Chapter III: Part 3

“Curley Adams might make a go of the old ranch,” said Mike thoughtfully. “He’s a good sort of a kid, yuh know. The old place ain’t worth much, and it didn’t cost him much.”

“Looks kinda tumble-down,” nodded Skeeter. “Still, I like to see a young feller try to make a start. Yuh might hand me down a box of forty-fives, Gower.”

The old storekeeper lifted a box of cartridges off a shelf and slid them over to Skeeter, who examined the label of the box.

“You carry quite a stock of cartridges, don’t yuh?” observed Skeeter.

“I have to. Of course, there’s certain sizes that I never have any call for. Nobody shoots anythin’ smaller than a .38. Mostly .44’s and .45’s.”

“Ever have any calls for .41’s?”

“Not very much. Curley Adams has a .41. He’s one of them fellers that likes to experiment; so he has me buy a reloadin’ set for him. He tries different kinds of powder and all that. I dunno what he finally decides to do. One of the boys at the Tin Cup said that Curley had ruined every tin-can on the ranch.”

“Loadin’ his own shells, eh?”

“I s’pose so. Anyway, he ain’t asked me to stock any .41’s since I got him that outfit.”

Skeeter opened his box and filled the loops in his belt. The fact that Curley Adams owned a reloading set for a .41 revolver, and used a .41, made it interesting knowledge.

“Don’t any one else use a .41 around here?” asked Skeeter.

“Not that I know of. Mostly everybody buys their shells from me. I can get yuh some if yuh—”

“No, I didn’t want any. I never used one.”

He patted the gray cat, adjusted his belt and walked back to the office, where he found Kaintuck playing solitaire.

“What did yuh find out?” asked Kaintuck.

“I found out that Curley Adams owns a .41, and also owns a reloading outfit.”

Kaintuck whistled softly, as he gathered up his cards.

“Anybody else around here own a .41, Skeeter?”

“I reckon not.”

“It means that we’ll have to investigate Mr. Adams, eh?”

“I dunno, Kaintuck. Mebbe somebody else owns a .41. We’ll keep this under our hats and see what else we can find out.”

A little later they went to the Half-Moon Saloon, where they met Sam Ertle, owner of the Lazy H, and “Frisco” Larkin, one of Ertle’s cowpunchers. Frisco was a tall, saturnine sort of person, with buck-teeth and a bald head.

Ertle was not a congenial sort of cowman. He was not inclined to conversation and seemed to mind his own business fairly well. Some one had told him about the silver robbery, and it was the topic of conversation when Skeeter and Kaintuck came in.

“Jist how in —— could yuh steal a thousand pounds of silver?” Frisco wanted to know, but no one seemed able to enlighten him.

“And if yuh got it, what would yuh do with it?” asked Frisco.

“You might ask the sheriff,” smiled the bartender.

Frisco squinted at Skeeter Bill closely. He had imbibed a few drinks and desired an argument.

“All right; I ask him,” said Frisco. “From what I’ve heard about him, he don’t know a —— of a lot; so I don’t expect him to answer my question.”

“Then I’m not goin’ to disappoint yuh,” smiled Skeeter.

Frisco laughed and pounded on the bar. “Name yore weapons, gents. I’ve found a sheriff that ain’t afraid to admit he’s ignorant. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Ain’t goin’ to disappoint me, eh?”

Frisco fairly leered at Skeeter, who kept his temper admirably, much to the disgust of Kaintuck.

“I never like to disappoint anybody,” said Skeeter evenly.

“Sure yuh don’t,” fleered Frisco. “Everybody says that about yuh. They don’t expect anythin’ from yuh—and they don’t get anythin’. Yuh sure are some sheriff, I’d tell a man.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” admitted Skeeter slowly.

“Well, for ——’s sake!” exploded Kaintuck disgustedly.

Frisco squinted at Kaintuck closely, blinking his eyes as though the deputy was of some strange species. He ignored Skeeter now, concentrating entirely on Kaintuck.

“Now, whatcha s’pose this is?” he queried.

Kaintuck’s left hand went slowly up to the brim of his wide sombrero, crumpled the edge of it slightly, as though about to wipe off his brow with the back of his hand.

* * * * *

Then, as quick as a flash, he whipped the hat off his head and slashed Frisco across the face with it. It was done so quickly and took Frisco so utterly by surprize that he staggered back against the bar, throwing both hands up to his eyes.

As Kaintuck’s left hand swept aside and as Frisco’s hands went up to protect his eyes, Kaintuck took a half step forward and drove his right fist into Frisco’s anatomy, just below the arch of his breast-bone.

It was a terrific punch. Frisco’s hands dropped limply, his eyes rolled, and he slumped down between the rail and the bar, knocked completely out. Kaintuck stepped back, put on his hat and leaned one elbow against the bar, looking down curiously at Frisco, who had not moved again.

“Nobody but a —— fool ever starts trouble and ain’t set to meet it,” said Kaintuck dryly.

“There’s a lot of truth in that,” said the bartender.

Ertle did not say a word, but managed to drag Frisco away from the bar and stretch him out in the middle of the room.

“You sure sung him to sleep,” stated the bartender, as he walked around the bar, carrying a glass of water, which he threw in Frisco’s face.

The shock of the cold water partly revived Frisco, who was able to sit up and groan hollowly and clutch at his stomach.

“He won’t give a —— what the cook puts on the table tonight,” said Kaintuck.

Ertle gave Kaintuck a side glance, but kept his lips shut.

After another minute Frisco was able to get to his feet and slump back into a chair. He was still a mighty sick man.

“How’r yuh comin’, Frisco?” asked Ertle.

Frisco shook his head, his lips compressed painfully. Then he got to his feet and went outside with Ertle, where he leaned on the hitch-rack until his breathing apparatus began to function normally again.

“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t hit him, Skeeter,” complained Kaintuck. “Are you gettin’ meek, cowboy?”

“I’m the sheriff,” grinned Skeeter. “I ain’t got no right to fight everybody that disagrees with me.”

“Uh-huh? Say, that don’t affect me, does it?”

“It didn’t seem to. But yuh don’t need to feel contrite over it. That pelican was cravin’ trouble.”

“He was.” The bartender was emphatic.

“Well, his cravin’ ought to be satisfied,” grinned Kaintuck. “Unless the man is a reg’lar hog for punishment, he ought to be plumb pleased over his success.”

“He didn’t show good sense”—thus the bartender, polishing the top of the bar industriously—“wanted trouble and didn’t look for it. He’s mostly always like that when he’s drinkin’.”

Kaintuck walked to the door and looked toward the hitch-rack, where Ertle and Frisco were having a heated argument. Ertle had hold of Frisco’s arm and was trying to dissuade him from doing something.

“Well, go ahead and be a —— fool, then!” snorted Ertle.

Frisco yanked away from him and started back toward the saloon door. It was evident to Kaintuck that Frisco was coming back to wipe out the disgrace.

He stepped aside, flattened himself against the wall, and the maddened Frisco walked past him, squinting at the bar, where Skeeter and the bartender were standing, wondering what it was all about. Kaintuck saw that Frisco had drawn his gun and was carrying it behind him.

For a moment Frisco stared at the two men, and in that moment Kaintuck’s revolver barrel rapped him sharply across the knuckles of his right hand, causing him to drop the gun. He whirled quickly and found himself looking into the muzzle of Kaintuck’s .45.

Kaintuck kicked Frisco’s gun aside and motioned for Frisco to get out of the saloon.

“You must be one of them fellers who never know when they’re whipped, ain’t yuh?” queried Kaintuck. “I ought to pistol-whip yuh right here and give the doctor somethin’ to sew up, you bat-eared ant-eater. Git on yore bronc and go home.”

Kaintuck followed Frisco to the hitch-rack. Ertle had come back to the saloon door, but preceded Frisco and Kaintuck to the rack. They mounted their horses and rode out of town, with never a backward glance, while Skeeter and the bartender stood in the doorway and grinned at each other.

“You’ve got a real capable deputy,” observed the bartender.

“Sh-h-h-h-h!” cautioned Skeeter. “Don’t let him hear it. The first thing he knows he’ll be thinkin’ he is somebody.”

Kaintuck swaggered back to the saloon and picked up Frisco’s gun.

“Give it to the bartender,” said Skeeter. “He can give it to Frisco the first time he shows up.”

Kaintuck was examining the gun intently, but did not give it to the bartender. Moran and Monk Clark came in. They nodded to Skeeter and Kaintuck, who took advantage of their coming to leave the saloon.

Back in their office Kaintuck took the gun from his pocket and handed it to Skeeter. It was a Colt .41.

“That’s why I didn’t give it to the bartender,” said Kaintuck. “And I don’t want yuh to forget that that is my clue.”

“It sure is,” grinned Skeeter. “And you earned it, cowboy. That makes two .41’s in evidence. If we get any more, we’re up against it. You better look out for Frisco. He came back there to kill yuh, that’s a cinch.”

“He sure did. I’d like to know why he tried to pick trouble with you, Skeeter. We’ve never done anythin’ to him.”

“Mebbe he ain’t killed no sheriff yet,” grinned Skeeter. “He strikes me as bein’ one of them fellers that won’t be satisfied until they’ve killed a sheriff. He’s a bad boy.”

“He ain’t so bad as he used to was,” grinned Kaintuck. “If he wants his gun back he’s got to say ‘please, Mister Kennedy’—which he won’t do; so I’ll keep the gun.”

It was about fifteen minutes later that Clark and Moran rode past the office, going south. Moran gave them a friendly wave, but Clark did not turn his head. They had disappeared when Kaintuck saw the bartender standing in the door of the Half-Moon, waving at him.

Curiosity impelled them both to go back to the saloon.

“Clark didn’t stop at your place, eh?” said the dispenser of drinks.

“Why should he?” asked Skeeter.

“Well, from what they said I thought sure he would. They’re on the way to the Lazy H to see Sam Ertle. It seems that Monk Clark found a yearlin’ heifer today, which had a vented brand on its right hip, and a fresh Box X on its left shoulder.”

“Yeah?” Skeeter’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Uh-huh. Meanin’ that—” He hesitated for a moment. “On the right hip, eh? Who brands on the right hip?”

“The Lazy H.”

“Anybody else around here?”

“No. The Tin Cup brand on the right shoulder, HG on the left hip—and the Box X on the left shoulder.”

“Then they must ’a’ vented a Lazy H, eh?”

“Looks like it. I heard Monk and Moran talkin’ about it. It seems that Monk had started for the Gregory ranch, but run into this heifer. He said the new brand made him suspicious; so he roped the animal and put it in an old corral on Deer Creek, between here and the Box X. He cut back to the road and run into Moran who was comin’ to town.”

“It’s kinda funny he didn’t come to me,” mused Skeeter. “Bein’ the sheriff, I’m interested in cattle stealin’.”

“Yuh ought to be,” smiled the bartender.

Skeeter paid for a round of drinks and led the way back to the office, going straight through the place and out to the little stable at the rear. Kaintuck looked at him curiously, but saddled his horse without comment.

Frisco Larkin was in a vile frame of mind when he got back to the Lazy H ranch. It was the first time he had ever been completely knocked out—the first time he had ever lost his six-shooter. To a man like him nothing could have been more humiliating.

* * * * *

Frisco was not endowed with an overabundance of imagination, but he had a certain amount of pride, and it galled him deeply to think that he had been whipped. As he rode along through the dust he removed his hat and wiped his bald head with a flirting motion of his hand.

His stomach was still fluttering, and there was a great vacancy beneath his breast-bone. He shifted painfully in his saddle, spat between his front teeth and spurred his horse savagely. He wanted revenge on something. Then he yanked cruelly on the reins, almost throwing his horse off the road.

He roweled the animal savagely and raced it all the way to the Tin Cup ranch, where he dismounted and sat down in the shade of the stable, trying to ease his cramping insides.

Van Cleve, Ertle’s other cowboy, a stolid-faced person, with scraggly, yellow mustaches and a crooked mouth came down from the ranch-house, wondering what was the matter with Frisco. His teeth were like aged tombstones in a badly-kept cemetery—sadly out of line.

“You got a stummick-ache?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Et somethin’ yuh hadn’t ort to, eh?”

“Na-a-aw! Deputy sheriff hit me in the belly.”

Van Cleve filled his pipe slowly, lighted it, and sat down with Frisco, who told his story in meager detail.

“I’m prob’ly goin’ to kill him for that,” declared Frisco, after his story was finished.

Van Cleve had little to say. He gave Frisco another gun and a box of cartridges, closing the incident, as far as he was concerned. But it was not closed as far as Frisco was concerned.

“And when yuh went back to kill him, he took yore gun?” asked Van Cleve.

It seemed marvelous to Van Cleve; so marvelous that he picked his teeth thoughtfully with the blade of his pocket-knife.

“Bad hombre,” he said, after careful consideration.

“Hit me when I wasn’t lookin’,” said Frisco.

“What was yuh lookin’ at?”

“Oh, ——!” Frisco felt too badly to explain. “Did yuh ever get hit real hard right here?” He indicated his solar plexus.

Van Cleve shook his head.

“Never got hit anywhere, except in the back.”

“Somebody sneak up on yuh, Van?”

“Na-a-a-aw, ——! They outrun me.”

“You think this is funny, don’tcha?”—indignantly.

“’F I do, it’s because I can’t help m’self, Frisco. You poked yore beak into the molasses and got it stuck, tha’sall.”

“Yeah, and I’ll poke it some more, if I want to.”

“Tha’sso? Frisco, you’ve got intestinal trouble, ain’tcha?”

“What do yuh mean?”

“Yo’re overbalanced.”

“Meanin’ what?”

“Too much guts and too few brains. I dunno how in —— he ever knocked yuh down.”

“That will be about all,” said Ertle warningly. “There’s been enough fighting.”

As Ertle turned toward the house, Monk Clark and Frank Moran came in sight. Ertle stopped and waited for them to ride up. Clark and Ertle exchanged nods of greeting, and Clark came right to the point.

“I’ve got a heifer in the old corral on Deer Creek, waitin’ for you to look it over, Sam. There’s a fresh brand vent on the right hip, and a new Box X on the left shoulder. Kinda thought yuh might be interested.”

Ertle scowled heavily.

“Tha’sso?” He turned to Frisco and Van Cleve. “Saddle up the horses.”

Ertle walked to the house and came back carrying a rifle in a scabbard, which he fastened to his saddle, when Frisco came with the horse.

“Old Deer Creek corral, eh?” he asked Monk Clark.

“Yeah. We’ll ride over with yuh, Sam.”

“The more the merrier. Did yuh tell the sheriff?”

“I did not.”

“Suits me. Let’s go.”

The five men rode away from the Lazy H, heading straight for the bridge across Moon River, after which they swung to the northeast, passing between Crescent City and the Gregory ranch.

It was only about eight miles, but they were unable to make much speed across the hills. There was little conversation. They struck Deer Creek about a quarter of a mile below the old corral, but rode along the ridges to a point above the small flat where the old corral was located.

Even at a distance they could see the spotted yearling, moving about the dusty old enclosure. They went down the hill, crossed the little creek and drew up at the corral fence. Clark and Ertle dismounted and climbed over the fence, while the yearling circled wildly. The process of branding an animal does not serve to make it gentle in any way.

* * * * *

The two men stopped near the center of the corral. Ertle was carrying a coiled lariat, which he shook out and roped the animal on the first throw. It bawled and protested, but he drew it up to an old snubbing-post in the center of the corral, while they looked it over.

Ertle walked around it, his eyes half closed, and came back to Monk Clark whose face registered extreme wonder.

But Clark did not speak. He looked at Ertle, as though wondering what thoughts might lie behind the keen eyes of the wiry little cattleman. And Clark knew he was treading on thin ice.

Ertle stepped away from him, circled the animal and came back to face Clark. He pointed at the yearling.

“Does this happen to be the one yuh mentioned, Clark?” Ertle’s voice was pitched low.

“Well, by ——, it looks like it! But—”

The other cowboys had climbed the fence and were gazing at the animal. On its two hips were burned splotches, where brands had been eliminated, as also was a burned area on its left shoulder. But on the right shoulder, clumsily drawn but unmistakable, was the outline of the Tin Cup brand.

“I don’t understand—” began Clark, his face black with wrath. He choked raspingly. “When I left here that yearlin’—”

Ertle’s sarcastic laugh interrupted him.

“Somebody was just as smart as you was, Monk. It looks like the deadwood was on the Tin Cup, and not on the Box X.”

“You don’t think I’d slap my brand on a Lazy H, and then call yore attention to it, do yuh?” demanded Monk belligerently.

“Nobody has proved it to be a Lazy H. With three vented brands on it, yuh can call it what yuh like. It looks to me as though it was a Tin Cup right now. If I was in yore place, I’d herd that —— critter home and make veal out of it before anybody else finds out what you’ve done.”

Ertle turned on his heel, climbed the fence and went back to his horse, followed by Frisco and Van Cleve. They mounted and rode away, while Clark leaned against the snubbing-post and swore roundly, much to the amusement of Frank Moran, who perched on the top pole of the corral and smoked a cigaret.

Monk Clark walked over to the corral fence and watched Ertle and his two men ride away. He looked back at the calf and swore witheringly. He knew positively that some one had found this calf and had branded it again, wiping out all trace of the brand which would incriminate Curley Adams.

Clark walked back and examined the brands closely, while the calf bawled some more and kicked up dust. Satisfied that there was no trace left of any original brand, Clark turned to Moran.

“That —— pup of an Adams saw me corral that heifer,” complained Clark. “He sneaked in and balled up everythin’.”

“What would yuh expect him to do?” grinned Moran. “If I was in yore place, I’d drop the whole thing, Clark. You haven’t any proof that Curley Adams did the job, and if Adams hears about it you might get in trouble.”

Clark cursed witheringly, as he took Ertle’s rope off the animal, threw the rope aside and let down the bars.

“Goin’ to take Ertle’s advice?” asked Moran, as they mounted their horses.

“What in —— else can I do? Be a —— of a fine thing for somebody to find a heifer with three vented brands on it—and my brand put on with a runnin’-iron.”

Monk Clark rode into the corral to chase the yearling out, when Moran whistled warningly. Skeeter Bill and Kaintuck had ridden out of the brush just above the corral, and were coming toward them.

Monk Clark spat out a curse against all sheriffs and other meddling fools, and tried to make the yearling break for freedom. But with the perversity of its species, the yearling ignored the opening and ran around behind Clark.

Clark stopped, shifted his gun and wiped the perspiration from his face, while the calf came close to him, nosing out toward the man who would have given many dollars to have been miles away at this time. Clark looked appealingly at Moran, but that worthy was watching the officers approach, a half grin on his thin lips.

Skeeter and Kaintuck rode up to the corral opening, nodding pleasantly to both men. Clark glowered heavily, but Moran wore an amused smile. It was nothing to him.

“You prob’ly didn’t know we were in town when yuh went out to the Lazy H,” said Skeeter slowly, eyeing the heifer. “We heard that somethin’ was wrong out here; so we came out.”

“Oh, the —— you did!” snorted Clark.

Skeeter and Kaintuck were looking closely at the vented brands, and now they looked at each other.

“That darned bartender never got it right,” observed Kaintuck. “He said that a Lazy H had been vented and a Box X run on. Shucks, there’s been three brands vented and the Tin Cup run on.”

Skeeter dismounted and came inside the corral. Clark eyed him narrowly, wondering just what this lean-faced, inquisitive-looking sheriff might do in a case of this kind. He watched anxiously as Skeeter circled the animal, looking closely at the burned spots.

Skeeter seemed seriously amused, as he straightened up, hitched up his belt and looked knowingly at Kaintuck, who had ridden his horse up close to the fence and was rolling a cigaret. Clark coughed slightly, apologetically.

Skeeter looked at Monk Clark curiously.

“We had a hard time findin’ this old corral, Clark.”

“Yuh did, eh?”

“Yeah. I sure wish you’d tell us about them vented brands.”

Clark shut his lips tightly and there was a strained expression around his eyes. He realized that he was in bad. Skeeter turned to Moran.

“What do you know about it, Moran?”

“Not a thing, Sheriff. He told me that a Lazy H had been vented and a Box X run on. We got Sam Ertle to come over—and this is what we found.”

“By ——, I’d like to know who done it!” exploded Clark.

“Uh-huh,” Skeeter nodded thoughtfully. “I dunno who would steal cattle for you, Clark—do you?”

Clark bristled angrily.

“Look here, Sheriff! Don’t you—”

“I’m not doin’ anythin’,” protested Skeeter angrily. “It looks to me as though the heifer belongs to you.”

“It does not!”

“All right. I’ll take it back to town with me.”

“Back to town? What in —— do yuh want to take it to town for?”

“See if I can find out who owns the darned thing.”

* * * * *

Clark swallowed heavily and scowled at the offending animal. It put him in a ridiculous position, and he realized that every one in the Moon River country would hear about it.

It looked as if he had made a clumsy attempt to steal a heifer. Of course it would be impossible to tell who had been the original owner, but that would not lessen the fact that the animal did not belong to him. He squinted at the right shoulder of the animal, a painful scowl on his face. The outline of a tin cup was too plainly drawn for any one to mistake it.

“Well,” he said slowly, “can’t we arrange this, Sheriff? You can see where it puts me.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” smiled Skeeter. “If I was doin’ my duty I’d arrest you, Clark. If I was you, I’d herd that heifer home, make meat of it and burn the hide.”

“Is that all right with you?”

“I’ll make it all right, I reckon.” Skeeter turned his horse and motioned to Kaintuck, who followed him. Skeeter looked back at Clark and said:

“It’s all right this time, Clark; but I don’t want to see any more vented brands around this country. You caught me when I was feelin’ awful good-natured.”

Skeeter and Kaintuck crossed the creek and rode over the ridge, where they looked back to see Clark and Moran going in the opposite direction, herding a frightened heifer. Kaintuck looked at Skeeter and they both doubled over their saddle-horns, choking with unholy mirth.

“Mamma, pin a rose on me!” howled Kaintuck. “Caught yuh when yuh was feelin’ awful good-natured! Haw, haw, haw, haw!”

Kaintuck grew incoherent at sight of the tears running down Skeeter’s face. The tall cowboy was unable to talk.

“We had him foul,” choked Kaintuck. “My ——, it’s too bad we wasn’t there when Sam Ertle seen the critter.”

Skeeter managed to clear his throat.

“I like t’ died all the time, Kaintuck. The expression on Clark’s face was the funniest thing I ever seen.”

“And we didn’t finish any too danged quick either,” said Kaintuck. “I never drawed a picture of a tin cup with a hot cinch-ring before in my life. Haw, haw, haw, haw! It sure was a shame to burn places where there wasn’t any brand.”

“We had to make it a puzzle,” said Skeeter laughing. “I’m not sure that Monk Clark tried to hang a crime on to Curley Adams, but somebody did. That kid is too smart to do a thing like that.

“Curley hit Moran that night, and that would make Moran hate Curley. Mebbe Moran did the job to put Curley in bad, and Monk Clark happened to find the animal.”

“That would be a —— of a thing for a Government detective to do, wouldn’t it, Skeeter?”

“Sure it would. But yuh never can tell anythin’ about a detective, because they’re just human bein’s, Kaintuck.”

“That’s right, I s’pose. And I’ve an idea that Monk Clark ain’t goin’ to like us so awful well after this.”

“Tha’sall right. We’re goin’ to be disliked a lot before this deal is all finished. Shake up that goat yo’re ridin’, or we’ll be late for supper.”

But there was little mirth in the heart of Monk Clark as he herded the misbranded heifer toward the Tin Cup ranch, assisted by Moran, who had offered no sympathy nor advice.

“That sheriff is all right,” offered Moran.

Clark spurred around the animal, cutting it off from going down the side of a coulée, and rode back beside Moran.

“Yuh think he’s all right, do yuh?”

“He let you off easy.”

Clark shut his jaws savagely, but was forced to admit that Moran was right.

“Yuh just played in hard luck, Clark. Adams saw yuh corral the critter, came over and saw what yuh had done, and proceeded to ruin things.”

“If I thought—if I knew that for a fact, I’d kill that —— puncher,” said Clark evenly. “But I don’t know. Mebbe it was Gregory or Calamity. Either one of ’em would do it for Curley.”

“I suppose,” nodded Moran.

They drove the heifer down through a brushy swale, and Clark spurred in close to it, forcing it against a barrier of greasewood, where it tried to turn back past him. Shooting from his hip he dropped the animal the first shot. His horse swerved aside, whirling completely around, but he curbed it and dismounted.

With a few flicks of his knife he stripped the Tin Cup brand from its shoulder and flung it far off across the brush, where it hung, dangling from a limb for a moment and dropped into a thick bush.

“Give the coyotes a feed,” he said as he mounted, and they rode on toward the Tin Cup in silence.

* * * * *

Hank Gregory had been doing a lot of thinking about his conversation with Monk Clark. He wondered if it might not be a good thing to explain everything to Curley. He felt that Curley would keep the secret. Still, he did not want to share it with any one.

Old Calamity had ridden to Crescent City to get the mail and a few groceries, and Joy was still cleaning house. Calamity was glad to get away from the ranch, where Joy had drafted him into the army of cleanliness.

Hank Gregory sat humped in a rocking-chair on the shady porch and chewed on the stem of his pipe, his soul troubled greatly. He had resolved to kill Monk Clark if Clark tried to interfere with the wedding. That much was settled in his mind.

Calamity came back and stabled his horse. Gregory could see that Calamity carried news by the way he hurried up from the stable. He tossed a mail-order catalogue on the porch, handed Gregory a newspaper and squinted through the front door.

He thought he heard Joy working in the kitchen, but she was on her knees behind a living-room chair, fixing the carpet. He stepped back to Gregory.

“Hank, there’s a funny deal been pulled off,” he said.

Joy straightened up and came closer to the doorway, as Calamity continued—

“Frisco Larkin was in town this mornin’. Got drunk and told everybody in sight that Monk Clark found a yearlin’ with the Lazy H vented and the Box X run on.”

Gregory stared at Calamity, his mind working fast.

“Monk and this Moran person went to get Ertle to look at the heifer, which was in the old Deer Creek corral, and when they got there somebody had vented the Box X and put on the Tin Cup. Ertle got mad and went home.”

“Frisco told this?” wondered Gregory. “Meanin’ that Curley Adams tried to steal a Lazy H yearlin’, Calamity?”

“Yeah, it looks thataway, Hank. But somebody ruined it, don’t yuh see. The laugh was on Monk Clark.”

“The laugh, eh?” Gregory surged out of his chair. “Curley never done that, Calamity.”

“He’d be an awful fool to do it,” amended Calamity. “The Lazy H is the only one to brand on the right hip. A vented brand on the right hip means that it was a Lazy H.”

“Monk Clark did it,” said Gregory slowly. “—— him! He wants to marry Joy, and he did this to jail Curley Adams.”

“How do yuh know?” blurted Calamity.

“Never mind how I know.” Gregory walked down the steps and went toward the stable.

Calamity sat down in the rocking-chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Joy had heard all of it.

It seemed ridiculous to think that Monk Clark wanted to marry her badly enough to try to fasten a crime to Curley. She shook her head wonderingly. Why, she had not spoken a dozen words to Monk Clark since she had come home. It must be that her father was wrong, she thought.

She peeked out at Calamity, who was still deep in thought, and walked to the window. Her father was saddling a horse at the corral, and she wondered whether he was going to town. He mounted and rode away through the big gate, but did not go toward town. He was going toward the Box X.

She walked back to the doorway. Calamity looked at her and scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“Wasn’t much mail, Joy,” he said. “How’s the cleanin’?”

“I heard what you told Dad,” she said.

“Yeah? Well,” Calamity simulated a yawn, and rubbed his stubbly cheek, “I don’t reckon it was any secret.”

“Where has Dad gone, Calamity?”

“He didn’t say, Joy.”

“Haven’t you any idea?”

“Well, yuh can’t hardly call it an idea, Joy. He had a rifle under his knee, and I kinda think he went to kill Monk Clark.”

Calamity spoke in a matter-of-fact way, as though a killing was nothing to speak about.

“You’re joking, Calamity.”

“I hope so, Joy. I’ve knowed yore father a long time, and I can kinda read him. Mebbe I’m wrong. If Monk Clark misbranded a critter to send Curley to the penitentiary, he shore needs killin’.”

“But, Calamity, don’t you realize what it would mean? They would hang him for murder. Oh, why didn’t you stop him—make him listen to reason?”

“I dunno. It’s a free country, Joy—and I don’t like Monk Clark.”

“But it is such a foolish idea, Calamity! Monk Clark doesn’t want to marry me.”

“Don’t he?”

“Certainly not!”

“Shows —— bad taste then.”

Joy knew that she could get no satisfaction out of talking with Calamity; so she resolved to do the only thing possible to avert a tragedy.

She ran through the kitchen and down to the stable, where she saddled her own horse, a hammer-headed roan that had little brains but plenty of speed. Calamity stood at a corner of the porch and watched her ride after her father.

He did not offer to assist nor interfere. Calamity was absolutely neutral. Nobody could ever accuse him of stopping a fight, and if one man wanted to kill another, it was no affair of Calamity’s.

The hammer-headed roan was not the best riding horse in the country, and Joy was having difficulty in convincing it that she was its master. A liberal application of the quirt showed the roan that its ways were not liked, and after that it decided to do better.

She knew that her father would waste no time, but there was a possibility that he might stop at the Box X; so she swung further down the slopes, where it was possible to make better time.

Joy was a good rider—a good hill rider, which is some different than riding on the flat. She knew all the tricks of helping a horse over tough going, and as a result she was able to make time where an inexperienced rider would have hunted for an easier way around.

And never before did she have such an incentive for speed. She felt sure that she could convince her father of the folly of his intentions. Even if Monk Clark was guilty of an attempt to send Curley to the penitentiary, he had failed, she reasoned.

And it was Curley’s battle, not her father’s. She could not understand her father’s sudden animosity toward Monk Clark, because they had always been friendly, as far as she knew. And while she commended her father’s attitude in defense of the man she was to marry, she did not agree that he should commit murder for something which had not injured Curley.

She sent the roan scrambling over a ridge and galloped him straight down the brushy hill, where a slip might send horse and rider pin-wheeling to the rocky bottom. They hit the bottom in a cloud of dust and a shower of stones, but the roan gamely kept its feet and lurched into a gallop down the slope to Deer Creek.

She crossed Deer Creek near the old corral and continued straight north, intending to strike the Tin Cup road about two miles from the ranch, but when she reached the old road, which led east to the Box X, she hesitated. Something seemed to tell her to take this road.

“He might have stopped at the old ranch,” she told herself, and turned in that direction. There was plenty of run left in the roan and it did not take her long to cover the mile to the Box X.

She could see a man near the ranch-house and a saddled horse stood between the house and the old stable. A closer inspection convinced her that the horse was the one her father had ridden from home.

She rode up beside the house and dismounted. Her father was standing just in front of the house, looking at something on the ground. He had seen her coming, but did not look up as she walked up to him.

* * * * *

Lying in front of him, half-hidden in the rank growth of foxtail grass, was Monk Clark, his sightless eyes staring at the sky. His right elbow was bent, and in his right hand was a cocked six-shooter. He had drawn the gun, cocked it, but died before he could pull the trigger.

Joy’s face blanched at sight of him and she drew back, staring at her father.

She knew now that she had come too late. He had ridden faster than she had anticipated, and had met Monk Clark at the Box X. She looked down at him, a big hunk of lifeless clay, his jaw sagging. It seemed as though he might be yelling a battle cry, his gun lifted for a shot. She could not realize that Clark was dead.

She looked at her father, hardly able to tear her eyes away from the face of the dead man, and found him staring into space. His shoulders were bowed, as though bearing a great weight, and he seemed to have aged years in an hour.

A wild canary swung from a stunted bush near them and began singing. Joy turned and looked at the little yellow bird, wondering that anything could be happy now. She looked at Monk Clark and shuddered sickeningly. Her father spoke—

“How did yuh happen to follow me?” he asked softly.

“To try and stop you, Dad,” she said hoarsely. “I heard what Calamity told you, and I—I knew why you came.”

“I heard shots,” he said wearily. “They sounded like they were fired over here. But I didn’t see anybody. You can see him from the front porch.”

“Didn’t you kill him, Dad?”

Gregory shook his head.

“I didn’t have a chance, Joy. Somebody beat me to it.”

Somebody beat him to it? wondered Joy. Somebody? Who was the somebody who would shoot Monk Clark? She looked at her father and found him looking at her, his eyes filled with sorrow. They were thinking the same thing, and both knew it. Gregory compressed his lips, turned his head and looked at Monk Clark.

Joy’s lips felt like leather when she tried to moisten them with a dry tongue, and there was a tightness about her throat, an aching tightness that hurt her to breathe. Her voice sounded far away, thin, vibrant, as she said—

“Who? Oh, Dad, you don’t suppose Curley—”

“Hush! We don’t know.”

“Well, he can’t hear me. There is only us, Dad. You don’t suppose—oh, here comes somebody!”

Joy grasped her father’s arm and pointed at the two riders who were coming toward the ranch.

“We can’t prove anything, don’t you see?” she panted. “Oh, what will we do?”

“Keep yore nerve,” he cautioned her, as the riders drew closer. “I didn’t kill him, and we don’t know who did.”

It was Skeeter Bill and Kaintuck. Both of them had met Gregory, but not Joy. They dismounted and came across the yard.

“Howdy,” greeted Skeeter. “Nice day, folks.”

Gregory nodded, but his answer to the greeting was to indicate the body of Monk Clark. Skeeter moved in closer, flanked by Kaintuck, who whistled softly through his teeth. Skeeter dropped on his knees and examined the body closely.

Skeeter did not hurry. He slowly unbuttoned Clark’s shirt and examined the bullet holes. He sat back on his heels, looking the body over, and his eyes roamed back to the house, as though estimating where the person had been who fired the shot. He took hold of the gun in Clark’s hand, and found it clutched in a death grip.

Kaintuck leaned down, still whistling through his teeth, and looked at the bared chest of the dead man. Joy had taken her father by the arm, her eyes squinted with pain, thinking what it was going to mean for all of them. Skeeter turned to them.

“Shot twice,” he said. “Second one must ’a’ cut him off quick. First one went through his left shoulder.”

Skeeter got to his feet and brushed the dust off his knees, as he looked questioningly at Gregory.

“I don’t know who killed him,” said Gregory. “I stopped here to see Curley Adams, and from the porch I could see the body lying out here.”

“Uh-huh,” Skeeter squinted thoughtfully. “Didja hear any shots?”

“Yeah, I did. That’s why I came.”

Skeeter turned and looked at Joy.

“It kinda seems as though nobody is goin’ to introduce us, ma’am. I know yo’re Miss Gregory. I’m Sarg, the sheriff. I want yuh to meet Kennedy, my deputy.”

Joy’s hand trembled as she shook hands with the two officers, but their grins were reassuring.

“You came in kind of a hurry, didn’t yuh?” asked Skeeter.

“Why, I—I—what makes you think I did?” stammered Joy.

“Well, for one thing, yuh forgot to put a saddle-blanket on yore horse, and yo’re still wearin’ an apron.”

For the first time Joy realized that she was wearing her old cleaning apron, no hat, and an old pair of shoes. And she remembered that she had forgotten to put a saddle-blanket on her horse.

“She came after me,” said Gregory. “She had an idea I was goin’ to the Tin Cup ranch to kill Monk Clark. She had just got here when you showed up.”

“Uh-huh,” nodded Skeeter. He knew that Gregory was telling the truth. “She thought you was goin’ to the Tin Cup to kill Monk Clark, eh?”

Gregory nodded.

“And that’s where I was goin’, Sheriff.”

The admission was a decided shock to Joy, but did not seem of any great moment to Skeeter Bill.

“Mind tellin’ us why yuh wanted to kill Clark, Gregory?”

“Not at all. Clark wanted to marry my daughter, who is goin’ to marry Curley Adams. I heard that Clark found a yearlin’, on which the _Lazy H_ had been vented and the _Box X_ run on. So I knew that Monk Clark had tried to send Curley to the penitentiary.”

Skeeter and Kaintuck exchanged quick glances. They knew all about that part of it.

Skeeter nodded and walked back to the porch, where he looked back toward them. He could see the body plainly from there. He sat down on the steps and they came up to him.

“What do yuh make of it?” asked Kaintuck.

“I dunno. There’s one thing sure—Monk Clark is dead. And the worst of it is, he was killed here. Dang it, I’m sorry!”

“Will it incriminate Curley?” asked Joy quickly.

“Unless he can prove where he was at the time.”

“Oh, I know he didn’t do it,” said Joy tearfully.

“I sure hope yo’re right,” Skeeter got up and moved over to a lower corner of the steps, where he examined the ground.

“Kinda funny,” he muttered, squinting back toward the body.

After another examination of the ground he walked back and squatted beside the body again, while the three people on the porch watched and wondered what he had discovered.

Kaintuck stepped down and looked at the ground, which had seemed of interest to Skeeter. On the sandy soil was a dark colored spot, still damp, covering a space about a foot square.

Skeeter got to his feet and walked back to the porch.

“It kinda looks to me like Monk Clark was shot right here beside the porch,” he stated. “There’s a big spot of blood at the corner of the porch, and hardly any out at the body. His gun is gripped awful tight in his hand, which might happen when a man is killed so quickly, and I find where his heels scraped along the ground, as he was carried out there.”

“But what does that signify?” asked Joy.

“I dunno, ma’am. It kinda looks as though he came up to the porch and got killed. Mebbe the man who killed him wanted to get rid of the body and started out to hide it, but seen yore dad coming and made his getaway.”

“That sounds reasonable,” nodded Gregory. “It wasn’t so long after the shots were fired that I came. Possibly ten minutes.”

“Have you been in the house?” asked Skeeter.

“No. I came on the porch and called Curley’s name. There was no answer, and when I looked around I saw the body. I was out there lookin’ at it when Joy rode up. You came a few minutes later.”

“Might be worth while to look around a little,” suggested Skeeter.

The front door was partly open; so they went in. The living-room of the old ranch-house was about sixteen by twenty-four feet in size, with a large stone fireplace in the front, right-hand corner.

There were no furnishings, and the wall-paper, discolored by age, was nearly all peeled from the rough board walls. The boards of the floor were broken and warped, and the windows had been patched with cardboard, newspapers and other opaque materials, until little light filtered in.

Skeeter walked directly to the fireplace, where a number of scattered, fire-blackened bricks were lying, and found that the bottom of the fireplace had been recently torn out, disclosing a cavity about three feet long, two feet wide and two feet deep.

“Looks like Curley had been rebuildin’ his fireplace,” observed Kaintuck.

* * * * *

Skeeter made no comment. He had picked up a piece of metal, which greatly resembled silver; a splattery-looking piece, which looked as though it had been spilled while melted. Down in the cavity he found another piece, which appeared to be a silver dollar on one side, but a blank on the other. The imprint of the coin was not well done.

“What in the world is that?” asked Joy.

Skeeter handed her the piece of metal and continued his search, but there was nothing more to be found, except a fragment of white substance, which might have been plaster-of-paris.

“It looks as though somebody had tried to make a dollar,” said Gregory.

“Yeah, it does,” agreed Skeeter thoughtfully. “We better look around a little more.”

At the rear of the living-room were two doors, one of which opened to a bedroom, the room which Curley had been repairing, and the other to the kitchen and dining-room, which were still in need of repairs.

The bedroom contained Curley’s personal effects, and on a shelf Skeeter discovered the reloading outfit, a small can of powder and a bullet mold. But there was nothing to indicate tragedy.

Further search disclosed the fact that Curley’s horse and saddle were not at the stable. While Kaintuck, Joy and Gregory argued over what might have happened, Skeeter mounted his horse and rode back over the route taken by Gregory on his way to the ranch.

He came back in a few minutes and went to the west side of the house, searching the ground closely.

“What did yuh find out?” asked Kaintuck.

“Not very much,” said Skeeter. “A man had his horse here on this side of the house. He was in the house when Clark came up to the steps, and he shot Clark.

“He wanted to hide the body, I reckon, but he saw Gregory on the skyline of that hill back there; so he dropped the body, ran back to his horse and rode south-west. The house would mask him from Gregory until he was able to cut down through the brush and into that gully. Clark’s horse is down in the brush, tied to an old snag. He probably sneaked up here on foot.”

“Well, I’d say yuh found out quite a lot,” said Kaintuck.

“But why would Monk Clark sneak up here?” asked Joy.

Skeeter squinted at Clark’s body.

“Didn’t you say that Clark tried to put Curley Adams in bad because he wanted to marry this young lady?”

“He did,” Gregory was very positive.

“Uh-huh. Do yuh reckon Clark would go so far as to try and shoot Curley?”

“Meanin’ that Clark sneaked up here to shoot Curley, and got beat at his game?”

“Not meanin’—just wonderin’, Gregory.”

“I don’t know what Clark would do, Sheriff. But I don’t think that Curley would kill him and run. He ain’t that kind.”

Skeeter rolled a cigaret, shaping it carefully. It gave him a chance to do a little silent wondering for himself.

“I don’t understand about that imprint of a dollar,” said Gregory.

“Experimentin’, I reckon,” said Skeeter. “I wish Curley would show up.”

“You don’t think he did it, do you?” asked Joy hopefully.

Skeeter smiled softly.

“I hope he didn’t, Miss Joy. Yuh see, I’m doin’ my darndest to think of somebody else that did do it. Whoever killed Monk Clark was here at the house, I think.

“Everythin’ points to the fact that Monk Clark sneaked up here and somebody shot him through the shoulder. Monk draws his six-shooter, pulled back the hammer— and got a bullet right through his heart. I dunno what Monk Clark was doin’ here. His horse is down there in the brush, two hundred yards away, which makes it look like Monk sneaked up here, lookin’ for trouble.”

“And he got it!” said Kaintuck emphatically.

“Yeah, he did. You go down and get Clark’s horse, Kaintuck. We’ve got to pack the body to town.”

“Want us to go with yuh?” asked Gregory.

“No-o-o-o, I don’t think so. You folks ain’t goin’ to run away.”

Kaintuck brought the horse, and the three men draped the body of Monk Clark across his own saddle, roping it securely.

“If you see Curley before I do, tell him to come down to see me right away,” said Skeeter. “And don’t talk to anybody about this. It sure looks awful bad right now, but there ain’t nothin’ as bad as it looks.”

The two officers shook hands with Joy and Gregory.

“I’m awful glad you look at it in the right way,” said Joy. “I certainly went weak all over when I saw you coming.”

“I’ll bet yuh did. You knew yore father was goin’ out to kill Monk Clark; so yuh went out to stop him, eh? I don’t blame yuh for feelin’ weak in the knees. Well, be good.”

They rode away, leading the loaded horse, while Joy and her father mounted and headed for home.

“This shore is a funny deal,” declared Kaintuck. “What’s yore theory, Skeeter?”

“I’d hate to say. Here’s how it looks. The Box X ranch-house has been used by them counterfeiters. They melted their stuff in the fireplace, and kept their tools under the bricks, in the hole.

“For some reason Monk Clark made a sneak over here and caught this feller removin’ some of the stuff, or the tools. It looks as though this feller, knowin’ that he’s caught with the goods, starts shootin’. That’s how it looks to me.”

“But who was the feller?”

“My ——, you don’t want to know much, do you?” exploded Skeeter.

“If it wasn’t Curley Adams, what was Monk after him for?”

“How do I know?”

“You think that the counterfeiters had been usin’ the old ranch-house as a place to make their bad money, and they wanted to get their stuff out before Curley discovered it?”

“That wouldn’t be very hard to think, would it?”

“Nope. I’ll bet this killin’ will sure cause a lot of talk, Skeeter. Why, Monk Clark was our most prominent citizen.”

“’S a funny old world, Kaintuck. Almost any jury would hang Hank Gregory for this. He started out to kill Monk Clark, yuh know. Admits it. Prob’ly sorry he didn’t get a chance. If Curley killed him, I don’t blame Curley.”

“But yuh don’t think he did, Skeeter?”

“I’m tryin’ not to, yuh know. I sure hope Curley has been where folks can prove he wasn’t at home at the time of the killin’.”

“And if he can’t?”

“Then I’m scared we’ll have to put Curley in jail.”

* * * * *

Gregory and Joy were worried over the same thing as they rode back home. Neither of them believed that Curley had killed Clark; but could he prove it, they wondered?

Calamity met them at the stable, interested to know what had happened. Joy left her horse for Calamity to unsaddle and went to the house.

“Didja find Monk Clark, Hank?” queried Calamity.

Gregory hung up his saddle and turned to Calamity.

“Monk Clark is dead,” he said shortly.

Calamity’s mouth opened widely, but he did not speak. His eyes followed Gregory, who got some grain for the horses and threw in fresh straw for bedding. Calamity leaned against the wall and absently tested the teeth of a curry-comb on his chin.

“Did he put up much of a fight, Hank?” he asked softly.

“Didn’t have much chance,” said Gregory seriously. “One bullet hit him in the left shoulder and the other bored straight through his heart.”

This was such a cold-blooded statement of facts that Calamity scratched his chin with the curry-comb. Then—

“Well, I hope yuh had a witness, Hank.”

“Joy came just after I found him.”

“After yuh—whatcha talkin’ about?”

“He had already been killed, Calamity. Somebody shot him at the Box X just before I got there.”

“The —— they did! Hank, you—”

Gregory shook his head.

“No, I didn’t shoot him.”

“Curley?”