"For him--exercise--any old thing you like, that is, if it ain't a
private party."
"You can sit in if you want to," said Billy slowly, more glad to accept
an ally than he cared to admit. "But you've got a job."
"The job can wait. Round up's over, so it won't hurt the ranch to lose
my valuable services for a spell. To-morrow we go to Marquis, huh?"
By mid-afternoon the following day Billy Wingo was riding into Marquis
from one direction and Dawson was riding in from another. As apparent
strangers they believed they could do better work. Before six o'clock
Billy had judiciously canvassed every saloon in the place and had
learned absolutely nothing. Either Slike had not entered Marquis, or
else he was wearing a disguise. In the twilight, in the brush beyond
the far-flung skirmishline of empty tin cans and bottles that surrounds
every cow-country town, he met his friend Dawson. The latter had
worked the stores and the dance hall, but he had nothing to report.
The following day Billy journeyed by the one road to Dorothy, while
Dawson traveled by a more circuitous route that would take him past two
ranch houses where there might be information to be picked up. Billy
Wingo, without pushing his horse, reached Dorothy too late for the
regular dinner at the hotel. Adjoining the Carnation Saloon was a
two-by-four restaurant. He entered the place, sat down at the
oilcloth-covered table and gave his order to the good-looking young
woman who was evidently cook, hasher and washer combined.
In one corner of the restaurant an eight-year-old girl was squatting on
the floor and bathing two wooden dollies in a tin wash-basin. A small
dog waggled in from the street, sniffed respectfully at Billy's boots,
then hunted along a crack in the floor with his nose till he came
within reach of the eight-year-old, who promptly seized him by his
short tail and dragged him, ki-yiing his protests, to her bosom.
"You need a bath," said the eight-year-old. "I'll wash you."
Gripping her victim firmly by one ear and his tail she plumped him
splash into the washbasin. To the dog's eternal credit he made no
attempt to bite her, but he wriggled and squirmed and threw his body
about, and ever he lamented loudly.
The good-looking young woman poked her head in from the kitchen.
"Winnie, you leave Towler be. You know he doesn't like to be teased.
Why don't you go on giving Emmaline and Sally Jane their baths. There!
Now, see what's happened--basin upset and water all over the floor.
That's the third time to-day I've had to mop up after you."
Little Winnie was a damsel of parts. "I'm sorry, auntie. I'll mop up.
Towler, you git."
Towler got. Winnie began to sop up the water with a floor rag which
she wrung out in the washbasin.
"I'll finish giving you your bath, Sally Jane, soon as I get fresh
water. Emmaline is nice and clean, but you're a dirty, dirty girl,
Sally Jane."
Sally Jane! There it was again. Merely a coincidence, of course, but
it was odd to run across this combination of proper names. Billy began
to take more than a passing interest in the eight-year-old.
The little girl resumed her animated monologue. "I tell you what,
Sally Jane, if you don't keep yourself cleaner, I'm gonna go back to
calling you Maria again."
Then it was that the hunch came to Billy Wingo.
"Winnie," he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and
wearing his most engaging smile, "Winnie, that Sally Jane dolly is sure
one fine-looking lady."
Winnie regarded him with an indulgent eye. "She's my favorite, Sally
Jane is."
"Sally Jane is a pretty name too."
"I like it."
"You haven't always called her Sally Jane, have you?"
"Not always. I used to call her Mariar. My auntie says Mariar sounds
like a cat talking, but I liked it till I heard Sally Jane, then I
liked Sally Jane best."
"And when did you hear the name Sally Jane?"
"Long, long ago."
"Oh!" Disappointment on the part of Billy Wingo. Farewell, hunch.
Nevertheless he essayed a forlorn hope. "How long?"
"Most a week."
Most a week! Billy had forgotten that child-time runs faster than
grown-up time. The hunch pricked up its little ears and began to
return. "Where did you hear that name?"
"Man in the Carnation. He was drunk, and he went round talking to God
in the saloon. I heard him through the window. Lots of men do that.
My Auntie says they'll frizzle when they die."
"They ought to," pronounced the righteously indignant Bill. "Did this
man say anything, about Sally Jane?"
"Lots."
"In the saloon?"
"At the woodpile out back. I was making a li'l doll-house behind it,
and he came and lay down beside the woodpile to sleep it off."
Oh, the wisdom of the frontier child.
"Weren't you afraid?" probed Billy.
"Nah. Why, you needn't ever be afraid of a drunk man. They can't hurt
you if you keep out of their way. I've seen lots of drunk men, I have,
in my time."
Billy was somewhat overwhelmed. "That's fine," he said lamely. "Did
you run away when the drunk man came out to the woodpile to sleep it
off?"
"Nah. Ain't I said I ain't scared of drunks? I didn't run away. I
stayed right there on the other side of the woodpile listening to the
drunk man."
"I thought you said he went to sleep."
"He talked in his sleep," patiently explained the amazing Winnie.
"What did he say?"
"Lots."
"Did he say anything about Sally Jane?"
"He said he loved her."
"Anything else?"
"He said he was gonna marry Sally Jane, by Gawd, and nobody else was
gonna do it but him."
"Did he talk about any men?"
"He talked about Bill."
"Bill who?"
"Bill Wingo."
"Now, we're gettin' there. Did he say anything particular about Bill
Wingo?"
"He said he was gonna shoot him."
"What for?"
"For being sheriff, or something. I don't remember that exactly."
"You've remembered enough. What kind of a looking man was this drunk?"
"Oh, he was an old, old man."
"Old, huh? How old?"
"Oh, about your age."
Billy began to feel like Methuselah. "What did he look like in the
face?"
The winsome Winnie looked at him critically. "Something like you in
the face. Sort of scrubby-looking and dirty--except maybe his whiskers
wasn't so long as yours."
"What color were the whiskers?"
"Oh, black."
"Was his hair black?"
"Yop, his hair was black."
"Was he a li'l, short, runty feller?"
"Nope, he was a big, tall feller, skinny sort of."
"Did you hear his name?"
"His friend called him Damn-your-soul sometimes and Jack sometimes."
So Jack Murray had gathered unto himself a friend. This was
interesting, especially as Jack was apparently still cherishing plans
for revenge. If Jack and the anonymous friend were in the vicinity of
Dorothy, it behooved a man in Billy's position to look to himself.
Billy had no illusions about Jack Murray. The man was perfectly
capable of making another try at him from ambush. He did not believe
that Jack would "snitch." Such procedure would indubitably attract too
much public attention to Jack. He couldn't afford that. Not with
three thousand dollars on his head.
"Is the drunk with the black hair and whiskers around town?" he asked.
"They ate dinner here yesterday."
"They--oh, he and his friend?"
"Yep, him and his friend."
Billy got up and went to the door of the kitchen. "Excuse me, ma'am,
do you remember a tall, black-haired feller and a friend with him who
ate in here yesterday noon?"
Oh, yes, the good-looking girl remembered perfectly both men. Billy
thought that it would be as well to have a description of the friend.
Would she describe him. She would and did. The description was that
of Slike, Slike with a short beard. The man's eyes, she said, seemed
to bore right through her. They gave her the creeps.
Billy believed he had heard enough for the time being.
After dinner Billy went up and down Main Street, scraping acquaintance
with storekeepers, saloon keepers, the hotel proprietor and the town
marshall. By five o'clock he had established the fact that two ranches
of the neighborhood, the TU and the Horseshoe were at loggerheads, and
that the Horseshoe was hiring gunfighters; that the black-haired man
called Jack and his friend, whose name no one knew, had been engaged in
conversation with the Horseshoe foreman; that the following day they
had told a bartender that they had offers of good jobs at one hundred a
month apiece; and that finally, a wolfer had met them on the range
riding in the direction of the Horseshoe ranch.
That night Billy and Dawson disappeared from Dorothy.