FOR MURDER
Dave whistled. The pony pricked up its ears, looked round, and came
straight to him. The young man laid his face against the soft, silky
nose, fondled it, whispered endearments to his pet. He put the bronco
through its tricks for the benefit of the corral attendant.
"Well, I'll be doggoned," that youth commented. "The little pinto sure is
a wonder. Acts like he knows you mighty well."
"Ought to. I trained him. Had him before Miller got him."
"Bet you hated to sell him."
"You _know_ it." Dave moved forward to his end, the intention to get
possession of the horse. He spoke in a voice easy and casual. "Saw Miller
a while ago. They're talkin' about sellin' the paint hawss, him and
his pardner Doble. I'm to saddle up and show what Chiquito can do."
"Say, that's a good notion. If I was a buyer I'd pay ten bucks more after
you'd put him through that circus stuff."
"Which is Miller's saddle?" When it was pointed out to him, Dave examined
it and pretended to disapprove. "Too heavy. Lend me a lighter one, can't
you?"
"Sure. Here's three or four. Help yourself."
The wrangler moved into the stable to attend to his work.
Dave cinched, swung to the saddle, and rode to the gate of the corral.
Two men were coming in, and by the sound of their voices were quarreling.
They stepped aside to let him pass, one on each side of the gate, so
that it was necessary to ride between them.
They recognized the pinto at the same moment Dave did them. On the heels
of that recognition came another.
Doble ripped out an oath and a shout of warning. "It's Sanders!"
A gun flashed as the pony jumped to a gallop. The silent night grew noisy
with shots, voices, the clatter of hoofs. Twice Dave fired answers to the
challenges which leaped out of the darkness at him. He raced across the
bridge spanning the Platte and for a moment drew up on the other side to
listen for sounds which might tell him whether he would be pursued. One
last solitary revolver shot disturbed the stillness.
The rider grinned. "Think he'd know better than to shoot at me this far."
He broke his revolver, extracted the empty shells, and dropped them to
the street. Then he rode up the long hill toward Highlands, passed
through that suburb of the city, and went along the dark and dusty road
to the shadows of the Rockies silhouetted in the night sky.
His flight had no definite objective except to put as much distance
between himself and Denver as possible. He knew nothing about the
geography of Colorado, except that a large part of the Rocky Mountains
and a delectable city called Denver lived there. His train trip to it had
told him that one of its neighbors was New Mexico, which was in turn
adjacent to Arizona. Therefore he meant to get to New Mexico as quickly
as Chiquito could quite comfortably travel.
Unfortunately Dave was going west instead of south. Every step of the
pony was carrying him nearer the roof of the continent, nearer the passes
of the front range which lead, by divers valleys and higher mountains
beyond, to the snowclad regions of eternal white.
Up in this altitude it was too cold to camp out without a fire and
blankets.
"I reckon we'll keep goin', old pal," the young man told his horse. "I've
noticed roads mostly lead somewheres."
Day broke over valleys of swirling mist far below the rider. The sun rose
and dried the moisture. Dave looked down on a town scattered up and down
a gulch.
He met an ore team and asked the driver what town it was. The man looked
curiously at him.
"Why, it's Idaho Springs," he said. "Where you come from?"
Dave eased himself in the saddle. "From the Southwest."
"You're quite a ways from home. I reckon your hills ain't so uncurried
down there, are they?"
The cowpuncher looked over the mountains. He was among the summits, aglow
in the amber light of day with the many blended colors of wild flowers.
"We got some down there, too, that don't fit a lady's boodwar. Say, if I
keep movin' where'll this road take me?"
The man with the ore team gave information. It struck Dave that he had
run into a blind alley.
"If you're after a job, I reckon you can find one at some of the mines.
They're needin' hands," the teamster added.
Perhaps this was the best immediate solution of the problem. The puncher
nodded farewell and rode down into the town.
He left Chiquito at a livery barn, after having personally fed and
watered the pinto, and went himself to a hotel. Here he registered, not
under his own name, ate breakfast, and lay down for a few hours' sleep.
When he awakened he wrote a note with the stub of a pencil to Bob Hart.
It read:
Well, Bob, I done got Chiquito back though it sure looked like I wasn't
going to but you never can tell and as old Buck Byington says its a hell
of a long road without no bend in it and which you can bet your boots the
old alkali is right at that. Well I found the little pie-eater in Denver
O K but so gaunt he wont hardly throw a shadow and what can you expect
of scalawags like Miller and Doble who don't know how to treat a horse.
Well I run Chiquito off right under their noses and we had a little gun
play and made my getaway and I reckon I will stay a spell and work here.
Well good luck to all the boys till I see them again in the sweet by and
by.
Dave
P.S. Get this money order cashed old-timer and pay the boys what I
borrowed when we hit the trail after Miller and Doble. I lit out to
sudden to settle. Five to Steve and five to Buck. Well so long.
Dave
The puncher went to the post-office, got a money order, and mailed the
letter, after which he returned to the hotel. He intended to eat dinner
and then look for work.
Three or four men were standing on the steps of the hotel talking with
the proprietor. Dave was quite close before the Boniface saw him.
"That's him," the hotel-keeper said in an excited whisper.
A brown-faced man without a coat turned quickly and looked at Sanders. He
wore a belt with cartridges and a revolver.
"What's your name?" he demanded.
Dave knew at once this man was an officer of the law. He knew, too, the
futility of trying to escape under the pseudonym he had written on the
register.
"Sanders--Dave Sanders."
"I want you."
"So? Who are you?"
"Sheriff of the county."
"Whadjawant me for?"
"Murder."
Dave gasped. His heart beat fast with a prescience of impending disaster.
"Murder," he repeated dully.
"You're charged with the murder of George Doble last night in Denver."
The boy stared at him with horror-stricken eyes. "Doble? My God, did I
kill him?" He clutched at a porch post to steady himself. The hills were
sliding queerly up into the sky.