"Sorry," said Lull as he rode up, "but I've got to put you under
arrest."
"Anything serious?"
"Yes, it is. A man was killed back there to-day."
"So you want my gun, of course. Here it is. Don't mention it. I've had
to hold strangers before now, myself."
"It isn't quite so vague as that--and I'm sorry, too," said Lull
awkwardly. "This man was killed in Redgate Canyon and you came through
there. I met you myself."
"Not that big red-headed chap I saw there?"
"That's the man."
"Hell, that's too bad. Acted like a good chap. He chinned with me a
while--caught up with me and gave me a letter to mail. Where do we
go--on or back? If you take me to the John Cross wagon to-morrow
they'll tell you I'm all right. Down on the river nobody seemed to
know where the wagon was. I'm Johnny Dines, Phillipsburg way.
T-Tumble-T brand."
"I've heard of you--no bad report either. You live on one county line
and I'm on the other. Well, here's hoping you get safe out of the
mess. It isn't pretty. We'll take you on to Hillsboro, I guess, now
we're this close. There's a lot more of us behind, waiting. Let's go
back and get them. Then we'll go on."
"Look now--if you're going on to Hillsboro, my horse has come a right
smart step to-day, and every little bit helps. Why don't you shoot a
few lines? They'll come a-snuffin' then, and we won't have to go
back."
Hobby nodded. He fired two shots.
"You ride a Bar Cross horse, I see."
"Yes. I'm the last hand." Johnny grinned. "Hark! I hear them coming.
Sounds creepy, don't it? They're fussed. Them two shots have got 'em
guessing--they're sure burning the breeze! Say, I'm going to slip
into my slicker. Storm is right on top of us. Getting mighty black
overhead. Twilight lasts pretty quick in this country."
Rain spattered in big drops. Wind-blown flare of stars and the last
smoky dusk and flickers of lightning made a thin greenish light.
Shadowy horsemen shaped furiously through the murk, became clear, and
reined beside them. Dines took one look at them and directed a
reproachful glance at his captor.
"I might not have handed over my gun so nice and easy if I had known
who was with you," he remarked pleasantly. A high spot of color flamed
to his cheek. "Just for that, you are going to lose the beauties of my
conversation from now on--by advice of counsel. While you are putting
on your slickers I merely wish to make a plain brief statement and
also to call attention to one of the many mercies which crowd about
us, and for which we are so ungrateful. Mercies first: Did you ever
notice how splendidly it has been arranged that one day follows
directly after another, instead of in between? And that maybe we're
sometimes often quite sorry some day for what we did or didn't do some
other day, or the reverse, as the case may be, or perhaps the
contrary? Now the statement: I know two of you men, and I don't like
those two; and for the others, I don't like the company they keep. So
now you can all go to hell, home or Hillsboro, and take me with you,
but I'll not entertain you, not if you was bored to death. I'm done
and dumb--till I tell it to the judge."
X
"When the high heart we magnify
And the sure vision celebrate,
And worship greatness passing by--
Ourselves are great."
--JOHN DRINKWATER.
Mr. George Gwinne sprawled at his graceless ease along two chairs; he
held a long-stemmed brier-wood pipe between his bearded lips and
puffed thoughtfully. The pipestem was long of necessity; with a short
stem Mr. Gwinne had certainly set that beard alight. It was a
magnificent beard, such as you may not see in these degenerate days.
Nor did you see many such in those degenerate days, for that matter.
It was long and thick and wide and all that a beard should be; it
reached from his two big ears to below the fifth rib. It was silky and
wavy and curly, and--alas for poor human nature!--it was kempt and
kept--an Assyrian beard. Yet Mr. George Gwinne was, of all the sons of
man, unlikeliest to be the victim of vanity. His beard was a dusty red
brown, the thick poll of hair on his big square head was dusky red
brown, lightly sprinkled with frost, his big eyes were reddish brown;
and Argive Helen might have envied his brows, perfect brows in any
other setting; merely comic here--no, no, "tragic" is the word, since
all else about the man was coarse of grain and fiber, uncouth and
repulsive.
His hands were big and awkward, and they swung from arms
disproportionately long; his feet were big and flat, his body was big
and gross, he was deep-chested and round-shouldered, his neck was a
bull's neck, his ears were big and red, his head was big and coarse
and square, his face was gnarled where it was not forested, his
chance-seen lips were big and coarse, his nose was a monstrous beak,
his voice was a hoarse deep rumble. And somewhere behind that rough
husk dwelt a knightly soul, kindly and tender and sensitive--one of
that glorious company, "who plotted to be worthy of the world."
He had friends--yes, and they held him high--but seeming and report
held him pachyderm, and they trod upon his heart. Only to a few have
time and chance shown a glimpse of the sad and lonely spirit behind
those tired eyes--and they have walked softlier all their days for it.
This is not his story; but there will be a heavy reckoning when George
Gwinne's account goes to audit.
Mr. Gwinne's gaze rested benignantly on a sleeping man; a young and
smallish man, very different from Mr. Gwinne in every respect,
sprightly and debonair, even in sleep, with careless grace in every
line of him, just as he had thrown himself upon the bunk. He had
removed hat and boots by way of preparation for bed, and his vest
served for a pillow. Long lashes lay on a cheek lightly tanned to
olive, but his upper forehead was startling white by contrast, where a
heavy hat had shaded it from burning suns. His hands were soft and
white; the gloved hands of a rider in his youth. The bunk, it may be
mentioned, was behind iron bars; Mr. Gwinne was chief deputy and
jailer, and the sleeper was Mr. Johnny Dines.
Mr. Gwinne tapped out his pipe and spoke huskily: "Young feller, get
up! Can't you hear the little birds singing their praises to--"
"Ur-rgh! Ugh! Ar-rumph-umph!" said Johnny, sitting up.
He started a little as his eyes fell on the bars. He pulled his
shoulders together. Recollection followed puzzlement on his yet
unguarded face; he passed his fingers through his tousled hair, making
further tanglement. He looked at the absurd gigantic figure beyond the
bars, and his eyes crinkled to smiling. Then his face took on an
expression of discontent. He eyed his bed with frank distaste.
"I say, old top--no offense, and all that, but look now--I've never
been in jail before. Is the establishment all scientific and
everything? No objectionable--er--creepers, you know?"
"Why, you impudent young whelp! Damn your hide, I sleep here myself.
If there's a grayback in my jail I'll eat your shirt. What in time do
you mean by it, hey? Pulling my leg? You'd a heap better be studying
about your silly neck, you young devil. Come out of that, now! Nine
o'clock, past. Wish I had your conscience. Ten hours' solid sleep and
still going strong."
"Gee, why didn't you wake me up? Are they going to hold my preliminary
trial this morning or wait till after dinner? I'm sort of interested
to see what indiscriminating evidence they've got."
"No trial to-day," said Gwinne gruffly. "Justice of the peace is up in
the hills beyond Kingston, doin' assessments. They've gone after him,
but they won't get back till late to-night."
"H'm!" Johnny rubbed his nose and looked searchingly at his
ridiculously small and shapely feet; he wriggled his toes. "And don't
I eat till His Honor gets back?" he inquired diffidently.
Gwinne rose heavily and shambled to the cell. "If I let you out to eat
breakfast with me like a white man--no pranks?"
"Nary prank," said Johnny.
"She goes," said Gwinne.
He unlocked the door. Johnny slipped on his high-heeled boots and
followed his jailer to the kitchen.
"Water and washpan over there," said Gwinne, and poked fresh wood in
the fire. "Ham and eggs this A. M." He rumbled a subterranean ditty:
_Ham-fat, ham-fat, smoking in the pan--
There's a mighty sight of muscle on a ham-fat man._
Johnny sent an amused glance up and down his warden's inches.
"You must have been raised on it, then."
"Hog and hominy. There's a comb and brush."
"Got a comb." Johnny fumbled comb and toothbrush from his vest, and
completed his toilet. "Haven't you had breakfast yet?"
"Naw. I hated to wake you up, you was hitting it off so regular. And
you're the only prisoner I got now. Court's just over and the sheriff
he's gone to Santa Fe with my only boarders. Lord only knows when
he'll get back," said Mr. Gwinne parenthetically. "Jim is a good
sheriff, a mighty good sheriff--but when he gets away from home he
sees life through a glass darkly. They had him in jail, last time. So
I thought we might as well be sociable."
"Oh! Then you're the party for me to jolly up when I want favors?"
"No," said Gwinne regretfully, "I'm not. The justice is gone, the
sheriff's gone, and the district judge is always gone except when
court sits here. But the prosecuting attorney--he serves for the whole
district, five counties, like the judge, you know--why, by bad luck,
he's right here, a-hoppin' and a-rarin'. So I'm under orders."
"Well, so am I. What are they? What can I do to help?" The ham sizzled
merrily. "Um-m!" said Johnny appreciatively.
"You might set the table. I'll do the cooking to-day. If so be
you get to be a star boarder you'll have to do your share of the
cooking--though I reckon they'll want me to keep you under key if
you're bound over. Come to think, this prosecuting person would likely
kick like a green bay horse if he knew I was lettin' you mill round
foot-loose. However, he don't know. How many eggs? Hard or soft?"
"Oh, about four--medium. We can always cook more if we have to. And
four pods of _chili_. But why has the prosecutor got it in for me? He
don't want to cinch me unless I'm guilty, does he?"
"It isn't that, exactly. You see, it has got out that you ride for the
Bar Cross. And the Bar Cross boys got Wade's goat, some way, down in
Cruces. I don't know what they did, but he's sure on the peck, and
here's where he stands to break even. Pour the coffee. Tin cow yonder
on the shelf."
"Oh, well--he may have a little fun coming to him," said Johnny
generously. "But let us hope, for his own sake, that he gives
me a fair shake when it comes to my trial. If the Bar Cross and
the John Cross aren't just satisfied they are capable of any
rudeness--abandoned ruffians! Say, I hope someone took care of
my Twilight horse."
"He's all right. I put him up with Otto Gans, myself. There, she's
ready. _Sientese!_" The jailer seated himself opposite the guest.
"No butter. You'll have to excuse me."
"Butter, hell. Whadya think I am--an incubator kid? Say, there's a few
old vets here in Hillsboro that used to know my dad--me, too, when I
was a little shaver, some of them. Spinal Maginnis, George Perrault,
Kayler, Nick Galles and Preisser. H'm, let me see--and Jake Blun,
Mabury and Page. Could you manage me a palaver with some one or two of
'em after breakfast?"
"Pleasure first, pain afterwards," growled Gwinne. "You eat a few
lines while I hold high discourse to you about the good and great.
District attorneys, now. Us being a territory thataway, district
attorneys are appointed by the President--allee same like our judges
and U. S. marshals and clerks of the court. All of 'em are appointed
for four years, the same being the President's term. Presidents being
so constituted by a wise and beneficent Providence, they appoint men
from states where said men and their friends, if any, vote for
President, and not from our humble midst. 'Cause why? We're not
allowed to vote. More coffee?"
Johnny held his cup. Gwinne took up his discourse.
"Also, and moreover, they appoint politicians. We will not pursue this
painful subject further except to add that, New Mexico being what and
where it is, these appointees, while they might be first-class men and
seldom were--they were always tenth-rate politicians. Because
politicians rated higher than tenth-rate demanded something better.
Yes. When Grover was in, they all came from Missouri, and they wasn't
so bad but what they might have been worse, with proper care. And now
they're all from darkest Injianny; a doubtful state. Something else,
too. Even when they was well-meaning--which often was guessable--why,
they're not our people. We have our little ways and they have their
own little ways, and they're not the same little ways; and they rule
us by their little ways. That's bad. To judge a man by the standards
of another time and place is prejudging, and that means oppression,
and oppression breeds riots in hell. That is how most trouble starts,
I reckon--not understanding, prejudging. Men don't naturally like to
press down. They'd a heap rather comfort and help--if they could just
see the way clear. Helping someone out of a tight is just about the
pleasantest thing a man can do. But these people Uncle Sam sends here
to manage us, they don't think our thoughts and they don't speak our
tongue. They ask for brick and we bring them mortar; they ask for
bread and we rock 'em to sleep. That's the way I look at it. Won't you
coincide with me?"
"Why, yes," said Johnny, "now that you mention it--I don't care if I
do."
The jailer eyed his captive with painful distrust. Then he sighed
heavily.
"Flippant and inattentive! A bad mark. Nine more demerits and you'll
be suspended." He rose and went to a closet and returned with a bottle
and glasses. "A long drop and a quick finish!"
"Wishing you the same!" said Johnny Dines. The glasses clinked
together.
"So you be advised and don't waive examination," resumed Gwinne. "Wade
will want you to do that. Don't you listen to Wade. You make your
fight to-morrow. Old Andy Hinkle, the J. P., he's a homespun. When
he hits a drill he hits her with all his carcass, from the ground up,
and when he goes a-judging, justice is what he wants. His habit and
disposition is real earnest and he mostly brings back what he goes
after. You could rake all hell with a fine-tooth comb and not find a
worse man to try you--if you killed Adam Forbes. If you did kill him
you're goin' to lose your shadow soon--and there's your fortune told,
right now."
"It is my thinking that I will make old bones yet, and tell tales in
the chimney corner. Now you sit back and smoke while I wash up," said
Johnny, gathering up the dishes. "I gotta ingratiate myself with you,
you know. Go on, now--tell us some more. And how about me having a
confidential with my friends?"
"That's just it. I was a-preparing of your mind, so you wouldn't be
disappointed too much. This prosecuting person, Wade--he done
instructed me not to let you see anyone except your lawyer."
"Lawyer, hell! What do I want of a lawyer?"
"Oh! Then you claim to be innocent, do you?" Gwinne's silken brows
arched in assumed astonishment.
"Well, I hope so!" said Johnny indignantly. "If I was claiming to be
guilty, why confab with my friends? Say, this is one raw deal if a
fellow can't get an even break."
"Wade claims you might frame up something. He was particularly anxious
the John Cross shouldn't hear of it until after your preliminary.
Undue influence and all that."
"Frame up my foot! I didn't kill that man and I reckon I can prove it
if I have any chance to know what evidence they're going to bring
against me." Again that angry spot glowed on the clear olive of his
cheek. "How can I study it over when I don't know what's happened or
what is said to have happened? I'll have to go to trial in the
dark--no chance to cipher on what's what, like I would if I had a
chance to thresh it out with my friends."
"Well," said Gwinne gently, "what's the matter with me?"
"So that's all?" said Gwinne, after Dines had told his story. "Sure of
it?"
"Absolutely. He rode up while I was branding my long-ear. He gave me a
letter to mail and gassed while he smoked a cig, and wandered back the
way he came, while I oozed away down the canyon. No more, no less. Said
he was prospecting, he did--or did he?" Johnny reflected; remembering
then that Forbes in giving him a letter to mail had mentioned location
notices. "Yes, he did."
With the words another memory came into his mind, of the trouble with
Jody Weir on day herd--about another letter, that was. This memory--so
Johnny assured himself--flashed up now because Weir was one of his
five accusers. No--there were only three accusers, as he understood it
from the talk of the night before; three accusers, five to arrest him.
Yet only one had come actually to make the arrest. Queer!
"Now," said Johnny, "it's your turn."
He curled a cigarette and listened. Early in the recital he rubbed his
nose to stimulate thought; but later developments caused him to
transfer that attention to his neck, which he stroked with caressing
solicitude. Once he interrupted.
"I never stole a calf in a bare open hillside, right beside a wagon
road, never in my whole life," he protested indignantly. "As an
experienced man, does that look reasonable to you?"
"No, it don't," said Gwinne. "But that's the story. Adam was found
close by your fire--shot in the back and dragged from the stirrup;
shot as he rode, so close up that his shirt took fire. And no one rode
in Redgate yesterday, but you, and those three, and Adam Forbes."
"Yes. That might very well be true," said Johnny.
"It is true. They wouldn't dare tell it that way if it wasn't true.
Tracks show for themselves. And they knew that good men would be
reading those tracks."
The prisoner rose and walked a little before he made answer. When he
spoke at last it was in a more serious tone.
"You see, I've got inside information. I know several things you
don't know, that give a different meaning to all this evidence and all
these tracks."
"Well," said Gwinne, "you need it. A horse's track leads from the dead
man to Garfield--a track that lacks one shoe."
"My horse had lost a shoe," said Johnny.
"Yes. You tacked one on him at Sam Gray's store. But that is not the
worst. The worst is that there are three of them and only one of you."
Johnny felt of his neck again, delicately. "By your tell there isn't
any man in the world to help out your bare word. If you have any fresh
dope, spill it."
"I happen to be in a position to state certainly, at first hand,
something which modifies the other evidence," said Dines slowly and
confidentially. "I happen to know positively that I didn't murder that
man. That's exclusive. You only hear me say it--but I know it. So you
mustn't be hurt if I'm not convinced. If the horse tracks say I'm the
killer--the tracks are wrong, that's all. Or wrongly read. You will be
best served if you either accept the full assurance of my guilt, and
so base your deductions on that, or else accept my innocence as sure,
and read sign with that in mind. It gets you nowhere to fit those
tracks to both theories. Such evidence will fit in with the truth to
the last splinter, like two broken pieces of one stick. It won't fit
exactly with any lie, not the cleverest; there'll be a crack here, a
splinter left over there, unaccountable. For instance, if my accusers
are right, the dead man's horse went down Redgate ahead of me; my
tracks will be on top of his wherever we took the same trail."
"Exactly. That's what they say. They might have been mistaken. It is
hard and stony ground."
"They may have been mistaken, yes. Someone else will see those tracks.
Now you listen close. Listen hard. If it turns out that Jody Weir and
his two pardners, coming down Redgate on a run to give the alarm, rode
over and rubbed out all tracks made by my horse and the dead man's
horse, wherever they crossed each other--then that's another mistake
they made. For when I left Forbes there were only two fresh tracks in
the canyon--tracks of two fresh-shod horses going up the canyon,
keeping to the road, and made yesterday. I'm sorry they didn't take me
back to Garfield. I would have liked a peek at those tracks myself."
"But it rained, and it rained hard."
Johnny felt of his neck again.
"She sure did," he agreed. "Started just as this man Lull picked me,
like fruit on the bough. I forgot that. Well, anyway, if this Garfield
place is half human, then a slew of men went up Redgate Canyon before
the rain. There must have been some live ones in the bunch."
"I wouldn't worry about that none if I was you," said the jailer. "I
know Garfield, and I know old Pete Harkey, and he was taking the lead.
If Adam's horse came down the canyon after you did, he'll know it. And
if your track and the other were carefully ridden out where they
crossed--why, old Pete will see that, too."
Johnny raised his hand. "That's what he will see! Hold that idea
tight--squeeze it! If I am innocent, those tracks were ridden out and
spoiled, till Adam Forbes' horse went one way and mine another."
"Well, then--Pete Harkey'll see that, too; he will think about it once
and twice. Don't you worry. Jerome Martin and Jim-Ike-Jones went
along, too, and old man Fenderson, maybe. They'll see. That's what
they're going for."
"Hearsay evidence is no good in court. So I'm going to prophesy in
writing--with you to witness and swear to the time of it--that all
tracks this side of the murdered man are muddled. That written
prophecy may not be evidence, but it will make the judge scratch his
head."
"As much as to say--"
"Exactly. Someone killed Adam Forbes. You don't want to forget that.
If it wasn't me--who was it? Well, let me tell you something. It was a
mean man. Now you keep still a little, while I think over the meanest
man I've seen lately."
Johnny rolled another smoke; and when it was alight he spoke again.
"Curious, when we come to think of it, but the meanest things a man
can do is what he does with his mouth. To kiss and tell, for instance;
betrayal under trust. We go to church and hear about the crucifixion.
We have no hatred for the hands that drove the nails or the soldier
who stood guard--scarcely for the fanatics who hounded the innocent to
a shameful death. Our loathing is for Judas Iscariot, who betrayed
with a kiss."
Gwinne eyed his captive benevolently.
"Good land of Goshen, son--what on earth has all this got to do with
the price of hemp?"
"Everything to do with it. Demand for hemp is going to fluctuate
violently if I can swing the deal I have in mind," replied Johnny,
with spirit. "I was just thinking about two traitors I know."
In a prolonged silence Mr. Gwinne rumpled his beard and refilled his
pipe.
"The two Garfield men and the other three did not seem to be agreeing
very well," he said at last. "Lull--he's the one who arrested you--he
went back to Garfield last night. Couldn't sleep, he said, and they'd
be wanting to know in Garfield. The other one, See, the least one, he
was round here soon this morning wanting to talk it up with you. He
was real feverish about the quarantine."
Johnny cocked his head impishly and looked sidelong at the jailer.
"Just what was the big idea for sending one man to arrest me?"
"They didn't say."
"And why were they all crosswise with each other, like jackstraws?"
"They didn't tell me that either."
"You're allowed three guesses."
Gwinne puffed unhurriedly at his pipe, and after some meditation
delivered himself of a leisurely statement between puffs.
"About a year ago, near as I can remember, this man Caney--Big Ed
Caney--deputy sheriff in Dona Ana--did you know that? Thought not.
Well, he went out beyond Hatch with a warrant for a fellow. He found
another man--old Mexican sheep herder--cut down on him with a rifle
and ordered him to throw 'em up. The old Mexican was scared or else he
remembered something, I don't know which; he was perfectly innocent of
this particular charge, whatever it was; they caught the other man
later. Anyhow the old gentleman made a dash for his gun--it was
leaning up against a tree not far away. And Caney killed him."
"So you think maybe Caney wanted to start something. Ambush, maybe? So
I'd go after my gun?"
"I don't know anything about what Caney wanted to do or didn't want to
do. All I know is--he didn't."
"And the Garfield boys wouldn't stand for it?" persisted Johnny.
"Lull and Charlie See won't stand for any crooked work--if it's them
you mean. Lull was the only Garfield man. Charlie See is from Dona
Ana, where they grow good and bad, same as they do here."
"Yes. I see. I know Jody and Toad Hales, myself. I met Lull and See
yesterday evenin', just out of Garfield. Say, Mr. Gwinne, could you
rustle me a razor?"
"I can too. Anything else on your mind?"
"Why, no. Only I wish I knew where the John Cross outfit is holding
forth, and when they are likely to get word about me being in a tight.
They may hear to-day, and it may be a week."
"They're up beyond Hermosa, somewhere at the head of Cuchillo Creek.
And I shouldn't much wonder if they heard about you to-day sometime."
Mr. Gwinne looked through the window at the visible wedge of
Hillsboro, wavy low hills and winding streets; looked with long and
lingering interest, and added irrelevantly: "I knew your father."
* * * * *
Late that afternoon a heavy knock came at the outer door of the jail.
Gwinne hustled his prisoner into a cell and answered the call.
He was greeted at the door by Aloys Preisser, the assayer, a
gay-hearted old Bavarian--the same for whom, in his youth, Preisser
Hill was named--and by Hobby Lull. Hobby's face was haggard and drawn;
there were dark circles under his eyes.
"We want to settle a bet," announced Hobby, "and we're leaving it
to you. I say that Robin Hood knocked out the Proud Sheriff of
Nottingham, and Preisser claims it was a draw. How about it?"
"Hood got the decision on points," said Gwinne soberly.
"There! What did I tell you, you old hunk of Limburger?" Hobby Lull
laid hands delicately upon his adversary's short gray beard and tugged
it with deferential gentleness. The unresisting head wagged sedately
to and fro. "Take that, you old bug hunter!" said Hobby, and stood
back, waiting.
The assayer became statuesque.
"You see, Mister Deputy? He has assauldt gommitted, and you a witness
are. With abusive language!"
"The wienerwurst is yet to come," observed Lull, in a voice sepulchral
and ominous.
"With threats also, and insults--abandoned ruffian! Desperate!
Catiline! Officer--do your duty! I make demand of you. Dake dot mon
into gustody!" Preisser's eyes were dancing as he fought down a grin.
Mr. Gwinne regarded the impassioned disputants with grave eyes.
"You are under arrest, Mr. Lull," he said with somber official
severity. "Can you give bail?"
"Not one red cent."
"Come in, then."
Lull followed through the door. Turning, he smiled back at the little
assayer. Preisser winked.
"I'll have to lock you up, you know," said Gwinne. "District attorney
particularly desired that no one should hold communication with Dines,
over yonder." He locked Lull in a cell; forgetfully leaving the key in
the lock. "Don't try to shout across to Dines, now," he warned. "I'll
hear you. Well, I'll be meanderin' along to the kitchen and starting
supper."
Hobby reached through the bars and turned the key. He went over to
Johnny's cell.
"Well, Dines, how goes it? You don't look much downhearted."
"I'm not," said Johnny. "I'm sorry about the dead man, of course. But
I didn't know him, and you can't expect me to feel like you do. I'm
right as rain--but I can't say as much for you. You look like you'd
been dragged through a knothole."
"No sleep. I went back to Garfield, made medicine, and hurried back
here. Seventy-five miles now, after a day's work and not much sleep
the night before. I thought you'd be having your prelim, you see, or
I'd have waited over. Didn't know that Judge Hinkle was out of town."
"Any news?"
"Yes," said Hobby, "there is."
He held out his hand. Johnny took it, through the bars.
"You don't think I killed your friend, then?"
"I know you didn't. But, man--we can't prove it. Not one scrap of
evidence to bring into court. Just a sensing and a hunch--against a
plain, straight, reasonable story, with three witnesses. You are It."
"Now you can't sometimes most always ever tell," said Johnny.
"Besides, you're tired out. Get you a chair and tell it to me. I've
been asleep. Also, you and I have had some few experiences not in
common before our trails crossed yesterday. I may do a little sensing
myself. Tell it to me."
"Well, after Caney's crowd told us Adam was killed in Redgate, Uncle
Pete and a bunch went up there hotfoot. They found everything just
about as Caney told it. There was your track, with one shoe gone, and
Adam's horse with the bridle dragging--till he broke it off--"
"And where those two tracks crossed," interrupted Johnny, "those
fellows had ridden over the trail till you couldn't tell which was on
top."
Hobby stared.
"How did you know that? Uncle Pete was all worked up over it. I never
heard him so powerful before, on any subject."
"You're tired out, so you can't see straight," said Johnny. "Also, I
know that when I came down Redgate there were no fresh tracks heading
this way. If those three men killed Forbes and want to saw it off on
me--then they confused that trail on purpose. If they didn't kill
Forbes, and muddled the tracks that way, they're half-wits. And
they're not half-wits. Go on."
"They found poor old Adam and your fire. They pushed on ahead to read
all the sign they could before dark. Up in the park there'd been a
heap of riding back and forth. Just at dark they found where a bunch
of cattle had been headed and had gone over the divide into Deadman
and gone on down. Then the rain came--and the rest is mud."
"Yes. It rained. There was a little low gap to the north from where I
branded my calf. If anybody had been there making tracks--those cattle
would blot 'em out." Johnny began to laugh. "Look, _amigo_--all this
dope seems fairly reasonable and nightmareish, turn about, as we see
it across thirty miles and twenty-four hours--but it is a safe guess
that some folks didn't sleep much last night. They know all about it,
and I reckon when they got to thinking it over it seemed to them like
the whole story was printed in letters a mile high. Scared? I guess
yes. I'd hate to trade places with 'em right now. And before it
rained--oh, mamma! I bet they was tickled to see that rain! Well, go
on. Proceed. Give us some more."
"The further I go the less you'll like it," said Lull. "Pete and
his hand-picked posse stayed up there and scattered out at daylight,
for general results. They found one of Adam's cows with a big
fresh-branded calf--branded yesterday. Dines, you're up against
it--hard! It's going to look black to any jury. That calf carried your
brand--T-Tumble-T!"
"'Hellfire and damnation--make my bed soon!'" said Johnny. "The boy
stood on the burning deck, With neither high nor low! The Sons of
Zeruiah!... Ho, warder! Pull up the drawstring! Let the portcrayon
fall! Melt down the largess, fling out the pendulum to the breeze, and
howl the battle cry of Dines!"
Hobby's gaunt features relaxed to a laugh.
"You silly ass! And the rope on your very neck! And what is the battle
cry of Dines, if I may ask?"
"Only two out!" said Johnny Dines. He flung up his head; his hawk's
face was beautiful.
"Good boy!" said Hobby Lull. "Good boy! You never shot Adam
Forbes--not in the back. You hold your mouth right. It isn't so bad,
Dines. I wanted to see how you'd take it. I know you now. There's more
to come. You live a long way from here, with roughs and the river
between. We've never seen any of your cattle. But we looked you up in
the brand book. Your earmark is sharp the right, underslope the left.
That yearling's ears are marked sharp the left, underslope the right.
"Yes. And I knew that without looking at the brand book," said Johnny.
"They've overplayed their hand. Any more?"
"One thing more. Nothing to put before a jury--but it fits with a
frame-up. This morning, Uncle Pete scouted round beyond where they
quit the trail at dark. He found locations where Weir and Caney and
Hales struck rich placer yesterday. A big thing--coarse gold. It was
natural enough that they didn't tell us. For that matter, they
mentioned prospecting along with their saddle-thieves' hunt. You
heard 'em tell Gwinne about the saddle thieves last night. But--Adam
Forbes was prospecting too. That's what he went up there for. Caney,
Weir and Hales--any one of them has just the face of a man to turn
lead into gold. There's a motive for you--a possible motive."
"More than possible. Let me think!" Johnny nursed his knee. He saw
again the cool dark windings of Redgate, the little branding fire, the
brushy pass low above him--where a foe might lurk--himself and Forbes,
clear outlined on the hillside, the letter Forbes had given him.
"H'm!" he said. "H'm! Exactly!" With a thoughtful face, he chanted a
merry little stave:
_The soapweed rules over the plain,
And the brakeman is lord of the train,
The prairie dog kneels
On the back of his heels,
Still patiently praying for rain._
"Say, Mr. Lull, isn't it a queer lay to have the county seat inland,
not on the railroad at all, like Hillsboro?"
"That's easy. Hillsboro was the county seat before there was any
railroad."
"Oh--that way? And how do you get your mail at Garfield? Does that
come from Hillsboro?"
"No. Hillsboro is the closest post office, but our mail goes to
Rincon. There's the river, you see, and no bridge. A letter takes two
days and a hundred miles to get from Garfield to Hillsboro--and it's
only twenty-five miles straight across in low water."
"I see," said Johnny.
Again he visioned the scene on the hillside, the fire, Adam Forbes,
the location papers he was to mail; he remembered Toad Hales and his
attempted betrayal of the horse camp guest; he remembered Jody Weir's
letter to Hillsboro, and how it was to be delivered. Jody Weir--and
the girl in Hillsboro post office--steady, Johnny--steady, boy! Even
so, Jody Weir could keep those location papers from reaching the
recorder!
The whole black business became clear and sure to him. And in that
same flaming moment he knew that he could not clear himself by shaming
this light lady--that he had never seen or known. To shield her fault
or folly, he must take his chance. He looked up and spread out his
hands.
"No go, Mr. Lull!" he said cheerfully. "Much obliged to you--and here
is gear enough for a cuckoo clock, but I can't make it tick. Surmise
and suspicion. Not one fact to lay hands on. Something may come out in
the trial, of course. Looks like both ends against the middle, don't
it? When dry weather keeps you poor and a rain hangs you? Tough luck!
Alas, poor Johnny! I knew him well!"
So far his iron fortunes had brought him--to the shadow of the
gallows. There, beset with death and shame, with neck and name on the
venture, he held his head high, and kept his honor spotless. Well
done, Johnny Dines! Well played, our side!
* * * * *
There is somewhat which must be said here. Doubtless it is bad
Art--whatever that means--but it is a thing to be done. It is charged
to me that I suppress certain sorry and unsavory truths when I put
remembered faces to paper--that I pick the best at their best, and
shield with silence their hours of shame and weakness--these men I
loved. Well--it is true. I take my own risk by that; but for them, it
is what they have deserved. It is what Johnny Dines did for Kitty
Seiber.
* * * * *
"Well, that's about all," said Hobby. "Uncle Pete is still skirmishing
round. Adam had a tame tank somewhere close by, and Pete thinks he may
find some more light on the case, there or somewheres else. If you
don't think of anything more I guess I'll go down to the Gans Hotel
and sleep a day or two. Nobody knows where See is. He may be
asleep--and then again he may be up to some devilment."
"From what I could hear a while ago," said Johnny, grinning hugely, "I
thought you were a prisoner."
"I am," said Hobby.
He went to a window at the end of the big hall and looked out.
Hillsboro is generously planned, and spreads luxuriously over more
hills than Rome. This is for two reasons: First, there was plenty of
room, no need to crowd; second, and with more of the causative
element, those hills were rich in mineral, and were dotted thick with
shaft and tunnel between the scattered homes.
Several shafts were near the jail. On the nearest one Mr. Preisser
diligently examined the ore dump. Hobby whistled. Mr. Preisser looked
up. Hobby waved his hat. Preisser waved back and started toward the
jail. Hobby returned to his cell and locked himself in. Mr. Preisser
thundered at the jail door.
"Well?" said Gwinne, answering the summons.
"I have been thinking about the criminal, Lull," said Mr. Preisser,
beaming. "Considering his tender years and that he is nod fully
gompetent and responsible mentally--I have decided nod to bress the
charge against him. You may let him go, now."
"Oh, very well," said Gwinne.
He went to the cell--without remark concerning the key in the
lock--and set the prisoner free. His face kept a heavy seriousness;
there was no twinkle in his eye. Assailant and victim went arm in arm
down the hill.
* * * * *
Mr. Charlie See came softly to Hillsboro jail through the velvet
night. He did not come the front way; he came over the hill after a
wearisome detour. He approached the building on the blind side,
cautiously as any cat, and crouched to listen in the shadow of the
wall. After a little he began a slow voyage of discovery. At the rear
of the building a broad shaft of light swept out across the hill. This
was the kitchen. See heard Gwinne's heavy tread, and the cheerful
splutterings of beefsteak. Then he heard a dog within; a dog that
scratched at the door with mutter and whine.
"Down, Diogenes!" growled Gwinne; and raised his voice in a roaring
chorus:
"_And he sunk her in the lonesome lowland low--
And he sunk her in the lowland sea!_"
Charlie retraced his steps to the corner and the friendly shadows. He
crept down the long blank side of the jail, pausing from time to time
to listen; hearing nothing. He turned the corner to the other end. A
dim light showed from an unwindowed grating. The investigator stood on
a slope and the window place was high. Reaching up at full stretch, he
seized the bars with both hands, stepped his foot on an uneven stone
of the foundation, and so pulled himself up to peer in--and found
himself nose to nose with Johnny Dines.
The prisoner regarded his visitor without surprise.
"Good evening," he observed politely.
"Good eve--Oh, hell! Say, I ought to bite your nose off--you and your
good evening! Look here, fellow--are you loose in there?"
"Oh, yes. But the outer door's locked."
"Well, by gracious, you'd better be getting to thunder out of this!
You haven't a chance. You're a gone goose. You ought to hear the talk
I've heard round town. They're going to hang you by the neck!"
"Well, why not--if I did that?" inquired Johnny, reasonably enough.
They spoke in subdued undertones.
"But I know damn well you didn't do it."
The rescuer spoke with some irritation; he was still startled. Johnny
shook his head thoughtfully.
"The evidence was pretty strong--what I heard of it, anyhow."
"I guess, by heck, I know a frame-up when I see it. Say, what the hell
are you talking about? You wild ass of the desert! Think I got nothing
to do but hang on here by my eyelashes and argue with you? One more
break like that and down goes your meat house--infernal fool! Listen!
There's a mining shaft right over here--windlass with a ratchet wheel
and a pawl. I can hook that windlass rope on these bars and yank 'em
out in a jiffy. If the bars are too stubborn I'll strain the rope
tight as ever I can and then pour water on it. That'll fetch 'em;
won't make much noise, either, I judge. Not now--your jailer man will
be calling you to supper in a minute. Maybe we'd better wait till he
goes to sleep--or will he lock you up? Fellow, what you want to do is
go. You can make Old Mexico to-morrow. I'll side you if you say so.
I've got nothing to keep me here."
"Now ain't that too bad--and I always wanted to go to Mexico, too,"
said Johnny wistfully. "But I reckon I can't make it this riffle. You
see, this old rooster has treated me pretty white--not locked me up,
and everything. I wouldn't like to take advantage of it. Come to think
of it, I told him I wouldn't."
"Well, say!" Charlie stopped, at loss for words. "I get your idea--but
man, they'll hang you!"
"I'm sorry for that, too," said Johnny regretfully. "But you see how
it is. I haven't any choice. Much obliged, just the same." Then his
face brightened. "Wait! Wait a minute. Let me think. Look now--if
Gwinne locks me up in a cell, bimeby--why, you might come round and
have another try, later on. That will be different."
"I'll go you once on that," returned the rescuer eagerly. "Which is
your cell?"
"Why, under the circumstances it wouldn't be just right to tell
you--would it, now?" said the prisoner, doubtfully. "I reckon you'll
have to project round and find that out for yourself."
"Huh!" snorted Charlie See.
"Of course if I make a get-away it looks bad--like admitting the
murder. On the other hand, if I'm hanged, my friends would always hate
it. So there we are. On the whole, I judge it would be best to go.
Say, Gwinne'll be calling me to chuck. Reckon I better beat him to it.
You run on, now, and roll your hoop. I'll be thinking it over.
G'night!"
His face disappeared from the embrasure. Charlie See retired
Indian-fashion to the nearest cover, straightened up, and wandered
discontentedly down the hill to Hillsboro's great white way.