The volunteer man hunters had returned much soberer though no wiser
than they had set out, and with them came Bat Johnson, who declared
that his trip could be postponed until after the inquest, which would
be held as soon as the sheriff and coroner arrived from the county
seat. In the meantime Delkin had sent frantic word by telephone to the
nearest points, and men were riding into town on sweaty horses, curious
to see the corpse of the cashier and eager to join in the chase.
"For half a cent I'd borrow a horse and take the trail alone, with
grub enough for a couple of days," Bud confided restlessly to his
companion. "I'd do it, only Delkin says we'll be wanted at the inquest
to-morrow; and after that the sheriff will be on the job and running
things to suit himself. Seems mighty queer, the way those bandits plumb
disappeared and never left a trace. Bat Johnson claimed to me that he
was sure four riders went down the draw and crossed the river ahead of
him, but now he admits that he only got a glimpse of the horses' rumps
and can't swear to any riders. But what in thunder would range horses
be doing right here in town almost? The whole thing's off color. I wish
Lark was here--my uncle. He's pretty good at figuring out the other
fellow's game."
"There must be some way to catch the murderers and get the money back,"
Brunelle worried. "Of course catching them won't help the cashier, but
the money makes a big difference. This really does leave Marge and me
in an awful fix, Mr. Larkin. All you people have homes and property,
but here we are--perfect strangers; and a little over five dollars to
face the world with! We didn't think it would be safe to keep any money
in the house, out in this wild country, so every dollar we had was in
the bank--where it would be safe!" He laughed a bit wildly. "Of course,
I'll go to work at once. We both will. I wonder how much the robbers
got?"
Bud shook his head.
"Delkin doesn't know, exactly; or if he does he isn't telling until
he has to. He says Charlie Mulholland took care of everything while
the other fellow has been sick, and all he or any of the others did
was go in and act as teller while Charlie wrote letters and worked on
the books forenoons. It's just a little whiddledig of a bank--plenty
of money, but not many depositors. All the cattlemen and some horse
raisers used it, and put in great wads when they sold off some stock,
and checked it out in driblets. I could have run the whole works
myself, almost. If the bank's busted, the robbers got a plenty. It's
going to hit a lot of us, but it sure is too bad you folks got caught.
What kind of work did you think of doing?"
"Well, Marge could teach school, of course. And once she gets a
stand-in with the editors, she can sell all the pieces she writes, and
I can sell the pictures to go with them. I can get a job as a cowboy
for a while, I suppose, until we get on our feet again." His jaw
squared. "We'll never go back, that's one thing sure; not even if we
had the train fare. All the neighbors said we'd make a fizzle of things
if we left there. I suppose there's a school somewhere that Marge can
teach, isn't there?"
"I don't know of--wel-l--come to think of it, the Meadowlark sure needs
a school teacher." Bud had caught another disturbing sight of Marge
sitting with bowed head by the table, lamplight shining through loose
locks of hair.
Tired as he was, bedtime came too soon for Bud that night.
* * * * *
Marge would go to the inquest next morning, though Bud warned her that
it would not be exciting and that she would only get herself talked
about. These things could not daunt her. She must go, she said, because
she was going to need murders and posses and sheriffs right along in
her Western stories, and this was a wonderful opportunity to study the
types at close range. She could not understand why Bud laughed.
So to the inquest she went, and thereby shocked the sober citizens of
Smoky Ford, who liked their womenfolk shy and retiring. She mistook
the big blacksmith for the sheriff, who was small and very quiet and
kept his badge hidden under his vest. She was much disappointed in the
coroner, who was pot-bellied and chewed tobacco frankly and untidily
and spat where he pleased. Moreover, the corpse was in a back room
out of sight, and Marge could not bring herself quite to the point of
walking deliberately in to see how a man looks who has been murdered.
She was the only woman present, and the room was crowded with men who
stared at her; not even her notebook could furnish cause sufficient for
her presence.
Then, after a few tedious preliminaries, they all trooped off to
the bank to take a look around and left Marge all by herself in the
empty storeroom. It did not help her temper any to have Bud ask her
afterwards how she liked the wild, wild West as far as she had got.
"That man Palmer, who deposited five thousand dollars just before he
came into the saloon, looked at you very queerly when you were giving
an account of finding the cashier," Brunelle observed irrelevantly,
thinking it best to change the subject before Marge said something
sarcastic.
"He can't help that. He was born queer," Bud retorted. "Meanest old
skinflint in the country. Took a quirting from my uncle before the
whole town, and never has made a move to get back at Lark for it. Maybe
that's why he looks queer when he sees some one from the Meadowlark."
"But he sneered as if he thought you were lying," Lawrie persisted.
"Well, so did I sneer as if I thought he were lying when he told about
depositing five thousand dollars in the bank. I bet he keeps his money
buried back of the barn or some other good place."
"I wish we'd buried ours," Marge sighed. "Or the editors would wake
up and buy a story or something. We'll have to hunt some work to do,
Lawrie--"
"Oh, I forgot to tell you, Marge. Mr. Larkin knows of a school you can
teach. He says the Meadowlark school needs a teacher. And perhaps I
can get a job somewhere close, as a cowboy. Do you think I could, Mr.
Larkin?"
"How do we get there?" Marge began to untie her apron as if she meant
to start within the next five minutes. Bud caught his breath and opened
his mouth to explain, to temporize. But Marge was already beginning to
pack her books, and her eyes were the brightest, dancingest gray eyes
he had ever looked into. His own kindled while he gazed.
So that is how it happened that young Bud Larkin, leaving his own tall
sorrel in Delkin's stable as hostage of a sort, drove blithely out to
the Meadowlark with a hired team and a spring wagon and two passengers
squeezed into the front seat with him and three trunks piled high and
tied there with Bud's good grass rope.