THE DIXIE'S BOSS
If Mannix expected any resistance from Rathburn he soon found that
none was to materialize. The deputy, a short, rather stout man of
perhaps thirty-nine, with bronzed features, clear, brown eyes, and a
protruding jaw covered with a stubble of reddish-brown beard, was
nevertheless wary of his prisoner. He had not yet obtained Rathburn's
gun, and he recognized the unmistakable signs of a seasoned gunman in
the lounging but graceful postures of his prisoner, in the way he
moved his right hand, in the alertness of his eye. He frowned, for
Rathburn was smiling. There was a quality to that smile which was not
lost upon the doughty officer.
"I take it you've got sense enough to come along easylike," he said,
with just a hint of doubt in his voice.
"Yes, I've been known to show some sense, sheriff; now that's a
fact."
"I'll have to ask you for your gun," said the deputy grimly.
"I've never been known to hand over my gun, sheriff," drawled
Rathburn. "Now that's another fact."
Again the tension in the room was high. Others than Mannix, and
probably Carlisle, had readily discerned in the gray-eyed stranger a
certain menacing prowess which is much respected where weapons are the
rule in unexpected emergencies. The crowd backed to the wall.
The deputy wet his lips, and his face grew a shade paler. Then
suddenly he went for his gun, as Rathburn dropped, like a shot, to the
floor. There came the crack of Carlisle's pistol and a laugh from
Rathburn. The deputy, gun in hand, stared at Rathburn who rose quickly
to his feet. Then he thought to cover him. Rathburn raised his hands
while Carlisle returned his own smoking weapon to its holster. Mannix
turned and glared at Carlisle in perplexity.
"I don't know what his game is, Mannix; but he could have drawn down
on you in a wink and shot you in your tracks if he'd wanted to," said
Carlisle.
"So you were taking the play in your own hands," Mannix accused.
The deputy looked at Rathburn angrily. Then he advanced and took the
prisoner's six-shooter from him. He brought handcuffs out of his
pockets.
Rathburn's face went white. "If what Carlisle says is true, it doesn't
look as if I was trying to get away, does it, sheriff?" he asked
coldly.
Mannix was thoughtful for a moment. "Well, come along," he ordered,
thrusting the steel bracelets back into his pocket.
"I'll go with you," Carlisle volunteered.
"That's up to you," snapped out the deputy. "I ain't asking you to."
The trio left the place as the spectators gazed after them in wonder.
There was a hum of excited conversation as the deputy and his prisoner
and Carlisle passed through the door.
No word was spoken on the way to the small, two-room, one-story
structure which served as a detention place for persons under arrest
until they could be transferred to the county jail in the town where
the railroad touched. Petty offenders served their sentences there,
however.
In the little front office of the jail, Rathburn looked with interest
at some posters on the walls. One in particular claimed his
attention, and he read it twice while the deputy was getting some keys
and calling to the jailer, who evidently was on the other side of the
barred door where the few cells and the "tank" were.
This is what Rathburn read:
REWARD
Two thousand dollars will be paid for the capture of the bandits
who are responsible for the robberies of Dixie Mine messengers in
the last few months.
DIXIE MILLING & MINING CO.,
George Sautee, Manager.
Rathburn now knew exactly what Carlisle had meant when he had referred
to the Dixie pay-roll taking wings. He had, however, suspected it. The
holdup of the truck driver also was explained. Rathburn smiled. It was
a peculiar ruse for the mines manager to resort to. Could not the
pay-roll be sent to the mines under armed guard? Rathburn's eyes were
dreamy when he looked at the deputy.
"All right, in you go," said Mannix, as the jailer unlocked the heavy,
barred door from the inside.
He led Rathburn to one of the single cells, of which there were six on
one side of the jail room proper.
"Maybe you'll be ready to talk in the morning," he said, as he locked
his prisoner in.
"Morning might be too late," Rathburn observed, taking tobacco and
papers from his shirt pocket.
"What do you mean by that?" Mannix asked sharply.
"I might change my mind."
"About talking, eh? Well, we'll find a way to make you change it back
again."
"You're a grateful cuss," said Rathburn, grinning.
Mannix scowled. It was plain he was not sure of his man, although he
was trying to convince himself that he was.
"I don't get you," he said growlingly.
"No? Didn't you hear that fellow Carlisle say I saved your life by not
drawing?"
"He'd have got you if you'd tried to draw. That's what he thought you
was going to do. You saved your skin by grabbing the floor."
Rathburn wet the paper of his cigarette and sealed the end. "I'm
wondering," he mused, as he snapped a match into flame, with a thumb
nail and lit the weed.
"It's about time," said the deputy grimly.
"I'm wondering," said Rathburn, in a soft voice, exhaling a thin
streamer of smoke, "if he'd have got me."
Mannix grunted, looked at him curiously, and then turned abruptly on
his heel and left. Rathburn could not see the door, but he heard the
big key grate in the lock, and then the jail room echoed to the clang
of hard metal and the door swung shut again.
Rathburn sat down on the bunk which was to serve as his bed. He smoked
his brown-paper cigarette slowly and with great relish while he
stared, not through the bars to where the dim light of a lamp showed,
but straight at the opposite steel wall of his cell. His eyes were
thoughtful, dreamy, his brow was puckered.
"An' there's that," he muttered as he threw away the stub of his smoke
and began to roll another. "Somebody's been playing the Dixie Queen
for a meal ticket. That sign said 'robberies.' That means more'n one.
The truck driver was the last. Two thousand reward. An' me headed for
the desert where I belong. What stopped me? I reckon I know."
He smiled grimly as he remembered the insolent challenge in Carlisle's
eyes and the reference to the bath.
After a time Rathburn stretched out on the bunk, pulled his hat over
his face, and dozed.
He sat up with a catlike movement as a persistent tapping on the bars
of his cell reached his ears. Blinking in the half light he saw
Carlisle's dark features.
"Well, now's your chance to smoke me up good an' plenty an' get away
with it," said Rathburn cheerfully. "I'm shy my gun which the sheriff
has borrowed."
"You figure he's just borrowed it?" sneeringly inquired Carlisle.
Rathburn rose and surveyed his visitor. "I reckon I've got to tolerate
you," he drawled. "I can't pick my company in here."
"I've got your number," snarlingly replied Carlisle in a low voice.
Rathburn sauntered close to the bars, rolling a cigarette.
"If you have, Carlisle, you've got a winning number," he said evenly.
"Whatever your play is here, I dunno," said Carlisle; "but you won't
get away with it as easy as you did over the range in Dry Lake."
Rathburn's eyes never flickered as he coolly lit his cigarette with a
steady hand. "You're plumb full of information, eh, Carlisle?"
"I was over there an' heard about how you stuck up that joint an'
tried to blame it on some kid by the name of Lamy," said Carlisle,
watching Rathburn closely.
"You sure that was the way of it?" asked Rathburn casually.
"No," replied the other. "I know the kid stuck up the joint an' you
took the blame to keep him under cover. I don't know your reasons, but
I guess you don't want the facts known. You broke jail. They ain't
forgot _that_ over in Dry Lake. There's a reward out for you over
there, an I wouldn't be surprised if there was some money on your head
in Arizona, Coyote!"
Rathburn's eyes were points of red between narrowed lids.
"The Coyote!" said Carlisle in a hoarse voice of triumph. "An' the way
it looks I'm the only one hereabouts that knows it."
"I told you you was plumb full of information," said Rathburn.
"The Coyote has a bit of a record, they tell me," Carlisle leered.
"There's more'n one sheriff would pay a pretty price to get him safe,
eh?"
"Just what's your idea in telling _me_ all this, Carlisle; why don't
you tell what you know to Mannix, say?"
"Maybe I'm just teasing you along."
"Not a chance, Carlisle. I know your breed."
The other's face darkened, and his eyes glittered as he peered in
through the bars.
"What's _your_ breed?" he asked sneeringly.
"I don't have to tell you that, Carlisle. You _know_!" said Rathburn
with a taunting laugh.
Carlisle struggled with his anger for a brief spell. Then he shrugged
his shoulders.
"I ain't going to poke at you in a cage," he said in a more civil
tone; "an' I ain't going to tell anybody what I know. Remember that."
"I ain't the forgetting kind," Rathburn flung after him as he walked
swiftly away.
Again Rathburn sat on the edge of the bunk and smoked and thought.
After a time he went to sleep. The opening of his cell door woke him.
It was Mannix.
"Come to let me out, sheriff?" inquired Rathburn sleepily.
The deputy looked at him keenly, opened the cage, and motioned to him
to follow. Rathburn went with him out into the little office. It was
broad day. Mannix picked up a pistol from his desk and extended it to
Rathburn.
"Here's your gun, Rathburn. You can go," he said, pressing his lips
close together.
"Well, now, sheriff, that's right kind of you," Rathburn drawled,
concealing his astonishment.
"Don't thank me," snapped out Mannix. "This gentleman asked me to set
you loose."
For the first time Rathburn looked squarely at the other man in the
office--a thin man, with a cropped mustache, beady eyes, and a narrow
face.
The man was regarding him intently, and there seemed to be an amused
expression in his eyes. He turned away from Rathburn's gaze.
"I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure of meeting the gentleman,"
said Rathburn agreeably.
"That's George Sautee, manager of the Dixie Queen," said the deputy
with a shrug.