Читать книгу Mesquite Jenkins - Clarence E. Mulford - Страница 9

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When Mesquite went down to his breakfast the following morning he found the coroner waiting for him.

"Mornin'," said the visitor with a smile. "Thought I'd eat with you."

Mesquite nodded and waved toward a chair, and as they seated themselves two travelling men entered the room and headed straight for the table. They monopolized the conversation, and their presence checked the coroner's purpose; but after the meal was finished the official led his companion out into the street and toward his own little shack, which was both office and home. He cleared a chair of old magazines, papers, reports, and other junk, and waved Mesquite to it.

"Well," he said, smiling grimly. "Things are movin'. I told John everythin' you told me. He had a man riding to Franklin half an hour after he left me, last night. Wanted him to get there early, find out about that hoss-shoe, an' then head straight for a place a little this side of th' Ace of Clubs headquarters. John, himself, is now ridin' over that track. He won't turn off, like you did, but will follow it every step of th' way to wherever it stops."

"It stops at th' Ace of Clubs, at their corral gate," said Mesquite positively.

"Yes, of course," acquiesced the coroner; "but John wants to be able to testify to an unbroken chain of evidence. An', by th' way; we just wired to that Montana sheriff about you. Th' deputy is to send it from Franklin. Havin' your permission to make inquiries, we went right ahead. You see," he explained, with a friendly smile and no embarrassment, "we think right kindly of Jane Ricketts. Yo're a stranger. You act sudden. Mebby you can pull th' Lazy S around an' make a real ranch of it; but we want to know somethin' about you. That's fair, ain't it?"

"Yes," said Mesquite.

"Good. Now, you spoke about th' reason for that murder," continued the coroner. "Tobe Ricketts was dead set against th' Ace of Clubs. He claimed that they was stealin' his cattle an' changing his brand; but he was no friend of th' sheriff's, but quite th' other way, an' he was too proud an' bull-headed to ask for help, or admit that he needed it. He said that he could handle his own troubles himself; an' so he could have, if he had an outfit that was worth a damn. I don't know, of course, what happened on th' Lazy S; but if he was dependin' on his punchers to get proof of stealin' against th' Ace of Clubs, then he didn't have a chance. Tobe had made threats against th' Ace of Clubs. There was plumb bad feelin' between 'em. Nobody knows what he might 'a' said or done. Anyhow, out in this country no jury will need definite proof of any motive when they learn th' rest of th' evidence. If them two ca'tridge shells are proved to have been fired out of th' rifle of Charley Lennox, that will be enough, when coupled to th' rest of th' proof."

The coroner nodded.

"Th' motive is th' only thing unproved, so far," he said.

"Young man," said the coroner, with budding enthusiasm, "however did you get to be so expert at readin' sign? Damned if you ain't an Injun!"

Mesquite explained briefly and then turned to the matter uppermost in his thoughts.

"About me goin' out to th' Lazy S," he said slowly, looking steadily into the eyes of his companion. "You reckon I better wait till you get th' answer to that telegram?"

"What do you think about it?" asked the coroner.

"What does th' sheriff think about it?"

"He's kinda puttin' that up to you, I reckon."

"Then I'll wait. A day or two won't make much difference; but you mebby oughta ride out there an' tell Mrs. Ricketts to sit tight for a few days; to stay on th' ranch an' wait."

The coroner nodded.

"I'll do it. Jane has a lot of confidence in me, I reckon; an' now that Tobe's dead she'll be able to show some of it." He cleared his throat and studied the unemotional face before him. "Why are you takin' so much interest in somebody that you don't know?"

"I don't know that I can tell you so you'll understand it," slowly replied Mesquite, his expression unchanged. "I like excitement. I lost my mother last year. She looked quite some like Mrs. Ricketts. Sooner or later I've got to find a job. It sorta looked to me like th' job was right here, under my nose. If it is, it won't be no common puncher job; an' mebby I'll be foreman of that ranch before I get through, if I deserve it. I aim to deserve it. For a feller of my age to be foreman of a good ranch—an' it's goin' to be a good ranch—ain't very common. Besides, I've been livin' with fellers that hate a thief like they hate a snake, an' I got kinda turned against cattle thieves an' murderers."

"I can believe what you said about th' fellers you lived with," said the coroner, a grin slipping over his face. "I never met any of that crowd, but I've shore heard lots about it. If Hopalong Cassidy says you are all right, me an' John will back you to th' limit. But," he said, the grin fading, "mebby you ain't got any idea of th' trouble that'll head yore way if you start workin' on th' Lazy S."

The cold eyes frosted, the facial muscles hardened, and the coroner felt a little shiver play along his spine.

"Mebby you ain't got no idea," said Mesquite very slowly, "just how much trouble there's goin' to be. I have, because I'm figgerin' on makin' most of it myself."

"Well," said the coroner, a little uncomfortably, trying to read the icy eyes, "this is a law-abidin' community—reasonable law-abidin'. Th' law of self-defense an' an even break ain't been covered up with a lot of legal trimmin's. We have been known, out here, to impanel a jury on hossback, an' try a man while all hands were ridin along a trail. If yo're fair an' square, you won't have to worry about that end of it."

"Th' main thing, I reckon," said Mesquite, "is to clean up th' range of rustlin' skunks an' ambushers." He cogitated, and a weak smile for an instant broke through the set expression on his face. "I was a deputy, once," he admitted a little apologetically. "Cleanin' up a range ain't very new to me."

"That's it!" exclaimed the coroner, a light breaking upon him. "That's it! Let John swear you in an' do things accordin' to law!"

Mesquite's mind raced back to the scene of another swearing in, of the objections he had made about taking prisoners, and of the reassuring replies. The answers to his former objections should hold good down in this country. He nodded, his eyes frosting again.

"Providin' that nobody knows it, for awhile, but me an' you an' th' sheriff," he said. "I once heard a feller say that he didn't want no flags flyin' an' drums beatin' when he went to war. I think a lot of that man's good sense; you'd be surprised if you knew how much."

There was a silence, and it lasted for quite some time, each man busy with his thoughts. Hoof beats drew near and passed. The riders were three, and they were closely grouped. The coroner, glancing up as they rode past, leaned suddenly forward in his chair.

"Three deputies," he explained, his voice tense. "From th' looks of 'em I'd say things are movin'. The sheriff is sendin' 'em ahead of him, to be near the Ace of Clubs when he gets there himself."

"That's what a man gets for bein' too stingy, or careless, to buy four new shoes instead of one," replied Mesquite. Then he looked at his companion. "Don't you an' th' sheriff forget to leave me out of this whole thing! Th' sheriff can take th' credit."

"Well, you'll have to swear to findin' th' body, an th' lay of th' land," replied the coroner.

"I'll tell anythin' that everybody knows that I know; an' nothin' else," said Mesquite. "Remember what I said about flags flyin' an' drums beatin'?"

"We'll fly th' flags an' beat th' drums," said the coroner.

"What's yore name?" asked Mesquite. "I ain't heard it, yet."

"That so? Corbin—Frank Corbin. Call me Frank."

"All right, Frank. How soon you figger th' answer will come from Montana?"

"All depends on how quick that sheriff acts."

Mesquite chuckled and his eyes warmed a little.

"It all depends on how soon it gets to him from th' railroad office. Th' operator is a good friend of his. It won't be long, then."

"Couple of days, mebby," guessed the coroner. "How you goin' to kill time? There's mostly a poker game goin' on in Parsons'."

"Poker ain't lurin' me none right now. I'll find ways to pass th' time. I've got to know somethin' about this range before I can do anythin'."

Corbin laughed and leaned back in his chair.

"Strikes me you've done considerable already," he said.

"I was talkin' about my own job. Suppose you tell me th' lay of th' country, th' trails an' roads out; th' ranges, cricks, an' th' people. Th' hist'ry of th' Lazy S an' its present outfit would be right interestin'."

"All right; we've got plenty of time, an' we'll need it," said Corbin. "Shuck yore coat an' get ready for a lot of talk. If it comes too fast or you get confused, say so."

The sheriff was as keen on his present work as a hound on a scent. He had sent a deputy to Franklin, a man who had the knack of worming things out of people. The deputy dropped into the blacksmith shop about one minute after the smith had unlocked the door.

"Hello, Jim!" said the smith. "When did you get in town?"

"This mornin', Jake. I reckon mebby I got a cracked caulk. Take a look at 'em, will you?"

"Well, I'll be damned," said the smith. "What kind of blacksmith you got over there in Desert Wells? You tell Hogan he better learn his trade."

"That so?" inquired the deputy, bridling a little. "Hogan's th' best blacksmith for five hundred miles around."

"Yeah? Like hell he is! Two Desert Wells fellers in two days drop in here with busted caulks. Yes, he is!"

"Two days, huh?" said the deputy suspiciously. "What you think I am?"

"Well, three days, then; what's th' difference?"

"I don't care nothin' about how many days it is, except to bust up yore conceit," retorted the deputy. "But I shore am questionin' yore statement that we both came from Desert Wells. Hogan never made that other feller's shoes."

"Didn't, huh? Then where does that Lennox feller go to have his hoss-shoes made—Washington, D. C.?"

"I don't know where Al goes if he don't go to Hogan," confessed the deputy.

"Neither do I, but Charley goes to Hogan, don't he?"

"Reckon so. Was it Charley?" asked the deputy. "He's th' Lennox brother that's allus in a hurry, ain't he?"

"Well, it was Charley; an' he was travellin' true to form."

The smith had his apron on by now and was clawing coals into the maw of a roaring blaze with one hand while he pumped the bellows with the other. The fire going to suit him, he went over to the deputy's horse and lifted one foot after another. Then he lifted them all again, and stood up, looking inquiringly at his companion.

"What foot did you say that cracked caulk was on?"

"Near hind," answered the deputy, moving forward. "Can't you find it?"

"No, I can't find it! An' the reason I can't find it is because there ain't no such thing. You loco?"

"Well, Jake," said the deputy, grinning. "You've told me so much that you shore can't plead ignorance. What did you do with that busted shoe off Charley Lennox's hoss?"

"What you mean?" asked the smith, arms akimbo.

"I mean that my boss, Sheriff Haskins, wants that busted shoe."

"Damn it, I oughta knowed that you was up to somethin'," snorted the smith, but a grin was stealing over his face. "What's Charley gone an' done now—stole a cow or two?"

"Charley is plumb suspected of shootin' old Tobe Ricketts in th' back. Tobe died. Somebody shot him through th' back an' let him crawl, bleedin' to death, after his hoss. Then th' feller shot th' hoss, an' left th' old man to die out on th' desert. I wouldn't tell you, only I know you."

"Th' filthy rat!" snapped the smith, almost jumping toward the pile of iron miscellany on the far side of his anvil. "By Gawd! I come awful near workin' that shoe into somethin' else—but I didn't. Here it is. Put it around his neck when you stretch it!"

"I knowed you'd help kill vermin," said the deputy, taking the shoe. "Now, mebby you'll step around th' corner a minute. I've seen th' Justice, an' he's waitin' to swear to yore signature. Got th' thing all written out, except a couple of places you've got to tell us about."

"I ain't signin' no paper!" cried the smith, his face growing red. "I signed a paper once, an' it took me three years to get back out of debt!"

"I reckon you'll be safe if you sign somethin' for th' Justice of th' Peace of yore own town. Anyhow, you can read it over, first."

"I'd rather have it read to me: my ears are smarter than my eyes," replied the smith, untying his apron. "I busted my glasses an' can't hardly see nothin'."

"But you could see there wasn't no crack in them caulks," said the deputy, enjoying himself. He knew that the smith could not read.

"Hell, that was part of my business, warn't it? A feller allus oughta be good at his own business, hadn't he? Come on: I'll sign anythin' th' Justice tells me to."

"This is just for our own information, Jake," said the deputy, leading the way out of the shop. "We'll tell you when you'll have to come over to court."

And thus was another link added to the chain of evidence.

The sheriff was as busy as a two-legged, two-armed man can be, following doggedly along two sets of tracks, which made his work a little easier. He had taken Mesquite's tip and was now going over the same ground. The second and newer set was the easier to trail, for it seemed that its maker had deliberately sought to make his mount's footprints plain. This was Mesquite's trail, made plain purposely to aid the sheriff. The sheriff moved much more swiftly, therefore, than had his last predecessor on that trail; and he sighed with regret when he had crossed the mountain ridge, and came to the place where that second set of prints turned off and headed for town. From here on his progress was jerky. There were stretches of hard ground, and then stretches of soft; but on most of the hard ground were pebbles half buried, and many of these had been torn loose by the shoes of the killer's horse. The sheriff's only concern was to establish the connection between these tracks and the man who had made them—to forge a strong link to be used as evidence.

Time passed. The sun had moved over its meridian point when the sheriff at last, sighing with relief over one task finished, drew a deep breath preparatory to beginning a new task, and one more dangerous and exciting. He dismounted, led his horse into a thicket, tied it to a small tree, and slipped on foot toward the headquarters of the Ace of Clubs. This was their ranch house, their only dwelling. The deputies he had sent out from town should all have taken up their position. Halfway there he was hailed in a whisper and joined by the deputy he had sent to Franklin.

"Just got here," said the deputy. "Not ten minutes ago."

"Find out anythin'?"

"All we wanted to find out. Here's th' busted shoe an' an affidavit from Jake."

"Fine! Good work!" whispered the sheriff. "Keep to cover, round back. You come up behind th' corral, an' if you can get down th' hill without bein' seen, do so. If you can't, then lay low up there with yore rifle ready. Things may happen mighty swift after they start."

"I'll be there," promised the deputy, disappearing.

The sheriff went on, crouched, gun in hand. As he stepped into the open, not far from the shack, his appearance seemed to be a signal, for his deputies, with drawn guns, burst from cover on the far side and sprinted for the house. They made pairs, with the sheriff, two at the front door and two at the rear; and they simultaneously entered the building.

They burst in on Pecos Sam, Mesquite's "standing drinker" of Parsons's Saloon, who was very much surprised for a man who had seen the start of the sprints; but, like many actors, he overacted. The potatoes spilled and went one way; the knife went another, and Sam's hand was pressed over his heart. He forgot that he had earned the reputation for being a very hard, cold customer.

The bunks were empty. There was no place of concealment in the house, yet the sheriff's men went through the ritual of search. They developed no hiding place.

The sheriff himself moved to the gun pegs and took down a Winchester repeating rifle. It was a .45-70. He went to the door, pumped a cartridge into the barrel, and fired into the ground. The shell disappointed him and he tossed it away.

"Where are th' rest of yore outfit?" he asked, peering closely at the still flustered cook.

"Out on th' range, I reckon. Why?"

"Where's Bully Tompkins? When did he leave here?" persisted the sheriff.

"I dunno where he is," answered Pecos. "He left right after breakfast an' he's been gone ever since."

"Does he generally do that?"

"Shore. He takes a snack with him."

"Where's Al?"

"Out on th' range some'r's. He done just like Bull," explained Pecos.

"Well, where's Charley?" persisted the sheriff, his eyes not once having left Pecos's face.

"Dunno. He's like th' other two. What's th' trouble? What's up, Sheriff?"

The sheriff ignored the question and waved to his men.

"Two of you take him outside, away from th' house," he ordered. "If he makes a break for it, drop him."

In a moment the sheriff and the other two deputies had the room to themselves.

"Look for th' re-loadin' outfit an' th' empty shells," said the peace officer, and he led the search. It was not a difficult matter, for the single room had no hiding places. One of the deputies, clearing a pile of papers and other things from a shelf, pulled down a box and with his other hand pulled down another.

"Here it is," he said, and gave it to his superior.

The sheriff dumped the box of empty shells on the table, first being certain that Pecos could not see him through the window. He spread them about and examined them one by one. In a few moments he pushed several to one side and put the rest back in the box.

"Put these boxes back just like you found 'em, an' put that junk back on top of 'em," he ordered. "Hank, you come here an' scratch yore initials on these shells, on th' side, so you'll be able to swear that you marked them, that you found them in this house and on this date."

Hank complied, and as he stepped back, the sheriff compared each shell with one he took from his pocket, nodded grimly, and pocketed them all.

"When we catch him, he'll be tried an' hung," he said, and strode for the door.

His men complied with his energetic gesture, and soon Pecos Sam was in the house again, his back in a corner.

"Pecos!" snapped the officer, "I'm goin' to ask you some questions. If you know what's good for you, you'll tell me th' truth. Shut up! I ain't asked you nothin' yet! Now, you lissen: are all three of yore friends comin' back to this shack as usual, to-night?"

"Why, I reckon so," answered Pecos, mildly surprised. "They allus do."

"Keep yore eyes right on mine! An' you tell th' truth. When is Bully Tompkins comin' back here?" The sheriff took a step forward, his arm upraised. "Look at me! Look me right in th' eyes! When is Bully Tompkins comin' back here?"

"I dunno, Sheriff; I dunno. I reckon he'll be back for supper."

"When is Al comin' back?"

"I dunno, but he oughta be back before dark."

"When is Charley comin' back? Look at me, I tell you! When is Charley comin' back?"

Pecos looked calmly into the pale blue eyes.

"I don't know any more about him than I do about th' others. I reckon they all will drop in around supper time. If they don't, they can cook their own. What's th' matter, anyhow?"

"Put th' irons on him, boys," ordered the sheriff, "an' two of you take him to town. Th' other two stay here with me, but somethin' tells me that we're too late."

He shifted his head a little, away from Pecos; but not so far that he missed the flitting expression of satisfaction and exultation on the man's face. Pecos was now certain that his friend had escaped. So far as he himself was concerned, he knew that they had nothing on him; let them try to frighten him from now on! He chuckled. If everything was all right, he was to build a fire on the top of the hill, out back. He did not have to make an effort to do his signalling, for no signal was a signal.

The two deputies stepped up to Pecos, handcuffed him and started toward the door; but one of them, obeying the sheriff's gesture, went back to the peace officer's side.

"Turn him loose when you get him near to town," whispered the sheriff. "We'll look for tracks, though I don't reckon it'll do much good."

When the sheriff and the two other deputies were alone he led them from the house and signalled the man on the top of the hill to come down. They searched for tracks and found none that meant anything: the fugitive had been wise enough to take another horse, whose unknown prints were lost among the number of tracks on the hard-packed trail. When the black horse was rounded up, it was found to be unshod, no hard matter where tools were at hand for the work.

On the way to town they met Pecos Sam returning. He grinned sarcastically and rode past with his sombrero cocked at an angle which he considered to be insulting.