THE LAW PUZZLES DAVE
Dave knew he was stubborn. Not many men would have come on such a
wild-goose chase to Denver in the hope of getting back a favorite horse
worth so little in actual cash. But he meant to move to his end
intelligently.
If Miller and Doble were in the city they would be hanging out at some
saloon or gambling-house. Once or twice Dave dropped in to Chuck Weaver's
place, where the sporting men from all over the continent inevitably
drifted when in Denver. But he had little expectation of finding the men
he wanted there. These two rats of the underworld would not attempt to
fleece keen-eyed professionals. They would prey on the unsophisticated.
His knowledge of their habits took him to that part of town below
Lawrence Street. While he chatted with his foot on the rail, a glass of
beer in front of him, he made inconspicuous inquiries of bartenders. It
did not take him long to strike the trail.
"Two fellows I knew in the cattle country said they were comin' to
Denver. Wonder if they did. One of 'em's a big fat guy name o'
Miller--kinda rolls when he walks. Other's small and has a glass eye.
Called himself George Doble when I knew him."
"Come in here 'most every day--both of 'em. Waitin' for the Festival of
Mountain and Plain to open up. Got some kinda concession. They look to
yours truly like--"
The bartender pulled himself up short and began polishing the top of the
bar vigorously. He was a gossipy soul, and more than once his tongue had
got him into trouble.
"You was sayin'--" suggested the cowboy.
"--that they're good spenders, as the fellow says," amended the
bartender, to be on the safe side.
"When I usta know 'em they had a mighty cute little trick pony--name was
Chiquito, seems to me. Ever hear 'em mention it?"
"They was fussin' about that horse to-day. Seems they got an offer for
him and Doble wants to sell. Miller he says no."
"Yes?"
"I'll tell 'em a friend asked for 'em. What name?"
"Yes, do. Jim Smith."
"The fat old gobbler's liable to drop in any time now."
This seemed a good reason to Mr. Jim Smith, _alias_ David Sanders, for
dropping out. He did not care to have Miller know just yet who the kind
friend was that had inquired for him.
But just as he was turning away a word held him for a moment. The
discretion of the man in the apron was not quite proof against his habit
of talk.
"They been quarrelin' a good deal together. I expect the combination is
about ready to bust up," he whispered confidentially.
"Quarrelin'? What about?"
"Oh, I dunno. They act like they're sore as a boil at each other. Honest,
I thought they was goin' to mix it yesterday. I breezed up wit' a bottle
an' they kinda cooled off."
"Doble drunk?"
"Nope. Fact is, they'd trimmed a Greeley boob and was rowin' about the
split. Miller he claimed Doble held out on him. I'll bet he did too."
Dave did not care how much they quarreled or how soon they parted after
he had got back his horse. Until that time he preferred that they would
give him only one trail to follow instead of two.
The cowpuncher made it his business to loaf on Larimer Street for the
rest of the day. His beat was between Fifteenth and Sixteenth Streets,
usually on the other side of the road from the Klondike Saloon.
About four o'clock his patience was rewarded. Miller came rolling along
in a sort of sailor fashion characteristic of him. Dave had just time to
dive into a pawnbroker's shop unnoticed.
A black-haired, black-eyed salesman came forward to wait on him. The
puncher cast an eye helplessly about him. It fell on a suitcase.
"How much?" he asked.
"Seven dollars. Dirt sheap, my frient."
"Got any telescope grips?"
The salesman produced one. Dave bought it because he did not know how to
escape without.
He carried it with him while he lounged up and down the sidewalk waiting
for Miller to come out of the Klondike. When the fat gambler reappeared,
the range-rider fell in behind him unobserved and followed uptown past
the Tabor Opera House as far as California Street. Here they swung to the
left to Fourteenth, where Miller disappeared into a rooming-house.
The amateur detective turned back toward the business section. On the way
he dropped guiltily the telescope grip into a delivery wagon standing in
front of a grocery. He had no use for it, and he had already come to feel
it a white elephant on his hands.
With the aid of a city directory Dave located the livery stables within
walking distance of the house where Miller was staying. Inspired perhaps
by the nickel detective stories he had read, the cowboy bought a pair of
blue goggles and a "store" collar. In this last, substituted for the
handkerchief he usually wore loosely round his throat, the sleuth nearly
strangled himself for lack of air. His inquiries at such stables as he
found brought no satisfaction. Neither Miller nor the pinto had been seen
at any of them.
Later in the evening he met Henry B. West at the St. James Hotel.
"How's that business of yore's gettin' along, boy?" asked the cattleman
with a smile.
"Don' know yet. Say, Mr. West, if I find a hawss that's been stole from
me, how can I get it back?"
"Some one steal a hawss from you?"
Dave told his story. West listened to a finish.
"I know a lawyer here. We'll ask him what to do," the ranchman said.
They found the lawyer at the Athletic Club. West stated the case.
"Your remedy is to replevin. If they fight, you'll have to bring
witnesses to prove ownership."
"Bring witnesses from Malapi! Why, I can't do that," said Dave,
staggered. "I ain't got the money. Why can't I just take the hawss?
It's mine."
"The law doesn't know it's yours."
Dave left much depressed. Of course the thieves would go to a lawyer, and
of course he would tell them to fight. The law was a darned queer thing.
It made the recovery of his property so costly that the crooks who stole
it could laugh at him.
"Looks like the law's made to protect scalawags instead of honest folks,"
Dave told West.
"I don't reckon it is, but it acts that way sometimes," admitted the
cattleman. "You can see yoreself it wouldn't do for the law to say a
fellow could get property from another man by just sayin' it was his.
Sorry, Sanders. After all, a bronc's only a bronc. I'll give you yore
pick of two hundred if you come back with me to the ranch."
"Much obliged, seh. Maybe I will later."
The cowpuncher walked the streets while he thought it over. He had no
intention whatever of giving up Chiquito if he could find the horse. So
far as the law went he was in a blind alley. He was tied hand and foot.
That possession was nine points before the courts he had heard before.
The way to recover flashed to his brain like a wave of light. He must get
possession. All he had to do was to steal his own horse and make for the
hills. If the thieves found him later--and the chances were that they
would not even attempt pursuit if he let them know who he was--he would
force them to the expense of going to law for Chiquito. What was sauce
for the goose must be for the gander too.
Dave's tramp had carried him across the Platte into North Denver. On his
way back he passed a corral close to the railroad tracks. He turned in to
look over the horses.
The first one his eyes fell on was Chiquito.