"There's one thing sure in all cases of crime: If people would only
depend more on Nature and less on themselves, they'd get results
sooner."
Lowell and his chief clerk were finishing one of their regular evening
discussions of the crime which most people were forgetting, but which
still occupied the Indian agent's mind to the complete exclusion of all
reservation business.
"What do you mean?" asked Rogers, from behind smoke clouds.
"Just the fact that, if we can only find it, Nature has tagged every
crime in a way that makes it possible to get an answer."
"But there are lots of crimes in which no manifestation of Nature is
possible."
"Not a one. What are finger-prints but manifestations of Nature? And yet
for ages we couldn't see the sign that Nature hung out for us. No doubt
we're just as obtuse about a lot of things that will be just as simple
and just as plain when their meaning is finally driven home."
"But Nature hasn't given a hint about that Dollar Sign road crime. Yet
it took place outdoors, right in Nature's haunts."
"You simply mean that we haven't been able to comprehend Nature's
signals."
"But you've been over the ground a dozen times, haven't you?"
"Fifty times--but all that merely proves what I contend. If I go over
that ground one hundred times, and don't find anything, what does it
prove? Merely that I am ninety-nine times stupider than I should be. I
should get the answer the first time over."
Rogers laughed.
"I prefer the most comfortable theory. I've settled down in the popular
belief that Bill Talpers did the killing. Think how easy that makes it
for me--and the chances are that I'm right at that."
"You are hopeless, Ed! But remember, if this thing goes unsolved it will
only be because we haven't progressed beyond the first-reader stage in
interpreting what Mother Nature has to teach us."
For several days following the acquittal of Fire Bear and McFann, Lowell
had worked almost unceasingly in the hope of getting new evidence in the
case which nearly everybody else seemed willing to forget. A similar
persistency had marked Lowell's career as a newspaper reporter. He had
turned up several sensations when rival newspaper men had abandoned
certain cases as hopeless so far as new thrills were concerned.
Lowell had not exaggerated when he told Rogers he had gone over the
scene of the murder fifty times. He had not gone into details with his
clerk. Rogers would have been surprised to know that his chief had even
blocked out the scene of the murder in squares like a checkerboard. Each
one of these squares had been examined, slowly and painfully. The net
result had been some loose change which undoubtedly had been dropped by
Talpers in robbing the murdered man; an eagle feather, probably dropped
from a _coup_ stick which some one of Fire Bear's followers had borrowed
from an elder; a flint arrowhead of great antiquity, and a belt buckle
and some moccasin beads.
Far from being discouraged at the unsuccessful outcome of his
checkerboarding plan, Lowell took his automobile, on the morning
following his talk with Rogers, and again visited the scene of the
crime.
For six weeks the hill had been bathed daily in sunshine. The drought,
which the Indians had ascribed to evil spirits called down by Fire Bear,
had continued unbroken. The mud-holes in the road, through which Lowell
had plunged to the scene of the murder when he had first heard of the
crime, had been churned to dust. Lowell noticed that an old buffalo
wallow at the side of the road was still caked in irregular formations
which resembled the markings of alligator hide. The first hot winds
would cause these cakes of mud to disintegrate, but the weather had been
calm, and they had remained just as they had dried.
As he glanced about him at the peaceful panorama, it occurred to the
agent that perhaps too much attention had been centered upon the exact
spot of the murder. Yet, it seemed reasonable enough to suppose, no
murderer would possibly lie in wait for a victim in such an open spot.
If the murder had been deliberately planned, as Lowell believed, and if
the victim's approach were known, there could have been no waiting here
on the part of the murderer.
Getting into his automobile, Lowell drove carefully up the hill,
studying both sides of the road as he went. Several hundred yards from
the scene of the murder, he found a clump of giant sagebrush and
greasewood, close to the road. Lowell entered the clump and found that
from its eastern side he could command a good view of the Dollar Sign
road for miles. Here a man and horse might remain hidden until a
traveler, coming up the hill, was almost within hailing distance. The
brush had grown in a circle, leaving a considerable hollow which was
devoid of vegetation. Examining this hollow closely, Lowell paused
suddenly and uttered a low ejaculation. Then he walked slowly to his
automobile and drove in the direction of the Greek Letter Ranch.
When he arrived at the ranch house Lowell was relieved to find that
Helen was not at home. Wong, who opened the door a scant six inches,
told him she had taken the white horse and gone for a ride.
"Well, tell Mister Willis Morgan I want to see him," said Lowell.
Wong was much alarmed. Mister Morgan could not be seen. The Chinese
combination of words for "impossible" was marshaled in behalf of Wong's
employer.
Lowell, putting his shoulder against the Greek letter brand which was
burnt in the panel, pushed the door open and stepped into the room which
served as a library.
"Now tell Mister Morgan I wish to see him, Wong," said the agent firmly.
The door to the adjoining room opened, and Lowell faced the questioning
gaze of a gray-haired man who might have been anywhere from forty-five
to sixty. One hand was in the pocket of a velvet smoking-jacket, and the
other held a pipe. The man's eyes were dark and deeply set. They did not
seem to Lowell to be the contemplative eyes of the scholar, but rather
to belong to a man of decisive action--one whose interests might be in
building bridges or tunnels, but whose activities were always concerned
with material things. His face was lean and bronzed--the face of a man
who lived much in the outdoors. His nose was aquiline, and his lips,
though thin and firm, were not unkindly. In fact, here was a man who, in
the class-room, might be given to quips with his students, rather than
to sternness. Yet this was the man of whom it was said.... Lowell's face
grew stern as the long list of indictments against Willis Morgan,
recluse and "squaw professor," came to his mind.
The gray-haired man sat down at the table, and Lowell, in response to a
wave of the hand that held the pipe, drew up opposite.
"You and I have been living pretty close together a long time," said
Lowell bluntly, "and if we'd been a little more neighborly, this call
might not be so difficult in some ways."
"My fault entirely." Again the hand waved--this time toward the
ceiling-high shelves of books. "Library slavery makes a man selfish,
I'll admit."
The voice was cold and hard. It was such a voice that had extended a
mocking welcome to Helen Ervin when she had stood hesitatingly on the
threshold of the Greek Letter Ranch-house. Lowell sneered openly.
"You haven't always been so tied up to your books that you couldn't get
out," he said. "I want to take you back to a little horseback ride which
you took just six weeks ago."
"I don't remember such a trip."
"You will remember it, as I particularize."
"Very well. You are beginning to interest me."
"You rode from here to the top of the hill on the Dollar Sign road. Do
you remember?"
"What odds if I say yes or no? Go on. I want to hear the rest of this
story."
"When you reached a clump of tall sage and grease wood, not far below
the crest of the hill, you entered it and remained hidden. You had a
considerable time to wait, but you were patient--very patient. You knew
the man you wanted to meet was somewhere on the road--coming toward you.
From the clump of bushes you commanded a view of the Dollar Sign road
for miles. As I say, it was long and tedious waiting. It had rained in
the night. The sun came out, strong and warm, and the atmosphere was
moist. Your horse, that old white horse which has been on the ranch so
many years, was impatiently fighting flies. Though you are not any
kinder to horseflesh than you are to human beings who come within your
blighting influence, you took the saddle off the animal. Perhaps the
horse had caught his foot in a stirrup as he kicked at a buzzing fly."
The keen, strong features into which Lowell gazed were mask-like in
their impassiveness.
"Soon you saw something approaching on the road over the prairie," went
on the agent. "It must be the automobile driven by the man you had come
to meet. You saddled quickly and rode out of the sagebrush. You met the
man in the automobile as he was climbing the hill. He stopped and you
talked with him. You had violent words, and then you shot him with a
sawed-off shotgun which you had carried for that purpose. You killed the
man, and then, to throw suspicion on others, conceived the idea of
staking him down to the prairie. It would look like an Indian trick.
Besides, you knew that there had been some trouble on the reservation
with Indians who were dancing and generally inclined to oppose
Government regulations. You had found a rope which had been dropped on
the road by the half-breed, Jim McFann. You took that rope from your
saddle and cut it in four pieces and tied the man's hands and wrists to
his own tent-stakes, which you found in his automobile.
"Your plans worked out well. It was a lonely country and comparatively
early in the day. There was nobody to disturb you at your work.
Apparently you had thought of every detail. You had left a few tracks,
and these you obliterated carefully. You knew you would hardly be
suspected unless something led the world to your door. You had been a
recluse for years, hated by white men and feared by red. Few had seen
your face. You could retire to this lonely ranch and live your customary
life, with no fear of suffering for the crime you had committed. To be
sure, an Indian or two might be hanged, but a matter like that would
rest lightly on your conscience.
"Apparently your plans were perfect, but you overlooked one small thing.
Most clever scoundrels do. You did not think that perhaps Nature might
lay a trap to catch you--a trap in the brush where you had been hidden.
Your horse rolled in the mud to rid himself of the pest of flies. You
were so intent on the approach of your victim that you did not notice
the animal. Yet there in the mud, and visible to-day, was made the
imprint of your horse's shoulder, _bearing the impression of the Greek
Letter brand_!"
As Lowell finished, he rose slowly, his hands on the table and his gaze
on the unflinching face in front of him. The gray-haired man rose also.
"I suppose," he said, in a voice from which all trace of harshness had
disappeared, "you have come to give me over to the authorities on
account of this crime."
"Yes."
"Very well. I committed the murder, much as you have explained it, but I
did not ride the white horse to the hill. Nor am I Willis Morgan. I am
Edward Sargent. Morgan was the man whom I killed and staked down on the
prairie!"