CHAPTER IIIOtis Carr, bending over the kneeling officer in the ranger cabin, seemed fairly stupefied with astonishment as Lafe Ogden read the words which branded him as the murderer of Ranger Fyffe. Even when the Sheriff turned and looked up at him, condemnation in his keen gaze and his hand instinctively seeking his gun, Otis stood petrified, oblivious of everything but the scrawled and blurred inscription on the floor. He still bent forward, eyes staring, pale beneath his tan, his mouth agape.Deputy Seth Markey whipped his revolver from its holster. He did not train it upon Otis, but stood with arms crossed, eying him narrowly, alert for the slightest hostile move. Sheriff Ogden rose slowly to his feet, his gaze intent upon the younger man.Through Otis’ mind flashed a picture of Joe Fyffe, wounded, rushing into the ranger cabin, staggering toward the table, clutching at the telephone, frantically calling for help, and then slowly sinking to the floor, where he lay in agony. And then the ranger, knowing his life was measured by minutes, had striven to set down a message that would reveal the identity of the man who had shot him.In the scene as reënacted in Otis’ mind, Fyffe fumbled with stiffening fingers at his shirt pocket, searching for the stub of his pencil. Fighting down his agony, he scrawled his damning indictment of Otis—his friend!And Otis, still standing there, bent forward, staring down at the floor, seemed to see the ranger’s body suddenly go limp, the pencil dropping from nerveless fingers. And then the pool of blood slowly widening under the motionless body.“Otis Carr shot me because—”What would the rest of the sentence have been? What if Ranger Fyffe’s heart had pulsed a few more beats? What would he have written?And why—why had he written that Otis Carr shot him, when Otis had been fifteen miles from the ranger station throughout the night?Gradually Otis became conscious of his surroundings again. He straightened, and looked from the Sheriff to his deputy, and back again. He saw nothing in their gaze but cold conviction of his guilt.Why didn’t they say something? Why did they stand there, silent and impeaching? They had him on the defensive, at their mercy. He cleared his throat to speak, with no definite idea of what he would say. But the words would not come, and the sounds that issued from his lips were stammering and unintelligible. At last he made an awkward little gesture of helplessness with his hands, and dropped his head.Sheriff Ogden, without taking his eyes from Otis, spoke to his deputy.“Take his gun,” he directed shortly. Otis remained motionless while Markey lifted the weapon from its holster, and rapidly passed his hands over Otis’ body in search of other arms.The deputy glanced at the revolver and turned it over to the Sheriff with the remark: “Been fired twice.”“How come, Otis?” asked the Sheriff, not unkindly, but with the air of one with an unpleasant duty to perform.Otis suddenly found his voice.“Shot at a rattler, just before I reached the Buffalo Forks road.”The trace of a smile hovered about Sheriff Ogden’s lips.“And I s’pose whoever shot Joe Fyffe come into the cabin afterward and wrote them words on the floor, just to throw suspicion on you?”Otis raised his head and looked Ogden squarely in the eyes.“No, Sheriff; Joe Fyffe wrote that. I’ve seen his writing before. This is a little bit shaky, but it’s Joe Fyffe’s writing.”The Sheriff raised his brows and emitted a low whistle of surprise.“How do you account for his scribbling that on the floor, then?”“I tell you I can’t account for it,” Otis admitted. “I own up that it struck me all of a heap. I was as much surprised as you when I saw it. You know I never had any quarrel with Joe Fyffe. We were friends. Why should I kill him?”“Now, just between you and me, didn’t your daddy say, like all the rest of the cow-men here, that the Gov’ment wasn’t going to collect a penny of grazing-fees, and that the ranger ought to be run out of the country?”Otis, who had regained his color after the first shock of the discovery, paled visibly again at the Sheriff’s question. He hesitated an instant before he answered.“Why, yes,” he retorted, “there’s no use denying that. You know as well as I that the Government rangers aren’t any too popular in the cattle country. But you admit thatallthe cow-men dislike the rangers. Why should that indicate any motive onmypart?”“I aint saying it does,” Ogden remarked. “I’m asking for information. Now, isn’t it true, Otis, that just because you was particularly friendly with Joe Fyffe, you thought you could talk to him better than anyone else? Wasn’t that the reason you come over here last night—not with any notion of killing him, mind you—but just to tell him he’d better clear out, before somethin’ happened?“I’m supposin’ that you came here to do him a service—to warn him to git out before there was trouble, ’cause I know you and him was pretty good friends. Now, Otis, tell me straight—wasn’t that about the way things sized up? One word led to another. Maybe he pulled a gun on you first, and you had to do it, or get killed yourself. If you’ll say it was self-defense, now, maybe that’ll go a long ways with the jury. Between you and me, haven’t I hit it about right?”Otis, staring at Ogden, his eyes narrowed and his lips compressed, shook his head.“I tell you, Sheriff, I didn’t kill Joe Fyffe. How could I claim self-defense when I was fifteen miles from here all night? And if I were the one who really killed him, do you think I’d have shot him down like this, without giving him a chance?The Sheriff shrugged and turned away.“Remember, Otis, I’m tryin’ to help you. Of course, I can’t make you say what you don’t want to say. But if you think you’ll ever get away with an alibi defense, in the face of that writin’ on the floor and those empty cartridges in your gun—why, you’ve got another guess comin’. But a self-defense plea may get you somewheres. I’m just tryin’ to give you a tip, that’s all. It’s none of my funeral.”Otis, who had regained his composure to some extent by this time, cried out with some display of eagerness:“Well, there’s one way we can settle this whole thing, Sheriff. Let’s ride over to Gus Bernat’s cabin right now, and if he tells you I wasn’t at his place last night, then I’m willing to go to jail.”The Sheriff frowned and shook his head.“No chance, Otis. It’s too far. I’m afraid we’ll have to take you to Jackson under arrest, and investigate the evidence afterward. But I’ll send word to Gus to come to town tomorrow. If his story fits in with yours—well, then it will be up to the prosecuting attorney to decide what to do. Seth, you telephone the coroner. Then we’ll cut that plank out of the floor as evidence, and get started back to town.”While the deputy was carrying out the Sheriff’s instructions, Otis seated himself at the table, and rolled and lighted a cigarette. He made note of the fact that there was not the slightest tremor in his fingers, and was glad, for he knew his every act was being observed closely, and that evidences of nervousness would not help him.He had banished the panic which had possessed him at first when he read the dead man’s accusation. Now he reflected that all that was needed to tear asunder the veil of suspicion which enveloped him, was Gus Bernat’s alibi. His spirits rose with the thought, but he did not neglect to study every feature of the room as he waited. For he knew that even though Bernat’s alibi would free him from facing trial, nothing but the discovery of the identity of the real murderer would absolve him from suspicion in the minds of the residents of the community. And there was one person in particular whose regard had come, within the last few days, to mean far more to Otis than he had realized until he had been snared in this trap of Fate.“All right, Otis, let’s go,” Sheriff Ogden called when the deputy had ripped from the floor the plank containing Joe Fyffe’s dying words. He permitted the door of the ranger cabin to remain unlocked, explaining that the coroner would fasten it after removing the body.Otis’ chestnut pony, a rugged little mountain animal which had gained the name of “Pie-face” because of the splotched white star between his eyes, turned an inquiring look at the approach of his master. Like all Western saddle-horses, Pie-face had been taught to stand as though hitched as long as his reins were trailing on the ground. As Otis passed the reins over the animal’s head, he threw one arm about the neck of his loyal little mount and patted him affectionately. Here, at least, was one friend who would always believe in him!“Looks like rain, Sheriff,” Otis drawled with assumed nonchalance. “Look at those clouds rolling over the Tetons. By the way, are you going to use your—er—handcuffs?”“Handcuffs?” repeated the Sheriff almost indignantly. “What’d we want with handcuffs? We got our guns, and you aint armed. You wouldn’t dare make a break. We know it, and you know it. No, Otis, I aint going to rub it in. But if you’ll give me your promise you wont try to make a break, it’ll make it a whole lot easier for me.”Otis laughed shortly. Already they had started down the narrow trail which led from the ranger station to the Buffalo Forks road. Markey was in the lead, and Ogden brought up the rear.“Sure, Sheriff—I’ll promise you I wont try to get away. If I tried to escape, that would be a mighty good sign that I’m guilty, and that I’m scared to face a showdown, wouldn’t it?”They were nearing the road, which skirts Red Rock creek, when Markey suddenly reined in his mount and directed Ogden’s attention to a moving figure in the aspens beyond the stream. For a moment Sheriff and deputy eyed the figure and conversed in undertones.“Looks like one of the Radley boys,” Sheriff Ogden announced at length. “Wonder what he’s doing over here, so far off his own range. Guess we’d better find out.”
Otis Carr, bending over the kneeling officer in the ranger cabin, seemed fairly stupefied with astonishment as Lafe Ogden read the words which branded him as the murderer of Ranger Fyffe. Even when the Sheriff turned and looked up at him, condemnation in his keen gaze and his hand instinctively seeking his gun, Otis stood petrified, oblivious of everything but the scrawled and blurred inscription on the floor. He still bent forward, eyes staring, pale beneath his tan, his mouth agape.
Deputy Seth Markey whipped his revolver from its holster. He did not train it upon Otis, but stood with arms crossed, eying him narrowly, alert for the slightest hostile move. Sheriff Ogden rose slowly to his feet, his gaze intent upon the younger man.
Through Otis’ mind flashed a picture of Joe Fyffe, wounded, rushing into the ranger cabin, staggering toward the table, clutching at the telephone, frantically calling for help, and then slowly sinking to the floor, where he lay in agony. And then the ranger, knowing his life was measured by minutes, had striven to set down a message that would reveal the identity of the man who had shot him.
In the scene as reënacted in Otis’ mind, Fyffe fumbled with stiffening fingers at his shirt pocket, searching for the stub of his pencil. Fighting down his agony, he scrawled his damning indictment of Otis—his friend!
And Otis, still standing there, bent forward, staring down at the floor, seemed to see the ranger’s body suddenly go limp, the pencil dropping from nerveless fingers. And then the pool of blood slowly widening under the motionless body.
“Otis Carr shot me because—”
What would the rest of the sentence have been? What if Ranger Fyffe’s heart had pulsed a few more beats? What would he have written?
And why—why had he written that Otis Carr shot him, when Otis had been fifteen miles from the ranger station throughout the night?
Gradually Otis became conscious of his surroundings again. He straightened, and looked from the Sheriff to his deputy, and back again. He saw nothing in their gaze but cold conviction of his guilt.
Why didn’t they say something? Why did they stand there, silent and impeaching? They had him on the defensive, at their mercy. He cleared his throat to speak, with no definite idea of what he would say. But the words would not come, and the sounds that issued from his lips were stammering and unintelligible. At last he made an awkward little gesture of helplessness with his hands, and dropped his head.
Sheriff Ogden, without taking his eyes from Otis, spoke to his deputy.
“Take his gun,” he directed shortly. Otis remained motionless while Markey lifted the weapon from its holster, and rapidly passed his hands over Otis’ body in search of other arms.
The deputy glanced at the revolver and turned it over to the Sheriff with the remark: “Been fired twice.”
“How come, Otis?” asked the Sheriff, not unkindly, but with the air of one with an unpleasant duty to perform.
Otis suddenly found his voice.
“Shot at a rattler, just before I reached the Buffalo Forks road.”
The trace of a smile hovered about Sheriff Ogden’s lips.
“And I s’pose whoever shot Joe Fyffe come into the cabin afterward and wrote them words on the floor, just to throw suspicion on you?”
Otis raised his head and looked Ogden squarely in the eyes.
“No, Sheriff; Joe Fyffe wrote that. I’ve seen his writing before. This is a little bit shaky, but it’s Joe Fyffe’s writing.”
The Sheriff raised his brows and emitted a low whistle of surprise.
“How do you account for his scribbling that on the floor, then?”
“I tell you I can’t account for it,” Otis admitted. “I own up that it struck me all of a heap. I was as much surprised as you when I saw it. You know I never had any quarrel with Joe Fyffe. We were friends. Why should I kill him?”
“Now, just between you and me, didn’t your daddy say, like all the rest of the cow-men here, that the Gov’ment wasn’t going to collect a penny of grazing-fees, and that the ranger ought to be run out of the country?”
Otis, who had regained his color after the first shock of the discovery, paled visibly again at the Sheriff’s question. He hesitated an instant before he answered.
“Why, yes,” he retorted, “there’s no use denying that. You know as well as I that the Government rangers aren’t any too popular in the cattle country. But you admit thatallthe cow-men dislike the rangers. Why should that indicate any motive onmypart?”
“I aint saying it does,” Ogden remarked. “I’m asking for information. Now, isn’t it true, Otis, that just because you was particularly friendly with Joe Fyffe, you thought you could talk to him better than anyone else? Wasn’t that the reason you come over here last night—not with any notion of killing him, mind you—but just to tell him he’d better clear out, before somethin’ happened?
“I’m supposin’ that you came here to do him a service—to warn him to git out before there was trouble, ’cause I know you and him was pretty good friends. Now, Otis, tell me straight—wasn’t that about the way things sized up? One word led to another. Maybe he pulled a gun on you first, and you had to do it, or get killed yourself. If you’ll say it was self-defense, now, maybe that’ll go a long ways with the jury. Between you and me, haven’t I hit it about right?”
Otis, staring at Ogden, his eyes narrowed and his lips compressed, shook his head.
“I tell you, Sheriff, I didn’t kill Joe Fyffe. How could I claim self-defense when I was fifteen miles from here all night? And if I were the one who really killed him, do you think I’d have shot him down like this, without giving him a chance?
The Sheriff shrugged and turned away.
“Remember, Otis, I’m tryin’ to help you. Of course, I can’t make you say what you don’t want to say. But if you think you’ll ever get away with an alibi defense, in the face of that writin’ on the floor and those empty cartridges in your gun—why, you’ve got another guess comin’. But a self-defense plea may get you somewheres. I’m just tryin’ to give you a tip, that’s all. It’s none of my funeral.”
Otis, who had regained his composure to some extent by this time, cried out with some display of eagerness:
“Well, there’s one way we can settle this whole thing, Sheriff. Let’s ride over to Gus Bernat’s cabin right now, and if he tells you I wasn’t at his place last night, then I’m willing to go to jail.”
The Sheriff frowned and shook his head.
“No chance, Otis. It’s too far. I’m afraid we’ll have to take you to Jackson under arrest, and investigate the evidence afterward. But I’ll send word to Gus to come to town tomorrow. If his story fits in with yours—well, then it will be up to the prosecuting attorney to decide what to do. Seth, you telephone the coroner. Then we’ll cut that plank out of the floor as evidence, and get started back to town.”
While the deputy was carrying out the Sheriff’s instructions, Otis seated himself at the table, and rolled and lighted a cigarette. He made note of the fact that there was not the slightest tremor in his fingers, and was glad, for he knew his every act was being observed closely, and that evidences of nervousness would not help him.
He had banished the panic which had possessed him at first when he read the dead man’s accusation. Now he reflected that all that was needed to tear asunder the veil of suspicion which enveloped him, was Gus Bernat’s alibi. His spirits rose with the thought, but he did not neglect to study every feature of the room as he waited. For he knew that even though Bernat’s alibi would free him from facing trial, nothing but the discovery of the identity of the real murderer would absolve him from suspicion in the minds of the residents of the community. And there was one person in particular whose regard had come, within the last few days, to mean far more to Otis than he had realized until he had been snared in this trap of Fate.
“All right, Otis, let’s go,” Sheriff Ogden called when the deputy had ripped from the floor the plank containing Joe Fyffe’s dying words. He permitted the door of the ranger cabin to remain unlocked, explaining that the coroner would fasten it after removing the body.
Otis’ chestnut pony, a rugged little mountain animal which had gained the name of “Pie-face” because of the splotched white star between his eyes, turned an inquiring look at the approach of his master. Like all Western saddle-horses, Pie-face had been taught to stand as though hitched as long as his reins were trailing on the ground. As Otis passed the reins over the animal’s head, he threw one arm about the neck of his loyal little mount and patted him affectionately. Here, at least, was one friend who would always believe in him!
“Looks like rain, Sheriff,” Otis drawled with assumed nonchalance. “Look at those clouds rolling over the Tetons. By the way, are you going to use your—er—handcuffs?”
“Handcuffs?” repeated the Sheriff almost indignantly. “What’d we want with handcuffs? We got our guns, and you aint armed. You wouldn’t dare make a break. We know it, and you know it. No, Otis, I aint going to rub it in. But if you’ll give me your promise you wont try to make a break, it’ll make it a whole lot easier for me.”
Otis laughed shortly. Already they had started down the narrow trail which led from the ranger station to the Buffalo Forks road. Markey was in the lead, and Ogden brought up the rear.
“Sure, Sheriff—I’ll promise you I wont try to get away. If I tried to escape, that would be a mighty good sign that I’m guilty, and that I’m scared to face a showdown, wouldn’t it?”
They were nearing the road, which skirts Red Rock creek, when Markey suddenly reined in his mount and directed Ogden’s attention to a moving figure in the aspens beyond the stream. For a moment Sheriff and deputy eyed the figure and conversed in undertones.
“Looks like one of the Radley boys,” Sheriff Ogden announced at length. “Wonder what he’s doing over here, so far off his own range. Guess we’d better find out.”