It was Pony Baxter who gave the names of the dead gunmen to the police, confirming the records of White-Eye, Pino, Longtree, and Jim Ewell—known as The Spider. The identity of the fourth man, he of the deformed shoulder and shriveled arm, was unknown to Baxter. The police had no record of him under any alias, and he would have been entered on their report of findings as "unknown," had not the faro-dealer and the lookout both asserted that The Spider had called him Gary—in fact had singled him out unmistakenly, asking him what be had to do with the quarrel, which evidently concerned but three of the four men whom The Spider had killed. Pony Baxter, slowly recovering from an all but fatal gun-shot wound, disclaimed any knowledge of a "frame-up" to get The Spider, stating that, while aware that the gunmen and The Spider were enemies, The Spider's sudden appearance was as much of a surprise to him as it evidently was to the gunmen—and Baxter's serious condition pretty well substantiated this statement. Baxter's negro was also questioned—concerning Baxter's story and explaining the circumstances under which he had admitted The Spider to the back room.
When confronted with the torn slip of paper on which was written the address of White-Eye, Baxter admitted that he knew of the rendezvous of the gunmen, but refused to explain why he had their address in his possession, and he put a quietus on that phase of the situation by asking the police why they had not raided the place themselves before the shooting occurred, as they seemed to have known of it for several months. Eventually Baxter and the police "fixed it up." The gambler did a thriving business through the notoriety the affair had given him. Many came to see the rooms where The Spider had made his last venomous fight, men who had never turned a card in their lives, and who doubted the rumors current in the sporting world until actually in the room and listening to the faro-dealer's cold and impassive account of the men and the battle. And more often than not these curious souls, who came to scoff, remained to play.
Pete, convalescing rapidly, had asked day after day if he might not be allowed to sit with the other patients who, warmly blanketed, enjoyed the sunshine on the wide veranda overlooking the city. One morning Andover gave his consent, restricting Pete's first visit to thirty minutes. Pete was only too glad of a respite from the monotony of back-rest and pillow, bare walls, and the essential but soul-wearying regularity of professional attention.
Not until Doris had helped him into the wheel-chair did he realize how weak he was.
Out on the veranda, his weakness, the pallid faces of the other convalescents, and even Doris herself, were forgotten as he gazed across the city and beyond to the sunlit spaces softly glowing beneath a cloudless sky. Sunlight! He had never known how much it meant, until then. He breathed deep. His dark eyes closed. Life, which he had hitherto valued only through sheer animal instinct, seemed to mean so much more than he had ever imagined it could. Yet not in any definite way, nor through contemplating any definite attainment. It was simply good to be alive—to feel the pleasant, natural warmth of the sun—to breathe the clear, keen air. And all his curiosity as to what the world might look like—for to one who has come out of the eternal shadows the world is ever strange—was drowned in the supreme indifference of absolute ease and rest. It seemed to him as though he were floating midway between the earth and the sun, not in a weird dream wherein the subconscious mind says, "This is not real; I know that I dream"; but actual, in that Pete could feel nothing above nor beneath him. Being of a very practical turn of mind he straightway opened his eyes and was at once conscious of the arm of the wheel-chair beneath his hand and the blanket across his knees.
He was not aware that some of the patients were gazing at him curiously—that gossip had passed his name from room to room and that the papers had that morning printed a sort of revised sequel to the original story of "The Spider Mystery"—as they chose to call it.
Doris glanced at her watch. "We'll have to go in," she said, rising and adjusting Pete's pillow.
"Oh, shucks! We jest come out!"
"You've been asleep," said Doris.
Pete shook his head. "Nope. But I sure did git one good rest. Doc Andover calls this a vacation, eh? Well, then I guess I got to go back to work—and it sure is work, holdin' down that bed in there—and nothin' to do but sleep and eat and—but it ain't so bad when you're there. Now that there cow-bunny with the front teeth—"
"S-sh!" Doris flushed, and Pete glanced around, realizing that they were not alone.
"Well, I reckon we got to go back to the corral!" Pete sighed heavily.
Back in bed he watched Doris as she made a notation on the chart of his "case." He frowned irritably when she took his temperature.
"The doctor will want to know how you stood your first outing," she said, smiling.
Pete wriggled the little glass thermometer round in his mouth until it stuck up at an assertive angle, as some men hold a cigar, and glanced mischievously at his nurse. "Why don't you light it?" he mumbled.
Doris tried not to laugh as she took the thermometer, glanced at it, and charted a slight rise in the patient's temperature.
"Puttin' it in that glass of water to cool it off?" queried Pete.
She smiled as she carefully charted the temperature line.
"Kin I look at it?" queried Pete.
She gave the chart to him and he studied it frowningly. "What's this here that looks like a range of mountains ?" he asked.
"Your temperature." And she explained the meaning of the wavering line.
"Gee! Back here I sure was climbin' the high hills! That's a interestin' tally-sheet."
Pete saw a peculiar expression in her gray eyes. It was as though she were searching for something beneath the surface of his superficial humor; for she knew that there was something that he wanted to say—something entirely alien to these chance pleasantries. She all but anticipated his question.
"Would you mind tellin' me somethin'?" he queried abruptly.
"No. If there is anything that I can tell you."
"I was wonderin' who was payin' for this here private room—and reg'lar nurse. I been sizin' up things—and folks like me don't get such fancy trimmin's without payin'."
"Why—it was your—your father."
Pete sat up quickly. "My father! I ain't got no father. I—I reckon somebody got things twisted."
"Why, the papers"—and Doris bit her lip—"I mean Miss Howard, the nurse who was here that night…"
"When The Spider cashed in?"
Doris nodded.
"The Spider wasn't my father. But I guess mebby that nurse thought he was, and got things mixed."
"The house-doctor would not have had him brought up here if he had thought he was any one else."
"So The Spider said he was my father—so he could git to see me!" Pete seemed to be talking to himself. "Was he the friend you was tellin' me called regular?"
"Yes. I don't know, but I think he paid for your room and the operation."
"Don't they make those operations on folks, anyhow, if they ain't got money?"
"Yes, but in your case it was a very difficult and dangerous operation. I saw that Dr. Andover hardly wanted to take the risk."
"So The Spider pays for everything!" Pete shook his head. "I don't just sabe."
"I saw him watching you once—when you were asleep," said Doris. "He seemed terribly anxious. I was afraid of him—and I felt sorry for him—"
Pete lay back and stared at the opposite wall. "He sure was game!" he murmured. "And he was my friend."
Pete turned his head quickly as Doris stepped toward the door. "Could you git me some of them papers—about The Spider?"
"Yes," she answered hesitatingly, as she left the room.
Pete closed his eyes. He could see The Spider standing beside his bed supported by two internes, dying on his feet, fighting for breath as he told Pete to "see that party—in the letter"—and "that some one had trailed him too close." And "close the cases," The Spider had said. The game was ended.
When Doris came in again Pete was asleep. She laid a folded newspaper by his pillow, gazed at him for a moment, and stepped softly from the room.
At noon she brought his luncheon. When she came back for the tray she noticed that he had not eaten, nor would he talk while she was there. But that evening he seemed more like himself. After she had taken his temperature he jokingly asked her if he bit that there little glass dingus in two what would happen?"
"Why, I'd have to buy a new one," she replied, smiling.
Pete's face expressed surprise. "Say!" he queried, sitting up, "did The Spider pay you for bein' my private nurse, too?"
"He must have made some arrangement with Dr. Andover. He put me in charge of your case."
"But don't you git anything extra for—for smilin' at folks—and—coaxin' 'em to eat—and wastin' your time botherin' around 'em most all day?"
"The hospital gets the extra money. I get my usual salary."
"You ain't mad at me, be you?"
"Why, no, why should I be?"
"I dunno. I reckon I talk kind of rough—and that mebby I said somethin'—but—would you mind if I was to tell you somethin'. I been thinkin' about it ever since you brung that paper. It's somethin' mighty important—and—"
"Your dinner is getting cold," said Doris.
"Shucks! I jest got to tell somebody! Did you read what was in that paper?"
Doris nodded.
"About that fella called Steve Gary that The Spider bumped off in that gamblin'-joint?"
"Yes."
"Well, if that's right—and the papers ain't got things twisted, like when they said The Spider was my father—why, if itwasSteve Gary—I kin go back to the Concho and kind o' start over ag'in."
"I don't understand."
"'Course you don't! You see, me and Gary mixed onct—and—"
Doris' gray eyes grew big as Pete spoke rapidly of his early life, of the horse-trader, of Annersley and Bailey and Montoya, and young Andy White—characters who passed swiftly before her vision as she followed Pete's fortunes up to the moment when he was brought into the hospital. And presently she understood that he was trying to tell her that if the newspaper report was authentic he was a free man. His eagerness to vindicate himself was only too apparent.
Suddenly he ceased talking. The animation died from his dark eyes. "Mebby it wa'n't the same Steve Gary," he said.
"If it had been, you mean that you could go back to your friends—and there would be no trouble—?"
Pete nodded. "But I don't know."
"Is there any way of finding out—before you leave here?" she asked.
"I might write a letter and ask Jim Bailey, or Andy. They would know."
"I'll get you a pen and paper."
Pete flushed. "Would you mind writin' it for me? I ain't no reg'lar, professional writer. Pop Annersley learned me some—but I reckon Jim could read your writin' better."
"Of course I'll write the letter, if you want me to. If you'll just tell me what you wish to say I'll take it down on this pad and copy it in my room."
"Can't you write it here? Mebby we might want to change somethin'."
"Well, if you'll eat your dinner—" And Doris went for pen and paper. When she returned she found that Pete had stacked the dishes in a perilous pyramid on the floor, that the bed-tray might serve as a table on which to write.
He watched her curiously as she unscrewed the cap of her fountain pen and dated the letter.
"Jim Bailey, Concho—that's over in Arizona," he said, then he hesitated. "I reckon I got to tell you the whole thing first and mebby you kin put it down after I git through." Doris saw him eying the pen intently. "You didn't fetch the ink," he said suddenly.
Doris laughed as she explained the fountain pen to him. Then she listened while he told her what to say.
The letter written, Doris went to her room. Pete lay thinking of her pleasant gray eyes and the way that she smiled understandingly and nodded—"When most folks," he soliloquized, "would say something or ask you what you was drivin' at."
To him she was an altogether wonderful person, so quietly cheerful, natural, and unobtrusively competent… Then, through some queer trick of memory, Boca's face was visioned to him and his thoughts were of the desert, of men and horses and a far sky-line. "I got to get out of here," he told himself sleepily. And he wondered if he would ever see Doris Gray again after he left the hospital.
Dr. Andover, brisk and professionally cheerful, was telling Pete that so far as he was concerned he could not do anything more for him, except to advise him to be careful about lifting or straining—to take it easy for at least a month—and to do no hard riding until the incision was thoroughly healed. "You'll know when you are really fit," he said, smiling, "because your back will tell you better than I can. You're a mighty fortunate young man!"
"You sure fixed me up fine, Doc. You was sayin' I could leave here next week?"
"Yes, if you keep on improving—and I can't see why you should not. And I don't have to tell you to thank Miss Gray for what she has done for you. If it hadn't been for her, my boy, I doubt that you would be here!"
"She sure is one jim-dandy nurse."
"She is more than that, young man." Andover cleared his throat. "There's one little matter that I thought best not to mention until you were—pretty well out of the woods. I suppose you know that the authorities will want to—er—talk with you about that shooting scrape—that chap that was found somewhere out in the desert. The chief of detectives asked me the other day when you would be around again."
"So, when I git out of here they're goin' to arrest me?"
"Well, frankly, you are under arrest now. I thought it best that you should know it now. In a general way I gathered that the police suspect you of having had a hand in the killing of that man who was found near Sanborn."
"Well, they can wait till hell freezes afore I'll tell 'em," said Pete.
"And, meanwhile, you'll also have to—er—wait, I imagine. Have you any friends who might—er—use their influence? I think you might get out on bail. I can't say."
"Nope."
"Then the best thing that you can do is to tell a straight story and hope that the authorities will believe you. Well, I've got to go. By the way, how are you fixed financially? Just let me know if you want anything?"
"Thanks, Doc. From what you say I reckon the county will be payin' my board."
"I hope not. But you'll need some clothing and underwear—the things you had on are—"
Pete nodded.
"Don't hesitate to ask me,"—and Andover rose. "Your friend—er—Ewell—arranged for any little contingency that might arise."
"Then I kin go most any time?" queried Pete.
"We'll see how you are feeling next week. Meanwhile keep out in the sun—but wrap up well. Good-bye!"
Pete realized that to make a fresh start in life he would have to begin at the bottom.
He had ever been inclined to look forward rather than backward—to put each day's happenings behind him as mere incidents in his general progress—and he began to realize that these happenings had accumulated to a bulk that could not be ignored, if the fresh start that he contemplated were to be made successfully. He recalled how he had felt when he had squared himself with Roth for that six-gun. But the surreptitious taking of the six-gun had been rather a mistake than a deliberate intent to steal. And Pete tried to justify himself with the thought that all his subsequent trouble had been the result of mistakes due to conditions thrust upon him by a fate which had slowly driven him to his present untenable position—that of a fugitive from the law, without money and without friends. He came to the bitter conclusion that his whole life had been a mistake—possibly not through his own initiative, but a mistake nevertheless. He knew that his only course was to retrace and untangle the snarl of events in which his feet were snared. Accustomed to rely upon his own efforts—he had always been able to make his living—he suddenly realized the potency of money; that money could alleviate suffering, influence authority, command freedom—at least temporary freedom—and even in some instances save life itself.
Yet it was characteristic of Pete that he did not regret anything that he had done, in a moral sense. He had made mistakes—and he would have to pay for them—but only once. He would not make these mistakes again. A man was a fool who deliberately rode his horse into the same box cañon twice.
Pete wondered if his letter to Jim Bailey had been received and what Bailey's answer would be. The letter must have reached Bailey by this time. And then Pete thought of The Spider's note, advising him to call at the Stockmen's Security; and of The Spider's peculiar insistence that he do so—that Hodges would "use him square."
Pete wondered what it all signified. He knew that The Spider had money deposited with the Stockmen's Security. The request had something to do with money, without doubt. Perhaps The Spider had wished him to attend to some matter of trust—for Pete was aware that The Spider had trusted him, and had said so, almost with his last breath. But Pete hesitated to become entangled further in The Spider's affairs. He did not intend to make a second mistake of that kind.
Monday of the following week Pete was out on the veranda—listening to little Ruth, a blue-eyed baby patient who as gravely explained the mysteries of a wonderful puzzle game of pasteboard cows and horses and a farmyard "most all cut to pieces," as Ruth said, when Doris stepped from the hall doorway and, glancing about, finally discovered Pete in the far corner of the veranda—deeply absorbed in searching for the hind leg of a noble horse to which little Ruth had insisted upon attaching the sedate and ignoble hind quarters of a maternal cow. So intent were they upon their game that neither of them saw Doris as she moved toward them, nodding brightly to many convalescents seated about the veranda.
"Whoa!" said Pete, as Ruth disarranged the noble steed in her eagerness to fit the bit of pasteboard Pete had handed to her. "Now, I reckon he'll stand till we find that barn-door and the water-trough. Do you reckon he wants a drink?"
"He looks very firsty," said Ruth.
"Mebby he's hungry, too,"—and Pete found the segment of a mechanically correct haystack.
"No!" cried Ruth positively, taking the bit of haystack from Pete; "wet's put some hay in his house."
"Then that there cow'll git it—and she's plumb fed up already."
"Den I give 'at 'ittle cow his breakfuss,"—and the solicitous Ruth placed the section of haystack within easy reach of a wide-eyed and slightly disjointed calf—evidently the offspring of the well-fed cow, judging from the paint-markings of each.
But suddenly little Ruth's face lost its sunshine. Her mouth quivered. Pete glanced up at her, his dark eyes questioning.
"There's lots more hay," he stammered, "for all of 'em."
"It hurted me," sobbed Ruth.
"Your foot?" Pete glanced down at the child's bandaged foot, and then looked quickly away.
"Ess. It hurted me—and oo didn't hit it."
"I'll bet it was that doggone ole cow! Let's git her out of this here corral and turn her loose!" Pete shuffled the cow into a disjointed heap. "Now she's turned loose—and she won't come back."
Ruth ceased sobbing and turned to gaze at Doris, who patted her head and smiled. "We was—stockin' up our ranch," Pete explained almost apologetically. "Ruth and me is pardners."
Doris gazed at Pete, her gray eyes warm with a peculiar light. "It's awfully nice of you to amuse Ruth."
"Amuse her! My Gosh! Miss Gray, she's doin' the amusin'! When we're visitin' like this, I plumb forgit—everything."
"Here's a letter for you," said Doris. "I thought that perhaps you might want to have it as soon as possible."
"Thanks, Miss Gray. I reckon it's from Jim Bailey. I—" Pete tore off the end of the envelope with trembling fingers. Little Ruth watched him curiously. Doris had turned away and was looking out across the city. A tiny hand tugged at her sleeve. "Make Pete play wif me," said Ruth. "My cow's all broke."
Pete glanced up, slowly slid the unread letter back into the envelope and tucked it into his shirt. "You bet we'll find that cow if we have to comb every draw on the ranch! Hello, pardner! Here's her ole head. She was sure enough investigatin' that there haystack."
Doris turned away. There was a tense throbbing in her throat as she moved back to the doorway. Despite herself she glanced back for an instant. The dark head and the golden head were together over the wonderful puzzle picture. Just why Pete should look up then could hardly be explained by either himself or Doris. He waved his hand boyishly. Doris turned and walked rapidly down the hallway. Her emotion irritated her. Why should she feel so absolutely silly and sentimental because a patient, who really meant nothing to her aside from her profession, should choose to play puzzle picture with a crippled child, that he might forget for a while his very identity and those terrible happenings? Had he not said so? And yet he had put aside the letter that might mean much to him, that he might make Little Ruth forget her pain in searching for a dismembered pasteboard cow.
Doris glanced in as she passed Pete's room. Two men were standing there, expressing in their impatient attitudes that they had expected to find some one in the room. She knew who they were—men from the police station—for she had seen them before.
"You were looking for Mr. Annersley?" she asked.
"Yes, mam. We got a little business—"
"He's out on the veranda, playing puzzle picture with a little girl patient."
"Well, we got a puzzle picture for him—" began one of the men, but Doris, her eyes flashing, interrupted him.
"Dr. Andover left word that he does not want Mr. Annersley to see visitors without his permission."
"Reckon we can see him, miss. I had a talk with Doc Andover."
"Then let me call Mr. Annersley, please. There are so many—patients out there."
"All right, miss."
Doris took Pete's place as she told him. Little Ruth entered a demurrer, although she liked Doris. "Pete knew all about forces and cows. He must come wight back . . ."
"What a beautiful bossy!" said Doris as Ruth rearranged the slightly disjointed cow.
"Dat acow," said Ruth positively. "Pete says dat acow!"
"And what a wonderful pony!"
"Dat aforce, Miss Dowis. Pete say dat a force."
It was evident to Doris that Pete was an authority, not without honor in his own country, and an authority not to be questioned, for Ruth gravely informed Doris that Pete could "wide" and "wope" and knew everything about "forces" and "cows."
Meanwhile Pete, seated on the edge of his cot, was telling the plain-clothes men that he was willing to go with them whenever they were ready, stipulating, however, that he wanted to visit the Stockmen's Security and Savings Bank first, and as soon as possible. Incidentally he stubbornly refused to admit that he had anything to do with the killing of Brent, whom the sheriff of Sanborn had finally identified as the aforetime foreman of the Olla.
"There's nothing personal about this, young fella," said one of the men as Pete's dark eyes blinked somberly. "It's our business, that's all."
"And it's a dam' crawlin' business," asserted Pete. "You couldn't even let The Spider cross over peaceful."
"I reckon he earned all he got," said one of the men.
"Mebby. But it took three fast guns to git him—and he putthemout of business first. I'd 'a' liked to seen some of you rubber-heeled heifers tryin' to put the irons on him."
"That kind of talk won't do you no good when you're on the stand, young fella. It ain't likely that Sam Brent was your first job. Your record reads pretty strong for a kid."
"Meanin' Gary? Well, about Gary"—Pete fumbled in his shirt. "I got a letter here" . . . He studied the closely written sheet for a few seconds, then his face cleared. "Jest run your eye over that. It's from Jim Bailey, who used to be my fo'man on the Concho."
The officers read the letter, one gazing over the other's shoulder, "Who's this Jim Bailey, anyhow?"
"He's a white man—fo'man of the Concho, and my boss, onct."
"Well, you're lucky if what he says is so. But that don't square you with the other deal."
"There's only one man that could do that," said Pete. "And I reckon he ain't ridin' where you could git him."
"That's all right, Annersley. But even if you didn't get Brent, you were on that job. You were running with a tough bunch."
"Who's got my gun?" queried Pete abruptly.
"It's over to the station with the rest of your stuff."
"Well, it wa'n't a forty-five that put Brent out of business. My gun is."
"You can tell that to the sheriff of Sanborn County. And you'll have a hard time proving that you never packed any other gun."
"You say it's the sheriff of Sanborn County that'll be wantin' to know?"
"Yes. We're holding you for him."
"That's different. I reckon I kin talk tohim."
"Well, you'll get a chance. He's in town—-waiting to take you over to Sanborn."
"I sure would like to have a talk with him," said Pete. "Would you mind tellin' him that?"
"Why—no. We'll tell him."
"'Cause I aim to take a little walk this afternoon," asserted Pete, "and mebby he'd kind o' like to keep me comp'ny."
"You'll have company—if you take a walk," said one of the detectives significantly.
Pete did not return to the veranda to finish his puzzle game with little Ruth. He smiled rather grimly as he realized that he had a puzzle game of his own to solve. He lay on the cot and his eyes closed as he reviewed the vivid events in his life, from the beginning of the trail, at Concho, to its end, here in El Paso. It seemed to spread out before him like a great map: the desert and its towns, the hills and mesas, trails and highways over which men scurried like black and red ants, commingling, separating, hastening off at queer tangents, meeting in combat, disappearing in crevices, reappearing and setting off again in haste, searching for food, bearing strange burdens, scrambling blindly over obstacles—collectively without seeming purpose—yet individually bent upon some quest, impetuous and headstrong in their strange activities. "And gittin' nowhere," soliloquized Pete, "except in trouble."
He thought of the letter from Bailey, and, sitting up, re-read it slowly. So Steve Gary had survived, only to meet the inevitable end of his kind. Well, Gary was always hunting trouble… Roth, the storekeeper at Concho, ought to have the number of that gun which Pete packed. If the sheriff of Sanborn was an old-timer he would know that a man who packed a gun for business reasons did not go round the country experimenting with different makes and calibers. Only the "showcase" boys in the towns swapped guns. Ed Brevoort had always used a Luger. Pete wondered if there had been any evidence of the caliber of the bullet which had killed Brent. If the sheriff were an old-timer such evidence would not be overlooked.
Pete got up and wandered out to the veranda. The place was deserted. He suddenly realized that those who were able had gone to their noon meal. He had forgotten about that. He walked back to his room and sat on the edge of his cot. He was lonesome and dispirited. He was not hungry, but he felt decidedly empty. This was the first time that Doris had allowed him to miss a meal, and it was her fault! She might have called him. But what did she care? In raw justice to her—whyshouldshe care?
Pete's brooding eyes brightened as Doris came in with a tray. She had thought that he had rather have his dinner there. "I noticed that you did not come down with the others," she said.
Pete was angry with himself. Adam-like he said he wasn't hungry anyhow.
"Then I'll take it back," said Doris sweetly,
Adam-like, Pete decided that he was hungry. "Miss Gray," he blurted, "I—I'm a doggone short-horn! I'm goin' to eat. I sure want to square myself."
"For what?"
Doris was gazing at him with a serene directness that made him feel that his clothing was several sizes too large for him. He realized that generalities would hardly serve his turn just then.
"I was settin' here feelin' sore at the whole doggone outfit," he explained. "Sore at you—and everybody."
"Well?" said Doris unsmilingly.
"I'm askin' you to forgit that I was sore at you." Pete was not ordinarily of an apologetic turn, and he felt that he pretty thoroughly squared himself.
"It really doesn't matter," said Doris, as she placed his tray on the table and turned to go.
"I reckon you're right." And his dark eyes grew moody again.
"There's a man in the reception-room waiting to see you," said Doris. "I told him you were having your dinner."
"Another one, eh? Oh, I was forgittin'. I got a letter from Jim Bailey"—Pete fumbled in his shirt—"and I thought mebby—"
"I hope it's good news."
"It sure is! Would you mind readin' it—to yourself—sometime?"
"I—think I'd rather not," said Doris hesitatingly.
Pete's face showed so plainly that he was hurt that Doris regretted her refusal to read the letter. To make matters worse—for himself—Pete asked that exceedingly irritating and youthful question, "Why?" which elicits that distinctly unsatisfactory feminine answer, "Because." That lively team "Why" and "Because" have run away with more chariots of romance, upset more matrimonial bandwagons, and spilled more beans than all the other questions and answers men and women have uttered since that immemorial hour when Adam made the mistake of asking Eve why she insisted upon his eating an apple right after breakfast.
Doris was not indifferent to his request that she read the letter, but she was unwilling to let Pete know it, and a little fearful that he might interpret her interest for just what it was—the evidence of a greater solicitude for his welfare than she cared to have him know.
Pete, like most lusty sons of saddle-leather, shied at even the shadow of sentiment—in this instance shying at his own shadow. He rode wide of the issue, turning from the pleasant vista of who knows what imaginings, to face the imperative challenge of immediate necessity, which was, first, to eat something, and then to meet the man who waited for him downstairs who, Pete surmised, was the sheriff of Sanborn County.
"If you don't mind tellin' him I'll come down as soon as I eat," said Pete as he pulled up a chair.
Doris nodded and turned to leave. Pete glanced up. She had not gone. "Your letter,"—and Doris proffered the letter which he had left on the cot. Pete was about to take it when he glanced up at her. She was smiling at him. "You don't know how funny you look when you frown and act—like—like a spoiled child," she laughed. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"
"I—I reckon I am," said Pete, grinning boyishly.
"Ashamed of yourself?"
"Nope! A spoiled kid, like you said. And I ain't forgittin' who spoiled me."
The letter, the man downstairs and all that his presence implied, past and future possibilities, were forgotten in the brief glance that Doris gave him as she turned in the doorway. And glory-be, she had taken the letter with her! Pete gazed about the room to make sure that he was not dreaming. No, the letter had disappeared—and but a moment ago Doris had had it. And she still had it. "Well, she'll know I got one or two friends, anyhow," reflected Pete as he ate his dinner. "When she sees how Jim talks—and what he said Ma Bailey has to say to me—mebby she'll—mebby—Doggone it! Most like she'll just hand it back and smile and say she's mighty glad—and—but that ain't no sign that I'm the only guy that ever got shot up, and fixed up, and turned loose by a sure-enough angel… Nope! She ain't a angel—she's real folks, like Ma Bailey and Andy and Jim. If I ain't darned careful I'm like to find I done rid my hoss into a gopher-hole and got throwed bad."
Meanwhile "the man downstairs" was doing some thinking himself. That morning he had visited police headquarters and inspected Pete's gun and belongings—noting especially the hand-carved holster and the heavy-caliber gun, the factory number of which he jotted down in his notebook. Incidentally he had borrowed a Luger automatic from the miscellaneous collection of weapons taken from criminals, assured himself that it was not loaded, and slipped it into his coat-pocket. Later he had talked with the officials, visited the Mexican lodging-house, where he had obtained a description of the man who had occupied the room with Pete, and stopping at a restaurant for coffee and doughnuts, had finally arrived at the hospital prepared to hear what young Annersley had to say for himself.
Sheriff Jim Owen, unofficially designated as "Sunny Jim" because of an amiable disposition, which in no way affected his official responsibilities, was a dyed-in-the-wool, hair-cinched, range-branded, double-fisted official, who scorned nickel-plated firearms, hard-boiled hats, fancy drinks, and smiled his contempt for the rubber-heeled methods of the city police. Sheriff Owen had no rubber-heeled tendencies. He was frankness itself, both in peace and in war. It was once said of him, by a lank humorist of Sanborn, that Jim Owen never wasted any time palaverin' whenhewas flirtin' with death. That he just met you with a gun in one hand and a smile in the other, and you could take your choice—or both, if you was wishful.
The sheriff was thinking, his hands crossed upon his rotund stomach and his bowed legs as near crossed as they could ever be without an operation. He was pretty well satisfied that the man upstairs, who that pretty little nurse had said would be down in a few minutes, had not killed Sam Brent. He had a few pertinent reasons for this conclusion. First, Brent had been killed by a thirty-caliber, soft-nosed bullet, which the sheriff had in his vest-pocket. Then, from what he had been told, he judged that the man who actually killed Brent would not have remained in plain sight in the lodging-house window while his companion made his get-away. This act alone seemed to indicate that of the two the man who had escaped was in the greater danger if apprehended, and that young Annersley had generously offered to cover his retreat so far as possible. Then, from the lodging-house keeper's description of the other man, Jim Owen concluded that he was either Ed Brevoort or Slim Harper, both of whom were known to have been riding for the Olla. And the sheriff knew something of Brevoort's record.
Incidentally Sheriff Owen also looked up Pete's record. He determined to get Pete's story and compare it with what the newspapers said and see how close this combined evidence came to his own theory of the killing of Brent. He was mentally piecing together possibilities and probabilities, and the exact evidence he had, when Pete walked into the reception-room.
"Have a chair," said Sheriff Owen. "I got one."
"I'm Pete Annersley," said Pete. "Did you want to see me?"
"Thought I'd call and introduce myself. I'm Jim Owen to my friends. I'm sheriff of Sanborn County to others."
"All right, Mr. Owen," said Pete, smiling in spite of himself.
"That's the idea—only make it Jim. Did you ever use one of these?" And suddenly Sheriff Owen had a Luger automatic in his hand. Pete wondered that a man as fat as the little sheriff could pull a gun so quickly.
"Why—no. I ain't got no use for one of them doggone stutterin' smoke-wagons."
"Here, too," said Owen, slipping the Luger back into his pocket. "Never shot one of 'em in my life. Ever try one?"
"I—" Pete caught himself on the verge of saying that he had tried Ed Brevoort's Luger once. He realized in a flash how close the sheriff had come to trapping him. "I never took to them automatics," he asserted lamely.
Pete had dodged the question. On the face of it this looked as though Pete might have been trying to shield himself by disclaiming any knowledge of that kind of weapon. But Owen knew the type of man he was talking to—knew that he would shield a companion even more quickly than he would shield himself.
"Sam Brent was killed by a bullet from a Luger," stated Owen.
Pete's face expressed just the faintest shade of relief, but he said nothing.
"I got the bullet here in my pocket. Want to see it?" And before Pete could reply, the sheriff fished out the flattened and twisted bullet and handed it to Pete, who turned it over and over, gazing at it curiously.
"Spreads out most as big as a forty-five," said Pete, handing it back.
"Yes—but it acts different. Travels faster—and takes more along with it. Lot of 'em used in Texas and across the line. Ever have words with Sam Brent?"
"No. Got along with him all right."
"Did he pay your wages reg'lar?"
"Yes."
"Ever have any trouble with a man named Steve Gary?"
"Yes, but he's—"
"I know. Used to know the man that got him. Wizard with a gun. Meaner than dirt—"
"Hold on!" said Pete. "He was my friend."
"—to most folks," continued the rotund sheriff. "But I've heard said he'd do anything for a man he liked. Trouble with him was he didn't like anybody."
"Mebby he didn't," said Pete indifferently.
"Because he couldn't trust anybody. Ever eat ice-cream?"
"Who—me?"
The sheriff smiled and nodded.
"Nope. Ma Bailey made some onct, but—"
"Let's go out and get some. It's cooling and refreshing and it's—ice-cream. Got a hat?"
"Up in my room."
"Go get it. I'll wait."
"You mean?"—and Pete hesitated.
"I don't mean anything. Heard you was going for a walk this afternoon. Thought I'd come along. Want to get acquainted. Lonesome. Nobody to talk to. Get your hat."
"Suppose I was to make a break—when we git outside?" said Pete.
Sheriff Owen smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "That little nurse, the one with the gray eyes—that said you were having dinner—is she your reg'lar nurse?"
Pete nodded.
"Well, you won't," said the sheriff.
"How's that?" queried Pete.
"I talked with her. Sensible girl. Breakherall up if her patient was to make a break:—because"—and the sheriff's eyes ceased to twinkle, although he still smiled—"because I'd have to breakyouall up. Hate to do it. Hate to make her feel bad."
"Oh, shucks," said Pete.
"You're right—shucks. That's what you'd look like. I pack a forty-five—same as you. We can buy a hat—"
"I'll get it." And Pete left the room.
He could not quite understand Sheriff Owen. In fact Pete did not come half so close to understanding him as the sheriff came to understanding Pete. But Pete understood one thing—and that was that Jim Owen was not an easy proposition to fool with.
"Now where do we head for?" said Owen as they stood at the foot of the hospital steps.
"I was goin' to the bank—the Stockmen's Security."
"Good bank. You couldn't do better. Know old E.H. myself. Used to know him better—before he got rich. No—this way. Short cut. You got to get acquainted with your legs again, eh? Had a close call. A little shaky?"
"I reckon I kin make it."
"Call a cab if you say the word."
"I—I figured I could walk," said Pete, biting his lips. But a few more steps convinced him that the sheriff was taking no risk whatever in allowing him his liberty.
"Like to see old E.H. myself," stated the sheriff. "Never rode in a cab in my life. Let's try one."
And the sprightly sheriff of Sanborn County straightway hailed a languorous cabby who sat dozing on the "high seat" of a coupe to which was attached the most voluptuous-looking white horse that Pete had ever seen. Evidently the "hospital stand" was a prosperous center.
"We want to go to the Stockmen's Security Bank," said the sheriff, as the coupe drew up to the curb. The driver nodded.
Pete leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. Owen glanced at him and shook his head. There was nothing vicious or brutal in that face. It was not the face of a killer.
Pete sat up suddenly. "I was forgittin' I was broke," and he turned to Owen.
"No. There's sixty-seven dollars and two-bits of yours over at the station, along with your gun and a bundle of range clothes."
"I forgot that."
"Feel better?"
"Fine—when I'm settin' still."
"Well, we're here. Go right in. I'll wait."
Pete entered the bank and inquired for the president, giving the attendant his name in lieu of the card for which he was asked. He was shown in almost immediately, and a man somewhat of The Spider's type assured him that he was the president and, as he spoke, handed Pete a slip of paper such as Pete had never before seen.
"You're Peter Annersley?" queried Hodges.
"Yes. What's this here?"
"It's more money than I'd want to carry with me on the street," said Hodges. "Have you anything that might identify you?"
"What's the idee?"
"Mr. Ewell had some money with us that he wished transferred to you, in case anything happened to him. I guess you know what happened." Then reflectively, "Jim was a queer one."
"You mean The Spider wanted me to have this?"
"Yes. That slip of paper represents just twenty-four thousand dollars in currency. If you'll just endorse it—"
"But it ain't my money!" said Pete.
"You're a fool if you don't take it, young man. From what I have heard you'll need it. It seems that Jim took a fancy to you. Said you had played square with him—about that last deposit, I suppose. You don't happen to have a letter with you, from him, I suppose, do you?"
"I got this,"—and Pete showed President Hodges The Spider's note, which Hodges read and returned. "That was like Jim. He wouldn't listen to me."
"And this was his money?" Pete was unable to realize the significance of it all.
"Yes. Now it's yours. You're lucky! Mighty lucky! Just endorse the draft—right here. I'll have it cashed for you."
"Write my name?"
"Yes, your full name, here."
"And I git twenty-four thousand dollars for this?"
"If you want to carry that much around with you. I'd advise you to deposit the draft and draw against it."
"If it's mine, I reckon I'd like to jest git it in my hands onct, anyhow. I'd like to see what that much money feels like."
Pete slowly wrote his name, thinking of The Spider and Pop Annersley as he did so. Hodges took the draft, pressed a button, and a clerk appeared, took the draft, and presently returned with the money in gold and bank-notes of large denomination.
When he had gone out, Hodges turned to Pete. "What are you going to do with it? It's none of my business—now. But Jim and I were friends—and if I can do anything—"
"I reckon I'll put it back in—to my name," said Pete. "I sure ain't scared to leave it with you—for The Spider he weren't."
Hodges smiled grimly, and pressed a button on his desk. "New account," he told the clerk.
Pete sighed heavily when the matter had been adjusted, the identification signature slips signed, and the bank-book made out in his name.
Hodges himself introduced Pete at the teller's window, thanked Pete officially for patronizing the bank, and shook hands with him. "Any time you need funds, just come in—or write to me," said Hodges. "Good-bye, and good luck."
Pete stumbled out of the bank and down the steps to the sidewalk. He was rich—worth twenty-four thousand dollars! But why had The Spider left this money to him? Surely The Spider had had some other friend—or some relative…?
"Step right in," said Sheriff Owen. "You look kind of white. Feeling shaky?"
"Some."
"We want to go to the General Hospital," said the sheriff.
Pete listened to the deliberate plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk of the white mare's large and capable feet as the cab whirred softly along the pavement. "I suppose you'll be takin' me over to Sanborn right soon," he said finally.
"Well, I expect I ought to get back to my family," said the sheriff.
"I didn't kill Sam Brent," asserted Pete.
"I never thought you did," said the sheriff, much to Pete's surprise.
"Then what's the idee of doggin' me around like I was a blame coyote?"
"Because you have been traveling in bad company, son. And some one in that said company killed Sam Brent."
"And I got to stand for it?"
"Looks that way. I been all kinds of a fool at different times, but I'm not fool enough to ask you who killed Sam Brent. But I advise you to tell the judge and jury when the time comes."
"That the only way I kin square myself?"
"I don't say that. But it will help."
"Then I don't say."
"Thought you wouldn't. It's a case of circumstantial evidence. Brent was found in that cactus forest near the station. The same night two men rode into Sanborn and left their horses at the livery-stable. These men took the train for El Paso, but jumped it at the crossing. Later they were trailed to a rooming-house on Aliso Street. One of them—and this is the queer part of it—got away after shooting his pardner. The rubber heels in this town say these two men quarreled about money—"
"That's about all they know. Ed and me never—"
"You don't mean Ed Brevoort, do you?"
"There's more 'n one Ed in this country."
"There sure is. Old E.H. Hodges—he's Ed; and there's Ed Smally on the force here, and Ed Cummings, the preacher over to Sanborn. Lots of Eds. See here, son. If you want to get out of a bad hole, the quickest way is for you to tell a straight story. Save us both time. Been visiting with you quite a spell."
"Reckon we're here," said Pete as the cab stopped.
"And I reckon you're glad of it. As I was saying, we been having quite a visit—getting acquainted. Now if you haven't done anything the law can hold you for, the more I know about what you have done the better it will be for you. Think that over. If you can prove you didn't kill Brent, then it's up to me to find out who did. Get a good sleep. I'll drift round sometime to-morrow."
Back in his room Pete lay trying to grasp the full significance of the little bank-book in his pocket. He wondered who would stop him if he were to walk out of the hospital that evening or the next morning, and leave town. He got up and strode nervously back and forth, fighting a recurrent temptation to make his escape.
He happened to glance in the mirror above the washstand. "That's the only fella that kin stop me," he told himself. And he thought of Ed Brevoort and wondered where Brevoort was, and if he were in need of money.
Dr. Andover, making his afternoon rounds, stepped in briskly, glanced at Pete's flushed face, and sitting beside him on the cot, took his pulse and temperature with that professional celerity that makes the busy physician. "A little temperature. Been out today?"
"For a couple of hours."
Andover nodded. "Well, young man, you get right into bed."
The surgeon closed the door. Pete undressed grumblingly.
"Now turn over. I want to look at your back. M-mm! Thought so. A little feverish. Did you walk much?"
"Nope! We took a rig. I was with the sheriff."
"I see! Excitement was a little too much for you. You'll have to go slow for a few days."
"I'm feelin' all right," asserted Pete.
"You think you are. How's your appetite?"
"I ain't hungry."
Andover nodded. "You'd better keep off your feet to-morrow."
"Shucks, Doc! I'm sick of this here place!"
Andover smiled. "Well, just between ourselves, so am I. I've been here eight years. By the way, how would you like to take a ride with me, next Thursday? I expect to motor out to Sanborn."
"In that machine I seen you in the other day?"
"Yes. New car. I'd like to try her out on a good straightaway—and there's a pretty fair road up on this end of the mesa."
"I'd sure like to go! Say, Doc, how much does one of them automobiles cost?"
"Oh, about three thousand, without extras."
"How fast kin you go?"
"Depends on the road. My car is guaranteed to do seventy-five on the level."
"Some stepper! You could git to Sanborn and back in a couple of hours."
"Not quite. I figure it about a four-hour trip. I'd be glad to have you along. Friend of mine tells me there's a thoroughbred saddle-horse there that is going to be sold at auction. I've been advertising for a horse for my daughter. You might look him over and tell me what you think of him."
"I reckon I know him already," said Pete.
"How's that?"
"'Cause they's no thoroughbred stock around Sanborn. If it's the one I'm thinkin' about, it was left there by a friend of mine."
"Oh—I see! I remember, now. Sanborn is where you—er—took the train for El Paso?"
"We left our hosses there—same as the paper said."
"H-mm! Well, I suppose the horse is to be sold for charges. Sheriff's sale, I understand."
"Oh, you're safe in buyin'himall right. And he sure is a good one."
"Well, I'll speak to the chief. I imagine he'll let you go with me."
Pete shook his head. "Nope. He wouldn't even if he had the say. But the sheriff of Sanborn County has kind of invited me to go over there for a spell. I guess he figured on leavin' here in a couple of days."
"He can't take you till I certify that you're able to stand the journey," said Andover brusquely.
"Well, he's comin' to-morrow. I'm dead sick of stayin' here. Can't you tell him I kin travel?"
"We'll see how you feel to-morrow. Hello! Here's Miss Gray. What, six o'clock! I had no idea… Yes, a little temperature, Miss Gray. Too much excitement. A little surface inflammation—nothing serious. A good night's rest and he'll be a new man. Good-night."
Pete was glad to see Doris. Her mere presence was restful. He sighed heavily, glanced up at her and smiled. "A little soup, Miss Gray. It's awful excitin'. Slight surface inflammation on them boiled beets. Nothin' serious—they ain't scorched. A good night's rest and the cook'll be a new man tomorrow. Doc Andover is sure all right—but I always feel like he was wearin' kid gloves and was afraid of gittin' 'em dirty, every time he comes in."
Doris was not altogether pleased by Pete's levity and her face showed it. She did not smile, but rearranged the things on the tray in a preoccupied manner, and asked him if there was anything else he wanted.
"Lemme see?" Pete frowned prodigiously. "Got salt and pepper and butter and sugar; but I reckon you forgot somethin' that I'm wantin' a whole lot."
"What is it?"
"You're forgittin' to smile."
"I read that letter from Mr. Bailey."
"I'm mighty glad you did, Miss Gray. I wanted you to know what was in that letter. You'd sure like Ma Bailey, and Jim and Andy. Andy was my pardner—when—afore I had that trouble with Steve Gary. No use tryin' to step round it now. I reckon you know all about it."
"And you will be going back to them—to your friends on the ranch?"
"Well—I aim to. I got to go over to Sanborn first."
"Sanborn? Do you mean—?"
"Jest what you're thinkin', Miss Gray. I seen a spell back how you was wonderin' that I could josh about my grub, and Doc Andover. Well, I got in bad, and I ain't blamin' nobody—and I ain't blamin' myself—and that's why I ain't hangin' my head about anything I done. And I ain't kickin' because I got started on the wrong foot.I'mfigurin' how I kin git started on the other foot—and keep a-goin'."
"But why should you tell me about these things? I can't help you. And it seems terrible to think about them. If I were a man—like Dr. Andover—"
"I reckon you're right," said Pete. "I got no business loadin' you up with all my troubles. I'm goin' to quit it. Only you been kind o' like a pardner—and it sure was lonesome, layin' here and thinkin' about everything, and not sayin' a word to nobody. But I jest want you to know that I didn't kill Sam Brent—but I sure would 'a' got him—if somebody hadn't been a flash quicker than me, that night. Brent was after the money we was packin', and he meant business."
"You mean that—some one killed him in self-defense?"
"That's the idee. It was him or us."
"Then why don't you tell the police that?"
"I sure aim to. But what they want to know is who the fella was that got Brent."
"But the papers say that the other man escaped."
"Which is right."
"And you won't tell who he is?"
"Nope."
"But why not—if it means your own freedom?"
"Mebby because they wouldn't believe me anyhow."
"I don't think that is your real reason. Oh, I forgot to return your letter. I'll bring it next time."
"I'll be goin' Thursday. Doc Andover he's goin' over to Sanborn and he ast me to go along with him."
"You mean—to stay?"
"For a spell, anyhow. But I'm comin' back."
Doris glanced at her wrist watch and realized that it was long past the hour for the evening meal. "I'm going out to my sister's to-morrow, for the day. I may not see you before you leave,"
Pete sat up. "Shucks! Well, I ain't sayin' thanks for what you done for me, Miss Gray. 'Thanks' sounds plumb starvin' poor and rattlin', side of what I want to tell you. I'd be a'most willin' to git shot ag'in—"
"Don't say that!" exclaimed Doris.
"I would be shakin' hands with you," said Pete. "But this here is just 'Adios,' for I'm sure comin' back."