“Where is Mr. Kleig?”
“My ----!” grunted Chet. “Mister Kleig!”
“We dunno where he is,” replied Wooden-shoe.
“I see,” nodded Williams meaningly. “Perhaps you might be able to find
him later. At any rate--” He drew a bulky package from his pocket and
opened it--“I have drawn one thousand nine hundred and twenty dollars
against the NR estate to be paid to you four men for services rendered.
I shall have to entrust you with four hundred and eighty of it for Mr.
Kleig.”
Wheezer started to cuff his hat to one side of his head, but the blow
sent the sombrero spinning off the porch. Wooden-shoe sagged at the
waist and his hand went uncertainly to his mouth; while Chet merely
kicked himself on the ankle with his spurred heel.
Murtch tried to smile, but it faded quickly.
“Your year’s salary,” said Murtch thickly, and then seemed to have
difficulty clearing his throat.
“Yeah--year’s salary,” parroted Wheezer foolishly, as he watched
Williams separate the four payments.
“I have talked it over with Miss Cleveland,” said Williams, handing
them each the money and giving Leather’s share to Wheezer, “and we
decided to meet your claims. Perhaps it is hardly legal, but, under
the circumstances, and out of the goodness of her heart, she decided
to do this.”
“All I can say is ‘hurrah for our side!’ ” grunted Wooden-shoe. “My
gosh!”
He looked down at the money and his nose fairly quivered.
“Have you any plans?” asked Williams.
“Plans?” Chet looked up quickly. “My ----, yuh don’t need plans when
you’ve got a year’s salary in yore hand.”
“I’ll take her as she comes,” declared Wheezer, trying to be serious.
“You will be leaving this range soon?” Williams’ tone was suggestive as
well as interrogatory.
“Mebbe,” nodded Wheezer. “Yuh can’t sometimes always tell.”
“I had an idea that you’d leave as soon as you got that money.”
“Yeah?” Chet pocketed his money and grinned widely. “Cowboys, lemme at
that old roulette. I’m goin’ hawg wild and bull strong.”
“I’ve got the good system,” offered Wooden-shoe. “All yuh got to do----”
Murtch snorted disgustedly, and Wooden-shoe stopped.
“What’s a matter with you?” he demanded. “Ain’t a feller got a right to
have a system?”
“Didja find out who shot Hardy?” asked Wheezer, who wanted to promote
peace.
“Naw!” snarled Murtch. “But I’m goin’ to, by ----! And when I do, he’ll
hang!”
“I betcha,” nodded Wheezer. “You won’t even wait for judge nor jury,
Murtch. Right now yo’re mad at something, ain’tcha? You’ve got a
terrible disposition.”
Murtch snorted something unintelligible and stamped back to his horse,
but Williams went into the house, where he engaged in conversation with
Miss Cleveland. The three cowboys sat down on the steps and looked at
each other queerly.
It was more money than they had ever had--all at one time. They were not
entitled to it, that much was sure.
“I wonder if they’re goin’ to give Ma some money,” said Wheezer softly.
“I betcha that girl has done felt sorry for what she done. I hate to
take her money.”
“So do I,” nodded Chet. “Mebbe I’ll pay it back to her some day--mebbe.”
Williams came out and hesitated for a moment before he told them of the
inquest.
“I suppose you boys will have to be there to tell what you know about
it.”
“Yeah,” agreed Chet. “We’ll come early. Fact is, I reckon we’ll start
pretty soon. Yuh goin’ to have Miss Cleveland? She heard the shots
fired.”
Williams frowned slightly, but went back into the house for a few
minutes. When he came out he told them that Miss Cleveland would attend
the inquest.
“It will be a good chance for her to meet some of the Broken Butte
folks,” he added, and went to his horse.
Murtch did not speak to him, and they rode silently away from the ranch.
* * * * *
Williams and Murtch had hardly reached Broken Butte before Wheezer,
Chet and Wooden-shoe came in sight of town. Their future was a pink
haze of riotous living and their horses’ legs were not swift enough.
They pounded into town, barely took time to stable their horses and
headed for the Shoshone.
They were questioned regarding the shooting of Clay Hardy, which, under
ordinary circumstances, would have given them food for much conversation
and argument, but with four hundred and eighty dollars apiece--they were
tongue-tied.
Battler Morgan grinned widely and pointed at the ceiling, which meant
that there was no limit. Murtch looked into the Shoshone, groaned
bitterly, spat viciously and went away. Wheezer had put Leather’s money
into his boot, rather than to entrust it to any one.
It was nearly daylight the next morning when Chet and Wooden-shoe bumped
into each other at the doorway, as they were both going out.
“Whazza matter?” asked Chet owlishly. “Doorsh too li’l f’r you,
par’ner?”
“Thaz’ ri’,” clucked Wooden-shoe, hanging to a porch-post, which seemed
to sway him about. “Whazza m’r with you, eh? Shame y’shelf?”
“Broke,” dismally. “Money all gone and shomebody stole m’ rudder. Can’t
steer m’shelf.”
“Ep’demic,” hiccoughed Wooden-shoe. “Ter’ble ep’demic. Awful losh of
life. Blew m’ shubstanch in ri’tous livin’. Whazza use?”
“Poor li’l girl,” wailed Chet, suddenly becoming remorseful. “Lied her
out of for’shun. Shame m’shelf, y’betcha. Poo-o-or li’l girl.”
“Thash ri’,” sobbed Wooden-shoe, getting into the spirit of the
occasion. “Poo-o-o-or li’l girl. Oh, my gosh! Poo-o-o-or li’l thing!”
And together they sobbed tearfully, remorsefully, trying to pat each
other on the back at a distance of eight feet apart.
The cool air revived them somewhat and after a time they quit crying
and became dignified. There was a lighted lamp in Williams’ office.
Chet’s eyes focused upon it.
“Wooden-shoe,” he said seriously, “our lawyer is indushtrious. Works
night ’n day. Let’s go and shee him. What yuh shay? Mebbe we can think
of shomethin’ he ain’t paid for, eh?”
“Sh-sure,” stuttered Wooden-shoe. “Never can tell. We’ve had a nice
night f’r thish time of the year. You go ’head, Chet, ’cause you know
the way acrosh better’n I do.”
They started out in single-file, but cross-currents interfered, and at
times they were fifty feet apart.
They finally reached the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street,
but below Williams’ office.
“Mus’ ’a’ been cloud-bursht,” observed Wooden-shoe. “Never sheen the
river so swift before. Mus’ ’a’ had to git off and swim, don’tcha know
it. I’m all wet.”
“’S’nawful current right here,” admitted Chet thickly. “C’mon.”
They started up the street, bumping into the wooden sidewalk at
intervals, but managed to reach the corner of Williams’ office.
Wooden-shoe began to laugh hoarsely.
“’S’all right, Chet. I thought I fell in river, but ’s only a bottle of
hooch busted in m’ hip-pocket.”
Chet slid across the sidewalk and peered into the office window.
Williams was there, sitting at his desk, and just in front of the desk
stood a man, with his back toward the window. Wooden-shoe crawled over
and peered into the window.
Williams was hunched back in his chair, saying nothing, but the other
man was tensed forward, talking rapidly. As Chet’s eyes began to focus
properly he saw Murtch leaning against the wall, partly in the shadow,
and about six feet from the man who was talking.
The conversation was pitched too low for Chet or Wooden-shoe to hear
what was being said, but they knew that it was a heated argument.
Neither of the cowboys were eavesdroppers; so they crawled to the
corner, dropped their feet over the edge of the high sidewalk and sat
with their backs to the street.
“Whozat arguin’ in there?” asked Wooden-shoe.
“Tha’s Hollister, the crooked gambler.”
“Zasso? I wonder----”
Came the thud of a muffled shot, and the corner of the building,
against which Chet was leaning his shoulder, jarred slightly. At the
same instant the lamp went out.
Chet and Wooden-shoe promptly fell off the sidewalk and landed on their
hands and knees.
“Sh-h-h!” cautioned Chet, as they turned around and poked their heads
above the sidewalk. There was not a sound for a minute or so; and then
a door closed softly. It sounded like it might be the rear door of
Williams’ office.
Then the front door opened and Williams came out. He lighted a cigar,
surveyed the street for a few moments and walked slowly away.
“Whatcha think?” queried Wooden-shoe, poking his head above the level of
the sidewalk.
“Yes,” grunted Chet enigmatically. “Let’s go down to the livery-stable
and find a soft place to sleep.”
“But what was the shootin’ about?” persisted Wooden-shoe. “There was a
shot fired in there as sure as----”
“Tha’s none of my business--in my condition,” declared Chet. “C’mon and
sleep it off.”
* * * * *
The inquest had been fairly well advertised by word of mouth, and quite
a crowd gathered in Broken Butte. Clay Hardy was not popular. Had he
been killed in an open fight, or if his slayer was known, there would
have been little interest shown. But there was an element of mystery,
which always appeals.
Williams had sent a man out to the NR ranch after Miss Cleveland, and
he had brought Ma Coogan along. The inquest was to be held in Williams’
office, which was hardly large enough to accommodate a crowd.
Chairs had been brought from the Shoshone Saloon and placed in orderly
rows. Doctor Chisholm, with the able assistance of “Judge” Myers, a
justice of the peace, conducted the inquest.
Chet and Wooden-shoe slept late in the hay-loft of the livery-stable,
and were hardly in physical shape to enjoy the proceedings. Wheezer
had not slept, but his winnings amounted to seven hundred dollars and
he was vocally jubilant.
The three of them managed to worm themselves to a point of vantage near
the middle of the room, in spite of Murtch trying to keep them back. It
was hot in that packed room, and the three cowboys wished that they were
outside.
“Slim” Carey, proprietor of the stage-office, Gus Welch, a restaurant
keeper, Buck Harmon, owner of the Box-H, “Peewee” Sorenson, blacksmith,
Jud Reeves, owner of the livery-stable and King Cole, were chosen as a
coroner’s jury.
Wheezer Bell was the first witness, and he perspired copiously over
his explanation of what happened at the gateway of the NR ranch.
Murtch asked him where Leather Kleig was at that time, but Wheezer
did not know.
Murtch testified as to how he had taken possession of Clay Hardy’s body,
and that the three cowboys had stated that Clay had tried to bushwhack
some one.
“The bullet holes r-r-ranged downward,” stated Doctor Chisholm,
indicating the angle with a poke of a forefinger. “He was shot fr-r-rom
above.”
“Didn’t he have trouble with Kleig?” questioned Buck Harmon.
“Hol’ on!” snapped Chet. “If Leather had killed Hardy he wouldn’t ’a’
run away, y’betcha.”
“You’re not a witness, Wells,” advised Murtch.
“The ---- I’m not!”
“Order!” yelled the judge, hammering on the desk. “One more remark like
that and out you go.”
“Gimme a chance and I’ll go before that,” retorted Chet. “This danged
place would cook a ham.”
“He had trouble with Kleig,” said Murtch, ignoring Chet and speaking to
Harmon. “Kleig shoved a gun in his ribs----”
“Sa-a-ay!” interrupted Wheezer. “Where’s the jasper that Clay was
framin’ to shoot in that poker game?”
Murtch turned and spoke to the judge, who shook his head quickly. Murtch
turned back, saying--
“Kleig disappeared that night and----”
“I asked a lady-like question and can’t git no answer,” wailed Wheezer.
“Where’s that gambler?”
The judge rapped sharply again and glared at Wheezer.
“I told you once that I’d put----”
“Try doin’ it,” invited Wheezer. “I want to know where that gambler is.
He’s the jasper that knows.”
“Do we have to suffer all these interruptions from three drunken
cowpunchers?” asked Williams angrily.
“Who’s drunk?” demanded Wooden-shoe, and started to get up, but Wheezer
drew him back.
“Ar-r-re we goin’ to make this a place of hecklin’ and blatherin’, or do
we pr-r-roceed with the inquest?” burred the doctor impatiently.
“Are we sure that this shootin’ was done at the NR ranch?” asked Slim
Carey. Slim was very slow in his speech, which was partly muffled by a
huge chew of tobacco.
“Miss Cleveland heard the shots,” offered Williams.
Miss Cleveland nodded quickly and waited for him to question her, but
the jury seemed to take it as conclusive evidence. Every one in the
room endeavored to catch a glimpse of the new ranch-owner.
“Miss Jane Cleveland inherited the NR ranch from her uncle, Nick Ralls,”
explained Williams.
There was a shuffling of feet and several talked in undertones. Suddenly
a man came worming his way through the crowd. It was a cowboy from the
Box-H, and he was excited, as he called to Murtch.
“Sheriff, I found a dead man down in Cannonball Gulch! He’s been shot
and looks like he’d been dumped over the edge.”
Cannon-ball Gulch paralleled the stage-road, and was only about a mile
from Broken Butte.
“Who was he, Bud?” asked Harmon.
“I dunno him. Looks like a gambler t’ me.”
“That’s the feller!” exclaimed Wheezer. “Name’s Hollister, or somethin’
like that.”
Miss Cleveland had got to her feet and was staring at Wheezer, while she
grasped the back of the chair in front of her. The place was momentarily
in an uproar.
“That’s the feller that Hardy had the trouble with!” yelped Wheezer.
“I’ll betcha----”
“Don’t you go to bettin’ too much!” rasped Murtch, half-yelling his
words.
“Order!” yelled the judge. “Set down and shut up!”
Miss Cleveland ignored every one and forced her way to Wheezer.
“Say that name again,” she panted. “Was it Hollister?”
“Yeah--they called him Spade, ma’am.”
“Spade Hollister!”
The girl gasped out the name and stared at Williams. He had heard her,
and his cheeks went pale. His fishy eyes shifted quickly to Murtch.
There was so much conversation that only those vitally interested were
paying any attention to the girl.
The cowboy was explaining to those around him how he had accidentally
run across the body. It was not in a place where it would be easily
discovered. Chet got to his feet and put a hand on the girl’s arm, as
he looked at Murtch and Williams.
“Say, do yuh want me to tell yuh who killed that Hollister?”
Murtch jerked back, as if afraid, but hunched forward again, staring at
Chet. Williams grasped Murtch by the arm, trying to gain his attention,
but Murtch was waiting for Chet to speak again.
“What do you know about that murder?” asked Jud Reeves.
* * * * *
But before Chet could tell what he knew, there came a mutter of voices,
the shifting of feet, and in through the crowd came Leather Kleig and a
young woman. She was a stranger to Broken Butte.
Kleig was grinning. He stopped near the center of the room and glanced
around.
“Heard somebody say that I got here just in time,” Leather smiled
widely. Murtch and Williams were staring at him. He turned and looked
at Miss Cleveland, whose face was white.
“I reckon I got here in time,” continued Leather. “I didn’t know that
Clay Hardy was dead. Yuh see--” He glanced around the room--“I had an
idea that even a lawyer can make mistakes. Mister Williams I’d like to
have yuh meet Miss Jane Cleveland, the new owner of the NR ranch.”
Leather indicated the girl with him, and a gasp of surprize went up from
the crowd.
“What do you mean, Kleig?” Williams’ voice was hoarse with anger and
fear.
“What do I mean?”
Leather leaned forward. His smile was gone now, and the lines about his
eyes were drawn tightly.
“I mean that you picked the wrong girl, Williams. You helped the old
man make out his will, and you saw a chance to steal the ranch; so you
picked the wrong heiress. Murtch was in on the deal.”
“That’s a lie!” Murtch fairly screamed his denial.