The Project Gutenberg eBook ofBluffer's luckThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Bluffer's luckAuthor: W. C. TuttleRelease date: April 3, 2023 [eBook #70449]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1937Credits: Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLUFFER'S LUCK ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Bluffer's luckAuthor: W. C. TuttleRelease date: April 3, 2023 [eBook #70449]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1937Credits: Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Title: Bluffer's luck
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: April 3, 2023 [eBook #70449]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1937
Credits: Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLUFFER'S LUCK ***
BLUFFER’S LUCK
BOOKS BY W. C. TUTTLETumbling River RangeHashknife of Stormy RiverThe Santa Dolores StageThicker than WaterThe Morgan TrailThe Redhead from Sun DogThe Valley of Twisted TrailsMystery at the JHC RanchThe Silver Bar MysteryRifled GoldHenry the SheriffHashknife of the Double Bar 8Bluffer’s LuckThe Keeper of Red Horse PassWandering DogiesWild Horse ValleyThe Medicine-ManSinging RiverGhost TrailsShotgun GoldThe Dead-LineThe Tin God of Twisted RiverThe Mystery of the Red TriangleThe Valley of Vanishing Herds
BOOKS BY W. C. TUTTLE
Tumbling River RangeHashknife of Stormy RiverThe Santa Dolores StageThicker than WaterThe Morgan TrailThe Redhead from Sun DogThe Valley of Twisted TrailsMystery at the JHC RanchThe Silver Bar MysteryRifled GoldHenry the SheriffHashknife of the Double Bar 8Bluffer’s LuckThe Keeper of Red Horse PassWandering DogiesWild Horse ValleyThe Medicine-ManSinging RiverGhost TrailsShotgun GoldThe Dead-LineThe Tin God of Twisted RiverThe Mystery of the Red TriangleThe Valley of Vanishing Herds
Tumbling River RangeHashknife of Stormy RiverThe Santa Dolores StageThicker than WaterThe Morgan TrailThe Redhead from Sun DogThe Valley of Twisted TrailsMystery at the JHC RanchThe Silver Bar MysteryRifled GoldHenry the SheriffHashknife of the Double Bar 8Bluffer’s LuckThe Keeper of Red Horse PassWandering DogiesWild Horse ValleyThe Medicine-ManSinging RiverGhost TrailsShotgun GoldThe Dead-LineThe Tin God of Twisted RiverThe Mystery of the Red TriangleThe Valley of Vanishing Herds
Tumbling River RangeHashknife of Stormy RiverThe Santa Dolores StageThicker than WaterThe Morgan TrailThe Redhead from Sun DogThe Valley of Twisted TrailsMystery at the JHC RanchThe Silver Bar MysteryRifled GoldHenry the SheriffHashknife of the Double Bar 8Bluffer’s LuckThe Keeper of Red Horse PassWandering DogiesWild Horse ValleyThe Medicine-ManSinging RiverGhost TrailsShotgun GoldThe Dead-LineThe Tin God of Twisted RiverThe Mystery of the Red TriangleThe Valley of Vanishing Herds
Tumbling River Range
Hashknife of Stormy River
The Santa Dolores Stage
Thicker than Water
The Morgan Trail
The Redhead from Sun Dog
The Valley of Twisted Trails
Mystery at the JHC Ranch
The Silver Bar Mystery
Rifled Gold
Henry the Sheriff
Hashknife of the Double Bar 8
Bluffer’s Luck
The Keeper of Red Horse Pass
Wandering Dogies
Wild Horse Valley
The Medicine-Man
Singing River
Ghost Trails
Shotgun Gold
The Dead-Line
The Tin God of Twisted River
The Mystery of the Red Triangle
The Valley of Vanishing Herds
BLUFFER’S LUCKBYW. C. TUTTLEBOSTON AND NEW YORKHOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANYPRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
BLUFFER’S LUCK
BY
W. C. TUTTLE
BOSTON AND NEW YORKHOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
CONTENTSIUP AGAINST ITIILEN AYRES RETURNSIIITHE MASQUERADING HEIRESSIVTHREATSVOWNER OF THE BOX SVIREPUTATIONSVIIA WARNINGVIIIVISITORSIXA RUINED RANCHXSTRANGERS IN LOBO WELLSXIATTEMPTED MURDERXIIFREE LANCES OF THE RANGEXIIISHOTS IN THE NIGHTXIVAFTERMATHXVAN UNKNOWN BUSHWHACKERXVIBAGGS PULLS STRINGSXVIIMYSTERYXVIIISHREWD QUESTIONSXIXLEFT FOR DEADXXTHE SHERIFF COMESXXIAN ULTIMATUMXXIISOMETHING WRONGXXIIIBAGGS TAKES CHARGEXXIVEVICTEDXXVHASHKNIFE DOES SOME TALKINGXXVIA TALL BLUFF
Fog and rain, with the spluttering arclights shining like moons out of the drizzle and a mist; the rattle of wheels on cobbles, soughing of fog-horns down on San Francisco Bay; the far-off din of a cable car gong, and always the dismal patter of rain along the gutter.
A girl stopped at the entrance of a cheap boarding house, where a single electric bulb partly illuminated the faded sign. Her faded old raincoat glistened in the light, and her cheap felt hat leaked drops of water as she glanced up at the sign.
It was not because she was unfamiliar with that sign. Nan Whitlock had passed under it several times a day for a number of months, because it was her home. That is, it was the only home she had, and just now she was wondering how much longer she could call it home.
After a short period of reflection she went inside, passed the dining-room door and started up the stairs. Beneath the raincoat was a small parcel, and she quickly slipped it farther out of sight as a step sounded on the stairs above her.
It was Mrs. Emmett, the landlady, a short, chubby sort of woman, but with features prematurely hardened from forcing payments. Just now she narrowed her eyes and glanced upon Nan Whitlock as she partly blocked the stairs.
“I was just at your room, Miss Whitlock,” she said. “Unless you and Miss Allan pay for that room before breakfast to-morrow, I’ve a new inhabitant for the same.”
“Was—was Miss Allan there?” faltered Nan.
“She was not. I’m tired of promises, and I just heard that Miss Allan’s show closes to-morrow night.”
“Yes, I know that,” said Nan meekly.
“Oh, ye do? And I suppose I was to be left holding the sack, as they say, eh? Well, I’m not. I’ve had her trunk put in storage to-day, and she’ll not get it until the rent is all paid.”
“Oh, I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Emmett.”
“She’ll be sorry, too, I’m thinking. Oh, I don’t mean to be cross about it, but business is business. If I have to, I’ll attach your wages, my dear. With a fly-by-night like Madge Allan, all I can do is take her trunk. You tell her, will ye? And, of course, that means both of ye get out, unless the money is paid. Her with her fine clothes and fur coats, and a taxi at the door almost every night! And she can’t pay twenty dollars rent! Well, you two think it over, my dear. Unless I miss my guess, I’ll have a vacancy after breakfast.”
She stepped aside and walked grandly down the stairs, while Nan hurried on to her room, where she lighted the gas jets, threw off her wet coat and sat down rather heavily. Nan was not pretty, but she had an oval face, wistful gray eyes, and a wealth of wavy auburn hair. Twenty-two her last birthday, and out of a job again.
“Attach my wages,” she said, half aloud. “Fine chance. With it all in my pocket.”
The steam in the radiators clanked furiously for a moment. Nan got to her feet, took a pair of old slippers from under the bed and removed her wet shoes.
Then from a locked drawer in the dresser she took a gas plate, with a long hose, which she attached to one of the gas jets. From the parcel she had carried she produced hamburger steak. From another locked drawer she took a frying-pan, a small coffee-pot, and a box which contained bread, butter, eggs and coffee.
On the wall was a printed warning that the management positively did not allow cooking in the rooms. Nan hung her wet hat over the top of it and proceeded with her cooking. The room was full of the savoury odours when Madge Allan came in. She slammed the door quickly behind her and grinned at Nan.
Madge Allan was a different type than Nan Whitlock. Madge was a tall, willowy blonde, affecting much rouge, flashily dressed. Just now her face was streaked with rain, and her Hudson seal coat looked rather bedraggled.
“Well, I dodged her,” she said triumphantly. “Stood out there in the rain until the noblest Roman of them all went to the kitchen to take a fall out of the cook for using too much shortening in the pie crust, and then I took them stairs four at a time. Hamburger and onions! My Gawd, honey, don’t you ever lose your appetite for dainties like that?”
Nan shrugged her shoulders.
“No dodging it now,” she said rather bitterly. “Lost my job to-day. Cutting down the force, they said. They’ll pay a dividend on what they’ll save on my salary, I suppose.”
“Aw, gee, that’s tough!” Madge flapped her hands dismally against her wet coat. “Canned in the winter, like a—a—what do they can in the winter, Nan? Pshaw, that’s too bad. And my show closes to-morrow night.”
She came over closer to Nan and put a hand on her shoulder affectionately.
“Don’t you worry, kid, I like you a lot, because you never ask questions. One of these days I’m going to fall into some money, and when I do, we’ll—well, you wait. Oh, it won’t be long. Nope, I don’t crave hamburger. Jack Pollock is taking me out to the Cliff House for dinner to-night if I can get out of here without giving up my coat to the landlady.”
“She’s taken your trunk, Madge.”
“My trunk!” Madge whirled around and looked at the corner of the room, where her trunk had been. Her lips tightened and her eyes flashed with anger.
“She told me about it on the stairs,” said Nan slowly. “I haven’t even a trunk for her to take; so she’ll probably put me in jail.”
Madge shook her head quickly.
“No, she won’t. I’ll make Jack give me enough to pay up the rent. He’s a good scout, and he’s got plenty. Anyway, he can advance me that much and he’s gambler enough to take a chance.”
“Advance you that much?” queried Nan. “Are you going to work for Jack Pollock, Madge?”
“Not the way you think. I’d be a poor stick in his gambling house. No, it’s just a private deal, kid. Well, I’ve got to meet Jack right away, and as long as Mrs. Julius Cæsar has the trunk, I won’t mind if she does meet me now. But it might not be so good for her. Now, don’t worry, kid. This is just one evening, and to-morrow is another day. Forget the job and enjoy the hamburger. Lock the door behind me, because if that old battle-axe ever gets a whiff of that aroma, she’ll send for the fire department.”
Nan laughed and locked the door behind her. She was fond of the breezy Madge, and Madge was fond of her. They had met several months before, when both of them were looking for a rooming house.
Nan was an orphan, raised by an aunt in Portland, Oregon, who died leaving nothing but debts, but luckily she had lived long enough to give Nan a good home and to educate her. Nan had tried clerking, but the wages were too small, and her last venture had been as a stenographer in a broker’s office. Now this position had vanished, and all the money she owned was in her pocket-book, and that hardly sufficient to square up her room rent.
As she ate her home-cooked meal she wondered what Madge had meant about falling into money. In discussing their affairs, Madge had said that she didn’t have a relative who wasn’t poorer than the proverbial church mouse.
Nan did not care for the sleek Jack Pollock, a gambler, although he had always seemed decent enough.
She washed her dishes and put everything away neatly. There was still an aroma of cooked foods when the landlady knocked softly on the door.
“I have a letter here for Madge Allan,” she said, when Nan cautiously opened the door a few inches. “She said something about getting money from home, and this letter might just be the one she’ll be looking for.”
The last was rather sarcastic as she handed the letter to Nan, sniffing at the hamburger-tainted atmosphere.
“That’s queer,” she said. “I’d almost swear that ain’t no odour from my kitchen.”
“I really can’t smell anything,” said Nan.
“Then you’ve got a fine cold, young lady. Somebody in this house has been cooking hamburger and onions.”
“Don’t you think that is rather astonishing?”
“Astonishing! If I find out who it is I’ll astonish them. I run a boarding house, I’d have you know.”
“Yes, I know you do, Mrs. Emmett. Good evening.”
Nan closed the door and tossed the letter to the table, listening to Mrs. Emmett going down the creaking stairs. Nan was tired of Mrs. Emmett, tired of the eternal grind of trying to make enough money to keep body and soul together.
But to-morrow she must go in search of another position, and possibly in search of another place to live, unless Madge was fortunate enough to raise the price of their delinquent rent. Nan had little to move. One valise carried her worldly goods.
It was about eleven o’clock that night, and Nan was fast asleep when Mrs. Emmett knocked loudly on the door.
“There’s a telephone call, Miss Whitlock! The man said it was very important.”
Nan crawled out of bed and wrapped herself in one of Madge’s dressing robes, wondering what man could have any important conversation with her at eleven o’clock.
She pattered down the stairs to the telephone, while Mrs. Emmett stood within earshot.
“This is Miss Whitlock,” said Nan sleepily.
“Emergency Hospital, Miss Whitlock,” said a heavy, masculine voice. “You are Madge Allan’s room-mate?”
“Yes,” said Nan weakly.
“Do you know where Miss Allan’s relatives live?”
“Why—no,” faltered Nan. “What is the matter?”
“I’m very sorry,” said the man slowly. “Miss Allan was killed an hour ago in an accident. A Mr. Pollock was badly injured, but was able to give us your name. He said⸺”
“You say she was killed?”
“Instantly. We would like to get in touch with some of her relatives. Mr. Pollock didn’t know⸺”
Nan sagged away from the telephone, sick at heart.
“Who got killed?” interrupted Mrs. Emmett.
Nan braced up and turned back to the telephone.
“Why, I—I don’t know where any of them live,” she said wearily. “Somewhere in the East, I think. She spoke of a cousin somewhere in Arizona, but I don’t remember the place.”
“I see. Well, thanks, just the same, Miss Whitlock.”
The receiver clicked back into place and Nan turned from the phone.
“Miss Allan was killed in a wreck, Mrs. Emmett,” said Nan. “She is at the Emergency Hospital.”
“Well, can ye imagine that now? And her all alive and well a few hours ago. And me threatenin’ to turn her out in the morning. Dear, dear!”
Mrs. Emmett walked away, shaking her head. Near the telephone was an old rocking-chair, and Nan sank down in it weakly. The one person in the whole world who had been a real friend to her had been snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Nan didn’t know what to do. She knew there was no use of her going to the hospital, at least, not that night.
It was draughty there in the hall, so she stumbled back up the stairs, and sat down in her room, her knees weak from the shock. The rain whipped dismally against the windows, coming in from the bay, where the fog-horns bellowed unceasingly. She had propped Madge’s letter against a book on the table, and now she picked it up. It was postmarked Lobo Wells, Arizona.
Perhaps this letter would give a clue to Madge’s relatives, she mused. With no thought of anything but a desire to help in the matter, she opened the envelope and drew out the enclosure. It was a typewritten letter, and pinned to it was a cheque for one hundred dollars, made out to Madge Singer.
Nan looked it over curiously. It was drawn on the Bank of Lobo Wells, and signed with an inky scrawl, which she finally deciphered. The letter read:
“My dear Miss Singer,—Your uncle, Jim Singer, has passed away, and his last will and testament, executed by me, shows you to be his sole heir. Am enclosing certified cheque for one hundred dollars for your expenses, as I expect you to come here at once.“As I understand it, you have never known your uncle personally, and have never been in Lobo Wells. Come direct here, go to the hotel and get in communication with me at once.“Very truly yours,“Amos A. Baggs,“Attorney at Law.”
“My dear Miss Singer,—Your uncle, Jim Singer, has passed away, and his last will and testament, executed by me, shows you to be his sole heir. Am enclosing certified cheque for one hundred dollars for your expenses, as I expect you to come here at once.
“As I understand it, you have never known your uncle personally, and have never been in Lobo Wells. Come direct here, go to the hotel and get in communication with me at once.
“Very truly yours,
“Amos A. Baggs,
“Attorney at Law.”
Nan stared at the letter, trying to understand what it meant. Finally she realised that possibly Madge had taken the name of Allan as a theatricalnom de plume, and that her family name was Singer. Perhaps, thought Nan, this inheritance was the money Madge had spoken of “falling into soon.” Madge had mentioned some relative in Arizona, and Nan thought she had mentioned a cousin; but it might have been an uncle.
Nan fingered the hundred-dollar cheque. It was more money than she had possessed in over a year. It was certified. Any one signing Madge Singer’s name to it could draw the money. And Madge Singer was dead. Nan shut her hand tightly over the cheque.
“There is no Madge Singer,” she told herself. “Only Lobo Wells, Arizona, knows that there ever was a Madge Singer. Why not cash the cheque?”
Nan was not a crook, but adversity caused her to grasp at straws. She needed clothes. This cheque would solve that problem. It would pay her room rent, give her a chance. She stared at the rain-washed window and at the four walls of the shabby room. Madge Allan’s rather hard, mocking laughter seemed still to echo from those walls. She had often laughed at Nan and told her to go ahead and gamble with life.
“Bluff them, kid,” she had often advised. “You don’t need to be bad to bluff. Life is a gamble and a fight; but the fight is a lot easier if you bluff the gamblers. Take all you can get.”
That was Madge Allan’s philosophy of life, take a chance.
“Madge would do it,” Nan told herself as she hugged the old robe around her white throat to keep out the chill.
She read the letter again, a tight feeling in her throat.
“⸺have never been in Lobo Wells—have never known your uncle personally.”
She dropped the letter in her lap. Who would know? Nobody in Lobo Wells. Something was telling her to take a chance. It hammered in her ears above the moaning of the fog-horns.
Take a chance, take a chance, take a chance.
It was like the clicking of car wheels on a railroad track. Ahead of her was the hard, dreary round of job-seeking, the pitifully few dollars in her pocket, no place to call home.
She carefully folded up the letter and cheque, put them in her purse. She felt weak and foolish over it all. Her face was white in the cheap mirror over the dresser.
“If they throw you in jail you won’t have to pay rent,” she told herself. “They don’t have landladies in jails—not to make collections. Anyway, I wouldn’t be stealing from live people. Her uncle is dead and Madge is dead. A dead woman’s shoes!”
Nan crept back into bed after turning off the gas jet. She forgot that on the morrow she would be minus a bed. The horrors of job-hunting were also forgotten. She was wondering whether a medium-sized, red-headed girl could substitute for a tall, willowy blonde in Arizona.
“I tell yuh, nothin’ never happens around here,” declared Johnny Harris. “Gimme three cards, mostly aces.”
“Some day,” said Smoky Ash seriously, “yo’re goin’ to fill one of them two-card flushes yo’re always drawin’ to, Johnny. How many do you desire, Harry?”
Harry Cole, owner of the Oasis Saloon and Gambling House, indicated that he wasn’t drawing any cards.
“Out on a limb, eh?” grinned Johnny. “Some day I’m goin’ to saw that limb off between you and yore bank roll.”
He peeked carefully at the cards he had drawn, spat disgustedly and shoved the cards aside.
“Just like I said,” he declared plaintively, “nothin’ ever happens in Lobo Wells. Punch cows twenty-nine days in the month for enough to have a few drinks and try to make two danged deuces beat a pat hand.”
Johnny Harris was lean, lank, with a long nose, sad eyes and stringy hair. He had been voicing the same complaint as far back as any of them could remember, but he stayed on at the JP ranch in spite of all the drawbacks.
Harry Cole was an ex-sheriff of Lobo Wells, a man about forty years of age; a big man physically, swarthy of complexion, with black hair and a small moustache. Just now business was dull, and he was playing draw poker with a few of the cowboys, who had finished loading a train of cattle.
“Nothin’ never happens nowhere as fur as that goes,” said Smoky Ash, who also worked for the JP outfit. “Yuh can read about things happenin’ in the newspapers, but they don’t. I’ve heard that them newspaper fellers are bigger liars than cowboys. That’s prob’ly exaggerated, but—I’ll pass it to a pat hand, Harry. Make yore bluff, feller.”
Cole smiled and made a sizable bet, but there was no opposition, so he yawned and raked in the pot.
“Didja ever try sleepin’ for that?” asked Johnny. “Yuh might dislocate yore jaw and then⸺”
Johnny had glanced toward the door, where a man was coming in, and he did not finish the sentence. The newcomer was of medium height, dressed in an old suit of store clothes, with an old felt hat on his head, disclosing a tinge of gray hair at his temples.
His face was rather long, deeply lined, and his greenish-gray eyes were as hard as agates. He came slowly, unblinking.
“My Gawd, if it ain’t Len Ayres!” blurted Johnny. “Len, you old son-of-a-sea-cook!”
Harry Cole jerked around so quickly that his elbow swept some of his stacked chips to the floor as Johnny kicked back his chair and arose to greet Len Ayres. Smoky got to his feet, a grin on his lips, waiting for a chance to shake hands with the man who did not smile.
“By golly, it’s good to see yuh ag’in, Len,” declared Johnny.
“It’s—it’s kinda good to be back, Johnny. Hello, Smoky. Still the same as ever, eh? Hello, Sam,” he nodded to Sam Lytel, of the OK outfit, and turned to Harry Cole.
“Changed yore occupation, eh?”
“Hello, Len,” said Harry hoarsely. “Yes, I’ve changed. Went out of office two years ago, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know it. A fellow don’t hear much about the outside world where I’ve been for the last five years.”
“Well, it’s good to see yuh back, Len,” declared Johnny, “and I’ll buy a drink.”
“Thank yuh, but I’m not drinkin’, Johnny. Found out I didn’t need it, yuh see.” He turned to Cole. “Who took yore job?”
“Ben Dillon.”
“Bennie Dillon, eh?”
“And he hired ‘Breezy’ Hill for a deputy,” added Johnny.
A semblance of a smile flashed across Len’s hard mouth.
“Breezy Hill? About as much fitted to be a deputy as I would be to be Governor of the State. He still drinkin’?”
“He ain’t never slacked up none,” grinned Smoky.
Johnny Harris cashed in his few chips, and a few minutes later he and Len Ayres walked outside and sat down together on the edge of the wooden sidewalk.
“How much do yuh know of the things that happened after yuh left, Len?” asked Johnny.
Len’s lips tightened perceptibly.
“Harmony wrote me two or three letters,” he said slowly.
Jim Singer—“Harmony” Singer he was always called—had been Len’s best friend, and owned the Box S outfit.
“He told yuh about yo’re—yo’re wife, Len?”
Len turned his head away, nodding quickly.
“Yeah, he told me, Johnny. She got her divorce right away and married Charley Prentice.”
“But that ain’t all, Len.”
“I know—she died. Harmony wrote me about it.”
“Charley’s still got the kid, Len.”
“He’s seven now,” said Len slowly. “Do yuh ever see him?”
“Every little while, Len. They call him Larry Prentice. Yuh see, he wouldn’t remember yuh, Len.”
Len shook his head, but his eyes were soft now.
“I know it, Johnny. He was such a little feller when I went away. That was the hellish part of it—leavin’ the kid. Oh, I wasn’t fooled in my wife, Johnny. But that kid—he didn’t know better than to like me. He was my kid!” Len’s voice was savage. “I used to talk to myself about him at first—I mean until I got that last letter from Harmony—the one about Della marryin’ Charley. He wrote me one after that, about her dyin’.”
“You heard about Harmony Singer, didn’t yuh, Len?”
Len stared at Johnny for several moments.
“Heard abouthim? What do yuh mean?”
“O-oh,” breathed Johnny softly. “You didn’t hear about him gettin’ killed?”
“About him gettin’ killed? Harmony Singer?”
Johnny nodded sadly.
“Yeah, about a week ago, Len. Horse dragged him to death. They buried him in the old cemetery. I thought you’d heard.”
Len shut his eyes tightly, his lips quivering slightly. For possibly a minute neither of them spoke. Then—
“He was my friend,” said Len.
“I know it, Len. Old Whisperin’ and Sailor are still out there at the ranch. It was a shock to them. They’re gettin’ old, don’tcha know it?”
“Yeah, that’s right. But old Harmony. You say a horse dragged him to death, Johnny?”
“Uh-huh. Harmony was in town here and he had a lotta drinks. You know how he could drink, Len. Well, he wasn’t ridin’ a particularly bad bronc, but I s’pose he—well, anyway, the horse drug him home. He was shore in a awful shape. Whisperin’ Taylor found him. Queer old coot, Whisperin’ is. It hurt him a lot—him and Sailor Jones.”
“It hurts me too,” said Len softly. “I liked Harmony.”
“He was a square shooter, Len.”
“My best friend. Nothin’ could make him believe the things they said about me.”
“I know it.”
A man was going down the opposite side of the street, and Len looked across at him, squinting his eyes sharply.
“Amos Baggs, eh?” he said bitterly. “Still here.”
“Yeah, he’s still here, Len. But he ain’t prosecutor no more. Still runnin’ a law office. Nick Collins beat him bad at the election after you left. I reckon Amos is still sour over that election.”
“He ain’t changed much,” Len said slowly.
“His kind don’t change, Len. He shore can say mean things in a court room.”
“Don’t I know it,” bitterly. “You don’t know how I wished for a six-shooter then, Johnny. I wanted to fill his whole body with lead. Mebbe I still want to. But if I ever do anythin’ they could send me back there for, they’ll never take me alive. I know what that place is now. You probably wonder why I came back, Johnny. Sometimes I wonder too. Lack of brains, mebbe. No sane man would ever come back here, after what happened to me. But I paid the penalty, didn’t I? And my kid is here,” he added softly. “My kid, Johnny. Oughtn’t that bring a man back?”
“Shore,” said Johnny thoughtfully. He thought he knew why Len Ayres came back. Perhaps the kid had something to do with it, but it was the money that had brought him back.
Nothing had been proved, except that Len had robbed the Lobo Wells bank and half-killed the cashier. They found Len’s hat there on the floor, where it fell off in his getaway. That hold-up only netted him seven thousand, but there were others, a lone-handed train robbery, which netted the bandit about ten thousand dollars, a stage robbery of five thousand dollars. Of course, they were unable to fix the blame for all of these on Len, but his description fitted that of the bandit.
Len had had no chance to spend any of the money; so the people of Manzanita Valley knew he had cached it, and that he would come back and get it when his five years were up. Len’s wife had married the cashier of the bank, where Len had left his hat, but she had died from pneumonia a short time later.
Len had managed to beat his way back from the penitentiary and was in Lobo Wells without a cent in his pocket. The town was not changed; the same people were there, except those who had died off.
“Well,” Len said finally, “I reckon I’ll go out to the Box S, Johnny.”
“How are yuh goin’, Len?”
“Walk, I reckon. Ain’t been on a horse for a long time.”
“Ain’t scared to ride, are yuh?” smiled Johnny. Len had been one of their best riders.
“No-o, I ain’t scared.”
“I’ll get yuh a bronc at the livery stable, Len. Never mind about the money. You’d do it for me. C’mon.”
Johnny secured a horse and saddle at the stable, and Len climbed into a saddle for the first time in five years. The stable keeper was a man who had come to Lobo Wells after Len had been sent to the penitentiary, but he had heard men tell of Len Ayres, the single-handed bandit.
“So that’s Len Ayres, eh?” he said to Johnny. “Well, he don’t look so mean.”
“He ain’t mean,” replied Johnny quickly. “There ain’t a mean bone in his body.”
“Jist looks kinda sour, thasall.”
“You go through what he’s gone through, and you’ll shore look sour. Charge that horse up to me, and I’ll pay yuh on the first of next month.”
“Sure, thasall right, Harris. Didn’t the cashier of the bank marry Ayres’s wife after he was sent up?”
“Yeah, but she died.”
“That’s what I heard. That little boy belongs to him, they say. Nice lookin’ kid, too. I wonder if there’s any truth in this talk about Ayres makin’ a cache of all that money he stole.”
“Don’t let that ache yuh,” said Johnny seriously. “He paid what the law asked, didn’t he?”
“He paid for the bank robbery.”
Johnny yawned heavily.
“Yea-a-ah, that’s right. I reckon he’ll get along.”
Len rode out to the Box S, located about three miles south-east of Lobo Wells. As far as any change in the country was concerned, Len might have been away only a week. There were the same old chuckholes in the road, which had never been repaired. The cattle along the road looked the same. He saw an old spotted steer, with extra long horns, which he was sure was the one which had driven him to the top of the corral fence one day.
He halted on the edge of a small mesa and looked down at the huddle of unpainted buildings which constituted the Box S ranch. Nothing had been changed in five years. For a long time he sat there, lost in memories. Off to the westward he could see the smoke of a train heading for Lobo Wells. Beyond that was the green ribbon, which marked the twisting of Manzanita River, now only a small stream. Far to the south was the blue haze of the lower valley, and to the north and the east stretched the Broken Hills, piled-up mesa and broken cañon, fantastically coloured in the changing lights.
Finally he rode on down to the ranch, where he dismounted at the old front porch, tied his horse and halted at the bottom step.
“That jist makes seventy-seven times I’ve done told yuh that I don’t know, Sailor,” declared a querulous voice. “Why don’tcha ever go out and cut wood, ’stead of settin’ in there and askin’ questions? How in hell do I know what’s to become of this here rancheria?”
“Don’t chide me, you ol’ weepin’-willer,” retorted the voice of Sailor Jones, so named because he got drunk one day and sent to a mail-order house for a rowboat.
“You make me bilious,” said Whispering Taylor.
“Yeah, I’ll betcha! It’s yore cookin’ that makes yuh bilious. I’m goin’ to quit yuh, before I git dyspepsy. Anyway, there ain’t no future for a feller around here no more.”
“Future!”
“Yea, future. I’m three year younger than you are, ain’t I? By the time I’m yore age⸺”
“You’d be older, if yuh didn’t lie.”
“I ain’t sixty yet.”
“Not yet—yo’re past it, feller. Why didn’tcha stop arguin’ and use up some of yore youthful wim and wigger on the woodpile? I shore hate to argue with a child. Go set on the corral fence and repeat yore ABC’s, while a man mixes up some biscuits in peace, will yuh?”
“Put some sody in ’em this time, Whisperin’, will yuh? You allus leaves out somethin’, and I’d rather have anythin’ left out rather than sody.”
“Mebbe you’d like to make’ em, eh?”
“No, I wouldn’t, Whisperin’. I’ll get yuh some wood, if yuh crave it real hard. But I’d shore like to know what’s to become of this here rancho, since Harmony died.”
“That makes seventy-eight times,” groaned Whisperin’.
“I never asked yuh, you bat-eared pelican! I said I’d like to know, thasall. You couldn’t tell me.”
Len smiled softly. He had known these two men for years, and they had always argued like this. Came sound of a squeaking boot, and Sailor Jones came out on the porch.
He stopped short, staring at Len. Sailor was a little, wizened person, with high cheek-bones, crooked nose, deep-set blue eyes and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. His slightly gray hair was thin, and stood up on his head like fox-tail tops.
He blinked rapidly, rubbed the palm of his right hand violently on his thigh, as he cleared his throat, which action caused his prominent Adam’s apple to jiggle nervously.
“By Gawd!” he said softly. “If it is, I’m glad, and if it ain’t, I swear that me and the gin bottle ain’t never goin’ to git together no more.”
“Yeah, it’s me, all right, Sailor,” said Len slowly.
Sailor came slowly to the steps and stopped.
“Yeah, it’s you, Len,” he said softly. “It’s you jist as sure as the Lord made little apples. You ain’t changed. Nossir, you ain’t changed—much. Len!” He shoved out a skinny hand. “My gosh, I’m shore glad to see yuh again!”
“Hey!” yelled Whispering from inside the house. He had heard Sailor say Len’s name, and out he came, with a skillet in one hand and a rag in the other.
He stopped short in the doorway, his mouth sagging open. Whispering was nearly six feet tall and would weigh two hundred and forty pounds. His face was like a full moon—a fairly red moon, too, and his head was as innocent of hair as a billiard ball.
He dropped the skillet with a clang, strode out and shoved Sailor inside.
“Git out and let him shake hands with a man!” he blurted in his high-pitched voice. “Len, you dern old pelican! Oh, you dog-gone rascal! Sneakin’ in on us thataway! Shut up, Sailor!”
“I wasn’t sayin’ anythin’.”
“Then don’t. Len, c’mon up here on the verandy and let me look at yuh. Same person. Don’t say anythin’, Sailor.”
“I wasn’t sayin’ anythin’.”
“Don’t, I tell yuh. I jist want to contemplate Len.”
“I’ll help yuh,” grinned Sailor.
“I don’t need yuh. Go git some wood.”
Len laughed aloud for the first time since he reached Lobo Wells, and Whispering patted him on the arm.
“Well, I’m glad to see you both,” he said. “In fact, you don’t know how glad I am, boys. It’s good to be back.”
“Yeah, I’ll betcha,” said Sailor. “You shore had a long drag out there, didn’t yuh, Len. Five year.”
“It was a long time, Sailor—a mighty long time.”
Whispering sighed and looked sidewise at Sailor, who went creaking down the steps and headed for the woodpile. Len chuckled softly and Whispering shook his head sadly.
“Jist as ornery as ever, Len. Gittin’ old, I reckon. C’mon in and watch me throw a feed together.”
They started in the house, when Whispering stopped and turned to Len.
“You heard about Harmony?” he asked softly.
Len nodded.
“Jist awhile ago.”
“Yeah, he’s dead, Len. Bronc drug him to death. Reckon he got drunk, as usual. He drank pretty heavy, yuh know. Me and Sailor tried to slow him down. Even drank up his liquor, tryin’ to keep him from gettin’ to it. That was Sailor’s idea. He gits one once in a while. Well, come on in. Harmony said he wrote yuh about yore—yore wife, Len. That shore wasn’t no good news to send to a man in yore position. But he said he had to do it, yuh know. I see the kid once in a while. Looks like you, Len. ’Bout seven year old now, ain’t he? Uh-huh. Good-lookin’ kid.”
“I ain’t seen him,” said Len slowly. “He wouldn’t remember me, Whisperin’.”
“No, that’s true. Still, he’s yore flesh and blood. I said to Harmony that I’d hate to be in Charley Prentice’s shoes when you came back, Len.”
Len shook his head slowly.
“Charles Prentice didn’t do me no dirt, Whisperin’. I wasn’t blind. My wife was the wrong woman for me, and she might as well have married Charley as anybody else.”
“Well, I don’t know how yuh felt about her, Len. Me and Harmony talked about her a lot, yuh see. Of course she sold the place you had in town and all yore horses, saddles and all them things. Harmony was pretty mad. He tried to save somethin’ out of it, but it wasn’t no use. She comes out here and talks with Harmony. Said she wanted to git a line on some money you had. To hear her talk you’d think it was a lot of money, Len. She knowed that Harmony was yore best friend, and she thought he’d know. But he said he didn’t know anythin’. She got what was in the bank, but it wasn’t what she expected, by any means.”
Len smiled thinly.
“I wonder if she meant the money they say I stole?”
“No, that wasn’t it,” quickly. “She said it was money you got when some kin of yours died in the south. Said she never got on to it, until she found an old letter of yours, after you went away.”
“Oh, I see,” grunted Len thoughtfully. “Well, how’s this outfit gettin’ along, Whisperin’?”
“Fine! Yessir, it’s shore doin’ well. Old Harmony’s made money here. He was thinkin’ of puttin’ another man or two on the job. We’re raisin’ cows, pardner. The three of us has handled things fine, but she’s growin’ pretty big. The last round-up count showed about a thousand head of Box S brands, not countin’ horses. Harmony’s been raisin’ a lot of horses. A year ago he sold a hundred head to the United States for cavalry horses. Got a hundred apiece for every danged one. And he sold twenty head to a feller who wanted ’em for polo, whatever that is. Got a top price for every one of ’em. And he sold quite a bunch of steers to a Chicago buyer, too.
“Oh, I’ll tell yuh, this ranch is shore on a payin’ basis. Betcha she’s payin’ better than the JP right now, even if the JP is the biggest. Silver Prescott keeps himself broke payin’ wages to a lot of lazy punchers. The OK is doin’ right well, I think. Oscar Knight was over here the other day and he said everythin’ was fine. We don’t see many of the boys these days. I’ll tell yuh, me and Sailor has shore been busy. But”—Whispering shook his head—“we dunno what it’s all about. Nobody left to pay us wages. We don’t even know who owns this here rancheria.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Len slowly. “It will all come out in the wash.”
“Oh, shore. Well, here comes Sailor with six sticks of wood. That’s his limit. How would yuh like some dried apple pie?”
“You know how I used to like it, Whisperin’?”
“I shore do, Len.”
“Well, I ain’t had none for five years.”
The trip from San Francisco to Lobo Wells had seemed interminably long to Nan Whitlock, but her nerve almost failed her when she heard the brakeman calling: “Lo-o-o-bo Wells, next station! Lo-o-o-bo Wells!”
Nan had rather shocked the landlady by paying the rent the morning after Madge Allan had been killed, and rather mystified the authorities, who were looking for more information about Madge Allan, only to find that Nan had faded out of the picture. Mrs. Emmett had offered to turn Madge’s trunk over to her, but Nan refused it. It had been a simple matter to cash the hundred-dollar cheque.
But now she was facing the test, as the train ground to a stop at the weather-beaten depot, and she came down timidly, carrying a large valise. She had not replied to the lawyer’s letter, so there was no one at the station to meet her.
Except for a cowboy who leaned negligently against a corner of the depot, watching the depot agent and a brakeman unloading some stuff from the express car, the platform was empty. After a few moments the train went on and the cowboy went into the station with the agent.
With the train out of the way, Nan was able to get her first look at the town of Lobo Wells. And her first impression was not a flattering one. The station and tracks seemed to be a barrier across one end of the main street, which was narrow, dusty, with crooked wooden sidewalks and false-fronted wooden buildings, many of them out of line.
Saddle horses nodded at the hitchracks in the noonday sun, and a bunch of loose horses milled around a corral behind a livery-stable, throwing clouds of dust.
It was very hot there on the old platform. Pitch oozed from the pine planks, and Nan could feel the heat through the thin soles of her shoes. The cowboy came from the station, stopped on the edge of the platform and looked at her.
It was Len Ayres, but a different Len Ayres than had come back to Lobo Wells three days before. Whispering had loaned him enough money for a new outfit of clothes, and Len had always been slightly inclined to the gaudy, in raiment. His shirt was a robin’s-egg blue, with scarlet muffler and a tan sombrero. His chaps were a second-hand pair, but nearly new, with fancy rosettes, cut in the extreme of bat-wing type. His belt and gun were the same he had worn before his arrest, having been kept at the Box S by Harmony Singer.
“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said slowly. “Were you lookin’ for somebody especial?”
“Well,—I suppose not,” replied Nan helplessly. “Foolish of me to expect any one, because no one knew when I was coming. But I wish you could direct me to the office of an attorney by the name of Baggs.”
Len started slightly, but nodded. This girl was rather good-looking, evidently from the city, and he wondered why she would come to Lobo Wells to seek Amos Baggs.
“Do you happen to know him?” she asked.
“Yeah, I know him, ma’am. Lemme pack that valise, and I’ll take yuh up to his office. Do you know Baggs?”
Nan shook her head as she surrendered the valise to Len.
“No, I have never seen him.”
“Uh-huh. Kinda hot to-day. We’ll hit the shady side.”
“Thank you so much.”
Nan stole several glances at the hard-faced cowboy with the greenish-gray eyes, as they walked up the creaking sidewalk. He was the first cowboy she had ever seen, except on the stage, and it struck her that his raiment was a trifle theatrical, until she saw several others, who were dressed much the same. The big gun swinging from his hip looked businesslike.
“Do you take care of cattle?” she asked.
A smile flashed across Len’s lips.
“Yes’m,” he said shortly, and a moment later: “This is Baggs’s office, ma’am,” indicating the doorway just ahead of them. Len had not met Baggs since his return, but as they came up to the doorway, Baggs stepped out.
Amos Alexander Baggs was not a prepossessing person, except for height, which was well over six feet, exaggerated by thinness. His nearly bald head showed some gray hair, weak eyes, a thin nose, rather short for a long face, and a determined mouth and chin. He wore a white collar and a flowing black tie above what was once a fancy vest, the rest of his raiment being rusty black, badly wrinkled.
He jerked slightly at such close contact to the man he had sent to the penitentiary, and blinked his watery eyes at Nan.
“This is Mr. Baggs,” said Len slowly.
“Thank you so much for directing me and carrying my bag.”
“Thasall right, ma’am.”
Len gave Baggs a hard glance, nodded to Nan, and went across the street. Baggs looked after him for a moment and then turned to Nan.
“You wanted to see me?” he asked.
“About a letter you sent me,” said Nan. “I—I am Madge Singer.”
Baggs’s eyes opened a trifle as he looked her over.
“Oh, yes—yes! Come right in. I was wondering about you. Just came in, eh? Didn’t know whether you’d come or not. Mm-m-m-m. Much better than I expected. Sit down there while I close the door.”
Nan sat down, while he bustled around, finally coming back to his desk, which was strewn with papers and books. He filled and lighted a cob pipe, nervously tamping the tobacco with his skinny forefinger. Pipe drawing to his satisfaction, he turned to Nan.
“Well, well! What do you think of Lobo Wells? Quite a place. I won’t go into any details, because I suppose Jack Pollock has explained things. Knew Jack well. Used to work for Harry Cole, over across the street, when Cole first opened up. Him and Harry were very close—very.
“Now the thing for you to do is to go to the hotel, register for a room and stay there to-night. The will has not been probated yet, but there’s no reason why you can’t take over the ranch at once. No argument, because there are no other heirs. You will probably have to live at the ranch for a month or two, you understand. But it’s a comfortable place. I’ll go down to the hotel with you. Pretty hot to-day, isn’t it? We get plenty of heat here, but it’s healthful. You’ll be as brown as a berry in a week. Look kinda pale. This will do you good. Know who that puncher was—the one who brought you here?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Nan, her mind in a whirl.
“That was Len Ayres. Just got back from serving five years in prison. I was prosecuting attorney at that time, and I secured his conviction. He pulled some big robberies in this country, and he’s thoroughly bad. The officers are watching him. By the way, he’s staying out at your ranch. But we’ll stop that. Two other old men out there. Been there for years. Perhaps you better keep them on the job. Friends of your late uncle.” Baggs laughed crookedly and got to his feet.
“We’ll go down to the hotel now. Did you bring a trunk?”
“I’m travelling light,” smiled Nan.
“That’s sensible. How is Jack Pollock?”
“He was all right the last time I saw him,” said Nan truthfully.
“That’s fine.”
They were halfway back to the hotel, when Baggs said:
“Do you know, I wasn’t looking for your type. Not a bit. But I like you better. You look innocent. I don’t mean any disrespect to either party, but you’re not the kind of a girl that I’d expect Jack Pollock to take up with. That’s a fact. I’ll introduce you to Harry Cole as soon as convenient. Just for your own sake, I’d advise you to keep away from the cowboys around here. They’re a wild lot.”
Nan’s face was rather red, but it might have been from the heat. She disliked Baggs, and she couldn’t see why he should promise to introduce her to Harry Cole. But she realised that, as Madge Allan, she must understand what it was all about, and she wondered how it would turn out.
Baggs registered for her, and went away while the bearded proprietor showed her to a room in the front of the two-story half-adobe hotel, which, by comparison, made her last room in San Francisco look like a palace.
“This ain’t no bridal sweet,” he told her, “but it gives yuh a view of the street. Ain’t no ice water, ’cause there ain’t no ice, but we filter it pretty good. You goin’ to be here long?”
“Not very.”
“Uh-huh. Well, nobody stays long at a hotel. You ain’t a drummer, are yuh?”
“Drummer?”
“Yeah—sellin’ things.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I seen yuh go past with Len Ayres. Know him very well?”
“Not at all. He directed me to Mr. Baggs’s office.”
“Uh-huh. Well, Baggs can tell yuh all about Len. He sent Len to the penitentiary. ’F I had my choice between the two, I know which one I’d take. Well, I hope you’ll be comfortable, ma’am.”
“Which one would you take?” asked Nan, hardly knowing why she asked the question.
The bearded man stopped at the door and grinned back at her.
“I ain’t sayin’, ma’am, because I’ve got to live here, and yuh can’t afford to cross-fire the law.”
Len Ayres went across the street to the Oasis Saloon from where he watched Amos Baggs take Nan to the hotel. When the lawyer went back to his office, Len crossed the street and sauntered up there.
He found Baggs at his desk, filling his pipe, but the former prosecuting attorney seemed to lose interest in his pipe when he looked up and saw Len.
Len eyed him close for several moments.
“Thought I’d drop in and renew old acquaintance, Amos,” he said slowly. “You ain’t scared of me, are yuh?”
Amos cleared his throat dryly and shifted his feet.
“I don’t know why I should be afraid of you, Ayres.”
“I didn’t know. After the things you said about me at that trial⸺”
“Oh, that’s part of my job—was part of it, I mean.”
“You didn’t mean it, Amos?”
“Well—no, I didn’t mean much of it. You see⸺”
“You meant part of it, didn’t yuh, Amos?—the dirty and mean parts. But we’ll let that go. I’ve paid the price. I remember yuh spoke about the debt I owed to society. Well, I paid it, and I hope the society you spoke about is satisfied.”
“Oh, everything is all right now, Ayres.”
“Well, that’s fine, Amos. You must feel better. I remember yuh kinda talked as though you was part of that society. You almost cried, if I remember right. You said I was a menace. I don’t think you lost any money in that robbery; so you must have been sincere. But that’s all past and done; so we might as well be friends, Amos. I was just wonderin’ who the young lady is.”
Amos was visibly relieved. He had always dreaded the day that Len Ayres might come back to Lobo Wells, but it was turning out much better than he had expected.
“That young lady is named Singer,” he told Len. “Madge Singer. I reckon she was the only close relative Harmony Singer had. Anyway, he made out his will and left her everything he owned, which included the Box S ranch and everything on it, and any money he might have in the bank.”
Len rubbed his nose vigorously and stared at Baggs, who continued:
“She was his niece. Brother’s girl. He knew where she was in San Francisco; so we got in touch with her. He made out this will quite a while ago, and I kept it here in my safe. Seems like a nice girl, doesn’t she?”
“Yea-a-a-ah, she does,” drawled Len slowly. “So she was a niece of Harmony Singer, eh? And she’s over here to take charge of the property. Goin’ to run the Box S, Amos?”
“She hasn’t mentioned her plans yet. It’s a little too soon for her to know what she’s going to do. I’ll take her out there to-morrow, and I think she will take charge.”
“Did she ever live on a cow ranch?”
“I don’t believe it. Looks like a sensible girl.”
“Yeah, she does. Well, well! Madge Singer. Funny the old man didn’t never say anythin’ about her to me.”
“I guess he didn’t know much about her before you left. I never heard him mention her until about a year ago. Seems that her father died and her mother married again, or something like that. I think he wrote to Harmony before he died and told him about the girl.”
“Uh-huh. Well, it’ll seem funny to have a woman boss, Amos.”
“A woman boss? You ain’t goin’ to stay out there, are you, Ayres?”
“Probably. She’ll need more help than she’s got out there.”
“But—but she can hire plenty⸺”
“I don’t cost any more than the rest of ’em, Amos.”
“I know that, but—well, that will be up to her, of course.”
“And after you tell her what you know about me, she’ll want somebody else, eh?”
“I didn’t say that, Ayres.”
“No, but you meant it. Let me tell you something, pardner: If that young lady tells me that she don’t want me on that ranch, I’ll know who advised her. For five years I’ve wanted a chance to whittle off your damn ears, Amos Baggs. A while ago we agreed to be friends, didn’t we? Well, you play the game on the square or there’ll be whittlin’ done.”
“You can’t threaten me, Ayres.”
“No, but I can make you a promise.”
Amos Baggs turned away, rubbing his palms on the arms of his chair.
“I don’t see why you ever came back here,” he said pettishly. “You’d be better off a long ways from here.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know, Amos. But there’s one thing you do know—you value your ears.”
Amos swung around in his chair, his weak eyes snapping.
“Let me tell you something, Ayres. Everybody knows you came back here to dig up that money you stole, and you might care to know that the officers are watching every move you make. And just remember, if they catch you with that money you took from the Wells Fargo—you’ll pay for that mighty steep.”
Len smiled thinly. It amused him to see Amos Baggs mad.
“Sheriff Ben Dillon and Breezy Hill, eh? Amos, those two boys are fine fellers, but they have trouble every mornin’ findin’ their own hats. If they do catch me, I’ll split with you and save my skin. Is that a bargain?”
“You get to hell out of my office!”
Len turned and walked out, leaving Baggs to fume over his pipe. Finally the lawyer got to his feet, flung the pipe on the desk and walked down to the bank. Charley Prentice looked up from his work as Baggs leaned against the bank railing.
Prentice was a man about forty years of age, sallow, nervous. He dressed well, as befitted his position.
“You’ve seen Len Ayres?” asked Baggs softly, although only a bookkeeper was in the bank with Prentice.
Prentice glanced toward the door, shaking his head.
“I knew he was back, Amos. Is he bitter? You know what I mean.”
“Bitter?” Amos smiled crookedly. “I suppose he is. Len never was noted for having a charitable disposition, Charley.”
“Say anything about me?”
“Not to me.”
Prentice twisted a pencil nervously between his fingers.
“The kid, Larry, knows he came back, Amos. Some of the kids told him, and he asked me about it. They made fun of him about his dad coming back from prison, but the kid didn’t understand. We never told him about Len.”
“That don’t affect you. Forget that part of it. Don’t let him bluff you, Charley. He tried to bluff me, but I showed him I couldn’t be bluffed. You’re not afraid of him, are you?”
“I don’t know,” replied Prentice.
“Well,I’mnot.”
“Younever married his wife.”
“No, I didn’t do that.”
Some people came in the bank and Amos went back to his office, where he filled his pipe again, after which he strolled down to the sheriff’s office.
Ben Dillon, the sheriff, was in the office, but his greeting was none too pleasant. Ben had been elected to office fresh from a cow-ranch farther down the valley, and he hated the clerical end of his job.
Ben was fat, and ordinarily good-natured, but he disliked Amos Baggs, because Amos acted superior, because of his vast knowledge of law, and tried to instruct Ben in office duties.
“What’s on yore mind now?” asked Ben.
“Nothing much, sheriff. You know that Len Ayres is back, of course.”
“Shore do. What about him? Ain’t he got a right to be here?”
“Oh, I suppose he has. But you know what folks are saying.”
“About him comin’ back to dig up what he stole? Shore.”
Ben stretched his legs and began rolling a cigarette.
“Ain’t that the natural thing for him to do, Baggs?”
“Natural, perhaps.”
“Oh, I know what yuh mean. I’ve heard a lot about it. Fact of the matter is, I’ve been notified to watch him. Uh-huh! Grab him if he shows up with money. I’ve got a hell of a lot of time to trail Len Ayres around these hills, watchin’ for him to dig up a pot of gold! Know what I told ’em? I sent a wire to Wells Fargo and told ’em to send their own detectives in to watch him. I’m here for the suppression of crime—not to hunt for hidden treasure.”
Ben laughed softly over his cigarette.
“Personally, I’m not interested, Mr. Baggs, attorney-at-law; and it’s none of yore damn business, as far as I can see. You ain’t prosecutin’ attorney of this here county this season; so I don’t know why yo’re hornin’ in. ’F I remember right, you said a lot of nasty things about Len Ayres, when you sent him over the road, and since he came back, I’ve been listenin’ for you to holler for help. I’ll tell him that yo’re still interested in his future, and that you warned me to keep an eye on him.”
“You don’t need to do that,” quickly. “I merely talked it over with you, sheriff.”
“Crawfishin’, eh?” laughed Ben. “Do yuh know, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to see you lose yore ears, Baggs.”
“Who told you that?”
Ben removed his cigarette, stared for a moment at Baggs, and emitted a deep chuckle of amusement.
“Some one else had the same idea?”
Baggs turned and walked out of the office, while Ben slapped himself on the thigh and grinned widely.
“If that bat-eared owl thought he was goin’ to get sympathy from me, he shore knows better now,” he told himself. “I ain’t playin’ no brotherly love act with Len Ayres, and I’ll slap him in jail as quick as I would any thief, but I wouldn’t give Baggs that much satisfaction. And that jigger is worried about his ears, I’ll tell myself that much.”