CHAPTER XXIV: THE MAN WHO PLAYED ’POSSUM
Bad News awoke with a start. He slept on a cot in his office, and he was not in the habit of arising until the sun was peeping through a dirty window on the east side of his office. He tried to see what time it was by his watch, but the light was too weak.
Then came the hammering on the door again. He slid off the bunk, picked up his six-shooter and approached the door.
“Who’s there?” he asked hoarsely.
“Collins.”
“What the hell do yuh think yuh are—an owl?”
Cultus laughed softly. “It’s five o clock, Bad News.”
Bad News unlocked the door and let Cultus in.
“Climb into yore clothes; we’re goin’ for a ride.”
“A ride?” Bad News rubbed his sleepy eyes. “Where to, Cultus?”
“I’ve got a hunch.”
“Yea-a-a-ah? A ridin’ hunch at five o’clock in the mornin’? I don’t quite sabe yore idea, pardner.”
“Get dressed, Bad News. We want to get away from here before daylight.”
Bad News grunted dismally and began drawing on his pants.
“Goin’ to sneak up on somebody in the dark, eh?”
“Somebody tried to ’bush me this side of the JK last night.”
“Ag’in? Well, I’ll be danged! Where’s m’ shirt? Light that lamp, will yuh? Now, where in hell is that shirt?”
“Yo’re settin’ on it.”
“Oh, yeah; no wonder I couldn’t see it. You’ve got me excited. There’s m’ left boot, but where’s the right one? Funny how yuh can misplace a thing as big as a boot.”
“You’ve got both of ’em on.”
“That’s right! I work from memory, and I didn’t remember puttin’ that one on. ’Bushed yuh, eh? You do have the dangedest times in this country. Two men? I reckon they’re tryin’ to kill yuh, don’tcha think? Looks thataway. Lemme see. Boots, pants, shirt, vest, coat and hat. Oh, yeah, my belt and gun. Now, what?”
“Saddle up and get out.”
The stableman didn’t wake up when they rode their horses out of the livery stable, and they headed out the Triangle X road.
“I’d like to know where we’re goin’,” said Bad News. “Bein’ the sheriff, I’d like to know somethin’.”
Cultus laughed and swung sideways in his saddle.
“I’m playin’ a hunch that most of the Triangle X outfit will come to town rather early to-day. Mebbe they won’t, but I’m playin’ like they will. Me and you are goin’ to set on the side of a hill and see if they do. This is Saturday, and ’most everybody comes to town on Saturday, anyway.
“And if most of that outfit go to town, me and you are goin’ down to the ranch and see what we can see. Can that Triangle X Chinaman talk English?”
“Not very much. He can talk Spanish.”
“That’s fine.”
“But what’ll yuh find out from him, Cultus?”
“Quien sabe?”
“Why not ride right up there and ask yore questions?”
Cultus laughed and shook his head.
“You don’t know the answers to the questions I might ask, and if yuh did, you’d realise that we’d never get a truthful answer from that gang. I wonder if Kendall Marsh is there?”
“Prob’ly is. You didn’t want to see him, didja?”
“Not right now.”
It was daylight before they reached the spot which Bad News selected as their vantage point. They tied their horses behind a mesquite thicket and worked their way down to another thicket near the road, where they could get a good view of the Triangle X ranch-house. Smoke was coming from the chimney, and Cultus decided that they were eating breakfast early.
“We ort to go down there and ask for breakfast,” said the sheriff. “I’m allus kinda thin at this time in the mornin’.”
“You never was very fat any time,” grinned Cultus. “I’ll betcha an olive would show on yuh. A feller like you ought to masticate his food well, so he won’t look lumpy after a meal. Have a smoke and forget food. Like honey on yore hot cakes?”
“Go to hell, will yuh? Maple syrup.”
They smoked and joked for an hour, but there was no sign of life around the ranch-house. Another hour passed, before any one showed up. Then it was Hank North. He went from the ranch-house to the stable, and in a few minutes Terry Ione followed him.
“They’re rollin’ the buckboard out from under the shed,” observed Bad News. “That means Kendall Marsh is goin’ to town.”
The two men hitched up the team and tied it to the corral fence.
Then another man left the ranch-house, wearing a gray suit. It wasn’t Kendall Marsh.
“That’s Alden,” said Bad News. “I know his walk. He’s packin’ a valise, ain’t he. I wonder if he’s goin’ away? Mebbe the old man’s takin’ him to Los Angeles. Be a good thing for the valley, and it might be a good thing for the kid.”
Cultus said nothing. They saw Terry and Hank bring out two saddled horses, and then Mac Rawls and Kendall Marsh walked together down to the buckboard. They all stood around and talked for several minutes, and then Kendall Marsh and his son got in the buckboard. North and Ione mounted the horses, riding toward the gate, with the buckboard trailing. Mac Rawls waved at them and walked back to the house.
Cultus and Bad News stretched out behind the brush and watched them go past. It was the first time either of them had ever seen Alden Marsh dressed in anything except cowboy garb. He was driving the team and was in earnest conversation with his father. Hank North and Terry Ione were not talking, when they rode past. Cultus and Bad News watched them disappear around a far curve before they left their place of concealment.
Cultus yawned as he led the way back to the horses.
“That’s what happens when yuh get up in the middle of the night,” said Bad News chuckling. “Yuh get all frayed out.”
“It was a hard night,” agreed Cultus as they mounted.
“Where didja ever get that long-legged sorrel?”
“Won him from Harry Kelton. That is, he’s Harry’s end of the bet, and I think I’ve won him. My end of the bet is coyote bait back in Padre Canyon.”
“Yuh mean yuh bet a dead horse against a live one?”
“Shore.”
“Well, that’s a good bit if yuh lose. Now, where do we go?”
Instead of answering Cultus took the lead and they headed for the ranch-house. No one saw them coming. They dismounted at the front porch. The door was open and they could hear Rawls talking to the Chinaman in the kitchen; so they walked around the house and stepped into the kitchen without any warning.
Rawls was seated at a table, smoking a cigarette, while Chihuahua was washing dishes, and Rawls’s small eyes blinked open suddenly. His right elbow jerked back off the table, but stayed crooked, because he was looking down the muzzle of Cultus’s six-shooter.
Slowly he got to his feet, staring at Cultus.
“Watch the Chink,” warned Cultus. “Keep yore hands where they are, Rawls, and step around that table.”
Rawls obeyed slowly.
“Turn round.”
Cultus plucked Rawls’s revolver from its holster and stepped back. The Chinaman stood there, dish-towel in one hand, a dripping dish in the other.
“Whatcha tryin’ to pull off around here?” rasped Rawls. “What’s the idea of sneakin’ in and stickin’ guns in a feller’s face?”
“Wasn’t expectin’ us, was yuh?” grinned Cultus.
“Who would? What’s it all about, sheriff?”
Bad News didn’t know, so he kept still. Cultus handed him Rawls’s gun.
“Bring the cook; we’re goin’ in the livin’-room.”
Chihuahua herded willingly. He seemed about as dumb as any Chinaman could possibly be. Rawls stopped beside a table, where a bright coloured serape had been carelessly thrown. He rested his right hand on the table and looked belligerently at Cultus.
“Now, damn yuh, what’s the idea of this hold-up?” he growled.
“The idea is,” said Cultus slowly, “that we’re goin’ to search this ranch-house, Rawls.”
Rawls’s eyes twitched, but his face registered no change.
“Yeah?” he said evenly. “What the hell do you expect to find?”
Cultus laughed softly, confidently.
“Yo’re scared of what we’ll find, Rawls. They left you here to watch the place. One of yuh had to stay, yuh know. You couldn’t trust the Chinaman to do the job.”
“Oh, I don’t know what yo’re talkin’ about. Sheriff, what’s the matter with this man? Is he crazy?”
Bad News stared blankly, unable truthfully to answer the question.
“We’ll go upstairs first,” said Cultus evenly.
“Suit yourself,” rasped the cowboy.
He stepped along the table as though to lead the way upstairs, but his right hand swept aside the crumpled serape and he whirled with a Colt six-shooter in his right hand, whirled and jerked back against the table from the shock of Cultus’s bullet, while the windows of the house jangled from the concussion of the big gun.
The gun dropped from Rawls’s hand, as he went to his knees, pitching forward on his face.
Whap! Cultus whirled in time to see Chihuahua falling like a limp bundle of clothes, preceded by the thump of a revolver, on the floor beside him, Bad News had swayed forward, his gun clutched in his right hand.
“That danged Chink had a gun under his apron!” exploded the sheriff. “He’s almost got it goin’, too. For gosh sake, what a mess! Didja kill him Cultus?”
“Got him pretty hard, I reckon. He had a gun under that serape.”
Bad News coughed from the powder fumes, and his expression was grim.
“I reckon they didn’t want us upstairs, Cultus.”
“Shore looks thataway; c’mon.”
They went swiftly up the stairs, where there were three bedrooms. The first two netted them nothing. The doors were wide open and the rooms were in disorder, but the rear room was locked and the key still in the lock on the outside.
Quickly they unlocked it and stepped inside. The room was about twelve by fourteen feet in size, apparently used as a storeroom, but on a cot, tied hand and foot, was Blaze Nolan. His face was pale and his eyes lacked lustre, but he recognised them.
“Well, for God’s sake!” blurted Bad News. “Blaze Nolan!”
Cultus quickly cut the bonds, but Blaze seemed unable to manipulate his arms and legs.
“He’s been hurt,” said Bad News. “Don’t he look kinda funny to you?”
Cultus turned and stepped over to a box, over which was draped a soiled towel, and disclosed several small bottles and a hypodermic syringe. Quickly he turned and went back to the bed, where he stripped back the shirt from Blaze’s arms.
“Yuh can see what makes him funny, can’tcha?” he asked. “They’ve been shootin’ him full of dope.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Blaze weakly.
“Do yuh know us?” asked Cultus.
“Yeah, I know yuh, Collins. Where’s Marsh and his gang? I dreamed I heard somebody shootin’, but I’m so weak I can’t hardly move. What is the matter with me, anyway?”
“Do yuh feel sick?” asked Bad News.
“No—just funny.”
“How long have yuh been here, Blaze?”
“Since yesterday, I think. They wanted me to tell where the Lost Trail is, but I didn’t tell.”
Suddenly he raised himself up on one elbow staring at Cultus.
“They killed Buck Gillis yesterday. I don’t know which ones shot him—they wore masks. And they brought me here.”
He sank back on the cot, breathing heavily.
“Buck arrested me for robbin’ the bank, yuh know.”
“Yeah, we know about that, Blaze,” replied Cultus. “But you never robbed any bank.”
“No,” breathed Blaze. “I never robbed anybody.”
“Fine. We’ll see if we can find some kind of a rig to take him to town, sheriff; he ain’t able to ride.”
“You stay here with him, and I’ll find the rig.”
Bad News ran down the stairs. He didn’t notice that Mac Rawls had changed his position and was lying with his face pillowed on one arm, and that his snake-like eyes watched the sheriff step over the unconscious Chinaman.
Bad News found an old single buggy under the shed and ran it out in the open. The harness was hanging just inside the stable door, and he threw it on the most likely looking horse, which was evidently the one used for that purpose.
He had hitched the horse to the buggy, when he looked toward the house. A man was mounting his horse at the front porch. For a moment he thought it must be Cultus, but as the man climbed drunkenly into the saddle, the sheriff realised that it was Mac Rawls, who to all intents and purposes should be a case for the coroner.
Rawls caught his right stirrup, swaying low over the saddle-horn, and spurred away toward the road to Medicine Tree. For several moments Bad News stood there gaping at Rawls, expecting at any moment to see the wounded cowboy fall off the horse. But Mac Rawls didn’t fall. He was going faster all the time.
Then Bad News drew his six-shooter and fired six shots deliberately. They were all misses. Bad News knew they would be under those conditions and at that distance. Cultus was coming out through the kitchen doorway, half carrying Blaze.
Bad News galloped across the yard, yelling at Cultus, pointing with his gun at the disappearing Rawls.
“The son-of-a-gun got away?” he yelped. “Took my horse!”
“Help me put Blaze in the buggy,” said Cultus calmly. “Rawls probably won’t make it to town, anyway.”
They put Blaze in the buggy, where he leaned heavily against the seat.
“Could you drive that horse to town?” asked Cultus.
“Sure,” said Blaze weakly. “I’ll be all right now; give me the lines.”
“Take yore time,” advised Cultus. “C’mon, sheriff; we’ll ride that sorrel double, and give Mac Rawls the race of his life.”
The sorrel objected strenuously, but the double burden was too much for a sustained bucking match; so he suddenly decided to run—and they let him.
At the JK ranch Della awoke early that morning and stared around the room, trying to remember where she was. A twinge through her ankle brought back the memory of what had happened the night before. Outside her open window a mocking-bird danced along the branch of a sycamore, scolding softly. She could hear voices down in the patio, but could not distinguish the words.
For a long time she stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, wondering what to do, thinking of the way Jane had treated her. The ankle was still sore, but did not pain her at all. She looked at it, and found that the swelling had subsided greatly.
Some one knocked gently on her door. It was Jane, with a smile on her face.
“I wondered if you were awake,” she said. “How is the ankle?”
“Very much better, thanks to you, Miss Kelton.”
“That’s fine; but everybody calls me Jane.”
Della sighed deeply and looked out of the window.
“You are a very wonderful girl, Jane.”
“I’ll bring some breakfast up to you,” Jane smiled. “Dad and Harry are going to Medicine Tree this morning, and I wondered if you wanted them to bring you anything.”
Della shook her head quickly.
“All right,” said Jane. “I’ll have that breakfast up right away, and if your ankle feels all right, I’ll have dad and Harry move you out on the porch in an easy chair.”
Della shrank from that. She didn’t want to face Jim Kelton. But Jane was running down the stairs before Della could voice any objection. She could hear Jane and her father talking down in the living-room. Her clothes were within reach, and by the time Jane brought her breakfast up to the room, Della was fully dressed, except for one shoe.
“Oh, why didn’t you wait until I could help you?” asked Jane.
“You’ve helped me enough, Jane; it’s my turn now.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jane. “You are in no condition—”
Della laughed shortly, her voice harsh, as she replied, “My dear, I’m not going to offer to do your walking, if that’s what you mean?”
They could hear her father coming slowly up the stairs, and Jane went to the doorway. Harry was close behind him, and they came in together. The old man stopped and looked steadily at Della, who quickly averted her eyes.
“I didn’t know what to think this mornin’ when Jane told me you were here,” he said slowly. “You are the last person I ever expected to have in my house.”
“And this is the last place I ever expected to be,” she said, without lifting her eyes.
“But yo’re here—and it’s all right. Nobody has ever been turned away from this ranch. As long as yo’re here, no matter what you’ve done, it won’t be discussed. Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”
Della lifted her face and looked at the old man through her tears.
“I didn’t know there were such people,” she said brokenly.
“Don’t cry, Della.”
Jane patted her on the shoulder. “Wouldn’t you rather be moved out on the porch and have breakfast out there?”
“I don’t think I want any breakfast, Jane; I’m going to Medicine Tree, if you’ll let me ride with you.”
“There’s room,” said her father. “Harry was going to ride his horse, anyway, and you can go in the buckboard.”
“You’ll go, won’t you, Jane?” Della asked.
“Why, I—I didn’t intend to.”
“You better. I want you along with me.”
“Well, I guess three of us can ride in the buckboard. But I don’t see why you want me to go along, Della.”
“Don’t you?” Della laughed harshly. “I want to show you how it looks to see somebody throw away ten thousand dollars.”
Jim Kelton and his son exchanged quick glances, and there was a mutual understanding that the woman had lost her mind.
“Who is going to throw away that much money, Della?” asked Jane.
“I can’t tell you the name; it’s been forgotten long ago.”
That settled her sanity, as far as the men were concerned, and they were glad she was leaving. Jane and Harry helped her down to the buckboard, while Jim Kelton hobbled along behind them.