“You didn’t really mean to insult me, didja, Santel?”
“Well, I’ll be ——ed!” Santel’s voice was hoarse with indignation. “Did I
really mean it?”
Santel leaned forward until his face was within a foot of Brick, his
hands spread out from his sides. His anger had made him forget that
Brick was egging him on.
“You red-headed pup!”
Santel had evidently figured that Brick was afraid of him, but he was
jerking back as he spoke; jerking back, as his right hand flashed for
his gun. As quick as a cat Brick shifted just a trifle, slashing out
with his right hand; a cutting stroke with the side of his hand, which
caught Santel just at the middle of his throat and made him lose
immediate interest in his gun.
He straightened up, with both hands going to his throat, his face
twisted with the agony of it, as he slithered along the edge of the bar.
“Ambulance on the job!” snorted Silent; and before any one could prevent
him he stepped in, caught Santel with both hands, swung him over his
shoulder and went striding out of the saloon.
The crowd rushed to the doorway and windows in time to see Silent step
to the edge of the sidewalk and fairly hurl Santel into the street,
where he rolled over and over.
“Hookum cow!” yelped Silent. “Yee-ow-w-w! Cowboy!”
Santel got slowly to his feet, but fell down once before he got himself
steadied enough to stagger away across the street.
“Mebbe he don’t know what it was all about,” stated Silent, “but he’s
got sense enough to not come back for information.”
“I never seen anythin’ like it,” declared a cowboy. “Brick hit him with
the side of his hand. Right on the old apple. I’ll betcha that jigger
will have an apple-juice taste in his mouth for a month.”
Hendricks congratulated Brick silently and Brick grinned.
“I seen yuh wig-waggin’ me, Al. Santel was on the prod, eh?”
“He sure was, Brick. You ain’t heard about what he found out, have yuh?”
“Grant was tellin’ me, Al.”
“What do yuh think of it?”
“Well,” Brick grinned widely, “I feel suspicious of myself.”
“I told Santel he was crazy.”
“Thank yuh, Al.”
“But look out for Santel, Brick. I don’t know a thing about him, but
I’ll bet he won’t forgive yuh.”
“If he does, he’s plumb loco. Anyway, I ain’t lookin’ for forgiveness.
See yuh later, Al.”
Brick and Silent went down to the livery-stable and found the gangling
youth in charge, sitting in the office, playing a game of solitaire.
“Where’s McKeever?” asked Brick.
“I dunno. I come to work at four o’clock, but he wasn’t here.”
“He didn’t say where he was goin’, did he?”
“He didn’t say he was goin’ anywhere. I suppose he got into a poker game
and forgot he owned a livery-stable.”
“He wasn’t at the Short Horn.” Thus Silent.
“Tha’sso? Didja look in at McGill’s place? He plays over there once in a
while.”
“That’s probably where he is,” said Brick.
“Was it anythin’ I can do for yuh, Sheriff?”
“No-o-o, I guess not. I just wanted to ask Jimmy how one of his saddles
happens to have a bullet-hole in the cantle.”
“One of his saddles?” The youth squinted at Brick, as he lighted a
limp-looking cigaret. “I didn’t know about that.”
“The saddle that Meecham rode today,” explained Brick. “It’s a cheap
saddle—one of them red leather hulls, with a rawhide-covered horn.
Meecham was ridin’ a Triangle 8 bay filly.”
“Uh-huh?” The youth squinted thoughtfully. “I know the saddle and the
bronc. Lemme see.”
He led them out into the stable and examined the saddles, but was unable
to find the right one. The bay filly was in a stall, and Brick knew it
was the same animal that Meecham had ridden to Marlin City.
“I dunno where that ——ed saddle is,” declared the boy. “I know it.
McKeever bought it from a mail-order catalog. One of the worst forks I
ever set into. Cost about fifteen dollars, I reckon. Are you sure that’s
the horse he was ridin’?”
“That’s the horse.” Brick was positive.
“What about the bullet-hole? Been some shootin’ goin’ on?”
“Bullet-holes don’t occur by themselves,” grinned Brick. “We’ll see if
we can find Jimmy.”
They left the stable and crossed the street, going past McGill’s saloon,
but there was no sign of McKeever. McGill was behind the bar, reading a
newspaper, alone in the place. They went on up to the Short Horn, but
found no trace of McKeever.
They asked the bartender, who said that he had not seen McKeever since
about noon. At the Boston hotel, where McKeever lived, they were
informed that he had not been around there since morning.
They went back to the Short Horn and had barely entered the place when
the youth from the livery-stable followed them in. He was hatless,
pasty-faced, and in one hand he carried an old tin bucket.
“For ——’s sake, come on!” he panted to Brick. “Come on with me! My ——!”
He turned and ran out, with Brick and Silent close behind him. Several
of those in the saloon, who had heard, followed them down the street.
Straight to the stable they went, and the boy stopped in the middle of
the floor, under the light of a lantern.
“Tut-take the lantern,” he faltered. “You go ahead, will yuh? Look in
the grain box. My ——!”
Brick grabbed the lantern and ran into the grain-room, a built-in room,
adjoining the little office. A big grain-bin extended the full length of
the room, with three different covers.
“That’n on the end,” panted the boy.
Brick lifted the cover and held up the lantern. Lying doubled up on some
loose oats was Jimmy McKeever, his head a welter of blood. Silent and
the men from the saloon crowded in and took a look.
“I—I ju-just found him that-a-way,” explained the boy. “I dunno how I
did it. We didn’t use that bin any more. Sus-somethin’ made me look in
there, I reckon.”
Brick fastened back the cover and climbed into the bin.
“One of yuh go after the doctor,” he ordered, and a man hurried away.
Brick lifted McKeever up to where they could all get hold of him, and
they placed him on the floor of the stable.
Brick examined him, while Silent knelt down and held the lantern.
“I don’t reckon he needs a doctor,” observed Silent.
Brick shook his head slowly.
“Don’t look like it, that’s a cinch. Somebody beat his head all up.”
“Somebody—yeah.” It was an old cattleman from the southern end of the
range. “I’d admire to know jist who that somebody was.”
The man who went after the doctor had shouted the news in at the Short
Horn, and the stable soon filled with curious and interested people.
Doctor Bridger came bustling in and the crowd gave him room. His
examination was short and to the point.
“Been dead quite a while. Skull crushed. Who found him?”
Doctor Bridger was the coroner. The youth shouldered his way inside the
circle.
“I found him, Doc. I—I thought he was out some’rs, playin’ poker, and I
finds him in that danged old oat-bin. I told the sheriff jist as quick
as I could.”
“I reckon he did,” agreed Brick. “He was still packin’ his oat-can with
him.”
“But why would any one kill Jimmy McKeever?” Thus Banty Harrison
indignantly. “Jimmy was a good guy.”
“Didn’t have an enemy that I ever heard about,” offered Slim Hunter. “By
gosh, this country is gettin’ too salty to suit me. Mostly every day
there’s a robbery, a killin’ or a dynamitin’. Makes a feller scared to
do anythin’, I tell yuh.”
“Anything missing around here?” questioned the doctor. “It might have
been done by a horse-thief.”
“There ain’t no horses gone,” declared the boy.
He was about to mention the missing saddle, but Brick’s eyes signaled
him a warning and he turned away.
“Better take the body down to my place,” suggested the doctor.
They rolled the body onto a blanket and four men carried it away. Brick
and Silent left the stable ahead of the crowd, and were half-way to the
Short Horn when the doctor joined them.
“Murder, wasn’t it?” he asked.
“The dirtiest kind,” said Brick slowly. “They probably put him in there
until they got a chance to dispose of him.”
The doctor shook his head wearily.
“I can’t understand men doing a thing like that, sheriff. Murder is so
unnecessary.”
“From yore angle,” said Brick softly.
They left the doctor and went to the hitch-rack, where they mounted and
rode out of town. Just at the outskirts, Brick swung off the road and
led the way into the hills with Silent’s horse pounding along behind
him.
“Can’t take a chance on the road,” declared Brick, as the lights of
Silverton faded from view. “There’s too much —— to pay in Sun Dog. We’ll
stay at the Nine-Bar-Nine tonight.”
* * * * *
It was about four o’clock the following afternoon. Brick and Silent
crouched in the brush and watched the ranch-house of Mostano. They had
been there since the middle of the forenoon but had seen nothing of
interest.
Their few hours of sleep at the Nine-Bar-Nine had only been an
aggravation to Silent, who complained wearily against accompanying a
half-witted sheriff on a foolish quest. They had left the Nine-Bar-Nine
before daylight, having cooked their own breakfast, and had ridden the
entire distance away from the road.
Brick was taking no chances now, and he was forced to admit that his
spying on the Mostano ranch was inspired by a “hunch.” Something seemed
to tell him that the answer to the riddle was at that ranch. He knew
that Mostano was not the only man at the ranch when he and Harp were
chased out of the house.
The dynamiting of his office proved that the criminals feared him and
felt that he knew too much. Just why they would dynamite the Red Hill
mine safe, after stealing the payroll, was more than he could figure
out. In some way it was connected with the attempted killing of Soapy
Caswell, he decided.
Perhaps, he thought, there were two different gangs, or they might have
blown the safe to make him think that there were two different outfits
working. He grinned as he thought of Santel’s findings. Still, the
descriptions covered the three of them. Baldy Malloy, Ike Welden and
Meecham had all been robbed by men of the same description. Suddenly
Brick laughed aloud and Silent looked at him curiously.
“What’s so ——ed funny?” Silent was tired and uncomfortable.
“Somethin’,” Brick’s brows were drawn in a thoughtful frown and the ball
of his right thumb caressed the stubble on his chin. “Somethin’ good,
Silent.”
“Oh, yeah,” Silent turned away, squinted at the ranch-house and nudged
Brick on the knee.
A man was riding toward the ranch-house on the bluff trail, and both of
them knew that it was Santel. They watched him ride up to the front door
and dismount. But before he had time to go to the door, Mostano came
out.
“Now what the —— is Santel doin’ there?” queried Silent.
“That’s a question,” grinned Brick. “I wish my ears were as good as my
eyes, ’cause I’d sure like to hear what they’re sayin’.”
After a few minutes of conversation they walked around the house and
back to the corral. Mostano, judging from his gestures, was doing most
of the talking. They stopped at the corral gate and continued the
conversation.
After a time Santel turned away and took several steps toward the house,
as though going to leave, but turned. Mostano had stepped away from the
corral, facing Santel. They were too far away for the two men in the
brush to distinguish the detail of their movements, but just in front of
Santel appeared a puff of smoke.
Mostano fell sidewise into the fence, trying to keep his feet. Another
puff of smoke, and the closely spaced reports of two shots sounded.
Brick and Silent could not see Mostano now, because he had fallen into
the shadows of the pole corral.
Santel stood still for several moments, looking around, before he turned
and hurried to the house. He knocked on the front door, but no one let
him in. Then he stepped back, took a short run and hit the door with his
shoulder. Brick grinned as Santel fell back. Brick knew that the oak bar
was thick.
“He’s goin’ to smash the window,” observed Silent.
Santel had picked up a short length of pole, and now he proceeded to
demolish a front window. He made short work of it, tore the curtain away
and crawled inside.
“What in —— is he doin’ in there?” wondered Silent.
Brick shook his head and watched the house. In a few minutes Santel came
out, looked around and mounted his horse. He did not seem to be in a
hurry, but finally rode away up the bluff trail and disappeared toward
the Red Hill mine.
“Well,” said Silent dryly, “we’ve got another dead man.”
“They’re almost as common as live ones around here,” said Brick sadly,
his eyes glued on a certain patch of brush about a hundred feet to the
east of the house. Something had caught his attention.
“Watch that patch of brush beyond the front of the house, Silent.
There’s somethin’ there.”
And as an answer to his statement a woman left the patch of brush and
went swiftly out of sight on the far side of the house, only to
reappear, going toward the corral.
Brick got to his feet and motioned for Silent to follow him. They went
swiftly down through the brush and out into the open, where they ran
toward the house. The woman had discovered Mostano’s body and was too
interested to see anything else.
They ran past the house and out to the brush patch before the woman saw
them. She ran toward them, stopped, as though undecided what to do and
went back to the corral. Brick crashed into the brush and stopped short.
Just at his feet was the entrance to a tunnel, and in this entrance lay
the half-breed baby and—little Whizzer Malloy.
Silent crowded in beside Brick and stared at the children. Little
Whizzer looked up at them, but there was no recognition in his face. His
little feet were tied tightly together with a whang-leather string, and
he was as dirty as a child could possibly become.
Brick lifted him out and cut the string.
“Don’tcha know me, Whizzer?” he asked gently.
But the child only whimpered, his eyes filled with fear.
“My ——, I’ll betcha they’ve treated him tough,” declared Silent. “But
how in —— did he happen to be here? Can yuh figure it out, Brick?”
Brick shook his head, his jaws shut tight. The half-breed woman was
coming slowly toward them now, her shoulders drooped, her face set in
lines of deep grief. She stopped in front of Brick, but would not look
at him, as she said—
“My man dead—shot.”
“Yeah, I know it,” said Brick. “I reckon he had it comin’.”
“He dead,” she repeated.
“Where did you get this child?” asked Brick, not unkindly. He thought he
could get more out of her by not adopting a threatening attitude. She
looked blankly at him.
“Where did you get this boy?” he asked again. “You tell me where you get
him.”
“Don’t know,” she said slowly, blankly.
“You don’t know? Come on now, tell me where yuh got him.”
“Don’ know.”
“She sure is a good witness,” observed Silent. “When her kind don’t want
to talk, they can sure ruin the perade. Ask her why Santel killed
Mostano?”
“She don’t know that either.”
“Don’ know,” she muttered blankly. “My man dead—shot.”
“Well, that’s one thing she does know.” Silent was inclined to sarcasm.
Little Whizzer Malloy whimpered and looked at Brick, as if trying to
remember who Brick was.
“Don’tcha know me, Whizzer?” he asked.
But the child only looked blankly at him. Brick noticed that the little
fellow had a bad bruise on the right side of his head and his right arm
was painfully bruised.
“What the —— was that hole over there?” Silent pointed back toward the
brush patch.
“That’s the tunnel that opens under the house,” said Brick. “They had a
slick getaway. When Santel showed up Mostano put the woman and kids into
the tunnel and slid the bunk over the trap-door. No wonder Santel didn’t
find anythin’.”
“What do yuh reckon he was lookin’ for, Brick?”
Brick squinted at Silent and back toward the house.
“Does seem kinda funny, Silent. I’ll betcha this woman would know—if she
made a sneak with the kids.”
“Don’ know,” persisted the woman blankly.
“Is there anythin’ yuh do know?” snorted Silent.
She looked blankly at Silent and turned her gaze back toward the corral.
“My man dead,” she said simply.
They walked over to the corral and looked at Mostano. Either of Santel’s
bullets would have killed him. Mostano’s six-shooter was lying in the
dust beside the corral, several feet away, proving that he had made an
attempt to defend himself, but had dropped the gun as he fell.
“There ain’t nothin’ we can do for him,” observed Brick, “so we’ll just
put the body in the house and take this kid back to Marlin.”
Little Whizzer’s legs had evidently been bound ever since he had
disappeared, and they were too weak to support his body. They propped
him against the fence, while they placed Mostano’s body in the house,
but made the woman accompany them.
“We’ll send somebody out here,” Brick told the woman, as they picked up
Whizzer and started for their horses.
“Don’ want nobody,” she declared. “You keep away.”
“Write yore own ticket,” said Brick shortly, and walked away.
They got their horses and rode back toward Marlin City with Brick
carrying Whizzer in his arms. The youngster seemed to be trying to
figure out what it was all about, and Brick grinned encouragingly.
“Don’tcha worry, Whizzer,” he told him. “Yo’re plenty safe now.”
They crossed the hills and came out on the grade at the little trail,
just south of where Baldy had gone over the bank with the stage. Whizzer
had straightened up a little and seemed less dazed now, so Brick led the
way back to where the stage had gone over.
The youngster looked around, as though he recognized the spot, and
finally looked up at Brick.
“Where’s my daddy?” he asked.
“For the love of mud!” exclaimed Silent. “He’s rememberin’.”
“Do yuh remember the stage, Whizzer?” asked Brick. “Remember what
happened the day you rode with your daddy?”
“I fell off.” Whizzer’s eyes were round and excited.
“Yuh did?”
“Yeah!” He looked around. “I fell off on the road. Where did my daddy
go?”
“And then somebody picked yuh up,” prompted Brick, ignoring the
question. “Who picked yuh up, Whizzer?”
“I hurt my head. Somebody shoot a gun.”
“Didja see anybody before yuh fell off the wagon?”
Whizzer shook his head.
“I hear the gun shoot and then I fall off. Where’s my daddy?”
“Whizzer, old-timer,” said Brick earnestly, “you’ve got to remember some
things for me. After yuh fell off the stage you hurt yore head. When you
woke up, who did yuh see?”
Whizzer’s forehead puckered, as he stared at Brick.
“I seen two mans in house. One man got somethin’ on his face, like
stage-robber. Woman and baby there.”
“One man was masked, eh? It wasn’t the Indian man, was it?”
Whizzer shook his head and looked around quickly.
“Don’tcha be afraid of him,” said Brick. “He’s dead.”
“He hit me,” said Whizzer simply. “They make me stay in the mine and I
can’t git out.”
He began crying softly, still terrified at what he had experienced in
the few days. Brick swore softly and hugged the youngster.
“Don’t cry, buddy,” he said. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to hurt yuh ag’in,
y’betcha.”
They swung their horses around and galloped away toward town.
“Do yuh think Santel done it, Brick?” queried Silent, as they swept
along the grade.
“I dunno, Silent. Me and Harp met Santel just below here that day.
Anyway, he knows somethin’ about it, and I’m goin’ to find out what he
knows, if I have to drill him plumb full of lead to let the information
leak out.”
Whizzer was asleep when they rode up to Wesson’s home and dismounted.
Mrs. Wesson met Brick at the door, and gasped with surprize at sight of
his burden. Whizzer woke up and began crying, but the sleep had
refreshed him and he quit crying as soon as he realized that he was no
longer in the tunnel.
In a few words Brick explained how they had found him, and in less time
than that Mrs. Wesson had placed him at the table behind a big bowl of
bread and milk. He ate ravenously, while Mrs. Wesson sat across the
table from him, her eyes filled with tears, and promised him a nice warm
bath and a soft bed.
“Gotta find my daddy,” he told her. “They didn’t give me no bread and
milk.”
“What did they give yuh, honey?” asked Mrs. Wesson.
Whizzer swallowed a big portion of bread, almost choking over it.
“They gimme ——,” he said simply.
“Yuh can’t beat him, can yuh?” grinned Brick. “He’s a buckaroo.”
“I lost m’ spur. Mebbe—” he smiled at Brick—“mebbe my daddy’s got it. He
said he was goin’ to git me ’nother one.”
“Where’s Harp?” asked Silent.
“Him and Miss Miller went to the dance at Silverton,” smiled Mrs.
Wesson. “Harp had a sweet time squarin’ himself with her, but he made
Brick out to be the biggest liar in the State—and she believed him. By
jinks, I think she likes him. Human nature is one queer thing. I’ll
betcha Leach will be sore as a boil. He sure did want to go with her.”
Whizzer laid aside his spoon and sighed deeply.
“Had enough, buddy?” asked Brick.
“Uh-huh. I can’t hold no more.”
“Now I’ll give him a good hot bath and put him into a nice bed,” said
Mrs. Wesson. “Mebbe we better have the doctor over to fix up them
bruises, Brick. He’s sure been skinned awful bad.”
“Don’t hurt.” Whizzer shook his head.
“That’s fine, buddy,” nodded Brick. “Now if yuh could only tell us what
that masked man looked like.”
Whizzer shook his head.
“Dunno. He had a cloth on his face.”
“But his clothes, Whizzer. Wasn’t there somethin’ yuh could remember?
Somethin’ about how he looked?”
Whizzer shook his head. Brick lighted a cigaret and studied the
youngster.
“Sleepy, Whizzer?”
“Nope. Say, when do I find my daddy?”
Brick sighed and shook his head sadly. He did not want to tell him now.
Silent swore softly and counted the cartridge-heads in his belt.
“Want to take a ride to Silverton, buddy?” queried Brick.
“Sure.” Whizzer hopped off his chair and almost fell down. “My feet
don’t feel good,” he told Brick. “They ache.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t take him plumb down there, Brick.” Thus Mrs. Wesson
quickly. “He needs a bath and some good sleep.”
“I know it, Ma,” nodded Brick, “but I’ve got to take him. It might be
kinda hard on Whizzer, but he’ll pull through.”
“Sure,” nodded Whizzer. “I’ll go.”
Mrs. Wesson grumbled to herself, as she wrapped him up in a light
blanket. She knew that Brick must have a good reason for taking the
youngster to Silverton; but she did want to clean him up a little.
“Lemme carry him,” begged Silent. “I’ve got a strong horse, and it takes
a strong horse to carry two cowpunchers.”
“Sure,” agreed Whizzer. “I lost m’ spur, yuh know.”
“Yuh can have both of mine,” offered Silent, as Brick handed the
youngster up to him.
“Oh, good! If daddy gives me one, I’ll have three. Mebbe he won’t
though.”
“Mebbe not,” said Silent softly.
* * * * *
A dance in Silverton was almost a county affair. They had the largest
hall in the county and boasted of the best orchestra. The dance usually
began about eight o’clock in the evening and rarely ever ended before
eight o’clock the following morning.
And it was not strange on this night that every bit of space in the
livery-stable was taken and practically every inch of space at the
several hitch-racks was occupied. It was also a big night for the games
at the Short Horn saloon, as every cowpuncher made it a point to borrow
or draw enough money to make the trip worth while.
Already the rasping notes of a fiddler tuning his instrument filtered
out through the open windows of the big upstairs dance-hall across the
street from the Short Horn saloon. Cowpunchers, suffering in celluloid
collars, tight boots, and exuding odors of Jockey Club and cologne, were
at the bar; trying to appear at ease, as if this sartorial splendor were
nothing unusual.
From somewhere Slim Hunter had procured an old dress coat, which
exhibited a vast expanse of his red-and-green striped shirt, and did not
blend well with his light blue trousers and yellow boots. Banty
Harrison, sans vest, but with a great, striped Ascot tie, was perspiring
freely, trying to keep the thing on his collar. But no one criticized
their apparel. Everyone was there to have a good time, regardless of
clothes.
Men shouted at each other and flung their money on the bar or across the
green cloth, while the roulette-wheel whizzed and the dealer’s voices
blended into the babel of voices. Harp had left Miss Miller to the
tender mercies of some Silverton ladies and had invaded the Short Horn
for a nerve elixir.
Grant, Hendricks, and Leach were at the bar when Harp came in, and Grant
went directly to him.
“Where’s Brick?” he asked.
Harp shook his head and gave his orders to the busy bartender.
“I dunno, Bill.”
“When did yuh see him last, Harp?”
Harp rubbed his nose thoughtfully. Leach had moved in close enough to
listen in on the conversation; so Harp did not answer. He took his drink
and drew Grant away from the bar, leaving Leach with Hendricks.
“I dunno where he is,” declared Harp. “He didn’t come home last night. I
never knowed that McKeever was killed until late today.”
“Got any idea where he is, Harp?”
“Not a danged idea. Him and Silent sneaked away from me yesterday, and I
ain’t seen ’em since.”
“It’s kinda funny,” mused Grant. “They wanted to hold an inquest over
McKeever today, but they had to put it off until Brick and Silent showed
up. Do yuh suppose they ran into somethin’?”
“Who seen ’em last here?”
“Doctor Bridger. He saw them ride out of town.”
“Uh-huh,” Harp squinted reflectively.
“Well, I dunno, Bill.”
Leach walked up to them and spoke directly to Grant.
“Well, does he know anything about them, Grant?”
Grant shook his head and looked at Harp who was looking curiously at
Leach. Harp grinned softly. He could afford to grin now, because he knew
that Leach had seen him bring Miss Miller to Silverton.
“Seems funny that the sheriff would avoid the inquest,” said Leach.
“Perhaps he had a reason for not wantin’ to be here.”
“I’ll betcha he did,” said Harp. “Brick usually has a good reason for
doin’ things.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. Yuh see, Brick ain’t no detective—he’s a man-hunter.”
“Man-hunter?” Leach laughed sarcastically. “Who did he ever catch?”
“You better read local hist’ry,” advised Harp.
“Brick got a few of ’em,” nodded Grant.
“History, eh?” Leach grinned. “I suppose he has had it all written out
and bound in books.”
“All except the last chapter,” said Harp seriously. “He’s writin’ that
now, I reckon.”
Leach laughed and walked away.
“He don’t like you, Harp,” smiled Grant.
“By golly, that just about breaks me all up, Bill. When I look at him
and know he don’t like me, I just tremble with emotion. Yes sir, it’s
just like havin’ a chill. Yuh goin’ to the dance?”
“No, I don’t think so. I ain’t dressed for dancin’.”
“Yuh might borrow Slim Hunter’s coat. He looks just like one of them
there doctor’s charts, which shows yore insides, after yore kinda opened
up that-a-way. That shirt sure does correspond to them colored heart,
liver and lung things.”
Banty Harrison came shoving his way past, but stopped to shake hands
with Harp.
“Let’s go over and dance, Harp,” he panted. “It’s too danged hot in
here. I’m goin’ to git a string, if I can find one, and tie this
imported necktie to the top button of my pants. Dang anybody that would
sell a tie like this. Yuh got to be a civil engineer to even tie it.
C’mon.”
“Won’t she stay down, Banty?” queried Harp.
“Stay ——! Every time I start talkin’ and kinda wigglin’ my throat, the
darned thing comes up and bumps my lower lip.”
Hank Stagg came past them and went to the bar. He was already
half-drunk and talking loud. Ike Welden joined him at the bar, but
Welden was still sober. Santel came in and walked past them, his eyes
sweeping the smoke-filled room. Hank called to him, asking him to have
a drink, but Santel either did not hear him or did not want to drink
with him.
“There’ll be —— to pay before mornin’,” declared Banty. “Yuh can’t put a
gang like that together, along with plenty of hooch, and not have
trouble. Whisky and six-guns don’t mix. —— this necktie!”
“Why don’tcha pin it down to yore shirt?”
“Yeah—and have it pull my shirt off, eh? Harp, you ain’t got no idea of
the —— in this necktie. What I need is a collar with a pistol-grip
finish instead of this ——ed slick thing.”
“Cowboys goin’ to a dance, eh?” Slim Hunter stopped to look them over.
“Introducin’ to you,” said Harp seriously, “the effect of tobacco and
alcohol on the intestines.”
“Jist when do I laugh?” asked Slim.
“Next time yuh go to the bar.”
“Uh-huh,” Slim grinned and went on. He had no idea what Harp meant.
“What’ll make him laugh when he goes to the bar?” queried Banty.
“He’ll be facin’ the bar,” said Harp wearily, “and the back-bar mirror
ought to show him what I meant.”
“Haw, haw, haw! Aw, —— this tie! Can’t even laugh. C’mon and help me
find a guy-rope. By golly, I won’t stand for my own clothes slappin’ me
in the mouth.”
They crossed the street and procured a length of string at a general
store, with which they secured the tie to a suspender button, much to
Banty’s delight. Then they went upstairs into the dance hall, where the
floor was rapidly filling for the first quadrille.
It was possibly an hour later when Brick and Silent dismounted at the
hitch-rack across the street from the Short Horn saloon. Whizzer had
slept nearly all the way, but he was awake now and Silent turned him
over to Brick.
The music had just stopped in the dance hall, and a number of men were
straggling across the street toward the Short Horn, laughing and
talking. Brick heard Harp’s voice, arguing with somebody over the proper
way to hold down a necktie.
“C’mon,” said Brick softly.
He hoisted little Whizzer up on his shoulder and walked boldly into the
saloon. The place was filled with men, hazy with tobacco smoke. Brick
shoved his way to the bar and stood Whizzer on its polished top.
It was several moments before any one recognized the youngster, who was
looking them over with his wide brown eyes. It was Mose LaClede, the big
trapper, who made the discovery, and his voice boomed loudly above the
roar of the conversation:
“By ——! De los’ boy! Look! I’m be a —— liar, if it ain’t de leetle boy
’imself.”
The roar of conversation broke abruptly. It was not a slowing down, but
a sudden silence. Even the whirr of the roulette and the rattle of
poker-chips was stilled, as the crowd stared at the little overall-clad,
dirty-faced youngster on the bar, who was looking at them.
There was a cleared space of several yards between Brick and the crowd.
Silent had halted nearer the door. Brick could see Santel in the crowd.
Hank Stagg was at the bar, just beyond Brick, staring wide-eyed at the
youngster.
And before any one could voice a question Leach came striding in past
Silent, but stopped quickly, wondering at the silence. He turned his
eyes and saw little Whizzer. Meecham, well-dressed, came in, glanced
quickly at the crowd and stopped almost against Silent.
“Well, I’ll be ——ed if it ain’t the kid!” exclaimed Bill Grant. “Where
did yuh find him, Brick?”
But Brick did not reply. He was watching Whizzer.
“Baldy Malloy’s kid, eh?” Leach’s voice sounded as if he were suffering
from a cold.
A man laughed, and Brick glanced in that direction to see Ike Welden
standing up in a chair against the wall. Ike was partly drunk. Brick’s
sweeping glance included Santel, who was leaning forward, his face
tense, shoulders hunched.
“Take her easy, Brick.”
It was Harp speaking from the far end of the bar. He knew that trouble
was coming. A man began crying. It was Hank Stagg. Perhaps it was from
the effect of liquor—perhaps not. Meecham started to back away, but
Silent blocked him.
Leach forced a smile and moved slightly closer. Whizzer was staring at
Leach and now he grasped Brick’s shoulder.
“Don’t let him touch me!” The childish treble sounded loud in the
silence of the room.
Leach stopped.
“Why not, Whizzer?” Brick’s lips barely moved and he did not turn his
head. “Are yuh afraid of him, buddy?”
“He’s got warts on his hands! And there’s the frog on his holster!”
“Warts? Frog?”
Brick’s eyes shifted to Leach’s hands, which were turned away, as if
Leach were trying to conceal them. But he could not conceal the holster,
on which was the leaping-frog design in silver. Perhaps it was the
symbol of a swift draw.
Leach’s face had gone white, his jaw tensed. Hank Stagg’s sobs were the
only audible noise, except the heavy breathing of the crowd.
“Tell us about it, buddy,” said Brick softly. “He ain’t goin’ to hurt
yuh.”
“He’s got warts on his hands,” repeated the little fellow. “The man had
’em—the man who wore the cloth over his face—and he had the frog on his
holster. Frogs make warts, don’tcha know it? I don’t like warts—and he’s
got ’em.”
The little fellow, in spite of his treatment, had seen the warty hands
and the leaping frog, and they had impressed him so strongly that there
was no chance of a mistake.
“Good boy,” breathed Brick, and then a little louder, “Bartender, will
yuh please put this boy on yore side of the bar?”
The frightened drink-dispenser shuffled down behind Brick, lifted the
youngster down and went quickly back to the farther end of the bar.
Leach laughed. Somewhere a handful of poker-chips slid from a table and
rattled to the floor.
“What’s it all about, anyway?” demanded Leach.
Brick leaned back against the bar. His face was drawn, blue, in that
weak light, and he seemed tired. But those who knew him well, knew that
he was dangerous now. The light-hearted, devil-may-care Brick Davidson
was gone, and in his place was the sheriff of Sun Dog, a man-hunter—
not
a detective.
“It took quite a while,” Brick’s voice was pitched low, but plainly
audible to every one in the room. “Sometimes things take a long time to
work out. A lot of yuh don’t know that Baldy Malloy was shot through the
heart before he went over the grade. I knew it, Doctor Meyers knew it,
and Grant and Santel knew it. I reckon it’s been kept sort of a secret.
“I reckon that Baldy was shot because he bucked against doin’ any more
crooked work. It kinda looks like Baldy wanted to go straight on account
of his little kid; but they couldn’t let him get away, ’cause he felt
indebted to me for savin’ his kid.”
“You ain’t guessin’ everythin’, are yuh, Brick?” queried Bill Grant
anxiously.
“Not all of it. A lot of it is guesswork, Bill; but I’ll bet my life
that I’m close to the bull’s-eye. It’s a funny thing—” Brick shifted
slightly and a grin passed his lips—“we’ve had several robberies, which
never occurred. Baldy Malloy was held up, Ike Welden was held up, and
the Silverton bank was robbed.
“The robbers in each case were described as bein’ the same men. And the
funny part of it all is the fact that the descriptions cover me, Harp
Harris and Silent Slade. Nobody seen ’em except Baldy Malloy, Ike Welden
and Meecham. Gents, those robberies never occurred.”
“The —— they didn’t!” Ike Welden’s voice squeaked like a discordant
fiddle. “What in —— do you know about it?”
“Why—why, that is ridiculous,” faltered Meecham.
“And you better stay where yuh are,” warned Silent, as Meecham moved
slightly backward.
“Baldy Malloy’s shack caught fire just before the bank robbery,”
continued Brick. “Everybody went to the fire. It sure was a good chance
to rob the bank.”
“Just what is all this conversation about?” queried Leach.
He folded his arms and squinted at Brick, trying to cover his
nervousness.
Brick laughed at him—with his mouth; the rest of his face tensed,
serious. The crowd shifted audibly.
“Mebbe yuh don’t get the drift of it, Leach,” said Brick. “I’ll start a
little further back in hist’ry and give yuh a chance to foller me.
“It began in Idaho.”
Leach jerked slightly and his eyes flashed to Hank Stagg, who was
slouched at the bar, looking down at the floor. Hank had stopped crying
now and his thumbs were hooked over his cartridge-belt.
“Some folks got to understand each other—in Idaho,” continued Brick.
“One of ’em came to Sun Dog and got in kinda solid. He made money, I
reckon. But all the time he was lookin’ for bigger money; so he got them
Idaho folks to migrate down here, and they formed kind of a little
corporation to loot Sun Dog.
“It sure worked, too. But they got scared of the sheriff’s office. The
big haul wasn’t pulled yet, and they wanted to keep me quiet until that
was cinched; so they imported a detective to handle the mystery.”
Every eye in the place flashed to Santel, but he never moved. His eyes
were watching Leach. Even Brick’s statement did not seem to impress him.
“They got him in Idaho, too,” said Brick softly. “He was known as a
killer in that country. There’s prob’ly several sheriffs up there that
would like to put handcuffs on him.”
But even the direct accusation did not affect Santel. Men moved away
from him, but he remained as immovable as a statue.
“I kinda blame myself for Soapy Caswell gettin’ shot,” said Brick. “Yuh
see, I lied about that hold-up. I told ’em down here that Soapy got
through to the Red Hill mine with the twenty-seven-thousand-dollar
payroll, when I knew better.
“It must ’a’ been that Soapy got hold of a dummy payroll, and that the
gang couldn’t get in touch with the man who was to pull off the job to
see if he had failed; so they shot Soapy and blew the mine safe to try
and save themselves. They thought that I knew it was a dummy payroll and
that I could trace ’em through the man who fixed up the dummy for Soapy;
so they dynamited my office and burned half of the town of Marlin.”
Santel laughed hollowly, as if greatly amused. Leach shot a glance at
Santel and his hands dropped to his sides.
“Didn’t trust me, eh?” said Santel.
“I seen you shoot Mostano today, Santel,” said Brick.
“Yeah,” Santel nodded, but did not look at Brick. “What about the frog
on the holster? What did the kid mean?”
“He remembered that much,” said Brick tensely. “When his dad was shot
and the stage swung off the grade, Whizzer was dumped off onto the
grade. He was kinda badly hurt, but he remembers hearin’ the shot fired.
The man who fired the shot wore a mask, but the kid remembers that he
had a frog on his holster.”
“Leach!” Santel spat the name. “—— you, I thought you was the one!”
As Santel spoke he whipped out his gun. But Leach was not caught
napping, and two guns thundered almost at the same time. There was only
a short space between them—too short for either of them to miss. It was
all being done in split-second time.
Brick felt the burning shock of a bullet into the muscles of his left
arm, which staggered him back against the bar; but his gun came up and
he fired at Ike Welden, who was standing on the chair shooting at him.
Leach was falling into Brick, who fended him away with his gun-hand.
Santel was on his hands and knees, coughing his life away, and Silent,
with Meecham clutched in a wrestling grip, came crashing down in the
middle of the floor.
Ike Welden was still on his feet, trying to pull the trigger, a vacant
look on his face, as he leaned against the wall. The crowd had scattered
like a covey of frightened quail. Some of them were flat on the floor,
several were behind the bar, and many of them had faded out through the
rear exit.
Hank Stagg was the only one who did not show fight. He still leaned
against the bar, dazed, half-crying. The shooting had ceased now. Harp
stepped away from the far end of the bar, a smoking gun in his hand, and
stared at Ike Welden, who seemed asleep, standing up in the chair.
“He’s dead, Brick,” said Harp in an awed voice. “He’s dead, but won’t
lay down.”
Then Hank Stagg suddenly came to life. With an animal-like scream he
sprang away from the bar, drawing his gun, and whirling on Brick, only
to be met with a bullet that caused him to spin on his heel, and a
second later he went crashing to the floor, with Harp on his back.
Brick backed against the bar and looked at the wreckage. Leach was
sprawled on his face, arms outstretched; Silent was sitting on the
prostrate figure of Meecham, while Harp sat on Hank Stagg and tried to
find out just how badly hurt his victim was. Santel was still on his
hands and knees, but now he sat down, supporting himself with one arm,
while he tried to brush the mists away from his muddled brain.
The crowd came drifting back in, questioning, wondering, coughing from
the fumes of burnt powder which clouded the room.
There was silence, as the crowd realized the tragedy which had just been
enacted. Came a crash, as Ike Welden fell from his standing position on
the chair, and the crowd started to duck for cover again.
“He decided to quit,” said Harp blandly. “Takes some folks a long time
to find out anythin’.”
Santel looked around the circle of faces until he found Brick. He seemed
dazed, sick, but his voice was still strong enough.
“Much obliged, Davidson,” he said. “I was in on the deal, but you found
out more than I could. Leach had me come here to keep you from
investigating. He wanted me to kill yuh.” Santel hesitated, forcing a
grin. “I suppose I would, if they hadn’t killed Baldy Malloy.
“They offered me a thousand dollars to force yuh into a gun-fight, and
I—I fell down on the job. I’m glad I did—now.
“I held up you and Soapy Caswell. That was a dummy sack. They didn’t
trust me. Meecham fixed it up. They took a —— of a big chance, didn’t
they? Leach wanted to loot Sun Dog, just like you said. Baldy and Ike
Welden robbed themselves, and then Ike set the fire that day, while
Meecham hid the bank money.
“They all gave the same description. Leach thought it might put you
three fellers in bad—and he wanted to elect Hank Stagg. Leach wanted too
much, I reckon. I—I never got my split of the money, but it’s in the
cellar of Meecham’s house. Welden set the dynamite off under your
office, and Hank Stagg shot Soapy Caswell.
“Meecham was out there the night you found Mostano killin’ the beef, and
one of your bullets hit his saddle. He came huntin’ for me to find out
about the payroll. I don’t know who killed the livery-stable keeper, but
it was some of the gang. They didn’t want you to question him about the
bullet-hole in the saddle.”
“Thank yuh, Santel,” said Brick weakly. “That all proves that I’m a good
guesser. But I don’t know yet why yuh killed Leach.”
Santel smiled softly and his eyes wandered around the circle of
interested faces.
“Some of yuh take care of the kid, will yuh?” His voice was weaker now.
“Baldy was my brother. I—I took the name of Santel, because I was no
good—a killer. Baldy must ’a’ been led into doin’ wrong. They named the
kid after me—Whizzer. Hank knew this, but Leach didn’t until later—and
he was afraid I’d find it out. I killed Mostano today, but I couldn’t
find the kid.”
“By golly, that’s where the resemblance came in, Brick,” exclaimed Harp.
“Little Whizzer looks like Santel.”
“I’ll take care of Whizzer,” said Brick.
“We’ll all take care of Whizzer,” amended Silent. “Don’tcha never worry
about that, Santel.”
Santel nodded as if satisfied, and little Whizzer came out from behind
the bar, his eyes wide with fright, and ran to Brick.
“Geeminy gosh!” he shrilled. “Is all that shootin’ over?”
“It’s all over, buddy,” said Brick weakly. “There ain’t goin’ to be no
more shootin’—not for a while, I hope.”
“I hope there never will be again,” said Santel slowly. “It don’t pay.”
He swayed sidewise on his hands and sank down on his face.
“When do I see my daddy?” asked Whizzer impatiently.
Brick drew the youngster to him with his one good arm, and looked around
at the crowd, as if appealing to them for an answer.
“You better see a doctor, Brick,” advised Harp. “You’re losin’ a lot of
blood.”
“Ain’t nobody goin’ to tell me where my dad is?” demanded Whizzer. “Is
he out on his trip?”
“Yeah, he’s out on his trip,” whispered Brick.
Whizzer turned his head and looked out through the open door into the
darkness. He knew that his father always came home before dark. His eyes
came back to Brick, as he said—
“He must be takin’ a long trip this time.”
“Yeah, a long trip, buddy,” breathed Brick.