Читать книгу Mesquite Jenkins - Clarence E. Mulford - Страница 7

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It was a three hours' ride to the headquarters of the Lazy S, over a road that for the most part ran straight. Half of the way the grade sloped gently downward, reached a rough but massive bridge of logs over the creek, and then went on over the long, easy slope which ran upward to the foot of the distant low mountains, which were known locally as the Ridge.

The coroner pointed out certain features of the terrain and gave rambling explanations of this and of that as they rode along. Flat Top Mountain had been well named, except for the generic term: in some parts of the country it would have been called a hill, although that would have been dignifying the term. The trail to the Ace of Clubs headquarters left the main road at the bridge and forked to the left.

Three hours after leaving town the two riders, now part of a string of horsemen, neared the ranch houses. The main dwelling was built of sawed lumber, hauled in years back by ox teams, and stood about a hundred yards from the low long bunkhouse, the original home of Tobe Ricketts and his wife. A fenced-in well, driven down through a hummock to keep surface water out of it, stood near the dwelling; a fenced-in spring broke through the ground at the side of the bunkhouse; two corrals, a wagon shed, a blacksmith shop, a hay barn, and a storehouse made up the rest of the headquarters ranch.

A buckboard, a high-bodied carriage, and a score of riding horses were in front of the house. Murphy, the undertaker, was very busy and very hushed, giving the impression to those who knew him well that he was as much afraid of old Tobe dead as he had been of old Tobe living. Each newcomer was grabbed, whispered to, and ushered through the open door, to stay where he had been put. Murphy was pleased by the number of people who came, and believed that it was going to be quite a pleasant occasion.

The stranger followed the coroner inside, in wake of Murphy, who had saved the best seats for his official friends. These were located within two feet of the oak casket and were so placed that nothing could be seen, except by effort, but the newly shaved face of the dead. Had it been a prize fight, Murphy's judgment would have been excellent; but under the conditions, neither the coroner nor his companion was at all enthusiastic.

"Damned fool!" breathed the coroner, squirming and glancing around. He had to twist his neck painfully to see the slowly filling chairs where the common people whispered and creaked and rustled and coughed, and generally had a fair time. The grins which caught the coroner's apologetic eyes were not soothing, and he had arisen to his feet, one hand on his chair and the other pressing the stranger's shoulder in an unspoken signal, when the undertaker, bustling into sight, looked, gasped, and swiftly raised an admonitory hand.

"Stay where you are!" whistled the sibilant whisper, accompanied by a strangled snickering from the common people. "Set down!"

The stranger calmly arose, took his chair, and led the way to a more distant and democratic position, his cold eyes fastened on the sparkling blue ones of Murphy. The coroner seated himself comfortably, gently brushed some dust from a knee, and turned to whisper to his companion; but quickly hushed and stiffened with respect and deference.

Mrs. Tobe Ricketts, now and henceforth Mrs. Jane Ricketts, was coming slowly into the room on the arm of a friend. She was bent and tiny, her seamed and kindly face a little blank from the shock of the sudden news, from mental groping and uncertainty, from the instant press of suddenly changed conditions. She seemed to be almost dazed, a pitiable figure in shiny black cotton, strongly scented with that odour common to cottons.

Her step wavered, and she slightly lost her balance, and her thin arm moved out to let her thin and heavily veiled hand rest for a moment on the nearest shoulder. She tried to smile an apology, which really was an appeal; and passed on toward the chair which was strongly gripped by Mr. Murphy.

The shoulder she had touched and leaned upon belonged to the stranger; and back of the set coldness of his face there occurred a metamorphosis: in his mind's eye flashed the picture, not yet dimmed by time, of another such scene, where he had been the only honest mourner. The odour of the new cotton dress brought a tightness to his throat: as long as he could remember his mother had moved about in such a scent. He still felt the appeal in that forced smile of apology; he could sense the helplessness, the panic, the uncertainty in the heart of that bent old woman; and the young man, to whom Hopalong Cassidy had constantly preached the doctrine of coldness, felt himself warm and thrill. He arose without a word, turned, passed swiftly along the front row of chairs and out into the open. He was almost running when he reached his horse, and had not settled firmly in the saddle before he was riding back toward town.... The sheriff had gone to Franklin! Damn the sheriff!

He passed through Desert Wells, almost deserted by the exit of the curious in the other direction, without stopping, and loped along the bench road toward the trail to Franklin. Reaching this, he followed it to the scene of the murder, and there took another good look at the telltale horseshoe track, the track with the missing caulk. By now it was photographed in his memory. Then he knelt to study, one by one, the tracks of the murderer's boots. Finding the best impression, he gave it his whole mind. It was not much later when he arose, mounted, and struck straight north, on a course at right angles to the main trail.

He knew that the killer had headed toward Franklin. He might even have gone there in an effort to lose his horse's tracks among the many on the street of that town. Had he become aware of that broken caulk he would be even more wary: he would go to Franklin and have a new shoe put on. If he was really wise, he would have a new set of shoes put on. But no matter for what reason he went to Franklin, if he did go there, the murderer came from the great basin in which lay the Lazy S, and he would return whence he came.

The stranger had been riding about two hours, it seemed, when he espied the tracks of a shod horse leading eastward, in the general direction of Desert Wells. There was no sign of a broken caulk in the imprint of the near front foot; but it fairly screamed that the shoe was new. The other three imprints were of old, worn shoes, and they matched, so far as he could remember, those back behind the greasewood clump.

The tracks were not very old and were easy to follow; and follow them he did. Soon he came to an interesting phase of this trail: the horse had turned, stopped, and went on again after a moment. The time of the stop was suggested by the prancing the animal had done. On again, mile followed mile across the desert floor, the tracks at times fading out and then reappearing.

Again there occurred that side turn and stop, and this time it was on the crest of a gentle ridge, where the backward view would take in more country and be less obstructed. He had seen signs that led him to believe that the tracks had been made after dark: in the bottoms of cut-bank storm gullies, where the light from the first-quarter moon had been absent, there were weavings and uncertainties in the course of the trail. This fitted in well enough with the rest of the murder facts. Unmistakable signs of this were found when the low mountain range was crossed, and the uncertainty and lack of directness occurred only where the moonlight could not have penetrated.

The trailer now did something which was not due to lack of courage but to the keen interest which he was taking in his work, to the pride and artistry in it which an expert would naturally show. He abruptly left the trail and swung off to the right, heading as directly as possible for the wagon road leading into town, over which he had set out.

Those stoppings of the tracks bespoke a man who took the trouble to look back over his trail, of a man who expected or feared that someone might be following him. Perhaps, if his conscience was guilty, he would not only do it again, but he might even hole up and wait for several hours to stop such a following horseman.

One of the requisites of successful tracking is to overtake the hunted, and the best method of accomplishing this, whenever practical, is to anticipate the general course of the track maker, cut across chords of his arcs, and to make better time than he makes. On such ground as the stranger had been covering, following the trail track by track would take far more time than was used by the maker. When the stranger emerged from the low mountain ridge, the first thing which struck his eye was Flat Top Mountain; and on the bench at the foot of that was the headquarters of the Ace of Clubs. He had seen an Ace of Clubs horse at the tie-rack outside of Parsons's Saloon, and the brand, in a mind as suspicious as his, spoke volumes. Therefore, following the road and having good going all the way, he would make as good time to his objective and arouse less suspicion than if he stuck to the trail he had been following. He knew that he could not overtake the maker of the tracks, but he could cheat the maker of the sight of him following along the tracks.

When he neared Desert Wells again he turned off and rode around the town, got back on the trail again and pushed along at a more rapid pace. The morbidly curious had had more than time enough to return from the Lazy S, and he met no one. Crossing the log bridge, he came to the trail pointed out by the coroner and followed it over the gently rising ground at a more sedate pace. A tired-out horse is no asset to its rider, and a man looking for a job seldom rode at speed.

It was almost dusk when he stopped before the shack that served as the Ace of Clubs headquarters, and standing in the door was Pecos Sam, the low-hung sun shining into eyes which would have felt far better in the dark. Sam had imbibed too freely the night before, and had taken sundry doses of the hair of the dog in hopes of curing the bite. His face wore a scowl.

"Hello, Pecos—didn't see you at th' funeral," said the stranger as he swung down from the saddle.

"Hello! Didn't go," growled Pecos. "What you want?"

"Nothin' very much—only a job, punchin' yore cattle," answered the stranger, loafing up to the door.

"Job? Punchin' for us?" questioned Pecos, blinking a little. He fairly blocked the open door. "Damn that sun! Come round in th' shade," he said, urging his visitor before him to stand around the corner of the house.

"Yeah, thought mebby I could get a job," replied the stranger, noticing that the back door was closed. "I'm kinda lookin' this country over, seein' as how I'm figgerin' on stayin' here. If I stay I got to find somethin' to do. This wild kind of country is my kind. You need a hand?"

"Hell, no; we ain't got cows enough," answered Pecos. "Why, we hire out whenever we can. Who all was at th' funeral?"

"Well, now, yo're shore askin' me somethin'," said the stranger, grinning. "There was quite a bunch, but I only knowed a few. Parsons, th' coroner, that Box O feller—all them that were in th' saloon last night, nearly. Well, all right. If you ain't got a job, there ain't no use of me wastin' time. I'll water my cayuse, take a drink for myself, an' head back to town."

"There's th' trough," said Pecos, pointing to the corner of the flimsy little corral. "Sheriff at th' funeral?"

"No; reckon he didn't get back from Franklin in time."

"Huh! You figger he should 'a' gone to Franklin?"

"I figger he should 'a' gone any damn place where them tracks went," answered the stranger. "That's what tracks are for, ain't it?"

"Seems so."

"But th' sheriff's wastin' time, Pecos. He'll never get that feller. Purty near everybody in this whole country hated Tobe Ricketts, an' Haskins ain't got a chance. It ain't like just one or two hated him."

"Haskins is a good man," said Pecos, stating something which he did not believe.

"Well, he ain't good enough for that; nobody is." The stranger turned. "Wait till I get my cayuse," he said, and departed, and in a moment he saw that the front door was now closed. Coming into sight again with the animal, he led it to the trough and looked idly about while it drank.

"What you diggin' for—gold?" he inquired with a grin as he looked at an excavation in the side of the hill just behind the corral.

"Naw; aimin' to build a kinda dugout stable for our winter ridin' stock."

The stranger dropped the reins and started toward the scene of the digging.

"That ain't th' way to do it, Pecos," he said, shaking his head. "You want to——" But the words were broken off as he tripped and fell, landing with his face almost in a fresh horse track, and for a moment he appeared to be stunned; but, after a few seconds, he slowly got to his knees and arose, wiping dirt from his scratched cheek.

"Damn fool thing to do!" he growled, kicking petulantly at the stone he had tripped against.

"Hurt yoreself?" asked Pecos with a frankly casual interest.

"No," grunted the stranger, dusting himself off; but some of it was moist earth and would not come off. He rubbed the heel of his hand, little pellets of dirt rolling out from under his thumb.

"Yo're not diggin' that right, Pecos, as I was sayin'. You want to prop up th' roof as you go, or she'll cave."

"Reckon so?" inquired Pecos sarcastically. "Huh! Th' only thing that would make that roof cave in is dynamite. If you swung th' pick under it, you'd know better."

"Well, all right; I was only suggestin'," said the stranger, turning to go back to his horse. He glanced at the place where he had tripped, and was a little deliberate when he crossed it. Reaching the trough, he leaned over, put his mouth to the end of the pipe which supplied it, drank moderately, and blew out his breath. "Well, so long. See you in town to-night, mebby?"

"Nope, not to-night," replied Pecos, leading the way to the trail.

"All alone?" asked the stranger, swinging into the saddle.

"Yep," answered Pecos, his back against the door, his elbows touching the frame.

The stranger waved carelessly and rode along the trail toward town; but when he had ridden a mile from the Ace of Clubs headquarters, and out of sight of it, he turned from the trail, hid his horse in a bushy draw, and went to the house on foot, figuring to strike it from the hill behind. This he did, and in the fading light could make out the building; but the voices were indistinct. Picking his way carefully down the slope, he chose the harder ground and managed to get within easy hearing distance.

"Aw, hell; yo're too suspicious," said Pecos's voice, rising in irritation. "He was just learnin' th' lay of th' land hereabouts. Figgers to stay awhile, an' he's only a fool kid, at that."

"Yeah? So he said," growled a second voice, one unknown to the listener. "You don't have to tell me what he said, neither: I heard it all. How do we know who he is or what he's doin'?"

"Hell!" snorted Pecos in vast disgust. "You don't reckon he knowed that killin' was goin' to happen an' hustled right down into this part of th' country straight to th' body before it was cold, do you? Do you?"

"Yo're damn smart, ain't you?" came the query, pitching high in vexation. "No, he didn't know any killin' was goin' to take place; but," the voice broke from its intensity, "you never reckoned he might be a Cattle Association man, did you? Never thought of that, did you?"

"Damn if you ain't funny!" retorted Pecos. "Here we been for five years an' not bothered; covered our tracks, jumpin' all over th' whole damn cattle country, an' been here for five years; an' now yo're figgerin' some Cattlemen's Association 'tective has jumped us! Hey! You aimin' to burn that bacon all to hell?"

The stranger slipped away, returned to his horse, and rode on again; and the faint moonlight was showing him the trail before he reached Desert Wells. Eating a belated supper, he drifted into Parsons's Saloon and joined the coroner and his friend the sheriff.

"Where'd you go to this morning'?" asked the first official, with a deal of interest.

"I get fed up on funerals awful easy," answered the stranger; "an' after bein' put face to face with that corpse I had all I wanted. Soon as th' widow got past me, th' way was open an' I sloped. Been ridin' around, learnin' th' country. Well, Sheriff," he said, smiling at that person, "anythin' new?"

"No," answered the sheriff. He pulled at his moustache, considered something for a moment, and then looked the stranger in the eye. "Frank, here, says you aim to stay around here till I tell you that you can leave. You can go when yo're a mind to."

"Kind of changed my mind about that," said the stranger, digging at his teeth with the third toothpick. "I like this range. Goin' to find me a job an' stick it out till next spring. You figger th' Box O can use another top hand?"

"Huh!" snorted the sheriff, grinning. "Seems like there ain't nothin' but top hands no more. I happen to know that th' Box O are layin' off instead of hirin'. They had two top-hand tumbleweeds punchin' for 'em durin' th' spring round-up, an' now they're on th' trail again."

"Then that makes two outfits that don't want me," mourned the stranger. "I just come back from th' Ace of Clubs. They ain't hirin', neither."

"Ace of Clubs?" said the sheriff in a rising voice. He flashed a quick glance at his brother official and then laughed. "You didn't go out there for a job, did you?"

"Shore; why not?" indignantly retorted the stranger. "When I want a job, I look for it. It ain't very often they hunt me up. Pecos Sam is still feelin' th' likker he drank in here last night. I didn't see nobody else. How many are in that outfit?"

"Four," said the coroner, determined to get into the conversation.

"There was another one of 'em in here last night, wasn't there?"

"Yes; Bully Tompkins was here with Pecos," said the sheriff.

"Who are th' other two?"

"Charley Lennox an' his brother, Al."

"Were they in here, too?"

"No, but I saw Al in town just before you rode in with Tobe's carcass," offered the coroner.

"Huh!" muttered the stranger, his eyes suddenly becoming frosty. "Three from four leaves one." He looked closely at the sheriff, leaned forward, and spoke in a voice so low that it barely carried across the gap between the two men.

"Charley Lennox is a tall man, with big feet, which toe in considerable. He's purty straight in th' legs, a plumb, extra fine rifle shot; he rides a black cayuse that sometimes breaks into single-footin'; an' he's lost th' rowel out of his left spur. Day before yesterday he wore corduroy pants. Is that Charley Lennox as you know him?"

"That's Charley," said the sheriff. "You don't happen to know what religious faith his great, great gran'-father belonged to, do you?" he chuckled.

"If Charley takes after him, he didn't belong to any," laughed the stranger, and then he sobered. "When did th' Lazy S start to go downhill?" he asked. "Don't guess—think close."

The sheriff cogitated as the coroner leaned forward to get his ears an even break.

"Let's see," mused the sheriff, interested in spite of himself. "Summer before last; th' summer before that; th' summer before that, an' this year. That makes one, two, three, four. Four years ago when it was noticed. It might 'a' started th' year before, for all I know. Why?"

"Ah, that's it: why?" asked the stranger. "Four years ago th' drives of th' Lazy S began to fall off. A year before that a forty-cow outfit, with four men to work it, an' with th' Clover Leaf brand, moved into this part of th' country. Give 'em a year to get th' lay of th' land an' start workin'. I've seen both th' Lazy S an' th' Ace of Clubs brands. If that Clover Leaf, or th' Ace of Clubs, can't blossom out of th' Lazy S mark, then I'm a tumblebug. You ever think of that?"

"Some, an' considerable, as well," answered the sheriff. "If we're goin' to do much of this kind of talkin' we better move over to my office. Too many ears an' eyes in here. What you got on yore mind, anyhow?"

"Not in yore office," objected the stranger earnestly. "I don't aim to be hitched up with any sheriff as long as I can hold it off. I got a lot to tell: let's take a little ride." He glanced swiftly at the coroner and back to the sheriff. "You stay here, Sheriff, to kill off suspicion. Me an' Frank will meet on th' bench road, an' he can tell you all about what's on my mind when he comes back. It's somethin' you'll want to know, an' know right quick."

The sheriff nodded and leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and took out his pipe for a quiet, enjoyable smoke. The stranger did likewise, except that his pipe was a sack of tobacco and a packet of cigarette papers. He laughed, and at a facial sign the coroner and sheriff laughed also.

"That story allus struck me as right funny, seein' that I knowed both men," chuckled the stranger. "I can tell you lots of funny tales about that pair of hombres when I've got time."

The coroner yawned, looked at his watch, arose, and stretched.

"Save 'em for some time when I can hear 'em, too," he suggested. "I got some work to do before I turn in for th' night, so I reckon I'll go do it. See you to-morrow. Good-night."

They lazily watched him go toward the door, and when he was about to step through it, the sheriff's voice arrested him, and he turned inquiringly.

"Frank, you figgerin' on bein' in yore office very long?"

"Well, I'll be busy for about an hour—why?"

"Reckon I'll drop in about then to check up with you on this Tobe crime. That be all right?"

"Shore, that'll be all right," answered the coroner. "In about an hour," and he stepped through the doorway.

The sheriff and his remaining companion talked idly, and at the end of perhaps ten minutes the stranger stood up.

"I'm right sleepy," he confessed. "Reckon I oughta go to bed. You reckon there's any chance of th' Lazy S needin' a top hand?"

"Not none in th' whole, wide world," chuckled the sheriff; "but you might as well ride out there, an' learn th' sad truth for yoreself."

"I'll do that, right after breakfast. Well, good-night."

"Good-night, stranger," grunted the sheriff, and puffed contentedly on his pipe.

The stranger went to the hotel, around it to the stable, and led out his horse. Saddling hurriedly, he led it away, mounted and rode carelessly toward the ridge road. He had not gone far along the latter when a horseman pushed up out of a gully below the thoroughfare and joined him.

"Well, what's on yore mind?" asked the coroner.

"Did th' sheriff find out anythin' in Franklin?" asked the stranger.

"Nothin' that he said anythin' about," answered the coroner. "He follered th' tracks of a broken hoss-shoe almost into town, an' lost 'em in th' heavier travel."

"They went into Franklin, but they didn't come out again," said the stranger. "I reckon that hoss-shoe can be found in th' blacksmith shop. Th' killer had a brand-new shoe put on in Franklin—one new shoe. It was like swappin' a rattlesnake for a copperhead, but th' fool didn't realize it. He rode back home north of th' reg'lar trail. I know where he is, an' I know his name; an' if th' sheriff will do what I did, he can collect enough proof for a first-class hangin'. I don't want to be connected up with it. I'm goin' to have troubles enough of my own without bein' blamed for trackin' down Tobe's murderer. There's only one thing I haven't found out or tried to find out: th' reason why Tobe was killed. There must have been one. Th' sheriff, knowin' everybody in these parts, should be able to learn that without much trouble, once he gets his man behind bars."

"Stranger, just how are you interested in this mess, an' who are you?" asked the coroner with deep curiosity, thinking in terms of the great Cattlemen's Association.

"You can call me Mesquite," replied the stranger. "If you or th' sheriff want to know anythin' about me, an' have reasons for it, I can give you th' name of a sheriff up in Montana who can tell you. You wouldn't believe me if I told you, but you might believe him. Now, then: you say th' Lazy S has been slippin', an' you reckon that old woman is headed for th' poorhouse, to live on charity. I'm tellin' you that she ain't headed for there a-tall. Not if I can get me a job of punchin' on her ranch, she ain't. There's a lot of pole cats under this particular pile of brush, but if I'm let, I'll smoke 'em out, an' mebby it'll be with powder smoke. There's a lot of things I want to know, an' I reckon I'll have to prove myself to you an' th' sheriff if I get any help from you fellers. You or th' sheriff write to Hopalong Cassidy, Twin River, Montana. He's sheriff now, Buck Peters havin' quit th' job in favour of a better man. You ask him what you want to know about Mesquite Jenkins. I'll write a note to go with yore letter, tellin' him that it's all right for him to answer. Will you do it?"

"Right quick," answered the coroner. "Anythin' else you want me to tell th' sheriff?"

"Yes," answered Mesquite, and he told the coroner everything he had observed and heard and the conclusions he had drawn. He reached into his pocket and took out the second empty shell, the one he had scooped up from the desert, the one which had killed Tobe's horse.

"Give this to the sheriff, if he wants it," he said. "It's marked with three X's. Which way are you ridin' now?"

"Seein' that I know this section much better than you do, I'll circle around an' come into town another way. You strike right back th' way you came. Jenkins, you——"

"Don't call me that!" snapped Mesquite. "Family names can be traced too easy. Anybody might be called Mesquite. You call me that."

"Mesquite," said the coroner simply. "I like yore ways. After I hear from that Montana sheriff I'll mebby like 'em a whole lot better. If you can clear up that mess out at th' Lazy S, every decent man in this country will be yore friend. Shake!"

"Thanks. Good-night," said Mesquite, shaking hands. Then he whirled his horse and rode back the way he had come.