"That there girl down at the Greek Letter Ranch is the best-lookin' girl
in these parts. I was goin' to slick up and drop around to see her, but
this here Injun agent got in ahead of me. A man with nothin' but a
cowpony don't stand a show against a feller with an auto when it comes
to callin' on girls these days."
The nasal, drawling voice of Andy Wolters, cowpuncher for one of the big
leasing outfits on the Indian reservation, came to the ears of Bill
Talpers as the trader sat behind his post-office box screen, scowling
out upon a sunshiny world.
A chorus of laughter from other cowpunchers greeted the frank
declaration of Mr. Wolters.
"Agent or no agent, you wouldn't stand a show with that girl," chimed in
one of the punchers. "The squaw professor'd run you through the
barb-wire fence so fast that you'd leave hide and clothes stickin' to
it. Willis Morgan ain't ever had a visitor on his place sence he run the
Greek Letter brand on his first steer."
"Well, he ain't got any more steers left. That old white horse is all
the stock I see of his--anyways, it's all that's carryin' that pitchfork
brand."
"You know what they say about how old Morgan got that pitchfork brand,
don't you?--how he was huntin' through the brand book one night, turnin'
the pages over and cussin' because nothin' seemed to suit his fancy,
when all of a sudden there was a bright light and a strong smell of
sulphur, and the devil himself was right there at Morgan's side. 'Use
this for a brand,' says the devil, and there was the mark of his
pitchfork burnt on Morgan's front door, right where you'll see it to-day
if you ever want to go clost enough."
"Anyway, git that out of your head about Morgan's ranch never havin' any
visitors," said another cowboy. "This here Injun agent's auto runs down
there reg'lar. Must be that he's a kind of a Trilby and has got old
Morgan hypnotized."
"Aw, you mean a Svengali."
"I bet you these spurs against a package of smokin' tobacco I know what
I mean," stoutly asserted the cowpuncher whose literary knowledge had
been called in question, and then the talk ran along the familiar
argumentative channels that had no interest for Bill Talpers.
The trader looked back into the shadowy depths of his store. Besides the
cowboys there were several Indians leaning against the counters or
sitting lazily on boxes and barrels. Shelves and counters were piled
with a colorful miscellany of goods calculated to appeal to primitive
tastes. There were bright blankets and shawls, the latter greedily eyed
by every Indian woman who came into the store. There were farming
implements and boots and groceries and harness. In the corner where Bill
Talpers sat was the most interesting collection of all. This corner was
called the pawnshop. Here Bill paid cash for silver rings and bracelets,
and for turquoise and other semi-precious stones either mounted or in
the rough. Here he dickered for finely beaded moccasins and hat-bands
and other articles for which he found a profitable market in the East.
Here watches were put up for redemption, disappearing after they had
hung their allotted time.
Traders on the reservation were not permitted to have such corners in
their stores, but Bill, being over the line, drove such bargains as he
pleased and took such security as he wished.
As Bill looked over his oft-appraised stock, it seemed to have lost much
of its one-time charm. Storekeeping for a bunch of Indians and
cowpunchers was no business for a smart, self-respecting man to be in--a
man who had ambitions to be somebody in a busier world. The thing to do
was to sell out and clear out--after he had married that girl at
Morgan's ranch. He had been too lenient with that girl, anyway. Here he
held the whip-hand over her and had never used it. He had been waiting
from day to day, gloating over his opportunities, and this Indian agent
had been calling on her and maybe was getting her confidence.
Maybe it had gone so far that the girl had told Lowell about the letter
she had mailed and that Bill had held up. Something akin to a chill
moved along Bill's spinal column at the thought. But of course such a
thing could not be. The girl couldn't afford to talk about anything like
that letter, which was certain to drag her into the murder.
Bill looked at the letter again and then tucked it back in the safe.
That was the best place to keep it. It might get lost out of his pocket
and then there'd be the very devil to pay. He knew it all by heart,
anyway. It was enough to give him what he wanted--this girl for a wife.
She simply couldn't resist, with that letter held over her by a
determined man like Bill Talpers. After he had married her, he'd sell
out this pile of junk and let somebody else haggle with the Injuns and
cowpunchers. Bill Talpers'd go where he could wear good clothes every
day, and his purty wife'd hold up her head with the best of them! He'd
go over and state his case that very night. He'd lay down the law right,
so this girl at Morgan's 'd know who her next boss was going to be. If
Willis Morgan tried to interfere, Bill Talpers 'd crush him just the way
he'd crushed many a rattler!
As a preliminary to his courting trip, Bill took a drink from a bottle
that he kept handy in his corner. Then he walked out to his
sleeping-quarters in the rear of the store and "slicked up a bit,"
during which process he took several drinks from another bottle which
was stowed conveniently there.
Leaving his store in charge of his clerk, Bill rode over the Dollar Sign
highway toward Morgan's ranch. The trader was dressed in black. A white
shirt and white collar fairly hurt the eye, being in such sharp contrast
with Bill's dark skin and darker beard. A black hat, wide of brim and
carefully creased, replaced the nondescript felt affair which Bill
usually wore. He donned the best pair of new boots that he could select
from his stock. They hurt his feet so that he swung first one and then
the other from the stirrups to get relief. There was none to tell Bill
that his broad, powerful frame looked better in its everyday
habiliments, and he would not have believed, even if he had been told.
He had created a sensation as he had creaked through the store after his
dressing-up operations had been completed, and he intended to repeat the
thrill when he burst upon the vision of the girl at Morgan's.
* * * * *
Wong had cleared away the supper dishes at the Greek Letter Ranch, and
had silently taken his way to the little bunkhouse which formed his
sleeping-quarters.
In the library a lamp glowed. A gray-haired man sat at the table, bowed
in thought. A girl, sitting across from him, was writing. Outside was
the silence of the prairie night, broken by an occasional bird call near
by.
"It is all so lonely here, I wonder how you can stand it," said the man.
There was deep concern in his voice. All sharpness had gone from it.
"It is all different, of course, from the country in which I have been
living, and it _is_ lonely, but I could get used to it soon if it were
not for this pall--"
Here the girl rose and went to the open window. She leaned on the sill
and looked out.
The man's gaze followed her. She was even more attractive than usual, in
a house dress of light color, her arms bare to the elbows, and her pale,
expressive face limned against the black background of the night.
"I know what you would say," replied the man. "It would be bearable
here--in fact, it might be enjoyable were it not for the black shadow
upon us. Rather it is a shadow which is blood-red instead of black."
His voice rose, and excitement glowed in his deep-set, clear gray eyes.
His face lost its pallor, and his well-shaped, yet strong hands clutched
nervously at the arms of his chair.
The girl turned toward him soothingly, when both paused and listened.
"It is some Indian going by," said the man, as hoof-beats became
distinct.
"The Indians don't ride this late. Besides, no Indian would stop here."
The man stepped to an adjoining room. As he disappeared, there came the
sound of footfalls on the porch and Bill Talpers's heavy knock made the
front door panels shake.
The girl hesitated a moment, and then opened the door. The trader walked
in without invitation, his new boots squeaking noisily. If he had
expected any exhibition of fear on the part of the girl, Talpers was
mistaken. She looked at him calmly, and Bill shifted uneasily from one
foot to another as he took off his hat.
"I thought I'd drop in for a little social call, seein' as you ain't
called on me sence our talk about that letter," said Bill, seating
himself at the table.
"It was what I might have expected," replied the girl.
"That's fine," said Bill amiably. "I'm tickled to know that you expected
me."
"Yes, knowing what a coward you are, I thought you would come."
Talpers flushed angrily, and then grinned, until his alkali-cracked lips
glistened in the lamplight.
"That's the spirit!" he exclaimed. "I never seen a more spunky woman,
and that's the kind I like. But there ain't many humans that can call me
a coward. I guess you don't know how many notches I've got on the handle
of this forty-five, do you?" he asked, touching the gun that swung in a
holster at his hip under his coat. "Well, there's three notches on
there, and that don't count an Injun I got in a fair fight. I don't
count any _coups_ unless they're on white folks."
"I'm not interested in your record of bloodshed." The girl's voice was
low, but it stung Bill to anger.
"Yes, you are," he retorted. "You're goin' to be mighty proud of your
husband's record. You'll be glad to be known as the wife of Bill
Talpers, who never backed down from no man. That's what I come over here
for, to have you say that you'll marry me. If you don't say it, I'll
have to give that letter over to the authorities at White Lodge. It sure
would be a reg'lar bombshell in the case right now."
The trader's squat figure, in his black suit, against the white
background made by the lamp, made the girl think of a huge, grotesque
blot of ink. His broad, hairy hand rested on the table. She noticed the
strong, thick fingers, devoid of flexibility, yet evidently of terrific
strength.
"Now you and me," went on Talpers, "could get quietly married, and I
could sell this store of mine for a good figger, and I'd be willin' to
move anywheres you want--San Francisco, or Los Angeles, or San Diego, or
anywheres. And I could burn up that letter, and there needn't nobody
know that the wife of Bill Talpers was mixed up in the murder that is
turnin' this here State upside down. Furthermore, jest to show you that
Bill Talpers is a square sort, I won't ever ask you myself jest how deep
and how wide you're in this murder, nor why you wrote that letter, nor
what it was all about. Ain't that fair enough?"
The girl laughed.
"It's too fair," she said. "I can't believe you'd hold to such a
bargain."
"You try me and see," urged Bill. "All you've got to do is to say you'll
marry me."
"Well, I'll never say it."
"Yes, you will," huskily declared Bill, putting his hat on the table.
"You'll say it right here, to-night. Your stepfather's sick, I hear. If
he was feelin' his best he wouldn't be more'n a feather in my way--not
more'n that Chinaman of yours. I've got to have your word to-night, or,
by cripes, that letter goes to White Lodge!"
The girl was alarmed. She was colorless as marble, but her eyes were
defiant. Talpers advanced toward her threateningly, and she retreated
toward the door which opened into the other room. Bill swung her aside
and placed himself squarely in front of the door, his arms outspread.
"No hide and seek goes," he said. "You stay in this room till you give
me the right answer."
The girl ran toward the door opening into the kitchen. Talpers ran after
her, clumsily but swiftly. The girl saw that she was going to be
overtaken before reaching the door, and dodged to one side. The trader
missed his grasp for her, and pitched forward, the force of his fall
shaking the cabin. He struck his head against a corner of the table, and
lay unconscious, spread out in a broad helplessness that made the girl
think once more of spilled ink.
The white-haired man stood in the doorway to the other room. He held a
revolver, with which he covered Talpers, but the trader did not move.
The white-haired man deftly removed Talpers's revolver from its holster
and put it on the table. Then he searched the trader's pockets.
"I'm glad I didn't have to shoot this swine," he said to the girl.
"Another second and it would have been necessary. The letter isn't here,
but you can frighten him with these trinkets--his own revolver and this
watch which evidently he took from the murdered man on the hill. You
know what else of Edward Sargent's belongings were taken."
The girl nodded.
"He will recover soon," went on the gray-haired man. "You will be in no
further danger. He will be glad to go when he sees what evidence you
have against him."
The white-haired man had taken a watch from one of Talpers's pockets. He
put the timepiece on the table beside the trader's revolver. Then the
door to the adjoining room closed again, and the girl was alone with the
trader waiting for him to recover consciousness.
Soon Bill Talpers sat up. His hand went to his head and came away
covered with blood. The world was rocking, and the girl at the table
looked like half a dozen shapes in one.
"This is your own revolver pointed at you, Mr. Talpers," she said, "but
this watch on the table, by which you will leave this house in three
minutes, is not yours. It belonged once to Edward B. Sargent, and you
are the man who took it."
Talpers tried to answer, but could not at once.
"You not only took this watch," said the girl slowly, "but you took
money from that murdered man."
"It's all a lie," growled Bill at last.
"Wait till you hear the details. You took twenty-eight hundred dollars
in large bills, and three hundred dollars in smaller bills."
Talpers looked at the girl in mingled terror and amazement. Guilt was in
his face, and his fears made him forget his aching head.
"You kept this money and did not let your half-breed partner in crime
know you had found it," went on the girl. "Also you kept the watch, and,
as it had no mark of identification, you concluded you could safely wear
it."
Talpers struggled dizzily to his feet.
"It's all lies," he repeated. "I didn't kill that man."
"You might find it hard to convince a jury that you did not, with such
evidence against you."
The trader looked at the watch as if he intended to make a dash to
recover it, but the girl kept him steadily covered with his own
revolver. Muttering curses, and swaying uncertainly on his feet, Talpers
seized his hat and rushed from the house. He could be heard fumbling
with the reins at the gate, and then the sound of hoofs came in
diminuendo as he rode away.