Читать книгу Red Devil of the Range - Max Brand - Страница 13

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THE sheriff walked on into his office, full of thought. There in the office, waiting for him, was Jim Butler, his deputy. Jim was far too old to ride with a posse, and his hands were far too slow and uncertain to wield a revolver. Sometimes he took a week off and devoted the time to serious drinking. Nevertheless, he was worth his weight in gold to the sheriff.

"Lookit, Jim," said Lew Darrow, seating himself on the sill of the open window. "How long's Clay Winton been around town, lately?"

"He ain't been around town ever. He's always out to Ned Winton's ranch."

"Mighty lively boy, Clay used to be," said the sheriff. "But he's quieted down a lot. Never sees nobody, lately."

"No, he never does," said the other.

"That's a funny thing," remarked the sheriff. "Lookit here, Jim—how long has Clay been back—back from his mining?"

"Lemme see. Four years. Past four years," said the all-knowing Butler.

He saw that other questions were about to be asked him, and puckering his brows, he buried both fists in the length of his white beard. He was like one submitting to torment. He hated to disturb the vast accumulation of facts which had piled up in his brain, with or without his will.

The sheriff pointed a brown forefinger at him and frowned, demanding absolute concentration.

"Where was Clay Winton when he was away from home?" he demanded.

The face of the other was stirred by the effort of recollection.

"He said he was off in Old Mexico, most of the time," said the other, relaxing with a faint sigh because of the ease of answering this question.

"Think!" ordered the sheriff. "Away back there, four-five years ago, did anything big happen in the line of robberies?"

"There was the Denver and Q. R. Express that was held up by the Townley gang."

"Leave gangs out of it," said the sheriff. "No Winton is likely to work with a gang. Gangs leave tracks that are too broad, an' Wintons are all folks that move silent and careful."

"Did Clay Winton rob something?" asked the other.

"Never mind that. You just keep on remembering. Pick out some big job—most likely a one-or two-man job."

The other sighed. "Wait a minute, Lew, and I'll get it sure," said he.

He pulled open a drawer of the desk and produced a whisky bottle and a glass.

"Leave that be!" commanded the sheriff. "You don't touch no drop till you hit on something."

The old man groaned faintly. He pushed the bottle and the glass reluctantly to the side, though his eyes dwelt on them still.

"About five years back," he said, "there was a pair of gents that stuck up the Cripple Gulch Stage."

"There was red-handed murder in that job. Wintons are not murderous. Try again."

"Up in Lassiter Falls there was one day when the town woke up and found that the safe of the biggest bank in the town was blowed."

"That was another gang job," said the sheriff. "Try again."

"There was the Green River First National job, too. That was a beauty."

"How was that?"

"It was one noon, that a gent walks into the bank"

"Alone?"

"Yeah, alone."

The eye of the sheriff brightened. "Go on!" he ordered.

"He walks in alone, and there was still some people in the bank. Well, this gent steps to the cashier's window and slides a revolver under a stack of papers and just lets the muzzle shine at the cashier. Somehow, it didn't look like news from home to that cashier, neither. So the cashier forked the dough out of the safe. He sees that the robber is cold and cool as ice.

"The guy who done it is pretty well toward six feet, kind of lean, clean-shaved, and he's got a pair of blue eyes that look different from most. So he passes over the loot, and the other drops it into three saddle bags and backs toward the door. And as he gets to the door the cashier gets his courage back and grabs his gun. He shoots that gent through the leg; he even seen the blood fly, he says. But the robber, he was right at the door. He dragged through it, and pulled himself right onto a horse. Away he goes, and he turns into one alley and up another, gettin' clean away, though he must of bled a terrible pile."

The sheriff sat transfixed.

"Does Clay Winton ever limp?" he asked.

"Yeah. I've heard sometimes in the winter he does."

The sheriff leaped to his feet.

"Jim," he cried, "you can take that drink now! You've done a year's work in a day!"

And he fled from his office to the street.