The Sheriff of Pecos

CHAPTER VI

PROOF

After leaving the Lazy S behind, Robinson rode in silence for some time. He was in the lead. The puncher behind held the lariat which bound Robinson to his horse.

“You got that gun of mine with you?” asked Robinson. No answer from behind. “Well, I seen Buck hand her to you. Be mighty careful with her; she’s got a special easy pull. I’d be right sorry to have you point her my way.”

No answer. The puncher was a sullen brute of a man.

“You fellers made one real mistake,” went on Robinson, undaunted by the silence, his voice cheerful as ever. “You should ha’ fixed that gun o’ mine. Miguel was killed by two bullets, wasn’t he? But that gun ain’t been fired, cowboy. You’d better set that right ’fore turning me in to the sheriff. Otherwise Tracy would have to fix the gun his ownself, and he might forget it.”

An oath from the rider behind apprised Robinson that his words had taken full effect. He grinned slightly. A moment later his horse started as a gun was fired in the air. Looking over his shoulder, Robinson saw the puncher in the act of firing the second time.

“Two shots is plenty,” he observed. “That’s real friendly of you, cowboy. I’d hate to spoil everything by not havin’ fired that there weapon.”

The sullen rider gave him a malevolent glance and motioned ahead. Robinson turned and made no further overtures.

They jogged on in silence, the hoofs raising a slow cloud of dust that followed and drifted over them with the breeze of noonday. For half an hour neither man spoke a word, and then Robinson again ventured an effort:

“You three gents must ha’ been planted when I rode by and spoke with Cervantes. Ain’t that the way of it now?”

No response at all. Robinson chuckled.

“I guess that’s it, feller. Buck seen me, and got a great idea. Looks like he was dead right about it, too. Only thing that worries me is this: Who fired the two shots? Each o’ these hosses has a rifle, but they was a third puncher along with you. However, that don’t matter right now. The three of you was planted, seen me, and let me go past. That was actin’ real clever toward me, as they say down south. Ever been down thataway, feller? You come down some day and get you a job on the SF Ranch below Pecos City. I’ll help you get it any old time. Sam Fisher owns her. He’s a smart young feller, they do say, only he don’t justify his reputation much. Least, that’s what Jake Harper says.”

“Hold your jaw!” came the savage command from behind.

Robinson glanced over his shoulder and beheld another cloud of dust far behind them. His captor jerked on the lariat, and continued:

“Robinson, you start any talkin’ and you’ll never reach town alive. I means it. When that gent comes up, if he ain’t Buck you lay low.”

“Conceded,” returned Robinson. “I’ll not say a word, providin’ you tell me where Murphy went to.”

“What you so dummed curious about Murphy for?”

“Born that way and can’t help it. Tell me, and I won’t say a word.”

“Well, Murphy he went to town, I guess. Satisfied?”

“Plenty.” Robinson looked straight ahead at the road, and grinned to himself.

Behind the two the cloud of dust moved rapidly closer. The Running Dog rider turned often in his saddle with uneasy scrutiny, but to make out the figure of the rider was impossible, for the breeze was stiffly behind them and blew the dust ahead.

Thus it was not until the drum of hoofs behind was distinctly audible that Robinson heard a low oath issue from his captor.

“It’s that fool Arnold from the Circle Bar! You, Robinson, keep your trap shut!”

Robinson grinned and made no response. But a moment later he looked over his shoulder, and remained looking.

Arnold was spurring his cayuse after the pair. Now he sent a hoarse yell ahead—a yell which caused the Running Dog man to jerk up his mount and turn, hand on gun.

“Put ’em up!” yelled Arnold again.

“Take it, if ye want it,” growled the puncher, and drew.

Before his gun spoke, Steve Arnold fired—and fired again. Then Arnold came riding up to the plunging horse and fallen man, swearing huge oaths as he did so; the vivid flame of hatred in his face was terrible to see.

“Steve, I’m right s’prised in you,” said Robinson calmly. Arnold whirled on him.

“You didn’t see it!” he cried, his voice cracking. “You didn’t see it—I did! This here guy was one of the two—him and Buck done it. They shot down Miguel, murdered him, never said a word, jest let drive from the brush! By gosh, it was all I could do not to let drive on ’em—not a mite of warning, but two shots!”

The face of Robinson was grave, sternly set, ten years older.

“Was it as bad as that?” he queried. “Turn me loose, Steve!”

Arnold came up and fumbled at the knots. Tears of excitement were on his dusty cheeks.

“The dirty skunks!” he cried. “It was low down, Red—the worst I ever dreamed of. This guy was one of the two. But I give him warning; you heard me? I warned him ’fore I shot him down.”

“You done so, Steve,” affirmed Robinson, rubbing his freed wrists. “What happened after they shot Cervantes?”

“They left Chuck Hansom with him, and follered you. I snuck past Chuck and follered them, lay up and circled around the Lazy S house. Seen Murphy go, then seen you put into the saddle. After that I follered along until I heard the two shots, and that was all.”

Robinson reached for the rifle that was booted at the saddle before him.

“This is Buck’s horse, Steve,” he said gravely. “And Buck’s rifle. Now, lookin’ down the barrel, you’ll agree with me that she’s been fired real lately—and there’s a trace o’ fumes to prove it. That’s proof aplenty for Buck. Let’s look at this gent’s rifle.”

The rifle from the other saddle had also been fired recently. Robinson looked down at the dead man and shook his head sadly.

“You fellows,” he observed, “have been sowing the wind up in this county—and now you’re going to reap the whirlwind. You’ll reap it good and plenty, and she’ll strike sudden; she always does. Steve! Can you swear to it that Buck fired one of the shots?”

“I seen him rise up with his gun a-smokin’,” averred Steve Arnold.

“Then let’s you and me lay off of Buck entirely.” Robinson smiled harshly at the dead man. “We’ll get him when the time comes—and let the law deal with him.”

“Law?” Arnold swore scornfully. “Lot o’ law in this county! You’d never get Tracy to arrest Buck even!”

Robinson regarded him a moment, the blue eyes keen and hard.

“C’rect the first shot, sure’s my name’s Jack Robinson! But I don’t aim to have Tracy do any arrestin’. The main thing right now is that Buck is back at the Lazy S fillin’ Stella full o’ fancy lies, and she thinkin’ I’m in jail for the murder of poor Cervantes.”

“Oh! So that’s why they had you tied up?” queried Steve Arnold.

“Somethin’ like that.” Robinson smiled. “Steve, can I trust you to turn in back there and say nothin’—keep your head level—just be nice and polite to Buck and his man Chuck Hansom? Can ye do it, cowboy?”

“Can if I got to. Why?”

“Then go do it, and stick around till you gets a chance to wise up Stella to the facts of the case. Take Buck’s rifle; we may need a real gun ’fore we get through. I’ll ride this feller’s hoss and take his Winchester. Buck’s hoss we’ll send home by his ownself.”

Suiting action to words, Robinson took the bridle of the dead man’s mount, then with a slap and a wave of his hat sent Buck’s beast careering down the road. Arnold sat looking down at him darkly.

“Where you goin’, Red?”

Robinson’s old quizzical smile broke forth. “Me? I got to get to town in time to call for some mail——”

“To town, ye durned fool! Ridin’ a Runnin’ Dog cayuse? Here, you take this hoss o’ mine and I’ll take—”

“And give our game away to Buck? Not on your young life, cowboy! I want Mr. Buck to think I’m safe behind the bars—until he gets home and finds his own hoss, anyhow. Nope, you amble along and don’t waste worry over me. Your job is to take the worry off Stella’s mind, savvy?”

“You’ve got mighty well acquainted, Red. Callin’ her Stella, huh?”

“That’s my specialty.” With a laugh, Robinson was in the saddle and turning his horse toward town. “See you later. If you take a notion, I’ll prob’ly be in town until about eight o’clock to-night. And mind, you leave Buck be! He’ll hang for that murder!”

With this he put spurs to his cayuse and careered down the road in a cloud of dust. Steve Arnold looked after him, scowled down at the dead man, then reined about and started on the back trail. He was quivering, tremulous with a stern excitement.

“My first man!” He looked back at the motionless figure, then straightened in the saddle. “Well, I s’pose it had to come some time—and I’m glad I paid out the cuss for what he done at the spring. Question is, can I git to town ’fore eight o’clock to-night? Red, he’s sure aimin’ to raise Cain with somebody there.”

When at length he dismounted at the Lazy S, he was met by Buck and Chuck Hansom, the latter a cheerful scoundrel who sported an Indian beadwork vest and was credited with an aptitude for any deviltry.

“Howdy, Steve!” greeted Buck. “Jest come from town? Meet anybody?”

“Uh-huh.” Arnold busied himself unsaddling. “Done heard the news. Met that hombre of yourn with his pris’ner in tow. Brought in Cervantes, have you?”

Buck nodded gravely. “Where’s Jake Harper, d’you know?”

“Home, I reckon. His rheumatiz was right bad this mornin’,” said Arnold coolly. “Miss Stella inside? I got a letter for her.”

“I’ll take it in,” proffered Jake. “She’s right cut up about Miguel. I don’t guess you’d better bother her now, Steve——”

Arnold’s hand fell to his gun. So deadly was his face in that moment that Buck instinctively took a step backward.

“I’m carryin’ my own mail,” said Arnold. “You fellers object?”

“Of course not,” said Buck hastily. “What ye tryin’ to do—stir up trouble a time like this? Miss Stella wants to git Jake here. Goin’ over to the ranch real soon?”

“I don’t aim to.” Arnold gave him look for look. “If she’s done asked you to fetch Jake, you fetch him. I got business of my own; I ain’t ridin’ for Jake no more.”

“You ain’t!” exclaimed Buck, staring. “Listen! I got room for you——”

“Not for me, you ain’t!” and with a slow laugh Steve Arnold went into the house.

The other two looked after him, then glanced at each other. Chuck Hansom uttered a chuckle, and touched Buck’s arm.

“I guess you ’n’ me had better go find Jake ourselves, Buck. What say?”

Buck nodded. His work here was done for the moment. He was well satisfied with it.

CHAPTER VII

MASKS OFF

It was late afternoon when Jack Robinson rode into the town of Pahrump, county seat of the county of the same name. The town was deserted apparently; somnolent and sleepy. The afternoon stage was not yet in with the mail. The courthouse square, with its long hitching rail, seemed abandoned to flies and sunlight. Even the jail and sheriff’s office looked desolate; across the street from this last, Mike’s Place showed not a sign of life.

Robinson went to the hotel and turned his horse into the corral there, leaving his saddle and bridle in the hotel office for safe-keeping. He then made his way to Main Street and sought the telegraph office. There was no line in Pahrump, but the telephone exchange handled messages. At the exchange, Robinson smiled at the young woman in charge.

“I left a message here yesterday, ma’am, askin’ you to hold up any answer. Name of Fisher.”

Without comment the young woman handed him a message. Robinson pocketed it, returned to the street, glanced at the message, and chuckled.

“What I need is grub, a bath, and a shave,” he reflected. “Fresh shirt wouldn’t hurt anything, not to mention a clean handkerchief. Grub can come last.”

The stage and express office, an integral unit with the Johnson Merchandise Company, lay across the street. Robinson betook himself thither and confronted a listless clerk.

“What’s all the excitement about in town?” he demanded. The clerk saw no humor in the question, but answered it seriously:

“Two men shot up yesterday; sheriff’s gone out with a posse. Dunno why.”

“I don’t know why, either,” said Robinson cheerfully. “You ought to have a pair of saddlebags sent up by express from Pecos City. Name of Fisher.”

“Come in last night,” was the response.

The saddlebags over his arm, Robinson went to the barber shop. There he obtained a shave, followed by a bath, and from the saddlebags he spruced up with a clean shirt and handkerchief—also a second gun.

His pilgrimage now took him to the nearest and only restaurant, where he put away a huge order of ham and eggs, with other things. This done, he dropped his saddlebags at the hotel, loosened his belt, bought a cigar, and sauntered down the street again. Thus far he had seen no signs of Mr. Murphy, and he rightly concluded that the gentleman was sequestered in or about Mike’s Place.

These errands had taken up considerable time. The stage was nearly due, and the town showed some symptoms of animation. Horses fringed the long hitching rail in the square. A number of loungers about the sheriff’s office showed that the posse had returned. Unhurried, Robinson sauntered to the post office and presented a smiling face at the window.

“Mail for Fisher, please,” he requested.

The postmaster fished several long envelopes from a box, glanced at them, then gave Robinson a hard look.

“Nothin’ fer you, I guess.”

“Your mistake, mister,” and Robinson smiled. “Those letters are for me, I believe.”

“These here is for Sheriff Sam Fisher o’ Pecos County.”

Robinson drew a flat metal object from his pocket and laid it on the shelf.

“Does that satisfy you? If not, I’ll come around and get my own mail.”

The postmaster glanced at the sheriff’s badge, silently shoved out the letters, and stared at Robinson as that young man departed.

Without looking at his mail, Robinson took his easy way to the sheriff’s office. He nodded to the loungers outside, and passed in. At the door which bore the sheriff’s name he paused. Turning the handle, he walked in.

Sheriff Tracy was seated at a desk, alone in the room. He looked up, saw who his visitor was, and gasped. Then his hand slid across the desk.

“Don’t!” said Robinson, and Tracy looked into a gun. “Set back; I dropped in for a quiet talk. Also, I aim to use your office a spell.”

“You impudent scoundrel!” gasped the sheriff. “Look here! What d’you know about that shooting on the north road yesterday?”

“Know all about it,” responded Robinson coolly, closing the door and drawing up a chair opposite the sheriff. He sat down and laid the gun before him. “In fact, I done it. Now, set still and don’t call in anybody just yet. We got to have a talk. First, I want to look at this here mail, if you don’t object.”

He put the letters on the desk and spread them out. Tracy’s glance fell to them. A start of surprise, and his gaze returned to Robinson’s face.

“Whose mail you got there, Robinson?”

“My own.” Robinson smiled thinly, knowing that Tracy had read the name on that mail.

There was a moment of silence. Tracy surveyed his cool visitor with frightful uneasiness, licked his lips, tugged at his mustache. Then:

“Well, what you want here?”

“Several things, sheriff. I’ll be real busy to-morrow, so I thought we’d better get all fixed up to-day. Got to go out to the Lazy S to-night with the preacher and attend to the funerals to-morrow.”

“Funerals? At the Lazy S? What in time d’you mean?”

“Shootin’; somebody murdered Miguel Cervantes this mornin’. Shot him twice in the back.”

The sheriff leaped from his chair. Robinson’s hand went to his gun, and Tracy sat down again, breathing hard.

“Who done it?”

“Now, sheriff, don’t go to askin’ me unpleasant questions. One of the gents that done it is real dead. The other gent is going over the road for it—in my care.”

Tracy bristled.

“You may be Sam Fisher and you may not,” he said aggressively, “but you ain’t walkin’ into my county and givin’ no orders, stranger. That’s plumb final. You got no authority here; not a mite.”

“I know it,” said Robinson sweetly. “But I aim to get that authority real sudden. Now don’t go to causing any trouble, Sheriff Tracy. In about ten minutes from now you got to saddle up and take quite a journey, and I’d hate to make you take a longer journey than is necessary.”

“Saddle up! Me?” queried Tracy, red-faced.

“Yep. First thing, you look over this here telegram. It’s about a gent named Murphy, which same is sojournin’ in our midst. Since somebody wants him bad enough to offer three hundred dollars for him, you’d ought to be interested in picking up the money.”

He laid his telegram on the desk. Tracy read it. His face was a study in mingled emotions. Finally he looked up at Fisher with a complete change of front.

“I guess you’re Sam Fisher, all right,” he observed. “They say he’s got the devil’s own nerve, and you sure show it. But you’re making a terrible mistake butting into things like this, Fisher. You don’t know this here county——”

“Here’s my badge for proof, and my mail,” said Robinson. “I’m Sam Fisher—fact is, I never said right out that I was Robinson. Folks just took that for granted. You and the old gang are plumb out of luck, Tracy. I got no hard feelings against you, and I’m going to give you the chance to slide out of town, avoid trouble, and pick up three hundred iron men. In other words, take Mr. Murphy to the railroad and go away with him. By the time you get back the trouble will be all over and you’ll have a clean slate.”

Tracy, breathing hard, surveyed his visitor with anxious eyes.

“Don’t get hasty now,” warned Robinson—or, to use his real name, Sam Fisher. “And don’t get to thinking about Templeton Buck and how much power he has. He ain’t going to have much left when I get through with him, Tracy. I s’pose he’s given out orders that poor Jack Robinson has got to be eliminated. Fact is, he thought he had me eliminated a few hours ago. That’s all right; we’ll leave Jack Robinson out of it. Sam Fisher has drawn cards in this game, and he’s going to stick for the pot.”

“Why don’t you take Murphy, if you want him, and go?” demanded the sheriff.

“I don’t want him. Three hundred bones means nothin’ in my young life. Also, and moreover, I don’t aim to go in that direction.” Fisher’s smile was cherubic. “You are gettin’ off mighty easy, Tracy. All you got to do is to swear me in as a deputy and turn over the jail keys to me, then start travelin’ with Murphy. I’ll even go so far as to help you arrest him.”

Tracy reddened again.

“Leave you here?” he said. “Not much! I ain’t going to do no such thing——”

“I said not to get hasty, didn’t I?” Fisher’s eyes hardened into blue steel.

“You can’t run no riffle on me, Fisher!” blustered Tracy. “If I don’t do it, then what?”

Fisher surveyed him a moment with that bitterly cold gaze:

“If you don’t do it,” he returned slowly, “then you got to make a heap big war talk, and do it sudden. Balance her up now, and make your play. I’m talkin’ turkey.”

In those tense features Tracy read the truth—this man was in to play the limit. And Tracy dared not back his hand; he could not trust his own cards. There was too much he did not know. He had been unable to find Buck that afternoon, and he was facing this crisis on his own backbone—which did not amount to much.

He had heard of Sam Fisher often and often. The sheriff of Pecos had a reputation, and stood behind it hard. Tracy could not tell just what this man would dare do, and he did not care to take chances on finding out.

On the other hand, he was offered a trip with a prisoner which would net him three hundred dollars reward money. He would be safely away while Fisher was playing his game. It would be certainly all right to leave Fisher, the sheriff of the next county, in charge of Pahrump while he was gone. And if Fisher got killed, what loss? None. If he did not get killed, he was apt to kill off several people who were behind Tracy. That would be no great loss either.

A grim smile curved the lips of Tracy.

“Sam, your arguments are powerful good,” he said. “There’s a couple o’ deputies outside. If you want to have the ceremony over right away——”

Fisher nodded, rose, and went to the door.

“Hey, fellers!” he called to the group outside. “Come inside; sheriff wants you.”

Five men trooped in, eyeing Fisher with uneasy glances. Sheriff Tracy, having made his decision, lost no time in putting the job through.

“This here,” he said, motioning to his visitor, “is Sam Fisher, sheriff o’ Pecos County. I’m about to swear him in as deputy and leave him in charge of things here. Fisher, you want these deputies to work with you?”

Sam Fisher eyed the group and smiled.

“Nope, I’m satisfied to play a lone hand, Tracy. Much obliged for the offer.”

“Very well. You boys can bear witness to this here affair, then you’re free. Hold up your hand, Fisher—”

Sam Fisher was duly sworn as deputy sheriff, and Tracy handed him a badge. Fisher put it in his pocket with a grin. The startled, staring men behind him were dumfounded. Tracy then shoved over the jail keys.

“They’s four brand-new cells,” he said, “just installed, all the latest fittin’s. The others ain’t worth much ’cept for looks. Four will be plenty, I guess?”

“One,” said Fisher significantly, “is all I figger on using. I’d hate to cause the county a lot of expense, Tracy, when you’re treatin’ me so wide and handsome.”

“You want to move into the office here while I’m gone?”

“Nope, thanks. I’ll just lock her up; I expect to be plumb busy for a few days. Now what say to you and me going after that bad guy? I reckon we’ll find him down to Mike’s Place. Boys,” and he turned to the ex-deputies, “Sheriff Tracy has discovered that there’s a feller here badly wanted for a holdup and murder—and he aims to light out with him right off. That is, providin’ we gather him in without any gunplay, which we hope to do. You might spread the news, so folks won’t think it funny that Tracy is out o’ town.”

“What about that killin’ up on the north road?” asked somebody. “Matt Brady?”

Fisher looked at the speaker.

“Oh, him?” he asked in surprise. “Why, I done that myself. No objections?”

“Gosh, no!” was the response, hastily rendered.

Sam Fisher smiled grimly as he left the office with Tracy at his elbow.

“Any of the Running Dog outfit in town?” he asked when they were crossing the street.

“Not that I know of,” said Tracy, jingling the handcuffs in his pocket. “But if I was you, Fisher, I’d sort of keep my eye skinned for Buck.”

“Thanks.” Fisher chuckled. “That’s the best little thing to do, Tracy. Well, here goes for the big show! Bet you a dollar we don’t even have a rumpus.”

He pushed open the swinging doors of Mike’s Place.

CHAPTER VIII

EXIT MR. P. BRADY

The saloon was deserted, except for Galway Mike and Mr. Murphy, who were closely engaged in conversation across the bar. In another half hour the place would be rushed; the stage would be in, and the usual evening’s business would be opened up.

Sam Fisher wasted no time on preliminaries. When he stepped inside the place it was with a drawn gun.

“Hands up, gents!” he said quietly. “Move quick, Mike!”

Two pairs of hands were swiftly elevated. Murphy saw in the bar mirror who had come in, and he stood petrified. Mike grimaced angrily.

“This ain’t a holdup, is it?” he uttered. “Sure an all——”

“Nope, and you aren’t in it, Mike,” responded Fisher. “So long as you keep out of it, you’re not in it; get the idea? All right. Better iron this gent, sheriff.”

Tracy appeared, to the amazement of Mike. He produced handcuffs and stepped forward. From Murphy broke a string of oaths.

“Shut up!” ordered Fisher. “One more word out of you, Pincher Brady, and I’ll drill your hand—should ha’ done it yesterday. You’re going to the capital for robbery and murder. Guess I’ll take a look at his pockets, Tracy, if you don’t mind.”

Gyved and backed against the bar by Tracy, the prisoner was helpless. Sam Fisher stepped forward, removed his gun, and then swiftly searched him. He took from Murphy’s breast pocket a number of papers, and hurriedly glanced over them.

“Most of these have bearings on my case, Tracy,” he announced. “You’ll have no objections if I take charge of ’em?”

“None whatever, Fisher,” said the sheriff amiably.

At this response Murphy gave a violent start. Galway Mike, behind the bar, opened his mouth and started with a drooping jaw.

“Fisher!” stammered Murphy. “Who you callin’ Fisher, sheriff? This here gent——”

“Is the sheriff o’ Pecos County,” said Sheriff Tracy. “And he’s takin’ my place here for a few days, gents. Now, Brady, march along!”

“I’ll run along and see you off,” said Sam Fisher languidly.

Tracy grinned. He was beginning to feel that he had chosen the wiser way out of a very bad dilemma, and was fully as anxious to depart from Pahrump as Sam Fisher was to have him gone. He had nothing to gain by staying, and much to lose.

“If I’d knowed you was Sam Fisher,” said Murphy ruefully as they went out, “I wouldn’t have monkeyed with you no ways.”

“But you didn’t, and you did,” returned Fisher cheerfully. “And now you’re in the soup, Pincher. But cheer up; you’ll meet some friends of yours before long, as soon as I get time to round ’em up and send ’em along. Where are your hosses, Tracy?”

“I got a couple in the hotel corral.”

Sight of the two men with their obvious prisoner quickly assembled a small crowd, which drifted along to the hotel. On the porch Sam Fisher seated Mr. Murphy in a chair and stood guard over him while Tracy went for the horses. The crowd eyed the two men and offered many comments and questions, to which Sam Fisher only replied with a smile. News of his identity having been spread by the ex-deputies of the posse, he was at length confronted by a direct question.

“Are you Fisher o’ Pecos County?” demanded one of the crowd about the porch.

“C’rect the first shot, pardner,” responded Sam Fisher.

“What ye doin’ here?”

“Workin’,” was the laconic retort. “Any objections?”

“You wait till Buck hears about this!” came in quick response. “Him and the Runnin’ Dawg will certainly take down your hide. Hey, fellers! Let’s run this Pecos sheriff out o’ town! We don’t want him here!”

There was a general, although by no means hearty, assent to the proposal. At this moment Tracy rode up with a spare horse. He grinned at Fisher and addressed the crowd.

“Gents, I’ve swore in Sheriff Fisher as special deputy and am leavin’ him in charge of things here. Adios! Gimme the prisoner, Sam.”

Fisher led the wilted Mr. Murphy to the waiting horse and assisted him into the saddle rather energetically. He waved the pair an ironic farewell.

“Hearty travelin’ to you gents! See you later, Tracy.”

The two rode down the street. Sam Fisher turned to the crowd surrounding him, and all the laughing geniality had fled out of his face.

“Boys,” he said gravely, “I don’t blame you for not wanting strangers butting into your affairs. I’m not going to do it for long—but while I’m doing it I aim to do it thorough and proper. Miguel Cervantes was murdered this morning; shot from ambush. I’m going to get the man who did it, and I’m going to send him to the pen. That’s all. Now will some gent kindly direct me to where the nearest or next preacher resides?”

Dumfounded by this information, the crowd split before him. Somebody volunteered the desired direction, and Sam Fisher strode off to arrange for the funeral at the Lazy S on the following day, also for a coroner’s jury. The latter gave him some trouble, but mention of his name and present position proved sufficient to obtain what he desired. Also, tale of the murder of Cervantes and the manner thereof was a tremendous shock. Sam Fisher was careful to make no mention of the murder, and merely shook his head to all queries.

It was seven o’clock that evening when Chuck Hansom, rider for the Running Dog, came into town from the north alone. Before he had ridden a block he was hailed eagerly and brought to a halt, where a small crowd gave him the astounding information about Sam Fisher. Now Chuck was a quick-witted rascal. He readily saw the general sentiment of puzzled wonder and resentment against Fisher’s intrusion into Pahrump, and inside of two minutes he took prompt advantage of it.

“Listen here!” he cried out hotly. “This here guy ain’t Sam Fisher at all. He’s a feller named Robinson, pretending to be Fisher. He’s the guy that murdered Mig Cervantes. Me and Buck seen him do it—seen him! You boys go git your guns and we’ll ’tend to him.”

There was a howl as his words became understood.

Meantime, from the south, two other men came riding into town on jaded, staggering beasts. They were two Running Dog riders who had been absent from the community for some weeks; so unkempt, so dust covered and weary were they that they arrived at Mike’s Place without recognition.

Sliding out of the saddle with groans of relief, they staggered into Mike’s Place, which was comfortably crowded. They were too fearfully tired with hard riding to note the startled silence which fell on the crowd as they were recognized.

“Liquor, Mike!” croaked the foremost, wiping his dust-rimmed eyes. “A drink! Buck been in town to-day?”

Galway Mike set out a bottle and made a grimace, but neither man noticed it. Both seized for the bottle at once, pouring drinks with shaking hands.

“Nope,” said Mike at last. “Ain’t been in.”

“Gosh, that feels good goin’ down!” rejoined the foremost man. “Say, you got to get word out to Buck to-night; we can’t ride another mile. Done killed two hosses on the way up. Tell Buck we done lost our man——”

At length the dead stillness of the place struck home. The two riders glanced at each other, then turned to survey the crowd. Despite the fact that the general sympathy was with them, nobody could keep back a grin at their perturbed wonder. Then, from the end of the bar, a voice spoke up—a drawling, whimsical voice:

“You ain’t lost him, cowboy. You just follered him. Ain’t it the truth?”

There, thumbs in his vest and leaning back in his chair, was Fisher. The two stared at him, petrified. Fisher sat at a table just beyond the lower end of the bar, where he was practically hidden from view of any one at the door, yet had a clear field of vision.

“Sheriff Fisher!” exclaimed the two astounded riders in unison, as though they were staring at a ghost.

There was dead silence for a moment.

Every one in the room sensed the peculiar tenseness of that moment—a moment of crisis, of taut nerves, of impending disaster, as the two riders stared at Sam Fisher and he smiled back at them. Perhaps he saw how their fingers stiffened, yet he did not move. If he did not see it, Galway Mike did. Mike’s hand fell, inch by inch, below the edge of the bar on which he leaned.

These were the two men who had been keeping watch on Fisher down in Pecos City. They knew without telling that the presence of Sam Fisher here meant danger to the Running Dog. Perhaps they had been too closely in touch with Fisher down below to retain much awe of him, and, besides, they were dead tired, nerves on edge, and reckless.

As with one accord they reached for their guns.

Sam Fisher came to his feet, gun in hand. He had no intention of shooting unless so compelled, but he was watching the two riders and not Mike.

Before any shot sounded Mike’s hand had completed its motion—a swift, underhand fling of deadly accuracy that sent his bung-starter down behind the bar unseen. It crashed into Fisher’s forehead and sent him down like a felled steer.

Two shots came. That bung-starter saved Fisher’s life, for it dropped him beneath the bullets. He lay quiet, momentarily stunned. In another five seconds the crowd had fallen upon him; he was trussed hand and food and bound in a chair.

Amid the pandemonium that ensued, with wild yells for ropes and much loud cursing, Galway Mike mounted the bar with a gun in each fist, fired into the ceiling, and evoked comparative silence.

“Byes, this gent is my meat!” he roared. “’Twas me dropped him, and it’s me that’ll have the say, moind that! There’ll be no lynchin’ party yet a while. Two of yez carry him into the storeroom behint and lave him rest a bit. We’ll be talkin’ this over, and maybe Buck will be in town to-night.”

The mention of Buck’s name carried weight. Besides, Sam Fisher had opened his eyes and was looking around. It was one thing to tie up a man—it was another thing to murder a bound and helpless prisoner. The crowd hesitated.

“Take him into the back room wid ye now,” repeated Mike, flourishing his guns. The gaze of Sam Fisher dwelt upon him for a moment.

“Mike,” said the prisoner calmly, “you’re interfering with justice, and you know it. Inside of an hour I’ll get you for this. Be ready.”

That was all. The brutal features of Galway Mike reddened, then turned deathly pale under the intent gaze of Fisher. One of his hands jerked up; for an instant it looked as though he would shoot the bound man. Perhaps he would have done so but for the crowd. Instead, he motioned to the back room with his weapon, and jumped down from the bar.

Two men picked up Sam Fisher, still bound to his chair, and carried him into the storeroom behind the main room of the saloon. It was a good-sized room, stacked with barrels and cases of liquor, with a single window. A lantern, hung to a peg, illumined the place dimly. Stowing the prisoner here, the men closed the door again and joined the clamorous throng around the bar.

The two arrivals from the south were hurriedly apprised of events—the departure of Sheriff Tracy, the killing of Matt Brady and ’Lias Knute, the rumored murder of Miguel Cervantes. In the midst Steve Arnold pushed open the doors and entered. At sight of him everyone pressed forward eagerly.

“Here’s Arnold of the Lazy S now! Hey, Steve, is it true Cervantes was shot to-day?”

Arnold swept the place with his eyes, nodding curtly. He saw nothing of Robinson.

“Yes,” he said. “Not shot—murdered.”

“Who done it?” went up a mad clamor of voices. “How? Where?”

“Ain’t for me to say,” returned Arnold.

His attitude would have provoked instant hostility had not two men rushed into the saloon at this moment with a loud shout.

“Hey! Chuck Hansom of the Runnin’ Dawg is comin’ a-smokin’ with a crowd; he says this feller ain’t Fisher at all; says he’s a feller named Robinson; murdered Cervantes! Chuck says him an’ Buck seen it done——”

Uproar filled the place, and mad confusion. For two minutes pandemonium reigned supreme. Then somebody thought of appealing to Steve Arnold to confirm the tidings, but when things quieted down Arnold proved to have vanished.

Hot upon the heels of this arrived Chuck Hansom and a yelling crowd. Standing in the entrance, Chuck showed a gun in each hand.

“Where’s the feller calls himself Sam Fisher? I’m lookin’ for him.”

Finding no prey awaiting him, Chuck strode forward, greeted his two brethren, and found himself confronted by Galway Mike, who held a sawed-off shotgun across the bar.

“Far enough, Chuck! We got Fisher in the back room, tied up. Hold on, you byes in the doorway! L’ave us be, will ye?”

Silence was obtained, leaving the center of the floor to Mike, Chuck Hansom, and the two Running Dog riders.

“Now, me lad,” pursued Mike over his shotgun, “what’s this tale ye been tellin’?”

“It was Robinson murdered Cervantes, and we’re aiming to ’tend to him,” returned Chuck. “He ain’t Sam Fisher at all, ye numskull Irisher! His name is Robinson——”

“It ain’t!” spoke up one of the two returned men. “He’s Sam Fisher, all right. Ain’t we been follerin’ him for two weeks? You’re locoed, Chuck!”

This staggered Chuck for a moment, then he recovered.

“You durned fools!” he cried wrathfully. “Let him be Fisher, for all I care. Anyhow, we seen him shoot down Miguel Cervantes. Shot him in the back, I’m tellin’ ye. You, Mike! Lay down that gun!”

From behind Hansom went up a low, surging growl. Every man there saw red at the tale he heard; the story of Miguel Cervantes shot in the back. For only an instant did Galway Mike hesitate; then his shotgun fell.

“You win, byes,” he cried. “If he done that, go git him and have a party!”

There was a swelling roar as the crowd surged to the doorway of the storeroom.

CHAPTER IX

FISHER RIDES NORTH

Mike’s Place was lighted into the semblance of day by two huge acetylene lamps in the center of the ceiling.

As the foremost of the crowd entered the storeroom there came to the others a howl of baffled rage. The entire rear of the long room was a surging mass of men, all fighting to be first. The front of the place was quite deserted, except for the figure of Mike, who stood behind the bar, hand still on his shotgun.

About the rear doorway centered a wild struggle. Nobody knew just what was taking place until Chuck Hansom leaped to a chair and dominated the mob.

“He’s gone!” roared the cowboy with the gay beaded vest. “Gone! Somebody’s cut him loose. Got out the windy——”

“C’rect the first shot, Chuck,” drawled a quiet voice from the front.

Every man there turned, to behold Steve Arnold in the doorway, a gun in each hand. To one side of the swinging doors, thumbs in his vest, was negligently posed Sam Fisher.

“I’ve come for you, Mike,” he said in the moment of dead silence. “Chuck, you and your friends will be attended to by Mr. Arnold, here, so be careful. Mike, go for your gun——”

Mike had already gone for it, merely switching around the shotgun atop the bar. It burst into a shattering, deafening roar that drowned the words of Sam Fisher. Under the roar came the whiplike crack of a revolver.

There was a crash and crackle of falling glass; the double load of buckshot took out the front window with admirable unanimity. Silence fell, dread and ominous. Galway Mike had fallen over his bar, and lay there motionless. Sam Fisher jerked his gun into its holster again, his face hard and flinty, his eyes burning.

“Sorry about this, boys,” he said, “but it’s time that Mr. Buck and his friends were put out of business.”

“Who killed Cervantes?” yelled somebody. Sam Fisher held up his hand.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, and there was silence. “Three men hid in the brush and shot Cervantes, ambushed him, murdered him without a chance. Two of those men did the shooting. The third man was Chuck Hansom, yonder. One of the actual murderers is dead. The other was Templeton Buck—and I’m going to send him to the pen for it.”

“You lie!” cried the shrill voice of Chuck Hansom. “You lie! You done it yourself——”

“You devil, I seen the whole thing!” shouted Steve Arnold, breaking loose. “I seen it all——”

Chuck Hansom flung up his gun. Arnold shot him before the hammer fell.

Two shots echoed—Fisher fired twice at the ceiling, blew out the lights, and was gone through the doorway, dragging the raging Arnold with him. Behind them the crowd began to mill in wild confusion, not realizing what had happened, engulfed in darkness, fearing more shots from the doorway.

“Confound you!” exclaimed Sam Fisher as he dragged his companion along. “What’d you drop him for? We’d have had a confession out of him later.”

“I seen red,” panted Steve. “I jest couldn’t help it, thinkin’ of the way they’d downed Miguel. He was one o’ the three.”

“Duck in back o’ the hotel, Steve; hurry up! We got to make those horses; there’s going to be a string of hornets on our trail in a hurry.”

Five minutes later the two had ridden out of town. Behind them the lights and confusion died down, but both knew that parties of riders would be on their trail ere long. For a space they pushed their horses in silence, then Fisher reined in.

“Long trail ahead, Steve; no use overdoin’ it,” he said. “I got to thank you for snaking me out of that storeroom. How’d you find out?”

“Heard ’em talk in the front.” Arnold drew in at his stirrup. “Listen! Why in thunder didn’t you tell me you was Sam Fisher?”

“I was aiming to keep it dark a while, Steve,” returned the other apologetically, “only things got to moving too lively and I had to make the play. Did you see Stella?”

“Yep! And say! I ain’t had a chance to tell you yet; things have busted loose aplenty! Buck must ha’ got Jake Harper.”

“What!” The word broke from Fisher like an explosion. “What? How come?”

“I ain’t certain.” Steve became calmer as he spoke. “Right after I got back to the Lazy S, Buck and this feller Chuck rode home, savvy? I aimed to come right to town, only Stella was badly broken up about Miguel, so I had to stick around a while. Finally I had a chance to tell her the rights of the whole business, so she up and tells me that you was Sam Fisher himself. It took us quite a spell gettin’ straightened out. Then the poor ol’ señora took to throwin’ fits and I had to give Stella a hand with her, which ate up considerable time.

“Well, I was gettin’ saddled up, when in rode one of our veterans from the Circle Bar, seekin’ Jake. Seems like Jake had started for the Shumway place early this mornin’ alone. Must ha’ clear dropped out o’ sight. Stella told me to ride in and git you, which I done. That’s all we know.”

Sam Fisher studied over this information for a time, gravely perturbed.

“Steve, we’re in for it, up to our necks!” he said at last. “Buck is makin’ a great play for the Shumway place and Stella; at least, he started that way.

“He knows nothing of what’s happened in town. He thinks that I’m in jail, safe to be put away for the murder of Cervantes. Cervantes is dead and out of his way. The only other obstacle in his path was Jake Harper, and he must have arranged to handle the old man. If he has, by Heaven, I’ll get him! No—I won’t get him. I’ll still send him over the road.”

“A bullet would simplify things a heap,” and Arnold sighed.

“No, Steve.” Fisher’s voice was grave, heavy, stern. “Buck is the prime mover behind all the deviltry up here. It was Buck who sent Frank Shumway to the pen—and that fellow Murphy, or Pincher Brady, framed the deal from the capital. I found a letter in Murphy’s pocket from Buck referring to it—clear enough evidence to free Shumway.”

“Glory be!” ejaculated Arnold with a sudden yell of delight. “Is that the truth?”

“It’s the truth. That letter is locked in the sheriff’s desk—and nobody knows about it. Now, Murphy is safe out of the way, and we’ll get Frank loose from the pen in no time. But Buck—give him a quick, hot bullet? Not much! That devil is going behind the bars for life, if I can send him!”

“I’m right sorry about Chuck Hansom, Red,” Steve said slowly.

“Don’t worry. I don’t believe Chuck would have squealed, anyhow. Now, I have to be at the Shumway place to-morrow to handle that coroner’s jury; so do you with your evidence. If we’re going to clean up this county, we have to do one thing at a time. This affair to-night has mussed up everything pretty badly. If that gang from town is allowed to come after us, it means a lot of shooting and killing—which I want to avoid if possible. Chuck and Mike deserved what they got, but we can’t shoot up a lot of hysterical fools who think they’re chasing a murderer. With Buck and his gang it’s different. Where Buck made his mistake was in murdering Cervantes; that murder is going to cost a lot of blood.”

“What about Jake Harper?” exclaimed Steve suddenly.

“I’m thinkin’ about Jake right now—but if he’s dead I can’t help him. If he ain’t, he’s all right. That coroner will be out to-morrow morning with his jury; so will the preacher. Until noon to-morrow, I’m tied up. And we’ve got to stop that mob. Here, Steve, let’s tie the hosses and have a smoke.”

Fisher dismounted abruptly and began to lead his horse off the road. Arnold reined in and stared at the darkness.

“My gosh, have you gone crazy or what, feller? We got no time to smoke——”

“All the time in the world, cowboy!” came the whimsical, laughing response. “Get down and roll me one, will you? Done lost my makin’s in the confusion back yonder.”

With a sigh of resignation to what he considered utter folly, Steve dismounted and joined his friend. Fisher said nothing until a cigarette was rolled and lighted; then:

“Steve, I’ve been thinking about those boys who are behind us. Who’s leading them? Nobody. They’ll cool off mighty quick after leaving town. They ain’t sure just what has happened or who I am. When they strike trouble in the darkness they’ll be all confused and imagining things. Now, all we got to do is like this——”

He spoke for a moment, low-voiced.

The crowd of men who rode out from town on the north road was headed by the two Running Dog riders, who now had Chuck Hansom to avenge. Only their savage spurrings had availed to rouse the crowd, in fact; nobody was quite certain whether Miguel Cervantes had been murdered by Fisher or by Templeton Buck. The fall of Galway Mike and Chuck Hansom had considerably cooled the enthusiasm of the mob, and by this time many tales of Sam Fisher were being circulated.

Thus, by the time the crowd of riders came toward the crossroads, not a few of them had trailed off back to town. Under the starlight the men rode in a clump at a steady jog. Hereabouts the road was edged by a dense thicket of manzanita. From this thicket came a drawling voice that caused every rein to jerk sharply at the bit.

“That’s far enough, boys; halt! You fellers from the Circle Bar—got the front ones covered? We’ll attend to the rear.”

“We got ’em, sheriff,” came a deep bass voice.

“Leave ’em to us!” said a sharp falsetto. Steve Arnold laughed from somewhere.

“Sure, Fisher; sure! Go ahead with your palaver.”

The crowd halted as one man. Their imaginations painted a dozen voices from the clumps of brush. They saw themselves trapped, surrounded. Men cursed and drew rein.

“I want a little talk, boys,” said the invisible sheriff of Pecos. “We don’t aim to have any more bloodshed than we got to, and you fellers are honest enough in your convictions. Willing to listen a minute?”

“Sure,” said a nervous voice from the crowd.

“That’s sensible.” Fisher’s tone was grave, steady, holding them spellbound. “I’ll be at the Lazy S to-morrow to meet the coroner and the preacher. This Cervantes murder is going to be handled by the law. You may think I did it; all right. To-morrow the coroner’s jury will decide that little matter, and I’m spilling no secret when I say their verdict is going to be hard on Templeton Buck.

“But I don’t want a mob of you out there, messing things up and starting trouble. I want to propose a fair and square deal all around. You boys elect a committee of three to accompany the coroner; the rest of you stick around town and wait. If that suits you, go on back home. If it don’t, then ride ahead—and take your medicine.

“You two Running Dog men! Come on alone a dozen steps. I want a personal word with you boys, and I’d advise you not to pull for any guns. Come on!”

There was a moment of hesitation. Then the two punchers urged their horses forward. Into the road ahead came the figure of Sam Fisher on foot. Cowed, startled, fearful, the crowd watched to see what would happen.

“If you two boys want to go on to the Running Dog,” Fisher said quietly, “you’re free to go ahead. But I warn you here and now that your boss is facing trouble. Every man with him will become an accessory. You know me, boys, and you know I mean what I say. I’m giving you fair warning. Buck, it appears, got Jake Harper to-day, and the Circle Bar outfit is behind me to the limit. You know what that means—every man of ’em a sharpshooter, out to kill! The roads are watched; your outfit will be shot down the minute you reach the Running Dog buildings. Ride on if you want to—but you can’t come back, boys.”

The two riders sat motionless, drinking in his words. Most of those words had reached the crowd. News that Buck had “got” Jake Harper was paralyzing; it meant war to the finish with the Circle Bar. Few in the crowd doubted any longer that it was Buck who had murdered Cervantes. This sheriff of Pecos was too steady, too composed, too certain of his position. He was no murderer.

The two Running Dog men glanced at each other. A word passed between them; they knew full well what it meant if they rode forward. But they were men, unafraid.

“Much obliged, sheriff,” said the foremost coolly. “You’re sure actin’ white. Jest the same, we’re workin’ for the Runnin’ Dawg and we don’t aim to lay down on the job.”

“All right, boys; I’m sorry.” Fisher stood aside. “The road’s yours! Let these two boys pass, fellers—and plug the first to follow.”

“All right, Sam,” came the voice of Arnold.

The two cowboys rode on. Not a man followed them. When they had vanished into the darkness, Fisher stepped up and addressed the crowd.

“Well, gents? Going to break through, or take my advice about sending that committee?”

There was un uneasy laugh from the crowd.