CHAPTER XXIX.RED STEVE.
The surprises began for old Nomad with this unexpected meeting with Wild Bill.
“How’d ye know Hickok was hyar, Buffler?” the trapper asked, as the party moved in the direction of the adobe.
“Wild Bill came to the Star-A ranch last night,” answered the scout, “and I went away with him.”
“Waugh! So ye was with Wild Bill when ye was absent from the ranch, hey? Has he diskivered somethin’?”
“He has.”
“Whar’s ther baron?”
“We’ll see the baron later, Nick.”
The adobe shack had long been abandoned. It was scarcely more than a shelter at best.
Buffalo Bill and his party were ushered into the hovel by Wild Bill. On a blanket, at one side of the only room the hut contained, lay a man groaning with pain and with a bandage about his forehead.
“Red Steve!” gasped Lige Benner, pushing eagerly forward.
“I don’t care who the nation he is,” growled the doctor, “he’s a man that needs attention.”
“He’s already had attention, doc,” said Wild Bill.
“Not professional,” and the doctor’s critical eye surveyed the rough bandage. “Why wasn’t a doctor calledbefore?” he demanded, fixing an accusing eye on Wild Bill.
“Because Red Steve wouldn’t have it. He swore he’d kill himself if I went for a doctor. You see, Steve has something on his mind. He was afraid he’d be landed for the shooting of Ace Hawkins. I didn’t dare tell him he was to have visitors this morning—but he’s got to a point where he don’t much care what happens to him. He’s got his ticket, friends.”
The doctor went down on his knees and began an examination.
“How did he get his ticket?” he demanded.
“The horns of Red Thunderbolt did the business for Steve. When I found him he was about gone. I did what I could to keep him alive, and, when I got the chance, I rode to the Star-A ranch. There were a lot of men hanging around the ranch, and I hadn’t a notion what was tip, so I sneaked in and sent Cayuse for Pard Cody.”
“Sufferin’ twisters!” exclaimed old Nomad. “Say, Buffler, was Red Steve the feller we heard yell, back thar in the trail yisterday? Is he the feller thet fired the shot, then dug out while we was mixin’ things with Red Thunderbolt?”
“He’s the man, Nick,” answered the scout. “Red Steve was badly hurt, but he managed to get into this gully and into this ruined ’dobe. If we’d known who he was,” the scout added, “we might have found him long ago.”
“Blame’ quare how things turns out some times,” muttered Nomad.
Red Steve’s eyes were closed, and he seemed scarcely to breathe. Only a groan, now and then coming through his tense lips, gave evidence that he was still alive.
The doctor looked up and shook his head.
“Red Steve is a whole lot nearer the Great Divide than what Jake is,” announced the doctor.
“He’s got to talk before he goes,” cried Benner; “he’s got to stay here long enough to do me justice.”
“He must say something for Nate, too,” put in Mrs. Dunbar. “He must tell about the attack on Jake Phelps and clear Nate. Doctor! Do what you can! He must talk!”
In their excitement and apprehension, those interested in what Red Steve had to say showed themselves in rather a merciless light. The doctor raised his hand.
“I haven’t my medicine case with me,” said he, “but if we had a little liquor——”
He turned and peered at Bloom. The latter, somewhat reluctantly, drew a flask from his pocket. The doctor, lifting Red Steve’s head with one arm, pressed the flask to his lips. A swallow of the fiery liquor gurgled down the desperado’s throat.
“Get him to talk about Nate first,” said Perry.
“It isn’t necessary for him to say anything about Nate, Perry,” returned the scout. “We’ll prove Nate’s innocence in another way. Anyhow, from the very facts of the case, it’s certain Red Steve had nothing to do with what happened to Jake Phelps. Red Steve was wounded by Red Thunderbolt several hours before that attack was made on Jake. That eliminates Red Steve.”
A broken cry escaped Mrs. Dunbar.
“Cheer up, Mrs. Dunbar!” said the scout reassuringly. “Nate will be freed of all suspicion absolutely. Just be patient.”
“I said all along,” scowled Phelps, “that Red Steve wasn’t the one who made that attack on Jake.”
“So did I,” seconded the sheriff.
“But you said it was Nate, you fellows,” put in the scout, “and that’s where you were wrong.”
“I’ll believe it when you prove it,” said Phelps, with a glaring look at Dunbar.
“Hist!” breathed the doctor.
All eyes turned to Red Steve. He was staring upward into the doctor’s face. It was plain to every one that he had not many minutes to live—perhaps not many seconds.
“Steve!” called Lige Benner, bending down. “Don’t you know me?”
“Share I know ye,” was the gruff response—as gruff, at least, as a feeble voice could make it.
“Tell these people,” went on Benner, “who it was shot Ace Hawkins!”
“It won’t do me any hurt ter tell that, I reckon,” answered Red Steve stumblingly. “Ye got it out o’ me at the ranch, Benner, an’ ye turned me adrift. It was yer fiend of a brother that put me up ter it. Jerry Benner said fer me ter do it. He didn’t think Hawkins was actin’ right, Jerry didn’t. He thought Hawkins was playin’ double with him an’ Lige. Lige said he wouldn’t stand fer no shootin’, but Jerry says fer me ter go ahead an’ never mind Lige. So I did, an’ it was me bored Hawkins.”
“And I didn’t have a thing to do with it?” demanded Benner.
“Nary a thing. Ye didn’t know it was done till ye found it out from Jerry. Then ye fired me. I expected ye would send me ter Hackamore, an’ hey me put in the lockup, an’ tried, so I hoofed it away from ther Circle-B. Then—then I met that ther horned killer in the road. I was on foot an’ couldn’t git away. He come at me—an’right thar’s whar I got my gruel. I heered some’un in the trail behind me, an’ I was afeared it mout be some’un chasin’ arter me, so I crawled inter the gully, an’ ter this place.”
Red Steve sank back weakly. Once more Bloom’s flask was used, and he revived a little.
“Wild Bill Hickok,” went on Red Steve painfully, “has done a heap fer me sence he located me hyer last night. He ain’t got no cause ter think much o’ me, but he done all a feller could ter bring me back ter y’arth.”
“I wanted to save you for the law, Steve,” said Wild Bill.
“I know what ye wanted, but—I—fooled—” He paused and pulled himself together with a fierce effort. “I fooled the law,” he finished. “Allers—allers knowed I—I would.”
Then, again, he dropped back. The doctor’s fingers touched his pulse.
“Red Steve has taken the One-way Trail, friends,” said the doctor gravely. “I hold that there’s something good in the worst of us—even in Red Steve. Let us hope that there was enough good in him to help the poor fellow where he’s going now.”
The doctor turned and went out of the hut. Wild Bill gently pulled a fold of the blanket over the face on the floor.
“I’ll send some of my boys from the Star-A to put him away,” said Lige Benner.
“We’re not ready to go to the Star-A ranch yet, Benner,” remarked the scout.
“How much longer will we be?”
“Not much.”
“Red Thunderbolt scores another victim,” said Perry.
“I wonder when that maverick will finally be put out of commission?”
“Perhaps that question can be answered if you come with me, Perry,” suggested the scout. “You’ll go along, Hickok, and show us the place,” he added. “I was there last night, but it might take a little time for me to find it to-day.”
“There’s nothing more to keep me here,” said Wild Bill.
Thoughtfully, the party left the hut. Hank Phelps seemed in more tractable mood. The tragic end of Red Steve’s life story had wrought a deep impression.
“How’re you goin’ to prove Nate Dunbar didn’t get the best of Jake?” asked Bloom of the scout.
“By a very simple method,” was the answer, “but it will be as conclusive as it is simple.”
“Have your pards nabbed the feller that done it?”
“They have.”
“I reckon you’ve got hold o’ some’un who’s willing to shoulder the blame jest to clear Nate Dunbar of——”
The scout whirled in his tracks and gave Bloom a square look. Bloom’s words died on his lips immediately.
“That’s right,” said the scout, “step carefully, Bloom. We’ve had one row over your recklessness in using language. Our next row will be more serious. Mount, friends,” he went on to the rest. “I’ll not be detaining you much longer.”
They all took to their saddles again. This time Wild Bill took the lead. The course they traversed was back into the trail, then off toward the timbered bottoms of the Brazos.
“We’ve had er s’prise er two,” observed the old trapperto the doctor, “an’ now thar’s more comin’. Got any idee what we’ll find next, doc?”
“Not the slightest, my friend,” was the reply, “but if the two Bills are back of it we can rest assured that it will be worth while, amply worth while.”
The first sign that the party had of their proximity to their destination was given by a voice very familiar to the pards.
“Dis vay, people! Here iss vere you vant to go! I peen here waiting so long as I can’t tell. Dis vay, bards!”
The baron showed himself in front of a copse of bushes. He was on foot, and seemed to have been on guard. But what was he guarding?
“Howdy, baron!” said old Nomad. “You an’ Wild Bill appear ter hev been doin’ a few things.”
“You bed my life!” jubilated the baron, “aber ve ditn’t know how mooch ve hat tone ondil Puffalo Pill came oudt dis vay lashdt night und toldt us. Ach, Mrs. Tunpar, I vas so habby dot I vas aple to helup!”
The baron made his nicest bow to Mrs. Dunbar—he had always an eye for the fair—and the lady favored him with a smile in return.
“What have you done, baron?” she asked.
“Puffalo Pill vill show you dot. He knows aboudt it.”
Again the riders dismounted, and left their animals with Cayuse; then they followed Wild Bill, Buffalo Bill, and the baron behind the screen of bushes to a slope leading down to the water’s edge.
The slope itself was clear of bushes and trees, but at the top of it were two large sycamores, growing quite close together. Tightly wedged between the trees was a broken and twisted object which had once beensaddle. To the saddle a pair of saddlebags were attached. The bags were buckled tightly, and seemed not to have suffered very materially.
But it was not the saddle nor the bags that aroused wonder in the minds of the spectators over the mysterious ways of fate. A stout rope was attached to the saddle, while a second rope was writhed around one of the sycamores, one coil wedged over the loose end in such a manner as to make the rope fast. Both ropes—the one from the tree and the one from the saddle—passed between the two trees and down the slope. They ended at the carcass of a steer. At the end of each rope was a tightly drawn noose—a noose that encircled the steer’s head at the root of the wide-branching horns.
The steer’s head was drawn grewsomely backward, so that both ropes were taut as fiddle strings between the trees and the horns.
It was a most amazing situation—one to be understood only by a sorting of the details.
“Great guns!” exclaimed Lige Benner. “Why, that’s Red Thunderbolt.”
“The same,” said Wild Bill. “Red Thunderbolt, the man-killing maverick. He has Dusenberry’s life and Red Steve’s charged up against him.”
“Who killed Red Thunderbolt?” queried Perry. “Was it you, Wild Bill, or the baron?”
“Neither of us,” answered Hickok. “Red Thunderbolt wasn’t made to bite the dust by means of a bullet. Can’t you see what happened? He rushed through between those trees, trailing two ropes, one with a saddle attached; the saddle wedged against the tree trunks, and the other rope twisted around one of the sycamores. Red Thunderbolt charged down the slope. He wasbrought up short and thrown, with the result that he broke his neck.”
Exclamations of wonder came from those who had just reached the scene. Even Bloom had something to say about the queerness of it all.
“It don’t seem possible, not at all possible,” said the doctor, “and yet, friends, we have the proof plainly before our eyes. Truth, they say, is stranger than fiction. I’m beginning to believe it.”
“There’s also a saying, doctor,” said the scout, “that truth, crushed to earth, will rise again. By this accident to Red Thunderbolt, several things are proved. That loose rope—the one whose end is wrapped around the sycamore—belongs to me. I dropped it over Red Thunderbolt’s horns yesterday on the trail. When the steer got to the end of the rope, he jerked it away from my saddle and went on.”
“But where did the other rope come from?” asked Perry.
“Phelps,” said the scout, turning on the cattleman, “I wish you’d examine that smashed saddle wedged between the trees.”
“No need for me to examine it,” answered Phelps. “I’ve already recognized it, Buffalo Bill—not only the saddle, but the saddlebags, as well. They’re Jake’s.”
“The saddle and saddlebags he took with him when he went to Hackamore after the pay-roll money?”
“Yes.”
“You’re positive of that, are you?”
“Of course I am. There can’t be any mistake.”
“Very good. Now, let me sketch for you, very briefly, what happened to Jake Phelps. On his way home from town he encountered Red Thunderbolt. The maverickwas still trailing the rope he had stolen from me. Very likely the steer charged Jake. Red Thunderbolt must have been in a killing mood after his experience with Red Steve, Nomad, and me yesterday. Jake didn’t get out of the way—perhaps he couldn’t. He had only a revolver.
“Of course, a revolver is not very good artillery for attacking a veteran maverick like Red Thunderbolt. Jake, very foolishly, instead of taking to his heels and trying to make his escape, used his rope. He made a good cast, for, as you see, his noose dropped right over mine. Then, when Red Thunderbolt got to the end of the rope, the saddle cinches broke, and the saddle and saddlebags were stripped away. Jake was unhorsed, and quite likely got a bad tumble. The steer charged him, and one of the steer’s horns inflicted that peculiar bruise on Jake’s head—the injury which suggested that a club or some other blunt instrument had been used.”
The doctor threw up his hands.
“Holy mackerel!” he cried; “no wonder I couldn’t figure out what it was that had played hob with Jake. This is certainly the queerest thing that ever happened on the banks of the Brazos. Every detail of it is queer, and the farther you look into it the queerer it becomes. Buffalo Bill,” and here he faced the scout, “you and your pards have given this cattle country something to talk about for many a month to come.”
“Do you grasp the logic of these events, Phelps?” queried the scout, giving his attention to the H-P rancher. “Are you willing to admit that circumstances, as we find them here, prove Nate Dunbar’s innocence?”
“I don’t know what to think,” mumbled Phelps.
“He don’t know what to think!” mimicked the doctor.“Say, Hank, if you’ve got brains why don’t you use ’em? Here’s a chance for you to recede gracefully from the fool position you’ve occupied ever since Jake was hurt. What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to take the facts as I find them,” replied Phelps. “But, first, I’m going to see what’s in those saddlebags.”
“That’s right,” approved Buffalo Bill. “I was careful to instruct the baron and Wild Bill not to let a thing be touched. Everything here is just as they found it. Go ahead and look through the saddlebags.”
Phelps went to the broken and twisted saddle, and cut the saddlebags away. Then he unbuckled the stout straps, and drew forth a canvas bag full of jingling yellow wealth. Untying the bag, he looked into it.
“The gold is here,” said he. “It’s not necessary to count it. I’m willing to concede that the bag is just as it was when Jake tucked it away in the bags.”
“Then you’re satisfied?” asked the scout.
“I am—entirely so.”
“Now say you’ve made a fool of yourself,” counseled the doctor, “and also thank Buffalo Bill and Benner for keeping your men from bringing shame and disgrace on the cattle country last night.”
“I was a little hasty,” acknowledged Phelps, “and I’m sorry I took the attitude I did; still, I don’t see how I could have thought any differently, considering the circumstances.”
“What about you, Bloom?” asked the scout. “Haven’t you got anything to say about this?”
“Not a thing,” answered the sheriff sourly.
“Oh, that’s Bloom for you!” cried the doctor sarcastically.“His yellow streak is cropping out again. What’s wrong with this evidence, Bloom?”
“It could have been manufactured,” growled Bloom, with an uneasy look in the scout’s direction.
“Sure it could!” taunted the doctor. “Wild Bill and the baron could have caught Red Thunderbolt, broken the steer’s neck, and then fixed all this up. But where did they get the saddle and the saddlebags? I reckon they’re the ones who stole them from Jake, aren’t they? Say, Bloom, you’re the limit. If I didn’t think such a terrible lot of your family, I’d come over there and kick you down the slope and into the river. He’s got a fine family,” the doctor explained to those around him. “I brought his boy through the measles last year. Fine boy, too. Nothing like the sheriff.”
“I believe what my judgment tells me to believe,” cried Bloom on the defensive.
“Your judgment is a fearful and a wonderful thing, Bloom. I’m glad not many people are equipped with the same sort. I guess, friends,” he went on, “that there’s nothing more to be gained here. Nate Dunbar has been proved innocent of the trouble that happened to Jake Phelps; Lige Benner has been cleared of every suspicion of complicity in what happened to Ace Hawkins; and Buffalo Bill and pards have brought peace and good will to the Brazos range. I reckon that’s enough. Suppose we ride? I want to get back to the H-P outfit and see how Jake’s getting along.”
The scout left Nomad and Cayuse with Wild Bill and the baron. They were to get the scout’s rope and Red Thunderbolt’s hide. There was a reward of one thousand dollars out for the maverick, and the baron was laying his plans to file a request for the money.