The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSun Dog lootThis 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: Sun Dog lootAuthor: W. C. TuttleRelease date: February 11, 2025 [eBook #75347]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1924Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUN DOG LOOT ***
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: Sun Dog lootAuthor: W. C. TuttleRelease date: February 11, 2025 [eBook #75347]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1924Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
Title: Sun Dog loot
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: February 11, 2025 [eBook #75347]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1924
Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUN DOG LOOT ***
A Complete NovelBy W. C. TuttteAuthor of “Just For a Laugh,” “Rustler’s Roost,” etc.
A Complete Novel
By W. C. Tuttte
Author of “Just For a Laugh,” “Rustler’s Roost,” etc.
“Brick” Davidson hooked his spurred heels over the edge of his desk, shifted his position slightly and began rolling a cigaret, his eyes half-shut, as if deep in thought.
Brick was of medium height, with a thin, freckled face and red hair. It was red hair—not auburn at all; red hair, the color of a new brick. His mouth was wide, his eyes blue and ears rather prominent. Just now his faded blue shirt hiked up around his ears and his overalls threatened to withdraw from his short-topped high-heeled boots.
Over the wetting of his cigaret he squinted at the wall across from him, where a collection of reward notices covered the rough boards. There were many notices in this collection, with rewards ranging from fifty dollars to a hundred times that amount. Some bore photographs of those wanted, but the majority were mere descriptions, which might fit any one.
There were three other men in the office with Brick, seated in chairs near the desk; three serious-faced men who waited for Brick to speak. One of them was Bill Grant, a tall, sour-faced, middle-aged man, with a wispy mustache and a nervous manner. Another was Al Hendricks, heavy-set, dark-complexioned, slow of speech; while the third was Sam Leach, slight of physique, bat-eared and inclined to be sarcastic. Grant and Hendricks were ranchers, while Leach was a cattle-buyer. And the three of them composed the Board of Commissioners of Sun Dog County, of which Brick Davidson was the sheriff.
Brick lighted his cigaret and shifted his eyes to the three men.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I reckon yuh think that comin’ to see me will change things a lot, don’tcha?”
Grant cleared his throat, causing the wispy mustache to vibrate, and Brick grinned openly. The mustache amused him. He had remarked anent that futile effort of Grant’s, assuring him that he was too stingy to fill his soul with enough fertilizing to grow hair. And Grant was sensitive.
“We just came,” said Grant coldly, “to kinda talk to yuh about it, Davidson.”
“Sure, sure,” interposed Hendricks quickly. “We’ve been talkin’ among ourselves, Brick.”
Brick squinted at Leach, as if expecting some statement from him, but Leach’s sarcastic smile was his only response.
“There was that Red Hill hold-up,” said Hendricks suggestively.
“And the bank robbery at Silverton,” added Brick.
Leach laughed, but his laugh ended in a yawn, when Brick jerked his heels off the desk and turned in his chair.
“What indo yuh find to laugh at in that, Sam?” he demanded.
“Nothin’.” Leach was almost apologetic.
“’Course it ain’t nothin’ to laugh about,” said Grant. “It’s prettyserious, I’d say. In fact, it’s so serious that we’ve sent for a professional range detective to try and hang the crime onto the guilty parties.”
“Ye-e-eah?” Brick’s red mane of hair lifted slightly, as he inhaled deeply to control his temper.
“Yeah,” nodded Grant. “Of course he won’t interfere with yore office in any way, Brick. You jist go along like you’ve been goin’, and let him work it out in his own way. Them detectivessabecriminals.”
Brick grinned in spite of his anger. A wave of crime had swept across the Sun Dog country in the past few weeks, causing the sheriff’s office to ride the hoofs off their horses, but without results.
It began with the hold-up of the Red Hill stage, when the bandits had stolen the treasure-box, which held several bars of gold, from the Red Hill mine. A few days later the Redrock stage was robbed, netting the robbers several hundred dollars. Then, to cap the climax, two masked men entered the bank at Silverton and forced the cashier to hand them over five thousand dollars.
And they had left no clues. Descriptions varied until Brick was of the opinion that the jobs had been done by three different outfits. The driver of the Red Hill stage swore that there were only two men. One was a big man and the other rather below medium height. The tall man was the spokesman.
In the Redrock robbery, the driver declared that there were two men, one rather tall and slender, the other medium-sized. The medium-sized man was the spokesman. And the cashier of the bank, frightened almost into a panic, could not be positive that there were two or three men, but he did know that the slim one did the talking.
The peculiar feature of the bank robbery was the fact that a fire had started in a shack down at the other end of the town, and that while every one was down there, trying to put out the fire, the robbery had taken place. No one had seen the robbers enter or leave, except the cashier, who admitted that he was so frightened that he did not know which way they went after leaving the bank, nor whether they were on foot or mounted.
And now the county commissioners were employing a professional thief-catcher. Brick reshaped his cigaret and smiled.
“He’ll prob’ly catch ’em,” Brick mused aloud.
“Y’betcha!” Sam Leach got to his feet, indicating that as far as he was concerned the meeting was over.
The others got to their feet as a man entered the doorway and halted just inside.
It was “Harp” Harris, the deputy sheriff. Harp was about two inches over six feet in height, but so thin that he looked much taller. His face was set in lines which combined both hope and despair—with despair predominating. His mouth was wide, his nose thin and almost transparent, while his ears grew at right angles to his face, giving him a perpetual listening expression.
Harp squinted at the three commissioners and shifted his eyes to Brick.
“Havin’ a li’l party, Brick?” he asked softly.
Harp was not any too popular with the commissioners.
“Democrat,” replied Brick, grinning.
Grant and Hendricks forced a smile, as they walked past Harp, but Leach gave Harp a sarcastic squint, bestowed upon him a look of disgust and walked past, with his nose in the air. Harp turned and pursed his lips as he watched Leach disappear. Brick grinned, as Harp turned and snorted softly.
“Some day I’m goin’ t’ just about squirsh that jasper,” said Harp slowly. “Jist squirsh him absolute and final. What did them three fried aigs want, Brick?”
“Their main object was to see if I’ve forgotten that there’s crime among us,” replied Brick.
“Oh!”
Harp’s nose twitched slightly and he sat down against the wall, ignoring the three vacant chairs. From his pocket he took a jew’s-harp, fitting it carefully between his teeth. Brick squinted at him thoughtfully, shaking his head.
“Don’t,” said Brick pleadingly. “My, ain’t there enough misery in the world without you addin’ to it, Harp?”
Harp removed the offending instrument and dangled it across his knee, clutched in a bony hand. He nodded understandingly, his serious eyes considering the troubled sheriff. It was not often that Harp would quit playing until he was ready. He was not musical, but seemed to derive much enjoyment from his own efforts.
“Aw right, Brick—I won’t regale yuh with music now. Sad music cheers me up, don’tcha know it? Sometimes, I wonder—” Harp rubbed the palm of his hand on the tightly drawn knee—“I wonder why paw didn’t educate me for the undertakin’ business. Man, I’d ’a’ sure been a dinger. I jist love to hear them singin’ ‘Rock of Ages,’ and by golly, I—”
Brick reached for his gun and Harp threw up both hands.
“You danged pall-bearer!” snorted Brick. “You keep up that kind of talk and there’ll be singin’—but you won’t hear it.”
“That’s right—jump onto me.” Harp grew indignant. “You big bully! I s’pose you’d strike me, wouldn’t yuh? Huh! It’s brutes like you that makes this world hard for us frail critters. I do everythin’ I can for yuh, and this is the treatment I get.”
Brick slumped down in his chair and began rolling a cigaret, as someone came clumping along the wooden sidewalk up to the office door. Then a head, surmounted by an ornate sombrero, was shoved inside from an angle that would indicate the man to be of abnormal height. The face beneath the sombrero was both broad and long, serious, except for the wide brown eyes. Brick glanced up at him, but showed no recognition. Harp squinted at the door, looked back at Brick and slapped himself on the knee.
“Now, jump onto me,” he invited Brick. “Abuse me, cowboy. Go ahead and try to be cruel. Ha, ha! Succor is at hand.”
“Sucker?”
The big man came inside and started slowly toward Harp, who threw both hands up to his face, as if to shut out the sight.
“Who’s a sucker?” demanded the big man, shaking himself until the silverconchosof his bat-wing chaps creaked under the strain.
He slapped a big palm against his holster and halted in the middle of the floor.
“Love of gosh!” exclaimed Harp. “It’s little Lord Fauntleroy! Welcome home.”
The big man started toward Harp, but Brick slid between them and he halted.
“You danged cow-town comedians can’t bust up my office,” declared Brick. “Set down, ‘Silent’—you runt.”
Silent Slade flapped his big arms dismally and sank down in the nearest chair.
“I seen them three deuces walk out of here; so I come over to see what the rest of the deck was doin’,” said Silent. “I can smell trouble when I see them three pelicans together.”
“Brick’s so danged dumb that they has to come over here every week to remind him he’s the sheriff,” offered Harp seriously.
“Ought to pin his star on the wall,” observed Silent. “Might nail her to the door, so every time he comes up to the place he’ll know what he’s comin’ here for.”
But Brick did not take offense at their jokes. They knew that Brick was capable, honest, and was doing everything in his power to keep the peace of Sun Dog County. Silent Slade worked for the Nine-Bar-Nine cattle outfit, located about twelve miles southeast of Marlin City, where Brick had been foreman before he had been elected sheriff. Harp Harris had also been one of the Nine-Bar-Nine cowpunchers.
Old Lafe Freeman, owner of the Nine-Bar-Nine, had sworn to high heaven that the gods were against him when he lost Brick and Harp. Old Lafe was a little, old, grizzled cow-man; one of the fast-disappearing type of old-timers, who had carved out a niche in cowland with the combination of a six-shooter and square-dealing.
After an appreciable period of silence, the big Nine-Bar-Nine cowboy yawned widely and audibly.
“Didja ever try sleep for that?” queried Harp.
“That has all the earmarks of a jest,” observed Silent. “Some day I’m goin’ to date time from the minute yuh made me laugh.”
Silent turned to Brick, opened his mouth to capacity and yelled loud enough to shake the windows—
“How inare yuh?”
“Kinda downcast,” replied Brick softly.
“Uh-huh. Yuh ought to be. Say, old Lafe’s been down to Silverton—kinda ridin’ around—and he says it don’t look aof a lot like you was goin’ to be reelected, Brick.”
“Thasso?” Brick showed interest. It was nearing the first of October, and in November the primary election would be held.
“Dang right, it’s so,” nodded Silent. “Lafe says that you ain’t noways as popular as yuh was a few weeks ago.”
“What have I done?” queried Brick, grinning.
“Well,” Silent grinned widely, “they seem to think yuh ain’t done nothin’. I s’pose them three high-and-mighties were over here to kinda invigorate yuh, wasn’t they?”
Brick nodded. He realized now that these robberies were happening at a very inopportune time for him. The Sun Dog voters were very likely to judge him on present showings instead of on his past records; and the sheriff’s office was the one big issue in cow-land politics.
His opponent, Henry Stagg, known as “Hank,” had been considered more or less of a joke as a candidate. He operated the stage lines from an office in Silverton, where he could be found at nearly all times, reciting his own deeds of valor.
Hank was tall and angular, with a raspy voice and a wonderful vocabulary of profanity, gained from driving stage teams. He wore his gun in a shoulder-holster, because his hips were too thin to support a belt, and his favorite amusement was shooting magpies on the wing with a thirty-thirty rifle. This latter branded him as a fairly good rifle shot.
“They brought me some very good news,” said Brick. “When it comes to bringin’ good cheer, they’re a fine flock of buzzards. Sun Dog County is to be investigated by a professional detective and I’m to just go along in my own dumb way and let him do the lookin’ through the knot-holes.”
“Is—thasso?” Silent exploded and his mouth remained open.
“Relax!” snorted Harp. “My gosh, anybody’d think by yore face that it was in the dead of Winter instead of fly-time, Silent.”
“Hm-m-m! I’m dead amazed.” Thus Silent seriously.
“Settled fact,” grinned Brick. “I dunno who he is nor how many of ’em is to come among us; so don’t question me. I didn’t know that the commissioners took my job so seriously.”
“And they don’t even ask us to help him,” added Harp.
“Well, you hadn’t ought to let that worry yuh,” grinned Silent. “As far as the detective is concerned, somebody will probably kill him before he gets far into the mystery; but things are sure breakin’ bad for our li’l sheriff.
“Lafe was talkin’ with ‘Soapy’ Caswell, and Soapy is kinda inclined to the opinion that Brick ain’t exertin’ himself none to speak about. He didn’t come right out and say it, but that’s the impression he handed Lafe.”
“And he swings the vote of Silverton,” said Harp sadly. “He dang near swings Sun Dog County, as far as that’s concerned. He owns the bank here in Marlin, the Silverton bank and the Redrock bank; and when yuh own enough banks, yuh kinda controls a lot of them X’s that folks mark down on their ballot.”
Brick straightened up in his chair and reached for his tobacco.
“You two jiggers must ’a’ got up on the wrong side of the bunk this mornin’, didn’t yuh? Mebbe I better order all flags at half-mast and put crape on the door. All I’ve got to do is to beat Hank Stagg for the nomination.”
“Yeah, that’s all,” said Silent dryly. “Just beat Hank for the nomination, tha’sall. And then you’ve got to beat the nominee on the other ticket. But let me tell yuh somethin’, red feller: If you don’t put the deadwood on these stick-up jaspers pretty danged quick, you couldn’t beat a drum.
“I ain’t raggin’ yuh, Brick.knows, I’m for yuh. But it’s a cinch that there ain’t another man in Sun Dog County that can do more than you’ve done; but folks don’t stop to consider that part of it. Yo’re hired to catch criminals—so you’ve got to catch ’em, tha’sall.”
“Tha’sall,” nodded Brick seriously. “I remember when I was a little kid I had to recite a poem in school. It was somethin’ about Napoleon Bonaparte. It had a line like this—
“A very easy thing to plan, but difficult to do;As Wellington made clear to him one day at Waterloo.”
“A very easy thing to plan, but difficult to do;As Wellington made clear to him one day at Waterloo.”
“A very easy thing to plan, but difficult to do;
As Wellington made clear to him one day at Waterloo.”
“Or it might be kinda like the Frenchman’s flea-powder, in which the directions said, ‘First catch the little flea.’”
“Still, it might be a danged good thing for me and Brick, if he did get beat,” observed Harp. “Livin’ in the city this-a-way is plumb ruinin’ both of us.”
Brick grinned at his deputy, but the lanky one was serious. Marlin City was a city in name only. By virtue of its central location, it was the county-seat of Sun Dog County, but this honor had never caused it to advance beyond the small, cow-town stage.
It had one street, not too straight and not too long, bordered with unpainted buildings, which were mostly of the false-fronted style of architecture. The wooden sidewalks, four feet in width, oozed pitch in the Summer; and in the Winter the excessive cold caused the nails to snap out of the two-by-four girders, leaving the top-boards free to rattle and clatter underfoot, like walking over an unmusical xylophone.
Of shade-trees there was none. In fact, someone had said that there was only one tree between Marlin City and the North Pole. A branch line of the C. P. Railroad had recently been completed into Marlin City, giving them transportation for stock and mining products; but the advent of a railroad had not caused any perceptible boom in the country.
Brick Davidson had been sheriff of Sun Dog County for two years, during which time both Silent and Harp had worked as deputies; not because they liked the work, but because Brick had needed the services of trustworthy men. Silent Slade had won his nickname because of his ability to talk continuously. He was never short on conversation, except when asleep. Silent was slow of movement, because of his great size, except when the occasion demanded speed; but he was not slow of temper.
Harp Harris was slow to anger, but loved trouble. He could ride anything he could saddle, and rope with deadly accuracy. But his favorite occupation was playing the jew’s-harp. And no one except Harp could recognize his tunes; but there was something about that weirdtung-g-gingthat soothed the soul of the lean, angular cowpuncher and caused him to relax and close his eyes in ecstasy.
Just now he placed the instrument between his teeth, relaxed against the wall and struck a preliminary note.
“My!” exclaimed Silent, getting to his feet. “Thatthing is about to start agin’, Brick. C’mon; I’ll buy yuh a drink.”
“All right,” grinned Brick.
They walked outside, leaving Harp humped against the wall, moaning through the vibrating tongue of the harp, his right hand fanning slowly past one of his bat-ears, his eyes shut; while one of his upturned feet jerked an occasional accompaniment, all out of time with the beat of his alleged tune.
“By Gosh, you bettair keep away from de grizz-a-lee,” warned Mose La Clede, a gaunt, bearded Canadian-Frenchman, hitching his belt higher about his hips and shifting the huge quid of tobacco in his cheek.
“She’s de bad wan, and she’s ’ongry for little boy.”
Little “Whizzer” Malloy, five years of age, lifted his inquiring brown eyes and backed away so quickly that the dragging spur on his little foot tripped him and he fell flat in the dirt.
“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed the big man, as he picked the little fellow up and stood him on his feet.
The big grizzly in the pole cage rumbled deeply and flung his chest against the front of the cage, biting at the barrier. The semicircle of curious onlookers grinned as the youngster backed away, trying to straighten the spur and watch the bear at the same time. A horse, tied to one of the hitch-racks, snorted as the bear-scent assailed its nostrils, and snapped the tie-rope on a backward surge.
A cowboy spat out a curse, ran into the street from a saloon and cornered the animal before it had a chance to leave for parts unknown. That the idle population of Silverton was interested in Mose La Clede’s grizzly was attested by the fact that most of them were already crowding around the cage, which was placed in the street in front of the stage-office.
La Clede had trapped the animal in the Smoky Hills, where he had kept it until making a deal with an Eastern zoo. It was a full-grown specimen, savage as a tiger and as powerful as any four-legged animal could be. The pole cage creaked under its lunges, and the crowd shifted uneasily.
“How much does he weigh, La Clede?” asked Hank Stagg, who stood at a respectful distance.
Hank was in charge of the stage lines, and it was one of his vehicles that was to transport the grizzly to the railroad at Marlin City.
“By gosh, I’m dunno,” replied La Clede, scratching his head. “We weigh her on de hay-scale and she’s twelve hundred, forty pound. De cage weigh—I’m dunno how much, but I’m t’ink de bear mak’ ’bout ten hun’red.”
“Then how inare we goin’ to load it?” queried Hank. “There ain’t enough of us to lift that weight.”
“I’m know how,” grinned La Clede. “We tak’ two, t’ree plank and some round pole for de roller,sabe? We block de wagon, hitch team to cage by de rope, and pull her up.”
“All right,” growled Hank. “Get yore planks and rollers.”
The crowd, ever ready to assist, went in search of the required articles, while “Baldy” Malloy, the Whispering Creek stage-driver, went to the livery-stable to get the team, followed closely by Whizzer, whose spur tripped him every few feet.
But Whizzer did not whimper. He felt that the spur made him a cowpuncher, and he would wear that spur if it was the last thing he ever did. Whizzer’s mother had died shortly after he was brought into the world, and Whizzer had soon learned that there was little sympathy in the world for a cry-baby.
Not that Baldy did not love his son. He thought that the sun arose and set especially for Whizzer, and they were inseparable when Baldy’s trip was finished. Baldy was short, fat and bald, with weak, blue eyes and an insipid, rope-colored mustache.
Back they went from the stable with the team of half-wild bronchos, almost unmanageable when they scented the bear. Whizzer carried his spur in both hands, as he trotted along behind in the dust, his brown eyes wide with anticipation.
Two heavy planks had been secured, and some men were coming with a pole, which would be cut into short roller-lengths. One end of the cage was lifted onto the planks, which extended into the rear of the wagon-box, up which the cage was to be dragged.
At risk of losing one or both of his hands, La Clede managed to insert a rope through the bottom and side of the cage, tied it tightly and flung the loose end out over the front of the wagon.
The cage was tilted slightly and a roller inserted beneath.
“By, I don’t like that cage!” declared “Slim” Hunter, a sad-faced cowpuncher. “Them there poles ain’t fastened with nothin’ but rawhide.”
“By gosh, dey hold,” panted La Clede. “Plenty rawhide. She’s put on wet, an den she’s dry hout. Bettair den de nail.”
Baldy was having trouble with the team, which were frantic from the bear-scent and from the angry, deep-throated rumble of the big beast. With the help of two more men he managed to fasten the rope to the double-tree, and was ready for the loading.
“Keep ’way from de cage,” warned La Clede. “Datbear she’s reach hout. All right—hup she’s go!”
There was no chance for a steady pull. The frightened team surged into their collars, fairly jerking Baldy off his feet, and the bear-cage went slithering up the planks and into the wagon-box, catching one corner of the box and ripping it loose from the wagon-bed.
“Whoa!” yelped La Clede. “Stop de team!”
But the team had ideas of their own. They swung sidewise, kicking, plunging, with Baldy digging his heels into the hard surface of the street, trying to stop them. Further around they swung, until at right angles to the wagon they straightened out the rope and fairly yanked the bear-cage through the side-board of the wagon.
For a moment it seemed to hang in midair, then crashed down to the hard earth, striking on one corner. Came the snapping of overwrought rawhide, the splintering of poles, and the grizzly, dazed, fighting mad, shook the poles off his roached neck and stood forth as free as he was the day before La Clede’s trap cut off his freedom.
Brick Davidson was riding into Silverton, and drew up his horse about a hundred feet away from the scene of action. He did not know what was being done until the grizzly emerged from the shattered cage.
In the excitement Baldy let loose of his lines and the team bolted with the remnants of the cage bounding and crashing along behind them. Horses broke away from the hitch-racks and dashed wildly about the street, but no one paid them any heed. The crowd had scattered for places of safety, except little Whizzer Malloy, and now they fairly screamed their warnings to the little, brown-faced, brown-eyed baby, who stood there in the middle of the street, spur in hand, facing a blood-hungry grizzly.
They were not over six feet apart. Somewhere a six-shooter cracked, fired by a nervous hand, and the bullet spouted dust between the baby and the bear. With almost incredible speed for such an unwieldy-looking animal, the grizzly closed the gap, knocking little Whizzer flat on his back.
“Don’t shoot!” screamed Baldy Malloy. “My God, don’t shoot!”
The big bear was master of the situation now. With mane erect, rumbling defiance at those who had attempted to send him into captivity, he crouched lower over the dazed child. Suddenly his head dropped and he gathered the child in his mouth. As he swung up his head Brick Davidson was running toward him, six-shooter in his hand.
Someone yelled a warning at the red-headed sheriff, but he did not hesitate. Brick was making his attack from the rear and he was making it at top speed. Someone in the crowd threw a sombrero in the direction of the bear, which swung its head, as though to meet this new danger; and at that moment Brick fairly leaped through the air and landed on the grizzly.
It was so unexpected that the bear remained motionless for a second; and in that moment Brick twisted his left hand into that roached mane and set his spurs deeply into the powerful shoulders of the animal.
With a flip of its neck the grizzly flung little Whizzer aside and the little boy started crawling blindly away. Quick as a flash the bear whirled completely around, seeking to dislodge this new enemy, but Brick was all set for the ride.
Two powerful lunges failed to unseat the rider, and then the bear reared upright, clawing wildly, roaring with rage. Brick was, in range parlance, “pullin’ leather,” but none of the audience denied him that right. It was the first time that any of them had seen a bucking grizzly.
But no one came to his assistance; no one wanted to get within reach of that terrible mount. And as the grizzly, upright on its hind legs, threatened to fall backward, Brick’s six-shooter spouted flame and lead into the animal’s brain.
Twice the big .45 roared dully before the grizzly plunged forward from its upright position. It went flat in the dirt, surged to all fours, but went down again from the third shot, sprawling in a grotesque heap. Brick fell off, rolled over once and came back to his feet, ready for more.
But the grizzly was finished. The three big slugs of lead had done their work, and the Eastern zoo would never see the big grizzly from the Smoky Hills.
The crowd surged into the street, too amazed for words. They quickly surrounded Brick and the grizzly, trying to congratulate Brick and to alibi themselves at the same time.
“I throwed the hat,” announced Slim Hunter proudly. It was like the sparrow’s announcement of, “I killed Cock Robin.”
Baldy Malloy, hatless, his face streaked with perspiration and dust, carrying little Whizzer under his arm, broke through the crowd and halted in front of Brick. He was breathing too heavily for words, and could only stare at Brick, who grinned widely at the serious expression on little Whizzer’s face.
Baldy did not offer to shake hands with Brick; just stared at him in a dazed way. The crowd was silent now. Then the youngster shoved out two little grimy hands, clutching at the big spur, and announced in a triumphant treble—
“By golly, I held onto her, y’betcha!”
Baldy glanced down at the two hands, shifted the boy to where he could grasp him with both hands, hugged him tightly to his breast and stumbled away with the one muttered exclamation—
“God!”
The crowd stared after him for a moment and turned back to Brick, whose eyes were suspiciously moist. Mose La Clede’s big, bony hand was thrust out to Brick, and his voice boomed:
“By gosh, dat was nervy treek! I’m los’ de bear, but I’m glad for save de leetle keed. You mak’ de good ride, sheriff; by gosh, you mak’ degood ride!”
“I sure throwed that hat,” announced Slim again. If there was any glory to spare, Slim wanted some of it.
“I’m sure glad yuh thought of doin’ that, Slim,” said Brick warmly. “It attracted him long enough to give me a chance to make my mount.”
“I knowed it,” grinned Slim, “and I sure timed m’ throw. It takes quick thinkin’ in a case like that.”
“I’m buyin’ a drink for everybody!” yelled Otto Falk, proprietor of the Short Horn saloon. “Come and get it.”
The crowd was willing. They needed something strong now.
“I’ve got a perfectly good team out there some’ers, draggin’ what used to be a bear cage,” complained Hank Stagg. “They’ll prob’ly be plumb ruined; but I’m goin’ to have a drink. By, I’m through with grizzly bears. That big son-of-a-gun was jist about to glom that poor little kid.
“Wasn’t he sore? Whoo-ee! I betcha that grizzly could ’a’ whipped all the lions in Africky. Might as well try to stop a railroad ingine. Quick, too; quick as”
“My hat’s ruined, too,” complained Slim ruefully. “Thatbear done his war-dance on it and then some of these heavy-heeled cow-persons walked all over it. They’re soignorant that they don’t know what a hat is, ’less it’s on somebody’s head.”
Baldy Malloy headed straight toward his own shack, going down the main street, clinging tightly to Whizzer, who was willing to ride, even if he did not understand what it was all about.
As they came past McGill’s saloon, McGill, a portly, hard-faced man, stopped them and asked Baldy what had caused all the excitement up the street. There were three other men with McGill.
“Didn’t yuh see it?” asked Baldy hoarsely.
“Wouldn’t ask you, if we did?” growled McGill. “We was playin’ poker and heard them shots fired.”
Baldy stood the boy up on the sidewalk while he hastily sketched out what had been done.
“And he rode that bear, straight-up, made him let go of Whizzer, and then killed the bear with his six-gun,” finished Baldy.
McGill spat thoughtfully and squinted at the three men in the doorway.
“Made a hero out of himself right in front of a crowd,” said McGill sarcastically. “Prettygood advertisin’, eh?”
McGill laughed hoarsely and turned to Baldy, just in time to receive Baldy’s right fist square in his nose; and the fist had every ounce of weight and strength that Baldy possessed behind it.
Baldy’s one punch was sufficient. McGill fell into his own doorway, his shoulders striking the edge of the step and the back of his head fairly bouncing off the floor. None of the three men made any move to assist McGill. Baldy blew on his bruised knuckles, picked Whizzer off the sidewalk, and went on toward his own shack.
McGill recovered sufficiently to get back on his feet, spat out a tooth, along with a weird assortment of profanity, and went back into the saloon to try and find out, with the aid of a mirror, just why his nose seemed so out of proportion to the rest of his face.
“You touched Baldy on a tender spot, Mac,” said one of the men. “Yuh see, Brick Davidson jist saved Baldy’s kid.”
“All right,” growled McGill, like a man suffering from a heavy cold. “There can’t nobody hit me and get away with it.”
“As far as Baldy is concerned, you better let things go as they lie,” advised one of the men.
“Yeah, I s’pose,” said McGill darkly, squinting at himself in the mirror. “Didja ever see a nose like that? And I lost a good tooth, too.”
Brick accepted several drinks, along with the adulations of the crowd. Every one had a different version of the affair, and Brick knew that inside of an hour there would be a dozen men who would swear that he had killed at least fifty grizzly bears single-handed.
Slim Hunter had reached the crying stage—sobbing over the ruination of his new sombrero; so Brick managed to sneak out during a heated argument. Across the street, in a general store, he encountered Soapy Caswell and Sam Leach.
Soapy was a typical cattleman; as gray as a badger, and with a similar disposition. He had acquired control of the banking business of Sun Dog County, with banks at Marlin City, Silverton and Redrock; but his personal interests ran stronger to draw poker than to finances. He owned the Circle Cross ranch, located about three miles east of Silverton.
Soapy and Leach had heard of the grizzly incident, and Soapy congratulated Brick with:
“Hear yo’re ridin’ ’em savage these days, Brick. Ha, ha, ha! By golly, yuh ought to get a medal for that. Shore took a lot of nerve. How are yuh?”
He held out his hand to Brick, but Leach merely lifted his brows slightly and busied himself with looking into a fly-specked showcase. They shook hands and Soapy indicated with a gesture that he wanted to see Brick outside.
Brick bought some tobacco and moved out of the store with Soapy, halting out near the hitch-rack. Soapy was not one to beat about the bush.
“Brick, if you don’t slap the deadwood on some of these stick-up jaspers, yore cake’ll be all dough at the primaries. There’s a lot of folks that has an idea that a sheriff must be smarter’n; don’tcha know it?”
“I’m smart,” said Brick seriously.
Soapy nodded quickly.
“I know yuh are, Brick. The smartest man I ever knowed was a plumbeded fool.”
“Who was he?” queried Brick.
“Well,” Soapy spat thoughtfully, “I hate to give him away like this, but bein’ as yuh asked kinda point-blank—it’s me.”
Soapy chuckled at his own wit and slapped Brick on the shoulder.
“That Redrock stage hold-up cost me five thousand dollars, Brick. I’m not sendin’ any more money by stage, y’betcha. That other hold-up cost the Red Hill mine a nice piece of change, and that bank robbery here nicked me for a nice little pot.
“Isabethat yo’re doin’ everythin’ yuh can. Don’tcha get the idea that Soapy Caswell is ridin’ yuh, son. I’m just tellin’ yuh how the voters stand. Right now you’d carry Silverton, cause they remember the grizzly. T’morrow they quit thinkin’ bear.”
Brick nodded. He knew that Soapy was right. Sun Dog County wanted a sheriff to do things right now. Past performances did not count.
“Have you got any idea, Soapy?” asked Brick.
“Not a danged idea, Brick. From the three descriptions, there’s a big man, a medium-sized one and one that’s kinda tall and thin. Of course you’ve got to kinda discount descriptions, ’cause the human eye ain’t noways accurate after it’s looked down the muzzle of a cocked gun. Anyway, I know danged well mine ain’t.”
“Would they nominate Hank Stagg and then elect him?” queried Brick.
“If they nominate him, they’ll sure elect him. He wouldn’t be worth a plugged dime as a sheriff, but that don’t count now.”
“Well,” Brick yawned wearily, “I dunno as I care a lot, Soapy. I’ve had two years of misery for two hundred and twenty dollars per month. I suppose it would be kinda tough to go back to the old forty a month, punchin’ cows.”
“Now you get the idea out of yore mind,” advised Soapy. “Sun Dog needs a reg’lar sheriff—not achilblain like Hank Stagg.”
“Soapy, do yuh think that Bill Grant, Hendricks and Leach will be nominated?”
“Leach don’t have to—he’s a hold-over, Brick. But I reckon Grant and Hendricks will be elected ag’in. They’re as good as we can pick.”
“They don’t like me, Soapy.”
“Well, my, what do you care? Are yuh gettin’ so that folks has to send yuh vi’lets?”
Brick laughed widely at the serious expression on Soapy’s face.
“Listen, Soapy,” he said softly, “they’ve hired a professional detective to come here to unravel our troubles.”
“No! A—a—well, that’s fine. I suppose we’ll have to take up a collection to send his body back to Iowa, or to some othered seaport. By golly, that’s fine! Well—” Soapy cuffed his hat sideways on his head, and bit off a generous chew of tobacco—“that settles all our troubles. You can just set down and let him bring yuh the criminals.
“I wonder whose idea that was? Mebbe all three. By, if their combined brains were turned into dynamite and loaded into a .22 shell, it wouldn’t have power enough to kick the bullet out of a two-inch barrel. Professional detective,! I’m goin’ to find me a poker game, Brick. I crave action, I do. So-long!”
Brick stood at the hitch-rack and grinned at Soapy, who was bow-legging his way across the street toward the Short Horn saloon. Sam Leach came out of the store, started to turn the other way, but noticed Brick and came over to him.
“You remember we spoke to you about that expert investigator the other day, Davidson?” said Leach.
Brick nodded slowly.
“He will be here almost any day now,” continued Leach. “We told you this in strict confidence, and—well, we want you to keep the information to yourself. His value is gone, if his identity is known.”
“Yeah?” Brick grinned.
“You can see that for yourself, can’t you? He will probably go to work as a cowpuncher.”
“He ought to be worth forty a month,” mused Brick.
Leach scowled slightly. He had crossed verbal swords with Brick before, and he knew that the red-headed sheriff carried a sharp weapon in range-repartee. Brick looked up quickly.
“Seems to me that yo’re takin’ aof a lot of interest in my office, Leach.”
“Not in your office—in the good of the county, Davidson.”
“Yeah? She was a pretty good county before you came here, Leach. Mebbe she’ll be a good county after yo’re gone.”
“I don’t think I understand you, Davidson.”
“Don’tcha? Well, that’s all right then. What yuh don’t understand won’t worry yuh none.”
Brick turned and crossed the street to a hitch-rack, where he mounted his horse and rode back toward Marlin City. Leach watched him ride away, shrugged his shoulders indifferently and walked down the street toward McGill’s saloon.
Sam Leach had lived in Sun Dog County about four years and had prospered in his cattle buying. For nearly two years he had held office as a commissioner and had proved himself a capable man, although his disposition had gained him few friends.
He knew the cattle business well, having been a cowboy, cattle-raiser, and previous to his coming to Sun Dog he had been a range detective. He lived alone in a little house on the outskirts of Silverton, but spent a great part of his time in riding over the range, looking at the stock.
As Leach went down the street, Bill Grant came out of the livery-stable, where he had just left his horse, and crossed over to Leach. Jimmy McKeever, the stableman, had told Grant of how Brick had saved Baldy Malloy’s youngster.
“Hello,” greeted Grant, “I guess I showed up too late to see the fun, eh? Did you see Brick ride the grizzly?”
“No, I didn’t see it,” replied Leach a trifle sullenly.
“Wish I had,” laughed Grant. “Jimmy tells me that it was worth seein’. Brick’s got plenty of nerve.”
“Yes, that’s a cinch.”
“Hear anythin’ more from that detective, Sam?”
“Not a word. But that don’t bother me. Santel said he’d be here as soon as he could make the trip, and he’ll be here.”
“Good man, eh?” reflectively. “Yuh know we’re kinda leavin’ this up to you, Sam. I know that Brick didn’t like the idea, and I don’t know that I do. I had a talk with Hendricks”
“Want me to send him back?” queried Leach, “, I thought you fellows”
“No, we’ll let him go ahead, Sam. If he cleans up this gang, it will be fine. Still, I wonder if Brick”
Two men were coming from McGill’s saloon and Grant stopped with his question unasked. It was two of the men who had been there when Baldy had knocked McGill down. They were Bud Keller and Ed Smeed, two cowboys from over in the Smoky Hills.
“Did you fellers see it?” asked Keller, laughing.
“No, we got here too late,” replied Grant. “Brick must have made a good ride.”
“Oh, not that,” laughed Smeed. “We didn’t see that either. We meant, did yuh see Baldy Malloy knock McGill down?”
“Eh?” grunted Leach. “Knock McGill down?”
“Uh-huh. Baldy was comin’ past, packin’ his kid, when McGill asked Baldy what was goin’ on up the street. Yuh see, we was all playin’ poker and didn’t know anythin’ unusual was goin’ on, until we hears the shots.
“Baldy was kinda excited and his eyes was like saucers, when he tells us how Brick saved his kid’s life. Anyway, McGill makes a remark about Brick tryin’ to make a hero out of himself, and then Baldy almost ruins McGill’s nose. Honest to gosh, he laid McGill stiff.”
“And,” added Smeed, “if yuh meet Baldy, don’t say nothin’ ag’in Brick Davidson. I never knowed that that fat stage-driver had that kind of a wallop. Whoo-ee! He sure caressed McGill.”
Grant laughed widely. He did not like McGill. But Leach did not see anything humorous in the incident.
“What did McGill do?” asked Leach.
“Aw, he spat out a tooth and soaked his smeller in cold water,” grinned Keller. “It sure was right good to look upon.”
“It must have been,” said Leach dryly.
“C’mon up to the Short Horn, and I’ll buy a drink,” offered Keller.
“No thanks,” Leach shook his head. “I’m going home.”
“How about you, Grant?” queried Keller. Grant grinned and started up the street.
“Just to show that I’m a hail-feller-well-met, c’mon.”
Leach looked after them, a half-sneer on his face, and went slowly down to McGill’s saloon, where he went inside.
Tung-g-g, hung-g-g-g, bong-g-g, bong-g-g-g, zung-g-g-g.
Mrs. Wesson lifted her head from the pillow and strained her ears, trying to figure out what was making the peculiar noise. She had been listening to it for quite a while. It was a weird noise, half-metallic, half-human.
She reached over to a chair, where an alarm clock ticked loudly, and, in the dim light, took note of the time.
“Four o’clock,” she said aloud.
“Eh?”
Cale Wesson, her husband, lifted himself on one elbow and squinted at her.
“Whazzamatter?”
“That danged noise,” she replied. “Didn’t yuh hear it?”
Cale yawned audibly and turned his pillow over. He was not interested.
Hung-g-g, bong-g-g, zung-g-g-g, zung-g-g, bong-g-g-g.
“What theis that?” demanded Cale, sitting up in bed.
“That’s what I’ve been talkin’ about,” said Mrs. Wesson. “I’ve been hearin’ it for quite a while. Sounds like a tight wire in a wind.”
“Um-m-m.”
Cale slid out of bed and went to a window. The sounds seemed to come from almost directly below them.
“It’s sure got me,” declared Cale. “I’m danged”