingle cards with a Marlinite—look out. They tell me that

yo’re backin’ Hank Stagg for sheriff.”

“Well, what if I am?”

“Are yuh tryin’ to be funny—or don’tcha know any better?”

“What’s the matter with Hank Stagg?”

“What?” Silent stared at Leach in amazement. “My ——, yuh don’t expect me

to stand here and tell yuh everythin’ that’s the matter with him, do

yuh? I’m limited to just so many words, and they ain’t enough to tell

yuh more than half what’s wrong with Hank Stagg.”

“Let’s all be good friends, eh?” suggested the bartender, lifting a

bottle to the top of the bar. “Election ain’t nothin’ between friends.”

Silent squinted gravely at the bartender.

“Li’l dove of peace, this ain’t between friends.”

“Well, I’m not goin’ to quarrel with you, Slade,” said Leach. “Yo’ve got

your own opinions on the matter.”

“You ain’t goin’ to quarrel with me?” Silent seemed sad over the

information. “You ain’t? Well, I won’t quarrel with the bartender; so I

guess I’ll go home. My ——, I’m sorry yuh won’t quarrel with me, Leach.

I’m feelin’ quarrelsome, I am.”

Silent adjusted his hat to his satisfaction and walked out of the door,

heading straight for the hitch-rack. It was almost midnight, and Marlin

City was truly a deserted village. At the hitch-rack Silent stopped and

studied the situation. His horse was not there.

Just to be doubly sure he put his hand on the rail of the rack and

walked all the way around it.

“If there was a horse there I’d encounter same,” he said aloud. “The

question is this: Where’s my horse?”

As far as he could see there was not a horse at any of the hitch-racks.

He deliberated deeply. It might be that someone had put the horse in the

livery-stable, he thought. Perhaps Brick and Harp had done this as a

joke.

He wended his way to the stable and woke up the stableman, who swore

witheringly at Silent for dumping him off his cot.

“You want your horse? ——, you ain’t got no horse here!”

“Ain’t I?” Silent seemed surprized. “Well, now, that’s funny.”

The stableman turned up the light of his lantern and spat thoughtfully.

“You never brought your horse here, Silent.”

“Nope. But she ought to be here, Jimmy.”

“Why?”

“Well,” Silent spread his big hands, “she ain’t at the rack where I left

her, that’s why.”

“Oh, for gosh sake, can yuh beat that?” Jimmy Meeker’s voice was squeaky

with disgust. “Go on home, Silent.”

“Hu-huh,” Silent had a new idea now. “Say, Jimmy, didja see anythin’ of

Ike Welden this evenin’?”

“He left here about nine o’clock, I think.”

“It’s a —— good thing he did, too,” growled Silent. “I’ll betcha he

turned my bronc loose. That ornery little pup! When I catch him he’ll

wish——”

“Go and catch him,” advised Jimmy sleepily. “Either do that or hire a

hall. Good-night.”

Silent turned on his heel and went outside. He did not want to go to the

hotel and he couldn’t walk to the Nine-Bar-Nine. There was only one

thing for him to do—wake up Brick and occupy one of their cots for the

night. A cold wind was blowing and Silent shivered. He knew that Brick

and Harp would swear at him for waking them up, but he did not care.

He crossed the street and went up to the door, where he knocked several

times. There was no response. Silent deliberated. They were probably

sleeping in the rear half of the office, with the door shut in between.

He walked through the narrow alley between the sheriff’s office and the

old feedstore and went up to the back door. There was someone going away

from the rear of the office, going past the little stable, and Silent

wondered who this might be.

It looked suspicious to Silent, who started after this

mysteriously-acting person, but turned and came back to the door. He

felt that there was no use in chasing around in the dark after someone.

“Anyway, I dunno who he is,” said Silent to himself. “Mebbe it’s all

right. Hey, Brick!”

He hammered on the back door until the lock threatened to rattle loose,

but no one answered him. He grasped the knob and gave it a twist,

finding the door locked.

“That’s funny,” he mused, and as he started to turn away from the door,

the world seemed to come to an abrupt end.

Came a deafening crash, a glaring flash of light. Silent was dimly

conscious of these things, and felt that he was being hurled away by a

great force. Then he seemed to hear men shouting and the world was

lighted with the glow of a fire.

He managed to get to his feet and take stock of himself. His body felt

numb, but his mind was clearing swiftly now. Just beyond him the flames

were eating swiftly into the flimsy old frame buildings, while men and

women darted in and out of the glow, fighting it with buckets of water

and axes. There were more people arriving at each moment, until every

man, woman and child in Marlin City fought to save the town.

Silent went slowly to them. He was unable to walk fast, but he knew that

none of his bones had been broken in the explosion. Swiftly the flames

were eating toward Wesson’s store, and a gang of men began removing the

stock.

“Watch the other side of the street, boys!” yelled Cale Wesson. “The ——

himself couldn’t stop it from takin’ this side.”

Silent took hold of Cale Wesson’s arm and pointed to the spot where the

sheriff’s office had been.

“Where’s Brick and Harp?” he croaked. “Did they get out?”

Wesson stared at him.

“Were they in the office? My ——, look at your face, Silent! What

happened to you?”

“Where are they?” insisted Silent.

“By gosh, I’m ’fraid for scare,” said Le Blanc, the blacksmith. “De

sheriff h’office she’s gone for good. Don’ somebody know w’ere Breek and

Harp be?”

“They went to bed about nine o’clock,” volunteered the bartender. “I

know that much. But what in —— happened, Wesson? Was it some dynamite

exploded?”

“It hit me,” said Silent. “I was tryin’ to wake Brick up at the back

door.”

“If they were in the office, they’re done for,” declared Cale Wesson.

“That was a heap of ruins when I got here, and I was one of the first.”

Mrs. Wesson and Miss Miller, their dresses scorched, faces red from the

heat, heard Cale Wesson’s opinion.

“Do you mean to say that Brick and Harp were in their office?” demanded

Mrs. Wesson shakily.

“They went to bed at nine o’clock,” declared the bartender.

“My ——!” gasped Mrs. Wesson. “I can’t believe it. What was it, Cale?

What started it?”

“I dunno.” Cale was glumly watching the flames eat through the buildings

toward his store. “I’ve got to save what I can, Ma. You keep out of it,

can’tcha?”

Cale hurried away toward the store, while Silent, Mrs. Wesson and Miss

Miller went as near as possible to the blazing heap that had been the

sheriff’s office and stood together, watching it.

The bucket-brigade had shifted their operations to putting out any small

blaze that might occur on the opposite side of the street, as they knew

that their puny efforts would avail nothing against that blaze, which

sent fire-streamers far up into the sky, showering blazing cinders in

the wind.

“Can it be possible that they were in there?” asked Miss Miller wearily,

pointing at the flames.

“Somebody dynamited the office,” declared Silent.

His mind was functioning perfectly again, and he remembered the man he

had seen leaving the rear of the office.

“Do you think it was done on purpose?” queried Mrs. Wesson.

“Yes’m, I sure do. Brick and Harp never kept any dynamite in the

office.”

“But why would any one do a thing like that?” asked Miss Miller. “Surely

no one would do it.”

“Wouldn’t they?” Silent laughed hoarsely and began feeling of his face.

“By grab, I come danged near bein’ included.”

His face was badly skinned. In fact, one eyebrow was almost obliterated,

his nose flattened, lips swollen.

“I reckon the door patted me in the face and I slept fifteen minutes,”

he said, trying to grin. “I’m full of splinters, that’s a cinch.”

“Well, who would do it?” demanded Mrs. Wesson hotly.

“If I knowed, I’d sure tan his hide and make me a new _latigo_. Somebody

stole my horse, too. I tell yuh this country is gettin’ ornery, Mrs.

Wesson. What this country needs is a good old wholesale killin’. And—”

Silent pointed toward the flames—“if old Brick ain’t in there, I’ve got

a danged good hunch that there will be.”

“Oh, do you think there is a chance that they were not in that office?”

asked Miss Miller anxiously, hopefully.

“I couldn’t wake ’em up,” explained Silent. “I hammered on the front

door and then the back door hammered on me.”

“The store is on fire, Ma,” said Cale Wesson, joining them. “There goes

everythin’ we own—almost.”

“Well, we ain’t in it, Cale. There’s always somethin’ to be thankful

for.”

“Yeah, I reckon so, Ma. Don’t get too close, folks. There a drum of

kerosene in there and a lot of ca’tridges. The kerosene will go straight

up, I s’pose; but nobody knows which way all them shells are pointin’.”

“I hope they’re pointin’ toward the jigger that set off that dynamite,”

said Cale after a moment’s pause.

“I don’t,” grunted Silent. “I want that pleasure m’self.”

* * * * *

For several minutes Brick and Harp remained motionless. The house was as

silent as the tomb. Then Brick scratched a match, shielding it with his

hands, as he reflected the light around.

To the right of them was the rear door, while directly across the room

was another window. Brick went to the door and locked it securely,

crossed and looked at the window, finding it nailed down.

Another match lighted them into the living-room, where they locked the

front door and took stock of their surroundings. There was a candle in

the neck of a bottle on the table, which Brick lighted. The front and

side windows were nailed down and heavily curtained.

“How’s the shoulder?” asked Brick.

Harp flexed his arm carefully and grimaced a little.

“It ain’t goin’ to stop me,” he declared. “But it sure had me guessin’.

My shirt’s all blood, but the cut is sealed shut.”

The Mostano family kept house in one room only. There was a rusty

cook-stove, on which was a greasy looking stew-kettle and a battered

frying-pan. A home-made table fitted into one corner, on which was

piled the rest of their utensils. In the other corner was a built-in

bunk, with a collection of tumbled blankets.

The floor was filthy and the air was filled with odors of long-departed

food. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling in profusion.

“Ugh!” grunted Harp disgustedly. “What a place to live!”

“Yeah, that’s right,” grinned Brick. “And what a place to die.”

Harp laughed and laid his six-shooter across his knees, as he tried to

roll a cigaret.

“Let me do that,” said Brick. “Yore hand ain’t workin’ so good.”

He reached for the tobacco and papers and had just started to roll the

cigaret, when a peculiar noise sent both of them onto the floor,

clutching their guns. Swiftly their eyes searched everywhere and came

back to each other’s faces.

“What the —— was that?” whispered Harp.