Читать книгу The Sheriff Rides - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 8

Table of Contents

If this story made it clear that accusations of theft were dangerous to scatter abroad in Monument, it did not help the boy to find the person of the robber, if robber he were and not “borrower.”

“You leave me in the dark,” he commented.

“They’s a good many mighty smaht men in this heah town,” said the black man, “who doan think nothin’ of losin’ a hoss. Hosses is cheap heah, son.”

“Not horses like my Grundy.”

“A good one, was he?”

“The best I ever sat on, and we have good horses, the part of the country that I come from.”

“What paht is that, son?”

“Yonder,” said the boy hastily, and waved in a gesture that embraced half the points on the horizon.

“Come to think,” said the other, “you gunna find a lot of neighbors right heah in Monument. Mos’ of the gemmen has come from jes’ that place.” And he laughed, a Negro’s strange, throaty, high-pitched laughter.

“He had a lump of a head and a ewe neck and plenty of hip bones,” went on Signal, “but he was all horse, and a yard wide, at that.”

“It would of took a hossman to tell his points, ah’m thinkin’,” said the black man.

“Just that, it would!”

“Well,” said the Negro, slowly, “Sim Langley has the name of being a judge of hossflesh!”

“Who’s Sim Langley? Is that the man who took him? Where shall I find him?” stammered the boy in haste.

“Langley? Ah dunno nothin’ about him!” said the other, and bent over his work with a scowl.

Plainly he had already said more than he wished, and would not add a word to his statement. Therefore, Signal waited no longer.

He went slowly down the street. To his left was a gunshop, and into this he stepped. A very lean little man with a rat-like face furnished with a long nose met him in the middle of the floor.

“What’ll you have?”

“I’m looking for a man by name of Sim Langley,” said John Signal. “Can you—”

“D’you think that I got him in here?” snapped the other. “Have I got him in one of those bins, maybe? Do I keep him here and feed him lead and gunpowder, maybe?”

Signal retreated a step before the condensed fury of the other. He began to feel that the people of Monument were one half mad and the other half purely insulting. The long striking muscles along his arms twitched and hardened. But then he controlled himself.

“People may get guns in your place, but they don’t get manners,” said he.

“And what in hell might you mean by that?” asked the little man. The ferret-like fury seized upon him. Actually, his hand jerked back to his hip, and he glared with red-stained eyes at the youngster.

It would have frightened most men. Size makes no difference in a gun-fight, except that a smaller man is apt to have quicker nerves and a bigger target. But John Signal had the temper of a bull terrier, which leaves the stranger unregarded until the stranger picks up a rock. Now the boy said with simplicity and directness: “You poison little rat!”

And he waited for that speech to take effect. For an instant he felt that the convulsed face of the gun salesman would twist itself to bits with rage; but then the beady eyes grew dimmer. They wavered to the side.

And with that, Signal turned upon his heel and left the place. He accosted the first man who passed, a free-swinging cowpuncher, by the look of him, with his sombrero pushed back from a round, red, sweating, cheerful face.

“Stranger, can you tell me if you know a man named Sim Langley?”

The other halted, suddenly serious.

“Who don’t?” he asked. And he passed straight on.

Signal leaned a hand against the nearest pillar and gritted his teeth. He was fast losing his temper completely, and he felt that the next rebuff would bring a gun jumping out of his holster to start talking the only language which this mad town, apparently, could understand. But still he fought hard, and controlled himself.

He sauntered on down the street, his face a little pinched and white with the relics of his passion, and so he came to a door beside which, inscribed on a brass plate, were the words: “Sheriff’s Office.” And beneath: “First floor up.”

Signal went one floor up and turned to the left down a narrow hallway, the floor giving in noisy squeaks beneath his feet. He reached a door the upper half of which was of frosted glass, with the black letters painted upon it:

“Sheriff Peter Ogden. Walk in!”

Signal walked in. He saw a dingy room, a roll-top desk in one corner, a round table in the center, and around the table a shirt-sleeve party playing poker. The chips were stacked in small piles. Evidently it was only a friendly game.

Five men sat at that table. Five cigars tilted as the men turned their heads toward the stranger.

A narrow counter enclosed the door, as though to keep the press of business from overflowing into the room itself. Upon that counter the boy leaned his left hand. Already he had been in the town long enough to realize the necessity of keeping the right hand free.

“I want to see Sheriff Peter Ogden.”

A large and rosy man removed his cigar.

“You’re seeing him, my boy.”

“Then I want to talk to you about a stolen horse.”

“A stolen horse?”

“That’s it.”

The sheriff rose with a sigh and approached the counter.

“I’ll take down the particulars,” said he. “First time that a stolen horse is picked up, I’ll let you know.”

This touch of irony brought the teeth of young John Signal together with a click. But the sheriff did not appear to notice. He had taken out a sheet of note paper.

“Kind of horse?”

“Roan gelding.”

“That the only description?”

“Roman-nosed. Fifteen three. Ewe-necked. Prominent hip bones. Good legs. Keeps his ears back.”

“That’s a lot to write,” said the sheriff, “about a ewe-necked horse.” But, looking up, he encountered a blaze of dangerous light in the eyes of the boy. At that, he pushed the paper to one side.

“How long you been in Monument?”

“About two hours.”

“Ah-h-h!” murmured the sheriff. Then he added: “Where’d you leave this horse?”

“At a rack outside of the employment agency.”

“You’re looking for work?”

“I am.”

The sheriff tapped upon the counter with his soft, fat fingers.

“What sort of work?”

“Horses and cows. That’s my line.”

“You can ride?”

“Yes.”

“Pretty well?”

“I’m not a bronc peeler. But I can ride ’em!”

“You come out of the agency and your horse is gone?”

“Yes. He’s gone.”

“Anybody standing around?”

“Yes.”

“What did they say?”

“That I ought to keep my horses in my pocket when I come in to Monument!”

Again the teeth of the boy clicked, and the sheriff banished his smile.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “there are about twenty horses a week stolen in one way or another around Monument.”

The retort of Signal was hardly courteous.

“Are you the sheriff?” he asked.

The latter tipped up his head, and so doing, he showed a bull neck with the lines of great power beneath its fat. A cold light appeared in his eyes.

“I’m the sheriff,” he said, “what about it?”

“Twenty stolen horses a week are what about it,” said John Signal.

There was a little stir at the table. He paid no heed, but his bright, angry eyes glared at the fat man. The latter’s mouth twitched.

“You’re young,” said he. “You have no line on the thief?”

“A man said it might be Sim Langley. Who’s he?”

The sheriff started erect.

“You don’t know that?”

“I don’t know that. Why should I?”

“Young fellow,” said the sheriff, “take the chip off your shoulder, or are you here to try to make a reputation out of me?”

“I want nothing out of you or the rest of Monument,” said the boy, “except my horse back and a job if I can get it.”

“Who told you about Langley taking the roan?”

“A man who doesn’t want his name used.”

“Do you want me to arrest Langley without anything on which to make out a warrant?”

“I want my horse.”

“My boy,” said the sheriff, “it’s not hard to find Langley. If he’s got your horse, take him back. And when you bring him in—I’ll give you a job—as deputy sheriff—at a hundred and fifty a month!”