A PUZZLE GAME
Dr. Andover, brisk and professionally cheerful, was telling Pete that
so far as he was concerned he could not do anything more for him,
except to advise him to be careful about lifting or straining--to take
it easy for at least a month--and to do no hard riding until the
incision was thoroughly healed. "You'll know when you are really fit,"
he said, smiling, "because your back will tell you better than I can.
You're a mighty fortunate young man!"
"You sure fixed me up fine, Doc. You was sayin' I could leave here
next week?"
"Yes, if you keep on improving--and I can't see why you should not.
And I don't have to tell you to thank Miss Gray for what she has done
for you. If it hadn't been for her, my boy, I doubt that you would be
here!"
"She sure is one jim-dandy nurse."
"She is more than that, young man." Andover cleared his throat.
"There's one little matter that I thought best not to mention until you
were--pretty well out of the woods. I suppose you know that the
authorities will want to--er--talk with you about that shooting
scrape--that chap that was found somewhere out in the desert. The
chief of detectives asked me the other day when you would be around
again."
"So, when I git out of here they're goin' to arrest me?"
"Well, frankly, you are under arrest now. I thought it best that you
should know it now. In a general way I gathered that the police
suspect you of having had a hand in the killing of that man who was
found near Sanborn."
"Well, they can wait till hell freezes afore I'll tell 'em," said Pete.
"And, meanwhile, you'll also have to--er--wait, I imagine. Have you
any friends who might--er--use their influence? I think you might get
out on bail. I can't say."
"Nope."
"Then the best thing that you can do is to tell a straight story and
hope that the authorities will believe you. Well, I've got to go. By
the way, how are you fixed financially? Just let me know if you want
anything?"
"Thanks, Doc. From what you say I reckon the county will be payin' my
board."
"I hope not. But you'll need some clothing and underwear--the things
you had on are--"
Pete nodded.
"Don't hesitate to ask me,"--and Andover rose. "Your
friend--er--Ewell--arranged for any little contingency that might
arise."
"Then I kin go most any time?" queried Pete.
"We'll see how you are feeling next week. Meanwhile keep out in the
sun--but wrap up well. Good-bye!"
Pete realized that to make a fresh start in life he would have to begin
at the bottom.
He had ever been inclined to look forward rather than backward--to put
each day's happenings behind him as mere incidents in his general
progress--and he began to realize that these happenings had accumulated
to a bulk that could not be ignored, if the fresh start that he
contemplated were to be made successfully. He recalled how he had felt
when he had squared himself with Roth for that six-gun. But the
surreptitious taking of the six-gun had been rather a mistake than a
deliberate intent to steal. And Pete tried to justify himself with the
thought that all his subsequent trouble had been the result of mistakes
due to conditions thrust upon him by a fate which had slowly driven him
to his present untenable position--that of a fugitive from the law,
without money and without friends. He came to the bitter conclusion
that his whole life had been a mistake--possibly not through his own
initiative, but a mistake nevertheless. He knew that his only course
was to retrace and untangle the snarl of events in which his feet were
snared. Accustomed to rely upon his own efforts--he had always been
able to make his living--he suddenly realized the potency of money;
that money could alleviate suffering, influence authority, command
freedom--at least temporary freedom--and even in some instances save
life itself.
Yet it was characteristic of Pete that he did not regret anything that
he had done, in a moral sense. He had made mistakes--and he would have
to pay for them--but only once. He would not make these mistakes
again. A man was a fool who deliberately rode his horse into the same
box cañon twice.
Pete wondered if his letter to Jim Bailey had been received and what
Bailey's answer would be. The letter must have reached Bailey by this
time. And then Pete thought of The Spider's note, advising him to call
at the Stockmen's Security; and of The Spider's peculiar insistence
that he do so--that Hodges would "use him square."
Pete wondered what it all signified. He knew that The Spider had money
deposited with the Stockmen's Security. The request had something to
do with money, without doubt. Perhaps The Spider had wished him to
attend to some matter of trust--for Pete was aware that The Spider had
trusted him, and had said so, almost with his last breath. But Pete
hesitated to become entangled further in The Spider's affairs. He did
not intend to make a second mistake of that kind.
Monday of the following week Pete was out on the veranda--listening to
little Ruth, a blue-eyed baby patient who as gravely explained the
mysteries of a wonderful puzzle game of pasteboard cows and horses and
a farmyard "most all cut to pieces," as Ruth said, when Doris stepped
from the hall doorway and, glancing about, finally discovered Pete in
the far corner of the veranda--deeply absorbed in searching for the
hind leg of a noble horse to which little Ruth had insisted upon
attaching the sedate and ignoble hind quarters of a maternal cow. So
intent were they upon their game that neither of them saw Doris as she
moved toward them, nodding brightly to many convalescents seated about
the veranda.
"Whoa!" said Pete, as Ruth disarranged the noble steed in her eagerness
to fit the bit of pasteboard Pete had handed to her. "Now, I reckon
he'll stand till we find that barn-door and the water-trough. Do you
reckon he wants a drink?"
"He looks very firsty," said Ruth.
"Mebby he's hungry, too,"--and Pete found the segment of a mechanically
correct haystack.
"No!" cried Ruth positively, taking the bit of haystack from Pete;
"wet's put some hay in his house."
"Then that there cow'll git it--and she's plumb fed up already."
"Den I give 'at 'ittle cow his breakfuss,"--and the solicitous Ruth
placed the section of haystack within easy reach of a wide-eyed and
slightly disjointed calf--evidently the offspring of the well-fed cow,
judging from the paint-markings of each.
But suddenly little Ruth's face lost its sunshine. Her mouth quivered.
Pete glanced up at her, his dark eyes questioning.
"There's lots more hay," he stammered, "for all of 'em."
"It hurted me," sobbed Ruth.
"Your foot?" Pete glanced down at the child's bandaged foot, and then
looked quickly away.
"Ess. It hurted me--and oo didn't hit it."
"I'll bet it was that doggone ole cow! Let's git her out of this here
corral and turn her loose!" Pete shuffled the cow into a disjointed
heap. "Now she's turned loose--and she won't come back."
Ruth ceased sobbing and turned to gaze at Doris, who patted her head
and smiled. "We was--stockin' up our ranch," Pete explained almost
apologetically. "Ruth and me is pardners."
Doris gazed at Pete, her gray eyes warm with a peculiar light. "It's
awfully nice of you to amuse Ruth."
"Amuse her! My Gosh! Miss Gray, she's doin' the amusin'! When we're
visitin' like this, I plumb forgit--everything."
"Here's a letter for you," said Doris. "I thought that perhaps you
might want to have it as soon as possible."
"Thanks, Miss Gray. I reckon it's from Jim Bailey. I--" Pete tore off
the end of the envelope with trembling fingers. Little Ruth watched
him curiously. Doris had turned away and was looking out across the
city. A tiny hand tugged at her sleeve. "Make Pete play wif me," said
Ruth. "My cow's all broke."
Pete glanced up, slowly slid the unread letter back into the envelope
and tucked it into his shirt. "You bet we'll find that cow if we have
to comb every draw on the ranch! Hello, pardner! Here's her ole head.
She was sure enough investigatin' that there haystack."
Doris turned away. There was a tense throbbing in her throat as she
moved back to the doorway. Despite herself she glanced back for an
instant. The dark head and the golden head were together over the
wonderful puzzle picture. Just why Pete should look up then could
hardly be explained by either himself or Doris. He waved his hand
boyishly. Doris turned and walked rapidly down the hallway. Her
emotion irritated her. Why should she feel so absolutely silly and
sentimental because a patient, who really meant nothing to her aside
from her profession, should choose to play puzzle picture with a
crippled child, that he might forget for a while his very identity and
those terrible happenings? Had he not said so? And yet he had put
aside the letter that might mean much to him, that he might make Little
Ruth forget her pain in searching for a dismembered pasteboard cow.
Doris glanced in as she passed Pete's room. Two men were standing
there, expressing in their impatient attitudes that they had expected
to find some one in the room. She knew who they were--men from the
police station--for she had seen them before.
"You were looking for Mr. Annersley?" she asked.
"Yes, mam. We got a little business--"
"He's out on the veranda, playing puzzle picture with a little girl
patient."
"Well, we got a puzzle picture for him--" began one of the men, but
Doris, her eyes flashing, interrupted him.
"Dr. Andover left word that he does not want Mr. Annersley to see
visitors without his permission."
"Reckon we can see him, miss. I had a talk with Doc Andover."
"Then let me call Mr. Annersley, please. There are so many--patients
out there."
"All right, miss."
Doris took Pete's place as she told him. Little Ruth entered a
demurrer, although she liked Doris. "Pete knew all about forces and
cows. He must come wight back . . ."
"What a beautiful bossy!" said Doris as Ruth rearranged the slightly
disjointed cow.
"Dat a _cow_," said Ruth positively. "Pete says dat a _cow_!"
"And what a wonderful pony!"
"Dat a _force_, Miss Dowis. Pete say dat a force."
It was evident to Doris that Pete was an authority, not without honor
in his own country, and an authority not to be questioned, for Ruth
gravely informed Doris that Pete could "wide" and "wope" and knew
everything about "forces" and "cows."
Meanwhile Pete, seated on the edge of his cot, was telling the
plain-clothes men that he was willing to go with them whenever they
were ready, stipulating, however, that he wanted to visit the
Stockmen's Security and Savings Bank first, and as soon as possible.
Incidentally he stubbornly refused to admit that he had anything to do
with the killing of Brent, whom the sheriff of Sanborn had finally
identified as the aforetime foreman of the Olla.
"There's nothing personal about this, young fella," said one of the men
as Pete's dark eyes blinked somberly. "It's our business, that's all."
"And it's a dam' crawlin' business," asserted Pete. "You couldn't even
let The Spider cross over peaceful."
"I reckon he earned all he got," said one of the men.
"Mebby. But it took three fast guns to git him--and he put _them_ out
of business first. I'd 'a' liked to seen some of you rubber-heeled
heifers tryin' to put the irons on him."
"That kind of talk won't do you no good when you're on the stand, young
fella. It ain't likely that Sam Brent was your first job. Your record
reads pretty strong for a kid."
"Meanin' Gary? Well, about Gary"--Pete fumbled in his shirt. "I got a
letter here" . . . He studied the closely written sheet for a few
seconds, then his face cleared. "Jest run your eye over that. It's
from Jim Bailey, who used to be my fo'man on the Concho."
The officers read the letter, one gazing over the other's shoulder,
"Who's this Jim Bailey, anyhow?"
"He's a white man--fo'man of the Concho, and my boss, onct."
"Well, you're lucky if what he says is so. But that don't square you
with the other deal."
"There's only one man that could do that," said Pete. "And I reckon he
ain't ridin' where you could git him."
"That's all right, Annersley. But even if you didn't get Brent, you
were on that job. You were running with a tough bunch."
"Who's got my gun?" queried Pete abruptly.
"It's over to the station with the rest of your stuff."
"Well, it wa'n't a forty-five that put Brent out of business. My gun
is."
"You can tell that to the sheriff of Sanborn County. And you'll have a
hard time proving that you never packed any other gun."
"You say it's the sheriff of Sanborn County that'll be wantin' to know?"
"Yes. We're holding you for him."
"That's different. I reckon I kin talk to _him_."
"Well, you'll get a chance. He's in town---waiting to take you over to
Sanborn."
"I sure would like to have a talk with him," said Pete. "Would you
mind tellin' him that?"
"Why--no. We'll tell him."
"'Cause I aim to take a little walk this afternoon," asserted Pete,
"and mebby he'd kind o' like to keep me comp'ny."
"You'll have company--if you take a walk," said one of the detectives
significantly.