“I care not for the star-r-r-rs that shi-i-ine.”
“I care not for the star-r-r-rs that shi-i-ine.”
“I care not for the star-r-r-rs that shi-i-ine.”
The voice was singing softly, unmusically; dwelling with fervor and longing upon the higher registers.
“I only ho-o-ope that you’ll be-e-e mi-i-i-ine.”
Cale Wesson slid the window up softly and looked down.
Harp Harris was sitting against a corner of the porch, his face lifted in the moonlight, eyes closed, as he poured out his soul in his own kind of melody—
“I only know I lo-o-o-ove you-u-u-u;Love me-e-e-e-e and the wor-r-r-rld is mi-i-i-i-ine.”
“I only know I lo-o-o-ove you-u-u-u;Love me-e-e-e-e and the wor-r-r-rld is mi-i-i-i-ine.”
“I only know I lo-o-o-ove you-u-u-u;
Love me-e-e-e-e and the wor-r-r-rld is mi-i-i-i-ine.”
The last wailing note died away. Cale Wesson turned and looked at his wife. Mrs. Wesson was a big, raw-boned woman, with a sense of humor, and just now the curl-papers on her head were jerking from excess mirth.
She shoved Cale aside and leaned out of the window.
“Harp!” she called softly.
“Eh?” Harp’s eyes opened and he gasped up at the window above him.
“You ought to go home and git some sleep,” said Mrs. Wesson.
“Huh?” Harp’s vocal cords creaked slightly.
“We like yore music,” said Mrs. Wesson seriously, “but Cale’s got to have sleep, if he’s going to run a store. Pers’nally, I kinda like it. Yuh better try it ag’in some night when Cale ain’t at home.”
“Uh,” replied Harp.
He stepped off the porch, as if to sneak away, but summoned up a little nerve.
“Ain’t Miss Miller to home?” he asked. “I—I told her I was goin’ to serenade her sometime, yuh know.”
“Gosh, I thought yuh was serenadin’ me.” Mrs. Wesson was sadly serious. “Well, I s’pose I should have known better. Nope, Miss Miller ain’t home, Harp. She went to Silverton to a dance last night.”
“Uh-huh? She did? Who’d she go with?”
“Mister Leach.”
“Oh! Well, I’m much obliged, Mrs. Wesson.”
“No, yuh ain’t, Harp; but it’s the best I can do for yuh.”
“Sa-a-ay!” Cale Wesson’s voice rasped out angrily. “What indo yuh mean by singin’ love songs around my winder at this time in the mornin’? I’ve got a danged good notion”
“No, yuh ain’t got no notion,” retorted Mrs. Wesson. “You never had any kind of a notion. You let the boy alone.”
The window slammed down, cutting off the argument. Harp put the offending instrument in his pocket and went back to the deserted street, where he slouched despondently along the sidewalk.
“Gone t’ Silverton with Leach, eh?” he muttered aloud. “And me wastin’ m’ melody on the Wesson fambly. My! Now, everybody in town will know about it.Sam Leach!”
Miss Miller was the new school-teacher in Marlin City, a tall, angular sort of girl; rather good-looking and with a pleasant disposition. She boarded and roomed with the Wesson family, which place, according to Mrs. Wesson, “was gittin’ to be a cowpuncher’s headquarters.”
Harp Harris had been fancy free until he had seen Della Miller. But in one month, Dan Cupid had riddled his heart with arrows of love; ruined his perspective, until he lost all track of time. Hence the four a.m. serenade.
He sat down on the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s office and held his chin in his hands, while he mentally picked a quarrel with Sam Leach. It was a dandy quarrel, ending in a fight, in which Harp beat Sam Leach to within an inch of his life.
There was also a big audience cheering Harp on to kill his opponent, but Harp spared his miserable life. He did not want Leach’s blood on his head. Anyway, he could afford to be generous. The crowd was cheering him now. Crowds are peculiar things.
Then he hugged his elbows to his sides and started the argument all over again. This time it was man to man, but with guns. The crowd had scattered. It was a tense moment. Harp knew that he was quicker on the draw, a better shot than Leach.
“Pull yore gun, Leach,” he said calmly. “Cock it, if yuh wish. Are yuh ready, Leach? All right. I’m givin’ yuh an even break. Now, you give the word yourself.”
And as the hero waited for the signal that would cause him to draw swiftly and send shot after shot into the heart of his hated rival, a horse and buggy came into town.
Harp lifted his head and watched Sam Leach drive past him, with Della Miller beside him. They turned off the main street, going toward Wesson’s house. Harp spat angrily and tried to conjure up another big fight, but the spell was broken.
In a few minutes Leach drove past him again, went into the livery-stable and was gone for some time. Harp knew that the stableman was asleep and that Leach would have to stable his own horse. After a time, Leach came out, leading a saddle-horse, which he mounted. It was still too dark to distinguish objects clearly. Leach lighted a cigar or cigaret and rode slowly up the street, going past Harp once more and heading North.
Harp thought that Leach might be going back to the Wesson house, but he continued out of town.
“In that last fight,” said Harp to himself, “I let him draw and cock his own gun. Huh! In that fist-fight I let up on him, when I had him where I wanted him. But if I ever get at him ag’in he’s got to look out for himself. Bein’ a hero is all right, but I’m all through heroin’ around that danged jigger, y’betcha.”
Harp went into the office and sat down on his cot. Brick was asleep in the back room, so Harp went cautiously. He knew that Cale Wesson would spread the news and that everyone in Marlin City would be informed of the fact that Harp Harris had serenaded Mrs. Wesson at four a.m.
Brick awoke at eight o’clock and found Harp fully dressed. It was not like Harp to be up and doing at that time in the morning. He had left Harp in a poker game in the Dollar Down at midnight, and took it for granted that the game had just broken up.
Cale Wesson was just opening his general merchandise store as they went up the street to the restaurant. Cale saw them coming, and began a clumsy imitation of a troubadour. Brick squinted at him, wondering what it was all about; but Harp knew.
Cale pointed his nose toward the sky and began singing in a voice that was even worse than the one owned by Harp Harris—
“I care not for the sta-a-ars that shi-hine.”
“I care not for the sta-a-ars that shi-hine.”
“I care not for the sta-a-ars that shi-hine.”
Cale paused and seemed to be searching for the proper note.
“Well, tha’sall right,” observed Brick. “I never had much use for stars that shine either. I like mine kinda dim, Cale.”
Harp’s ears were very red, his jaws shut tight. Brick glanced at him curiously, but Harp remained silent.
“What’s the idea, Cale?” queried Brick.
“Li’l love-bug, Brick. I can’t tell yuh much more, ’cause I don’t want no scandal in my own family. Me and Ma has been married seventeen years; livin’ peaceful-like with nothin’ to mar our happiness—but things are changin’. Ma’s romantic. I s’pose—” Cale yawned widely, seriously— “I s’pose I’ve got to learn to play someed instrument and lose a lot of sleep, playin’ and singin’ beneath her winder—or take a chance on losin’ her.”
“Oh, yeah,” Brick grinned widely, but did not look at Harp. “Well, good luck to yuh, Cale. If yuh want to learn the jew’s-harp, I can put yuh next to a master of the thing. C’mon, Harp.”
They went to the restaurant and ordered breakfast. Harp was silent and thoughtful, but Brick did not question him. Cale had told enough for Brick to have a fair idea of what had happened.
As they came out of the restaurant they met Mrs. Wesson and Della Miller. Harp stood stock-still and wished himself miles away, because at a glance he knew that Mrs. Wesson had told the school-teacher all about it.
“Hello, Brickie,” greeted Mrs. Wesson.
“Hello, folks,” grinned Brick.
Mrs. Wesson squinted at Harp, frowned heavily, as though trying to remember him. Then:
“By golly, that’s Harp Harris, ain’t it?”
“Yeah,” nodded Brick, “this is Harp himself. You’ve met these ladies, ain’t yuh, Harp?”
Harp grunted something unintelligible.
“Wouldn’t hardly knowed him,” declared Mrs. Wesson. “Yuh see, I ain’t used to seein’ him in daylight.”
She turned to Miss Miller—
“This is Mister Harris, Miss Miller.”
“Aw-w-w, dog-gone it, I’ve met yuh and—and I—I—” Harp stammered to a stop, his face red.
“I think I have met Mr. Harris,” smiled the school-teacher.
“That’s right!” exclaimed Mrs. Wesson. “Come to think of it, yuh have. Why don’t you boys come over and see us once in a while? We like company. Come over any evenin’. Harp can bring his music along and entertain us.”
“Oh, do you play, Mr. Harris?” asked Miss Miller.
“Does he play?” Mrs. Wesson seemed surprised that the girl should ask such a question. “Does he? He not only plays, but he sings. Sings and plays his own accompaniment on a jew’s-harp. Writes his own stuff, too, don’tcha, Harp?”
“Aw-w-w, for gosh sake!” Harp swallowed heavily and looked around for a place to put his hands.
“Well, we must be going along,” said Mrs. Wesson. “Pleased to have seen you in daylight, Harp. Come and see us, won’t yuh?”
“Sure be pleased to,” grinned Brick.
The two ladies went on down the street and Harp heaved a sigh of relief.
“Now,” said Brick grinning, “what happened, Harp?”
“Aw,!” Harp shoved his hands deep in his pockets and glared at the sidewalk. “I forgot what time it was, Brick; and like aed fool, I—I”
“You tried to serenade Miss Miller, eh?”
“Yeah. She wasn’t home either. I woke up Cale and his wife.”
“My! Didja sing?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh-huh. Where was Miss Miller?”
“She went to a dance at Silverton, with Sam Leach.”
“Tha’sso? With Sam Leach, eh? Well, don’t let that worry yuh. She’ll soon find out that he can’t neither sing nor play.”
“Brick,” Harp’s voice was strained, “are you tryin’ to be funny?”
“Not intentionally, cowboy. Miss Miller is educated and she’s bound to recognize talent. I could tell by the way she was lookin’ at yuh that she admires yuh a heap. In fact, she had tears in her eyes. By golly, that’s appreciation. And she ain’t even heard yuh yet.”
“Yeah, I know all about them tears,” snorted Harp. “Mrs. Wesson told her what happened.”
“Well,” hopefully, “mebbe they was tears of sympathy, Harp.”
“Like! I suppose I’ll never hear the last of this. What do we do today, Brick?”
“I dunno. I’ve got a danged good notion to ride up to the Red Hill mine today. I want to have a little talk with Barney Devine. He might have an idea, and I haven’t seen him since that hold-up. Want to go along?”
“Yeah, I’d like to.”
Harp was willing to go anywhere. He wanted to get out of Marlin City.
“All right. We’ll bust out of here about noon, Harp.”
It was about eleven o’clock when the stage came in from Silverton, on its way to the Red Hill Mine. Little Whizzer sat beside Baldy on the driver’s seat, as proud as a peacock. It was several days since the grizzly episode, during which time Baldy had taken the child with him everywhere. It was a new experience for Whizzer.
Baldy shook hands with Brick, who picked Whizzer off the seat and carried him into Wesson’s store after candy.
“Where’s yore spur?” asked Brick, noting that Whizzer was not wearing it.
Whizzer removed the candy long enough to gasp for breath and inform Brick that—
“I ain’t no puncher now. Stage drivers don’t wear spurs.”
“By golly, that’s my mistake,” laughed Brick. “I’m sure an ignorant jigger.”
“Yeah,” nodded Whizzer seriously, much to Harp’s delight.
He put the boy back on the seat and waved his hat at him, as they swept out of town. It was about two hours later when Brick and Harp saddled their horses and headed north.
It was eighteen miles from Marlin to the Red Hill mines. For a greater part of the distance the road followed the cañon, but about five miles from the mines it led to higher ground, winding along the sides of the mountain where, as Brick expressed it, “a driver is only allowed one mistake.”
As they rode out of the cañon and began climbing, a rider came into view, coming down the grade. He was a medium-sized man, possibly forty years of age, slightly stooped in his saddle.
He drew up at their approach, removed his sombrero to wipe his forehead, disclosing a mop of tow-colored hair. His face was bony of contour, nose slightly crooked. Neither Brick nor Harp had ever seen the man before, but there was something familiar about him—a resemblance to someone they had known.
He was wearing a faded blue shirt, nondescript vest, chaps that were heavy with nickel and brass trimmings, matching the design on his cartridge-belt and holster. The horse was a tall, powerfully built sorrel.
“Is this the road to Marlin City?” he asked.
“Y’betcha,” nodded Brick. “Stay on it and you’ll hit Marlin.”
“Good! By golly, I’ve been on so many wrong roads that it’ll sure be a surprize to hit the right one once. Say, have yuh got any smokin’?”
Brick handed him a package.
“Gosh, that’s fine, stranger. I tried to buy some Durham back at that mine, but they didn’t have any. I reckon them hon-yocks all chaw or snuff. Much obliged.”
He handed back the package, but Brick shook his head.
“You keep it. You’ll need another smoke soon.”
“Well, all right—thanks.”
He put the package into his pocket, and his eyes squinted at the sheriff’s star on Brick’s shirt.
“Sheriff, eh?” he queried.
“Uh-huh,” smiled Brick. “We have to carry our label—like a can of tomatoes.”
“Or a box of dynamite,” added the stranger dryly. “Well, I reckon I’ll be driftin’ on. Much obliged for the tobacco, sheriff.Adiós.”
Brick and Harp nodded and rode on up the grades. At the top of the long climb they drew up their horses and looked back. The stranger was but a tiny speck, moving slowly down the cañon.
“Didja ever see him before, Brick?” queried Harp.
“Nope. But there’s somethin’ about him that reminds me of somebody.”
“Me too,” nodded Harp. “I ain’t got the slightest idea who he looks like though. Sure wears a fancy lot of leather. I hate to see a feller hammer his chaps full of rivets that-a-way.”
They rode on along the narrow grades and drew up at the Red Hill mine office. Barney Devine, a slight, hatchet-faced, nervous sort of a person, met them at the office door and greeted them effusively.
“How’s tricks, Barney?” asked Brick, stretching his legs in one of Barney’s comfortable chairs and accepting a cigar.
“Pretty good,” replied the mine superintendent. “Everything is going along pretty fine. Property is getting richer all the time. We just cut a new vein that runs pretty high. How is everything in Marlin City?”
“So, so. Nothin’ much new goin’ on.”
“I heard about you and the grizzly,” smiled Devine. “Baldy Malloy sure told everybody about it. He seems to think it was the greatest thing that was ever done.”
“It was fun while it lasted,” smiled Brick.
“It must have been.” Devine shook his head. “Some folks have queer ideas of fun. Anyway, what brought you up here, Brick?”
“Oh, just to see if you had dried up and blowed away yet. You get thinner every day, Barney.”
“I knew that was why you came,” said Barney dryly. “But that wasn’t all, was it?”
“Just a little information,” confided Brick. “How much did that hold-up nick you, Barney?”
“Thirty-eight hundred dollars.”
“Uh-huh. How often do you ship by stage?”
Barney shook his head slowly.
“Not any more. Anyway, nobody will know when we do.”
“Who knew about this shipment?”
“Not a darned soul, Brick. Baldy Malloy carries one of those old treasure-boxes for small packages. I gave him this box and told him to deliver it to the bank at Silverton. It was just a plain wooden box, with the cover just nailed on. There wasn’t a thing to indicate what was in it.”
“Whole thing would weigh about fourteen or fifteen pounds, wouldn’t it? And it was consigned to the bank?”
“Yes. If the stage was held up the robbers would probably investigate that old treasure-box. But how do you suppose they knew when it was to be shipped?”
Brick shook his head.
“That wasn’t the first shipment you’ve made, was it?”
“No. But there was no schedule, Brick. We shipped when it was ready.”
A man came into the office and deposited a suit-case on the floor. It was one of the office men and Devine introduced him to Brick and Harp. Devine glanced at his watch.
“Baldy will be getting out of here rather late, if he don’t hurry,” observed Devine.
“He’s usually on time,” replied the man. “Anyway, I can’t get a train out of Marlin until near midnight.”
“Goin’ for a trip?” asked Brick.
“Going to Frisco. My folks live there. I’ve been here at the mine for almost two years without a vacation; so I think it is about time to see the old folks.”
“That’s right,” smiled Brick. “I wish I could see mine. Goin’ out on the stage, eh?”
“If it ever shows up.”
“If it ever shows up?” parroted Brick. “Hasn’t it been here?”
“Not today.”
Brick and Harp stared at each other. They could hardly believe that statement.
“Why, it went through Marlin City about eleven o’clock,” stated Brick.
“And we just came over the road,” added Harp wonderingly.
“Well, it never came here, that’s a sure thing,” declared Devine.
“The little kid was with Baldy,” said Brick, getting to his feet. “What do yuh reckon has happened to ’em?”
“I don’t see how anything could happen to them.”
Brick strode to the door, but turned to Devine.
“Barney, was there a stranger here today—a man on a tall sorrel?”
“Yes. He wanted to buy some Durham tobacco, but we didn’t have any. He didn’t say who he was, but he did say that he picked the wrong road.”
Brick and Harp mounted and rode out of the camp, heading back toward Marlin City. They rode at a swift gallop, with Brick riding at the outer edge of the grades, watching the road closely.
There were many sharp curves, where they were forced to slacken their pace; but only long enough to obviate the danger of running into some one coming toward them. About three miles from the mines, Brick jerked his horse to a stop and dismounted. Harp whirled and rode back to him, peering down the steep side of the hill, where the underbrush grew in a tangle among the tall timber.
“Here’s where they went over,” said Brick rather shakily, pointing at the wheel tracks, which had cut deeply into the outer edge of the road.
They could see where the stage had torn into the dirt of the side-hill, like the gash of plow-shares.
“My!” gasped Harp. “They tore plumb down through that brush! I’ll betcha they went clear to the bottom of the cañon.”
They dropped their bridle-reins and began the descent. The going was rough and the hill so steep that they were forced to cling to the rocks and brush. Down they went through the brush, following the marks of the stage.
A smashed wheel, driven into the side of a pine-tree, was the first evidence of the crash. Then a dead horse, upside down in a tangle of laurel, its harness stripped from its body. Beyond that was another horse and the wreck of the stage. It had turned over and crashed into a tree, splintering the body. There was no sign of the other two wheels.
Brick and Harp stood silently, gazing at the wreckage.
“Good, what a smash!” breathed Brick. “They must have fell two hundred feet. C’mon.”
They moved down to the stage. Just beyond it, huddled in a bush, they found Baldy Malloy. His clothes were almost torn from his body, and it did not take an expert to tell that Baldy had made his last trip.
“Poor,” said Brick sadly. “He stayed with her until they hit the tree. But where is Whizzer?”
“That’s right,” nodded Harp. “The kid was with him.”
They separated and began their search. Twice they combed every inch of ground between the stage and the grade. They went far down in the cañon below the stage, searching closely for any sign, but there was nothing to show that the little boy had wandered down the hill.
After two hours of determined search, Brick sat down and admitted himself beaten.
“He just ain’t here, Harp.”
“He ain’t,” declared Harp. “By golly, we’ve sure looked over every inch of this mountain. But where inis he?”
Brick wiped his brow and shook his head.
“That’s the queer part of it, cowboy. He must be—and ain’t. We’ll pack old Baldy up to the horses and take him to town. It’s barely possible that Whizzer wasn’t hurt, and that he got back to the grade and headed for town.”
“That’s right,” agreed Harp hopefully. “By jinks, that’s right.”
It was a big task to get the body up to the grade, and both men were tired out, when they swung onto their horses, with the body on Brick’s saddle. They were unable to travel fast, but they did not overtake Whizzer. There were no tracks from his little feet in the dusty road, and Brick’s eyes squinted painfully as he visualized the little fellow wandering alone in that deep cañon, looking for a way out.
Their arrival caused a sensation in Marlin City. Brick turned the body over to Doctor Meyers and went back to the Dollar Down saloon, where he told them about the missing boy. There were several men there who had seen the boy with Baldy that day, and in about thirty minutes a group of twelve riders, including Harp, Brick and Silent Slade, were heading back for the scene of the wreck.
Several of them carried lanterns, and there were enough blankets along to wrap up a dozen children. Even Le Blanc, the blacksmith, borrowed a horse and went along. It was almost dark when they arrived, and in a short time there were lanterns bobbing around the timbered sides of Elk Cañon, as the men searched in every possible and impossible place.
Some went far down into the bottom of the cañon, while the others examined places far to the sides of where the stage had been wrecked. It was almost daylight when the last of the searchers arrived at the grade, tired and discouraged.
“By gosh, she’s not be here!” panted Le Blanc. “Not’ing on de hill. H’even de brush is clear h’off. I’m h’even dig a little.”
They mounted their horses and rode back toward Marlin City, with every man still straining his eyes for a sight of the boy. The women of the town were waiting for them, hoping that their search had not been in vain. Mrs. Wesson had a mighty pot of coffee waiting for them and they attacked it with a will.
Doctor Meyers drew Brick aside and spoke softly—
“Has any one ever threatened Baldy Malloy, Brick?”
“Threatened him?” Brick gulped some strong coffee. “Not that I know of, doc. Why do you ask?”
“He was shot.”
“Shot?”
“Yes. When Baldy Malloy drove off the Elk Cañon grade, he was dead, Brick. There was a bullet through his heart.”
Brick’s jaw set tightly and the hand that held the cup of coffee dropped to his side, spilling the fluid onto the floor.
“He was shot before he went off the grade, eh? Shot through the heart.”
“Yes. It was either a revolver bullet, or possibly a rifle, fired at long range. The bullet was still in him, Brick. It is a .45 caliber.”
Brick glanced quickly around. The men were busy with the coffee and none of them had heard what the doctor had told.
“Doc, can yuh keep this a secret?” queried Brick. “Mebbe we better let Harp in on it. Can yuh do this? It might be easier that-a-way.”
“You are the sheriff,” replied the doctor softly. “I am ready to do as you say. Every one thinks that Malloy accidentally ran off the grade. We can always exhume the body, you know.”
“All right,” nodded Brick. “And I’m much obliged, doc.”
“That’s all right, Brick. And there was no sign of the child?”
Brick shook his head wearily and went back after more hot coffee. Miss Miller and Mrs. Wesson were talking to Harp, who was too tired to even be bashful. But they were not joking him now.
The men gradually drifted away to get a few hours sleep before renewing the search. Brick, Harp and Silent went down to the office, with the intention of going to bed, but they had only been there a few minutes when Bill Grant came in, accompanied by the stranger who had met Brick and Harp on the road.
“Hello, Brick,” greeted Grant. “I want yuh to meet Mr. Santel.”
“I’ve met the sheriff before,” grinned Santel. “In fact I owe him a sack of tobacco.”
Brick introduced Santel to Harp and Silent.
“Can we talk to yuh alone for a few minutes, Brick?” asked Grant.
“Sure thing.”
Brick grabbed his hat and followed them outside. They walked up the street a short distance and stopped.
“Mr. Santel is the man we told yuh about, Brick,” said Grant.
“The detective?”
Santel smiled.
“Not exactly a detective. Leach seemed to think that I could kinda clean up some of the crime around here; so here I am.”
“You with the Cattle Association, Santel?” queried Brick.
“No. I’m not connected with any outfit right now. The men in the association are too well known.”
“I s’pose,” nodded Brick thoughtfully. “Still yuh wasn’t able to find the right road, yuh know.”
Santel laughed softly.
“That’s right, sheriff.”
“Grant, you heard about Baldy Malloy, didn’t yuh?”
Grant hadn’t. He and Santel had just ridden in from Grant’s ranch, the old Star-Dot, located about six miles due north from Marlin City, on Whispering Creek.
It did not take Brick long to tell of the wreck, the finding of Malloy’s body and of their futile search for the youngster.
“Well, how in thedid Malloy happen to drive off the grade?” wondered Grant. “He was a good driver.”
“I dunno,” sighed Brick. “It was one awful smash-up.”
“Was it back on those grades beyond where I met yuh?” asked Santel.
“Uh-huh. About the highest point.”
“Where’s the body?” asked Grant.
“Down at Doc Meyers’ office.”
“Let’s go and look at it,” suggested Santel.
They walked down to the office and the doctor met them at the door. Malloy’s body had been laid out on some planks, and a heavy sheet thrown over it. The doctor threw back the sheet enough to disclose the head, but not enough to show any of the body.
Santel stepped in close and peered at the face of the dead man. Brick noticed the muscles of Santel’s jaw set tightly and the blood quickly drained from his face. Grant was talking to the doctor and did not notice this.
For several moments Santel stared into the face of the dead man before he slowly drew back and turned away. Grant had stepped in closer and was looking closely. Then he grasped the sheet and drew it down, exposing the bare chest and arms.
“What theis this?” he grunted, turning to the doctor. “This man has been shot.”
Santel whirled quickly and leaned forward, looking at the blue circle on the dead man’s breast. Grant had turned and was staring at Brick and the doctor.
“We both knew it, Grant,” said Brick slowly. “Somebody shot Baldy through the heart before he went off the grade; and we thought it might be easier to find out who done it, if it wasn’t generally known that such a thing was done.”
Grant squinted thoughtfully, half-nodding in agreement.
“He never knew what hit him,” said the doctor softly. “It was a center shot.”
“A forty-five,” added Brick quickly.
Santel’s right hand dropped to his holster, but jerked away.
“You shoot a forty-five?” asked Brick.
Santel’s eyes slowly turned to Brick, a narrow-eyed stare and a slow nod.
“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I shoot a forty-five.”
“A lot of us do, Santel,” said Brick slowly.
“Do yuh think it was a hold-up?” queried Grant.
“We won’t know until we find out what Baldy was carryin’ from Silverton.”
“How long has he been driving this stage?” asked Santel.
“About seven or eight months, I think,” replied Brick.
“What did he do before he got this job?”
“I dunno, do you, Grant?”
“No. I never seen Baldy until he started drivin’ stage. Prob’ly the only job he ever had in Sun Dog.”
“Have any enemies?” queried Santel.
“Never heard of any,” said Brick. “Baldy was kind of an inoffensive jigger.”
“Not exactly,” Grant smiled slowly. “He knocked McGill down the day you rode the grizzly, Brick.”
“I heard about that,” smiled Brick. “Still a poke in the nose wouldn’t cause a man to do murder—not this long afterward, anyway.”
“Who is McGill?” asked Santel.
“A saloon-keeper in Silverton. Not exactly a worthy citizen, but tolerated. No, I don’t reckon that McGill shot Baldy.”
They left the doctor’s office and walked back to the street. Grant offered to buy a drink, but the other two men declined with thanks. Santel was very serious, and Brick thought very sad.
“Is Santel goin’ to stay with you, Grant?” asked Brick.
They had halted in front of Wesson’s store, and as Brick spoke Mrs. Wesson and Miss Miller came out of the store and walked past them. Brick and Grant spoke to the ladies. Miss Miller glanced keenly at Santel, but he did not pay them the slightest attention.
“Yeah, he is goin’ to stay at my ranch,” replied Grant, after the women were out of ear-shot. “I’ve hired him to punch cows.”
“Well, he looks capable,” grinned Brick.
Santel looked up quickly. He straightened his shoulders and shifted his heavy cartridge-belt slightly.
“Are they goin’ to hunt for the kid again today?” he asked.
Brick nodded.
“Y’betcha. I’ve got to grab a little sleep. We’ll probably pull out of here about noon. The boys were kinda fagged out, but they’ll be on deck.”
“I’ll go along,” volunteered Santel.
“Me, too,” said Grant quickly. “By grab, I hope we find that poor kid. He was a dinger of a little feller, Brick—him and his spurs.”
“He quit wearin’ spurs,” said Brick sadly. “He told me yesterday that stage-drivers didn’t wear spurs.”
“What was his name?” asked Santel.
“I dunno. Baldy called him ‘Whizzer.’”
Santel looked curiously at Brick, his eyes narrowed to slits, as if looking into a strong light. Then he turned away and looked across the street.
“Well, you go and grab an eye-full of sleep, Brick,” said Grant. “We’ll be ready to ride when you show up.”
Brick nodded and went back to the office. Harp and Silent were already stretched out on the two cots and were snoring a duet. Brick went into the back room and kicked off his boots. He was half-asleep before he stretched out on the bed, but his mind was running in wide circles.
“Who is Santel?” he asked himself. “Why did he act that-a-way when he looked at Baldy Malloy?”
Brick yawned widely and drew the blanket up around his neck.
“I dunno how much of a detective he is,” decided Brick, “but he’s a gun-man, if there ever was one. Mister Santel, me and you may not travel well together, but I ain’t goin’ to choose you in case I’m lookin’ for trouble. You’re a salty son-of-a-gun, even if yuh do decorate yore leather panties with dude buttons; and if you don’t mind I’d kinda like to be on yore side.”
The search for Whizzer Malloy was a failure. Several men came from Silverton and Barney Devine sent out a big crew from the Red Hill mine, but to no avail. Every inch of the big cañon and the mountains surrounding it had been explored, but there was not even a footprint to show where the little fellow had passed.
“She’s not leave de track,” declared Mose La Clede, who had joined the search. “Up de cañon ’bout mile be-ond where de stage go bus’, I’m find de track of beeg griz-i-lee. By gosh, she may be so dat de griz-i-lee find her firs’.”
“Aw!” snorted Silent. “Even if a grizzly caught the kid, we’d sure find some evidence of it, Mose.”
“I’m be not sosure. Griz-i-lee pick her up jus’ like you pick up ol’ hat. Datbear she’s strong. She’s pick up de sheep—w’y not de leetle keed, eh?”
“Well,” growled Silent, “you don’t need to get suchpleasant thoughts.”
It was hard for the men to give up the search, but there was nothing else to do; so they went back to town. Santel had been with the searchers, as had Grant, Leach and Hendricks. Brick had told Harp and Silent who Santel was, and both of them, while they did not admire Santel, admitted that he looked able to take care of himself.
Hank Stagg hired another stage-driver in the person of Sidney Howley, who had formerly been a “swamper” in the Short Horn saloon. In other words, Howley had been employed to clean up the place.
Howley was an angular-built young man, with a bony face, long nose and lack-luster eyes; sort of a colorless person, with only enough initiative to roll cigarets and use a mop. Stage driving was not exactly a lucrative occupation, and perhaps Hank might have been forgiven for adding Howley to his staff.
And, anyway, Hank was too busy electioneering to spend his valuable time in examining applicants for the position. From a word dropped here and there, Brick felt that Sam Leach was behind Hank’s campaign.
“Still there ain’t nothin’ funny about that,” decided Brick. “Me and Hank and Sam all belong to the same political party—and Sam don’t like me. Naturally he picks Hank.”
“Well,” remarked the philosophic Harp, “if yo’re beat, mebbe I’ll get a little rest. This hereed deputy job costs me a lot of sleep. And I’ve always got to be goin’ around, lookin’ like I knowed somethin’, when I don’t know athing.”
“There’s a difference of sixty dollars a month between yore present job and punchin’ cows,” reminded Brick.
“Lot of difference in the sleep, too. By golly, I can go back to the old Nine-Bar-Nine and play m’ jew’s-harp unmolested, too.”
“Nobody stoppin’ yuh from moanin’ it around here, is there?”
“Yeah—moanin’! By golly, you ain’t got no appreciation for music, Brick. Moanin’! Yuh got to sing through it. How indo yuh expect me to play it, if I don’t sing into it?”
“I don’t expect yuh to play it, Harp. Nobody hankers for yuh to play it. Hang the thing up and let the wind play it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Or go over and serenade Mrs. Wesson. She speaks highly of yore ability. I’d be ashamed to let Sam Leach beat me out of a girl.”
“Theyou would? Well, he’s beatin’ yuh out of a job.”
“I reckon that’ll hold me for a while,” grinned Brick.
Harp had got to his feet and was starting for the door, when Silent Slade came stomping inside. He advanced to Brick’s desk and slapped a piece of fairly fresh cow-hide down on its polished top. It landed with a wet thud and the concussion knocked several papers to the floor.
“Get that dirty thing off my desk!” snapped Brick. “What do yuh think this is—a tannery?”
“Look at that!” snorted Silent, pointing at the offending object. “Look at that piece of hide, dog-gone yuh!”
“All right, I’m lookin’!” retorted Brick.
“Do yuh see it? Yuh do? See the Nine-Bar-Nine brand on that section of cow skin? See the edge has been burned? Yuh do? Huh!”
“Yeah, I see all them things,” grinned Brick. “Why didn’t yuh herd the cow in here? The sample looks all right.”
“Funny, ain’tcha?” Silent poked his finger at the piece of hide carefully as though expecting it to snap at him.
“Well, what’s the joke?” asked Harp. “You’ve made a lot of medicine over that piece of eppy-der-mis. What was the matter with the old critter—have dandruff?”
“’s delight!” roared Silent. “That’s a Nine-Bar-Nine cow. Somebody killed it and burned the hide. But they missed on the important part of the thing. See where it was burnt?”
“Where did yuh find it, Silent?” queried Brick seriously.
Silent sat down and rolled a cigaret. He had excited their curiosity and now he was going to take his own sweet time in answering their question.
“Yuh hadn’t ought to have asked him that, Brick,” said Harp. “He prob’ly don’t remember.”
“Yeah?” Silent shaped his cigaret and scratched a match on the sole of his boot.
“I found that hide in Big Elk Canon.”
“Yo’re the one that’s tellin’ the story,” reminded Brick.
“I got to thinkin’ about that poor little kid,” stated Silent thoughtfully. “I knowed it wasn’t no use lookin’ for him after all this time, but I went anyway. I rode in close to the mouth of the cañon and took plenty of time. About a mile or so up the bottom I cut into one of them side gulches, kinda lookin’ around.
“I seen horse-tracks and cow-tracks, and I got to figurin’ that was why the grizzly was hangin’ around the cañon. Pretty soon I runs onto the remains of an old fire. It’s several days old, and right there I discovers a piece of cow-hide.
“It looks like it’s been burned, don’tcha know. I turns it over with my foot, and that old Nine-Bar-Nine brand looks up at me. The ground is kinda hard, and I can’t find no tracks, but I sure finds where an animal has been butchered.”
“Somebody needed meat, eh?” mused Brick.
“That’s all right,” nodded Silent. “There ain’t nobody goin’ to begrudge a hungry person a hunk of beef; but whoever killed that animal didn’t set down there and eat it. They burned the hide, and took the rest of the animal away with them.”
“Well,” grinned Brick, “it was probably somebody that needed meat pretty bad. The loss of a cow won’t break Lafe Freeman.”
Silent shook his head slowly and blew rings at the ceiling.
“Nope,” he said slowly. “Losin’ one cow won’t hurt him none, Brick. I don’t reckon there’s a man in Sun Dog that would yelp less over the loss of one cow. After I found that piece of hide I rode on up the cañon.
“There’s half-a-dozen of them side gulches that come in from the west, and in most every one of them there’s places where hides have been burnt. I tell yuh, Brick, somebody is grabbin’ off a lot of slow-elk meat. I dunno whether it’s all Nine-Bar-Nine stock or not—but one of ’em was, that’s a cinch.”
Brick frowned at his boot toes and shifted restlessly.
“Meat burglars, eh?” he said slowly. “My gosh, what a place to butcher! If yuh herd a cow into Big Elk Cañon she’s yore meat.”
“Cinch,” agreed Harp. “A cow ain’t goin’ to climb out. She’d head into one of them side gulches and they ain’t much more than blind cañons. I’ve been in there, but quite a while ago.”
“I’m glad yo’re interested,” said Silent dryly. “When a sheriff takes up ridin’ grizzlies and his deputy spends his nights serenadin’ married wimmin, it’s sure hard to interest ’em in such common things as rustlin’ cows.”
“If yuh don’t like our stock of goods, yuh might go and see what Mister Santel has to offer,” replied Harp.
“That hard-faced pelican!” snorted Silent. “I met him out there between here and the Star-Dot. He jist nodded and rode on.”
“What did yuh expect him to do—kiss yuh?”
Silent made a dive for Harp and they went rolling across the floor in a grunting tangle, colliding with one of the cots, each one striving with muscle and voice to stay on top of the other. Silent finally managed to secure the advantage and proceeded to straddle Harp and bounce his head on the floor.
“Get smart with me, will yuh?” panted Silent.
“Leggo my ears!” yelped Harp. “Leggo, I tell yuh!”
“Get up, you two-year-olds!” snorted Brick. “What do yuh think this place is—a saloon?”
“Mind papa,” chuckled Harp.
His indifference to the situation caught Silent off his guard and he managed, with a sudden twist of his body to dump Silent sidewise into the cot, and they both stumbled to their feet.
Harp made a feint to grab a chair and Silent ducked for the doorway; but Harp turned from the chair, grasped the piece of cow-hide off Brick’s desk, and hurled it at Silent.
The piece of heavy, wet hide sailed like a blue-rock shot from a trap, missed Silent by two feet and stopped with a dismalsplat, after it had passed through the doorway.
Silent ducked back inside, his mouth wide with astonishment, while from without came a vitriolic curse, and Sam Leach stepped just inside the door, wiping his face with the sleeve of his coat.
“Who inhit me?” he demanded.
“Hit yuh?” queried Harp, choking back his laughter.
“Something,” Leach looked back, spitting angrily.
“Oh, it must ’a’ been that piece of hide,” said Harp slowly. “I throwed it outside. It—it was kinda spoiled, Leach.”
“Um-m-m!”
Leach felt of his face and sniffed disgustedly. Then he whirled on his heel and went away, while the three men proceeded to relieve their feelings with tears.
“Hit him right in the mouth!” choked Silent. “Ker-splat!”
“I wonder what he was coming here for?” panted Brick.
“He wasn’t,” Silent shook his head. “He was just goin’ past. When I came to the door he kinda slowed up and looked at me—and that’s when the old hunk of hide hit him dead center. Didn’t yuh hear itsplat?”
“Hear it?” chortled Harp. “Never heard sweeter music in my whole life. The only thing I’m sorry about is that I didn’t hit him with the whole cow.”
“And it didn’t smell none too sweet,” chuckled Silent. “He sure acted plumb distressed over it, and he’ll likely be gunnin’ for our little playmate, eh, Brick?”
“Tha’sall right,” Harp grinned widely. “That jasper can’t start trouble none too soon to suit me, by golly.”
“They’re rivals,” Brick whispered to Silent. “Leach thinks that Harp is tryin’ to beat him out of his girl. Harp don’t want her a-tall.”
“Certainly not!” thus Silent indignantly. “Harp ain’t got no use for a girl. Why, he can’t even support himself.”
“TheI can’t!”
Harp started for Silent, who ducked out of the door, heading for the Dollar Down with Harp close behind him. Brick grinned and sat down in the doorway.
Brick knew that Sam Leach had gone to the Dollar Down, and that Harp and Silent had gone over there to have a drink and to sympathize with Sam Leach. Their sympathy would be with a reverse English, as usual. A couple of little kids were coming from school and behind them came Miss Miller, carrying an armload of books.
“When yuh teach the young idea how to shoot, you’ve sure got to pack a lot of ammunition, ain’t yuh?” smiled Brick, as she came up to him.
“Yes indeed,” replied the teacher, a trifle wearily.
“Let me pack them books,” offered Brick, taking them from her. “I’ll walk down and see Mrs. Wesson.”
“But I can carry them,” she protested.
“Sure yuh can—but not just now,” grinned Brick.
They walked slowly up the street and were opposite the Dollar Down, when Harp and Silent came outside. The two cowpunchers stopped at the edge of the sidewalk and stared at Brick and the teacher. Brick grinned covertly. He could tell by their attitude that Harp and Silent were making uncomplimentary remarks about him.
A horseman was riding into town, heading for the rack at the Dollar Down. It was Santel. Miss Miller looked toward him and turned to Brick.
“Mr. Davidson, do you know that man?” she asked.
“Yes’m. His name is Santel.”
“What is he doing here?”
“Well, I reckon he’s workin’ for the Star-Dot outfit, ma’am.”
“For Mr. Grant?”
“Yes’m.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
“No, ma’am—not a thing. Did you ever see him before?”
“Yes. It was about a year ago, I think—in Idaho. This man was mixed up in some cattle and sheep trouble. It seems that he was hired as gun-man by the sheep interests. Anyway, a couple of cowboys were murdered, and every one seemed to think that this man was the guilty party. But he left the country ahead of the sheriff.”
“Tha’sso?” Brick was interested. “Are yuh sure this is the same man?”
“As sure as I can be. I have never met him, and he probably does not remember ever seeing me.”
“Well, that kinda makes him worth watchin’,” grinned Brick, as they went up to Wesson’s porch. “You just kinda keep still about this will yuh, ma’am? It won’t help none to scatter that kind of information; but I’m sure much obliged to yuh for tellin’ me about it.”
“You are certainly welcome, I am sure.”
Mrs. Wesson opened the door. She had seen them from the window, but simulated great surprize.
“Heavenly dove!” she exclaimed. “Brick Davidson!”
“’Lo, Mrs. Wesson.”
Mrs. Wesson squinted at Miss Miller, shaking her head slowly.
“My, my! You girls sure do swing a wide loop. A new one every day. It wasn’t that way in my time. Well, I reckon you can take a look at Cale Wesson and see that I didn’t have much choice.”
“I heard Cale say about the same thing one day,” offered Brick innocently.
“Yuh did? Did that lantern-jawed—say, he picked me out of a whole herd. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Come on in, Brickie.”
“Can’t do it, Mrs. Wesson. I’ve got to go back now and square myself with Harp.”
Miss Miller thanked Brick and went into the house.
“No sign of the little Malloy boy?” asked Mrs. Wesson softly.
Brick shook his head.
“No, I guess the kid is a goner, Mrs. Wesson. I don’tsabeit at all. He was a dinger of a little feller. Kinda up and comin’ all the time.”
They considered the mystery silently for a while. Then:
“Well, I’ll be goin’,” said Brick. “There’s a lot of work to bein’ a sheriff.”
“Like packin’ schoolbooks and all that.”
“Uh-huh,” grinned Brick. “So-long, Mrs. Wesson.”
“G’-by, Brick.”
Brick went to the Dollar Down, but did not find Harp and Silent. A poker game was in progress and Leach was in the game. Santel was one of the spectators. He nodded to Brick pleasantly, but not so Leach. He scowled at Brick and devoted the rest of his attention to his cards.
Brick went back to his office and found Silent and Harp, lying on the cots, reading some year-old magazines. Neither of them paid any attention to Brick, who rolled a cigaret and sat down on top of his desk.
“Miss Miller is a danged nice girl,” offered Brick.
“Yeah?” Thus Harp sarcastically.
“Yeah. I don’t care much for a girl that talks all the time about another feller.”
“Who’d she talk about?” demanded Harp quickly.
“If you don’t know, I’m not goin’ to tell yuh.”
“Leach?”
“Nope; never mentioned his name.”
“Huh!” Harp arose and yawned widely. “Is Mrs. Wesson at home?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I think yo’re a liar, Brick.”
“Well, why don’tcha go and find out for yourself, Harp?”
Harp grinned and sauntered into the back room, from whence came the sounds of razor stropping and splashing water. Silent groaned aloud.
“You touch my red tie and I’ll massacree yuh,” warned Brick.
“Where do yuh think I’m goin’—to a bull-fight?” spluttered Harp. “I’ve got a green one.”
“You must have,” observed Silent meaningly. “She must have astigmatism, too.”
Silent sneaked softly out and Brick went out behind him, while Harp swore softly and searched for something to throw at them.
The following day Brick rode through Big Elk Cañon alone. He found plenty of evidence that cattle had been butchered, but was unable to find anything that would show who owned the animals nor who had done the killing.
It was well past noon when he arrived at the Red Hill mine and found Sam Leach and Hank Stagg in Barney Devine’s office. They were all smoking cigars, and a half-empty whisky bottle was on the table. Brick knew that Hank Stagg was electioneering.
The men were all civil enough, but Brick knew that Leach and Stagg were not at all pleased at his appearance.
“How’s the sheriff?” queried Hank Stagg thickly. Hank had imbibed much of his own liquor.
“He’s just about right,” grinned Brick.
“It’s a good thing that he thinks well of himself,” observed Sam Leach sarcastically.
“’Cause nobody else does, eh?” grinned Brick.
“You said it yourself,” reminded Leach, helping himself to a drink.
Brick laughed and stretched his legs.
“There’s no use of quarrelin’, Leach. You don’t like me, and I sure hateout of you; so let’s let it go as it lays.”
“What’d I ever do to you?” demanded Leach.
“Some folks don’t have to do anythin’ to me,” said Brick coldly. “I’m not that particular.”
“Aw, let’s be friends,” suggested Hank Stagg. “Have a drink, Brick. There ain’t none of us perfect. Sam has had too many shots out of the old bottle today, and it’s kinda soured on him.”
But Brick grinned and declined the drink. Sam got to his feet and picked up his hat.
“You don’t mind if we go and talk to some of the men, do yuh, Devine?” he asked.
“Go to it,” smiled Barney. He had imbibed enough to make him feel kindly toward every one.
Hank corked the bottle, shoved it into his hip-pocket and followed Leach outside, where they headed for the mine bunkhouse. Devine laughed and held out a handful of cigars to Brick.
“Might as well smoke on Hank Stagg, Brick. I’ve tried five of ’em, and not one will draw. But that hooch has authority.”
Brick accepted one, lit and discarded it in a moment for a cigaret.
“What’s on your mind?” queried Barney.
“You use a lot of meat don’tcha, Barney?”
“Darned right we do. You can’t feed a crew like we’ve got and not use a lot of fresh meat.”
“Who do yuh buy from?”
“Hm-m-m.” Barney frowned thoughtfully, reached for a book and skipped through the pages. “Here it is—Mostano; J. Mostano. I think they call him Joe.”
“Joe Mostano, eh? He’s that ’breed back on Lick Creek. Bought out that old Hopper ranch, didn’t he? Brands with a big H. Covers half the animal.”
“I don’t know,” replied Barney. “Art Fields runs the commissary and takes care of the buying. You got some beef to sell, Brick?”
Brick shook his head and got to his feet.
“I wonder if I could have a little talk with Fields?”
“Sure thing. He’s in that big building on the other side of the cook-shack. You know him?”
“Nope, but I can find him.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Barney got his hat and they walked to the commissary building. Hank Stagg and Leach were talking to several men near the bunk-house. Leach said something to the men, which caused them to laugh.
Art Fields was a little, fat man, with an almost totally bald head and a serious face. He shook hands with Brick and waited for him to state his business.
“Yes, we buy from Mostano,” he said, in answer to Brick’s question. “He has been supplying us with beef for several months. It is cheaper than having it freighted in. Mostano packs it in on his horses. His ranch is only about six miles from here, I think.”
“Is it good meat?”
“Fine.”
“Does he bring the hides with it?” asked Brick.
“The hides? Why, I don’t think so. We don’t buy hides.”
“Sure yuh don’t,” grinned Brick, “but it’s a law, Fields. When yuh sell meat that-a-way you’ve got to show the hide.”
“Oh-h-h, I get the idea.” Fields looked very wise. “I never thought of that, sheriff. Why, sure, it would be easy to kill somebody’s cattle and sell ’em to us. I don’t know whether Mostano knows about this or not, but I’ll see that he does. Next time he shows up, he better have the hide.”
“Has somebody been killing cattle?” asked Barney softly.
“I don’t think so,” smiled Brick. “I got to thinkin’ about you havin’ to buy so much meat, and I thought yuh ought to know what the law was. It might save yuh trouble.”
“That’s right,” agreed Barney. “We want to stay inside the law, you bet.”
“I guess that Mostano is all right,” said Fields. “He seems to be a pretty good ’breed, and he is sure prompt on delivery. He will bring in a load tomorrow some time.”
“Well, I’m much obliged,” smiled Brick. “See yuh later.”
“Come any old time.”
Brick and Barney walked back toward the office, and met Hank and Sam Leach, who were coming toward the commissary.
“Land any converts?” asked Brick.
“Got a lot of promises,” grinned Hank drunkenly. “Thish here polit’cal business is hard on the stummick.”
“Aw, come on!” snorted Leach.
“Foller papa,” laughed Brick.
Leach snorted and started to say something, but evidently changed his mind. A man was riding in on a pinto horse and Barney called Brick’s attention to him.
“That’s Mostano, Brick.”
The rider was of medium height, rather heavy, sitting humped in his saddle, his face completely shaded by a wide sombrero. He rode around the corner of the cookshack, heading toward the commissary building. Brick stopped and looked back.
“I reckon I’ll go back there, Barney,” he said. “I’d kinda like to get a look at Mostano.”
Brick started back and Barney went with him. They stopped at the corner of the building, where they could hear the men talking. It was evident that an argument had started, in which Hank and Leach had joined.
“It’s none of my business,” said Fields, “but it’s the law. You’ve got to have the hide of the animal, Mostano. I didn’t know it until the sheriff told me about it today.”
“Aw, towith the sheriff!” Thus Sam Leach. “Let’s all have a drink. Fields, I want you to meet Hank Stagg. Hank is our next sheriff.”
Fields grunted an acknowledgment.
“Why do I bring hides?” queried Mostano. “My meat is good.”
“I’m not kicking about the meat,” replied Fields. “I’m just telling you—”
“Nobody pays any attention to that law,” interrupted Leach. “It’s a law all right, but what the? We’ve got too many laws.”
“Hides make big load,” complained Mostano. “I have to pack one more horse. Too much work.”
“That’s right,” agreed Leach. “Here, have a drink, Fields. Thated sheriff is too officious. Wait until Hank is elected.”
There was silence while the bottle was being passed, and then Mostano’s voice grew a trifle more belligerent.
“I no like to pack hides.”
“All right,” grunted Fields. “Take a chance, if you want to. You never know when the sheriff is going to pop up on you. It’s your funeral—not mine.”
“He don’t come out here very often, does he?” asked Leach.
“I never met him until today. I may not be any judge of human nature, but I don’t want him catchin’ me breaking the law.”
“Aw, he ain’t so much,” said Hank thickly.
“You better take your sheriff prospect and put him to bed,” observed Fields, laughing. “He’s buckling at the knees.”
“I no bring hides,” declared Mostano.
Brick touched Barney on the arm and they walked back to the office. Brick was very thoughtful over what he had heard.
“That’s what whisky does,” said Barney. “Fields was all right, until he got that drink.”
“Don’t worry about him,” smiled Brick. “He’s just human. We’d all say the same thing, if we were in his place. Hank and Leach have the idea that whisky and cigars will bring votes. Maybe it would, if they could vote ’em right at the time. Well, I’ve got to be driftin’, Barney. Don’t say anythin’ to Fields.”
“It won’t get him into trouble, will it, Brick?”
“No-o-o. Maybe it’s better that way. So-long.”
Brick mounted and went slowly down the road about a quarter of a mile, where he swung up the side of hill, heading northwest of the Red Hill property. A narrow hog-back ridge led back to the top of the hill, from where he could get a bird’s-eye view of the big mine.
As he rested his horse he saw Mostano ride away from the mine, traveling in the same general direction as Brick was heading. Brick waited for Mostano to disappear in the timber before going on.
The ridge led back through fairly heavy timber, forcing him to travel slowly. About two miles from the mine he stopped. He knew that the old Hooper ranch was located about due north of where he was, and that Mostano must cross that ridge on his way home.
In a few minutes he was rewarded by seeing Mostano ride up the side of the hill, cross the ridge about two hundred yards beyond him and ride down into the next cañon. Brick moved on and found the trail. He gave Mostano plenty of time before following him.
The trail led around the head of the next cañon, twisted down the opposite side and came out into more open country. There were several head of cattle on this side, and Brick noted that all of them were branded with the big H.
The trail led to the edge of a high bluff, where he drew rein. Below the bluff, about half a mile away, he could see the buildings of the old Hooper ranch, standing in the middle of a big, partly cleared meadow. But he could see nothing of Mostano now.
There was no sign of life about the place. The corrals were empty. Brick considered the place for quite a while. He was suspicious of Mostano. Whoever was killing the beef must have a ready market for meat. There were other big mining crews at Redrock, but that was too far away for any one to transport the meat at a profit.
Finally he decided to take a closer view of the place; so he spurred down the bluff trail and rode boldly up to the old ranch-house. A half-breed woman came to the door, as he dismounted, shading her eyes from the sun. She was a slatternly looking woman, poorly dressed, bare of feet.
“Howdy,” grinned Brick. “You Mrs. Mostano?”
“Um-m-m.” She was not at all friendly.
“Where’s Joe?” he asked.
She squinted at him and shook her head. A number of mongrel dogs came from behind the house and created a din with their barking. Brick slapped at them with his hat and they went yelping for cover. It was evident that Mostano had taught them their place.
“Nice dogs yuh got,” offered Brick.
“Um-m-m.”
“Me and you don’t seem to be able to find things to talk about,” grinned Brick. “Don’tcha get lonesome livin’ up here?”
The woman squinted down at her bare feet and up at Brick.
“W’at you want here?” she demanded.
“I want to talk to Joe?”
“W’y you want Joe?”
“Mebbe I want to buy some cheap meat.”
She considered this thoughtfully. Brick thought he had made an impression, but this was quickly dispelled by—
“I think youliar.”
Then she turned, stepped into the house and shut the door. Brick laughed and swung back onto his horse.