Chapter I: Part 1

TANGLED TRAILS

by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Powder Law,” “The Spark of Skeeter Bill,” etc.

“Romeo” Kendall drove his stage team into Marlin City, skidded his horses and stage to a stop in front of the bank, and announced to the world that he had been held up and robbed. The bank officials investigated the treasure-box and told Romeo that he was wrong.

Then Sun Dog County laughed at Romeo Kendall, who stuck to his story, persistently and profanely. He swore by all the horned-toads and crippled-crawlers that two men had stuck him up, and that one of them held a gun on him while the other went through the treasure-box.

But the contents of the box, which consisted of ten thousand dollars in currency, consigned to the Marlin City bank, was intact; which made Romeo out a liar despite his protests.

Romeo drove the stage for Pelham & Malvene, of Silverton, who owned the line to Whipoorwill, via Marlin City, and also the line which ran through the Smoky Hills to Redrock. Sun Dog County decided that Pelham & Malvene were hard-up for help when they put Romeo on a driver’s seat, but there he sat.

Romeo had been christened Egbert, which name did not fit him. “Eg” fitted him better, to which had been added “Bad,” making him “Bad-Eg” Kendall. It was good and sufficient, but doomed to change, when “Soapy” Caswell, the wealthiest cattleman in the county, brought his daughter to Silverton.

Bad-Eg immediately fell in love with her. His affections were not reciprocated, but this did not affect Bad-Eg in the least. He found out what rooms the Caswells occupied in the Boston hotel, and when the shades of evening drew down over Silverton he procured a ladder, placed it against the window-sill of his lady love and proceeded to regale her with seductive strains from a guitar.

While the idea was not at all new, it attracted the attention of several folks who had seen him carrying the ladder. Everything proceeded nicely, except for the fact that Bad-Eg made a mistake in the room.

Soapy Caswell did not care for guitar music; he had but lately finished a disastrous session of draw-poker. He lifted the window just above the head of the love-blind Bad-Eg, and proceeded to crown the aforesaid Bad-Eg with a hand-painted water-pitcher. Bad-Eg lost consciousness and his nickname at the same time, and when he woke up he was named Romeo.

In no way did he resemble the Bard of Avon’s famous lover, after whom he was named. He was thin of feature, shallow of eye and had what the barbers call “squirrel-teeth.” His hair had been yellow in his youth, but now it was bleached to a neutral tint, and each and every hair seemed to follow the theory of “every one for himself.”

Romeo did not feel ashamed of his blighted love affair, but his thin soul did vibrate with anger against Soapy, who, not content with knocking Romeo off the ladder, went to the office of Pelham & Malvene and told Romeo that if he did not keep away from his daughter he would clip Romeo’s ears off and collect predatory animal bounty on same. Romeo’s feelings were encased in thick hide, but this shaft went home. Romeo was not sure what a predatory animal was, but he wisely figured that it was either a skunk or a coyote.

* * * * *

It was early morning three days after the Romeo holdup, and the Nine Bar Nine outfit were busily engaged in their favorite occupation of storing away food.

The Nine Bar Nine cattle ranch was located about twelve miles southeast of Marlin City, and consisted of the usual array of badly-in-need-of-repair corrals, a one-story, unpainted ranch-house, with a wide, comfortable porch. The long bunkhouse had been built to accommodate a big crew of hired men; but the herds had never grown too big for three or four men to handle them.

Lafe Freeman owned the place. He was a small, wiry, grizzled man, with keen, gray eyes and a wit which was sharper than a spine on a barrel-cactus. Lafe was one of the old school of gunmen—a fast-disappearing type at this time.

Just now the Nine Bar Nine only had two hired men. “Silent” Slade, a giant of a puncher, with a humorous face, slow of movement, but not slow of temper. A continuous flow of conversation had earned for him the nickname.

Silent wore a fancy chin-strap on his sombrero; cut the sleeves of his fancy shirt off at the elbows and affected southwest type of high-heeled boots, with fancy, stitched tops. He was also a trifle gaudy in the hand-stamped cartridge belt and silver ornamented holster.

“Harp” Harris could ride anything he could cinch a saddle onto, rope anything he could get in reach of, and was physically a human slat. Harp was well over six feet, but so extremely thin that he looked taller. A pair of bat-ears grew almost at right angles with his long, solemn face, and he improvised most of his own music from an ancient jew’s-harp.

Harp Harris split a fried egg exactly down the center, lifted one-half of it on a carefully balanced knife-blade, but stopped with it just short of his mouth, and spoke slowly.

“Wonder if he’s still huntin’ for the joker?”

Silent Slade lifted his head and stared at Harp. Lafe Freeman, the owner of the ranch, placed his knife and fork carefully on his plate and looked at Harp curiously.

“Of whom,” said Silent slowly, “of whom are you speaking?”

Harp deposited the egg carefully within his wide mouth, patted his lips with the knife-blade and proceeded to slide the blade under the remaining half of the egg on his plate.

“Brick Davidson,” he mumbled.

“What about him?” asked Lafe. Brick was the sheriff of Sun Dog County and former employee of the Nine Bar Nine.

“You tryin’ to run Brick’s office?” asked Silent.

Harp upset his egg, with an impatient gesture, and looked at Silent.

“For —— sake, can’t a feller open his mouth without you jaspers takin’ down your ropes? I was just thinkin’ out loud, thasall.”

“He was thinkin’ out loud,” said Silent wonderingly to Lafe. “How would yuh believe that a think could get past that mouthful of egg? Some day he’ll do that with his mouth filled, and them thinks will just bust out all over him, like the hives.”

“Yes, yore funny,” admitted Harp seriously; “I almost laugh—when I look at yuh, Silent.”

Harp lifted his coffee cup to his lips and took a swallow, but it went down the wrong channel, hung for a moment and then caused Harp much physical discomfort. Silent leaned across the table, grasped Harp by the collar and proceeded to hammer him viciously between the shoulders, which was beneficial to Harp and also satisfied Silent’s desire for revenge on Harp.

“If that’s a game—lemme in on it.”

Silent turned and looked at Brick Davidson, who was standing in the doorway grinning widely. Brick was neither of heroic proportions nor god-like of features. His hair was the color of new bricks, and his thin face was speckled with freckles. Nature gave him a wide mouth and blue eyes, and the gods of humor had marked him for their own.

Harp tore away from Silent and glared at Brick through his tears. Then he wiped his face with the back of his hand and took a jew’s-harp from his pocket.

“Don’t!” begged Brick. “Can’tcha be friendly, Harp? I don’t no more than get here, when yuh try to drive me away.”

“Didja ever find out who held up Romeo Kendall?” grinned Silent, shoving a chair out to Brick, who sat down and took out his tobacco and papers.

“Not yet,” admitted Brick slowly, and Harp began to play softly.

Silent reached for the egg platter, and Harp got to his feet, walked to the doorway, where he sat down with his back against one sill and his knees against the other. Harp’s idea of solid comfort was to find a spot where he could fold himself up like a carpenter’s rule.

“What are yuh doin’ over here this time of mornin’?” asked Lafe Freeman.

Lafe absolutely adored Brick Davidson, but denied having a pleasant thought for any one on earth.

Brick exhaled a thin stream of smoke through his nostrils, as he pursed his lips.

“You sold some cows to Dal Melchior a few days ago?”

“Sure I did,” nodded Lafe. “Four thousand dollars cash.”

“Did yuh put the money in the bank, Lafe?”

Lafe shook his head. He was notoriously afraid of banks.

“Lemme look at some of that money?”

Lafe rubbed his chin. Was Brick joking him?

“What’s the idea, Brick?”

“Lemme see the money, will yuh?”

Lafe produced a worn wallet and extracted a couple of bills, which he glanced at and handed to Brick.

“Them two twenties was in the bunch.” Silent and Harp had both moved in close and were watching Brick. If it was a joke it must be a good one, because Brick was very serious. Brick looked up at Lafe.

“Lafe, yuh made a mistake when yuh didn’t bank this money.”

“All right, I’ll bite,” grinned Lafe. “What’s the joke?”

“It’s no joke, Lafe. Mebbe yuh can see somethin’ funny in it, but the fact of the matter is—them bills are counterfeit.”

Lafe snatched the bills from Brick and glared down at them.

“I don’t believe a —— word of it!” he exploded. “I—uh—say, Brick; ain’tcha mistaken?”

“How in —— do you know bad money from good?” asked Harp.

“Do yuh mean to say that all my money is bad?” demanded Lafe.

“Likely all yuh got for them cows is bad,” nodded Brick. “Look close at these bills, Lafe. Do yuh notice that them ain’t silk lines in the paper? Drawed with colored ink. Them bills was in that joke holdup.”

“Don’t stop talkin’,” begged Lafe nervously. “Tell me who made ’em and I’ll go and massacree him.”

“That holdup bothered me,” said Brick. “At first she looks a lot like they was joshin’ Romeo Kendall, but it didn’t make me laugh, ’cause they didn’t razoo him none. I went up and talked with Bob Malloy at the bank. He gets out some of the money and we looks her over. Then Bob gets some kind of a statement from the Silverton bank, which shows that the size of the bills don’t fit the order. The money they got was all twenties and tens, but the papers says that there’s twenties, tens and fives.

“Then Bob sizes up the layout and finds out that the money ain’t worth nothin’—unless yuh can keep it circulatin’. Most of it was danged well made, but we found some that was pretty raw. Them two holdup men opened that box, took out the real money and put in the bad. Foxy, eh? They figured it would be a good joke on Romeo and that nobody would ever find it out.”

“Your danged brains is goin’ to cost me four thousand dollars,” sighed Lafe. “And high-water! I paid Harp and Silent out of that money last Saturday—yesterday.”

“Thasall right,” grinned Silent. “We lost it playin’ faro. I feel better over it now than I did.”

“The bank will make good what yuh got left, Lafe,” said Brick. “They stand to lose ten thousand. Pelham & Malvene ain’t responsible for holdups, bein’ as they won’t handle stuff for any express company.”

Lafe nodded.

“Yeah, I reckon I won’t lose nothin’, but she looks like a hard deal to beat. If it was horse stealin’ or cow rustlin’ yuh might stand a chance, but bad money don’t leave no tracks.”

“Anythin’ crooked leaves tracks,” said Brick seriously.

Lafe squinted at Brick’s face and smiled.

“Brickie, yore goin’ to get married pretty soon, ain’t yuh?”

Brick scratched his nose and shifted his feet.

“Well, I still have hopes, Lafe—as the horse-thief said when the rope broke.”

“You land them fellers who think they’re the mint, and I’ll give yuh half of that four thousand for a weddin’ present.”

Brick grinned—

“That’s danged generous of yuh, Lafe.”

“No, it ain’t, Brick,” Lafe shook his head. “I don’t figure you’ll land ’em.”

Lafe threw back his head and laughed heartily at his own humor.

“I’ll help yuh, Brick,” stated Harp seriously.

“——! This ain’t a perade!” snapped Silent. “Detectives don’t work to music.”

“If Lafe had only put his money in the bank——”

Harp was entirely apologetic.

“Uh-huh!” exploded Lafe. “O-o-oh, yeah! Like you do.”

“Feller gets fore-footed the minute he suggests anythin’,” wailed Harp. “If I got paid a livin’ wage I’d put somethin’ in the bank, but a feller——”

“This,” replied Lafe solemnly, “this is a —— of a time to ask for a raise, Harp.”

“There ain’t no harm in keepin’ your wants before the public, is there?” seriously, “I don’t blame folks for makin’ their own money. If I had a pen and ink——”

“And brains enough,” added Silent. “You’ve got about as much chance of makin’ money with a pen and ink as yuh have of puttin’ on a jew’s-harp concert in New York.”

“Who in Sun Dog has got brains enough?” asked Harp.

“Now yo’re talkin’,” grinned Brick. “It took brains to make that money and it took brains to figure out that way of makin’ a trade. Romeo ain’t got no idea what they looked like, but he swears they had cannons with the wheels taken off and pistol-butts put on.”

“Why in —— do they hire them kind of drivers?” asked Silent, who detested Romeo.

Silent was a giant of a man, with hands like hams, and feet which no ready-made boot would fit.

“Why don’t they hire men like Grant Dale?” queried Silent when nobody seemed to answer his question. “Nobody’d stick Dale up without a fight, y’betcha.”

“Dale would h’ist his hand as quick as Romeo did,” argued Harp. “You and me and everybody would.”

“Don’t argue!” wailed Lafe. “I’ve had some bad news and I want to know what Brick is goin’ to do.”

“Find out who made that money,” grinned Harp. “Anybody’d know what to do now. If I had a clue——”

Silent hunched his shoulders and circled Harp, opening and shutting his hands, as though preparing to annihilate Harp.

“You lemme a-lone!” wailed Harp. “I’m sincere, you danged hippy-pot-a-must!”

“Let him alone, Silent,” ordered Brick grinning, and then to Harp—

“All right; yo’re deputized to work with me.”

“Hol’ on!” grunted Lafe. “Who told you to come here and maverick my hired man?”

“Pa says you can go with the nice man.” Brick patted Harp on the arm. “Take off yore hat when yuh go in anybody’s house and don’t forget yore handkerchief.”

Harp grinned happily, but Silent shoved him aside and glared at Brick.

“Whatcha doin’—kiddin’? If yuh need a good man—I’m here.”

“Much obliged, Silent. Yo’re deputized to take care of the office while me and Harp run ’em to earth.”

“Not me! Oh, not me, Brick! I’ve set in that danged office for weeks and nothin’ come to pass. I need action.”

“Then sweep it out once in a while,” smiled Brick. “Maybe the county won’t allow yore wages, but if they don’t yuh can sue ’em.”

“Where do I get off?” howled Lafe. “Yuh bring me four thousand dollars worth of bad news and then yuh swipes all my hired help. Ain’tcha got no feelin’s?”

“I won’t take ’em if yuh feels thataway, cow-man,” soothed Brick. “I won’t discommode yuh.”

“Don’t short-hand yoreself,” begged Lafe. “I can get along, I reckon. If yo’re still short-handed I’ll let yuh have one of Shep’s yaller pups and a copy of _Pilgrim’s Progress_.”

“Aw, now yo’re sore at me, Lafie,” feelingly.

“You go plumb to ——!” Lafe bristled like a badger. “Take ’em away, cowboy.”

“I’ll try and return ’em in good order, Lafe.”

“One cinch, they won’t shrink,” said Lafe looking at Harp and Silent. “Nossir, they won’t shrink—unless yuh show ’em some work. If yuh need a real good man—yelp for me.”

“Yuh never can tell,” grinned Brick.

* * * * *

Brick was forced to admit that he did not have the slightest clue to work on. He did not know how counterfeiters worked. In fact it was the first counterfeit money he had ever seen. He realized that it was a job far beyond the ability of any one he knew in Sun Dog county.

Just why they did not get the money into circulation in some other way was of no consequence to Brick. Ten thousand is a lot of money, and he knew that the Marlin City bank would be hard hit.

Marlin City was the county-seat of Sun Dog county, but such an honor rested lightly on its shoulders. It had one street, which was dusty and hot in the Summer and, according to an old inhabitant, “the coldest —— place in North Ameriky in the Winter.”

The buildings were mostly built with false fronts, as if trying to fool the world into thinking that a one-story house could look like two, just because it had a tall front. The Marlin City bank was no exception to this rule. The sheriff’s office fronted on this street, with the jail built at the rear. Of shade trees there were none, and Nature seemed to reserve its cooling winds for the Winter—when no one could appreciate them.

Not having any clues at all, Brick left Silent at the sheriff’s office, tied an extra shirt inside his slicker-roll, and told Harp to “foller him and he’d wear diamonds.”

Silent mourned audibly, but took heart when Brick promised to let him in on anything that looked like real trouble. Silent was a fighter and did not hide his light under a bushel. Harp was also a fighter, but one who did not lead up to it with war-talk. Brick loved them both like a brother, but preferred Harp for this job on account of his ability to keep quiet.

It was mid-afternoon when Brick and Harp rode down the main street of Silverton and went into the livery-stable.

The town of Silverton was much the same type of a cow-town as Marlin, except that Silverton covered more territory, with many vacant lots. Some of Silverton’s business houses had been painted years before, but the weather had bitten deeply in spots, which gave them a splotchy appearance.

Silverton’s one big point of interest was the Short Horn saloon and gambling house.

It was the largest thing of its kind in the country. A number of other places vied with it for the patronage of amusement lovers; but the Short Horn remained supreme.

The main street was wide and dusty, with warped board sidewalks and numerous long hitch-racks, which were generally filled with saddle and work horses. The livery-stable was about the most pretentious building in the town, especially for height, as it required a second story, or loft, for hay. Near the door was a huge water-trough built from heavy planks, and placed in such a way that a horse could drink from it comfortably.

Jimmy McKeever, the stable-man, greeted Brick effusively.

“By jing! Howdy. Long time I no see yuh, Davidson. That ain’t Harp Harris with yuh, is it? Well, I’ll be danged if it ain’t! Never seen him so fat. What did yuh do, Harp, eat a bean sideways?”

“Yo’re a very fresh chambermaid,” declared Harp slowly. “You need teachin’ better manners,” and, with a quick movement of his foot, kicked McKeever’s feet from under him, dropping him on a pile of grain sacks.

McKeever rubbed his chin and grinned up at Harp.

“That,” declared McKeever, “that was plumb sudden.” And then to Brick—

“Did Buck Pelham come back with yuh?”

“Ain’t seen him for a month, Jimmy.”

“Yuh never?” McKeever got to his feet. “That’s funny. He went to find yuh two hours ago.”

“What for?”

“F’r gosh sake, didn’t yuh hear about Grant Dale?”

“What about him?”

“Got killed near Smoky Hill grade this mornin’, thasall.”

“You kiddin’ me, Jimmy?” Brick was very serious.

“Honest to —— I ain’t, Brick. Buck Pelham went to Marlin City to get yuh.”

“We cut across the hills from Whisperin’ Creek,” said Harp. “We must ’a’ missed him thataway.”

“The stage was held up,” explained McKeever. “Ed Sawyer comes along in his buckboard about that time, hears the shot and brings poor Dale back with him.”

“Who took the stage on to Redrock?” asked Harp.

“Who—oh, Dale wasn’t drivin’—Buzzard Bailey was drivin’. Dale quit his job last night, and Malvene had to put somebody on the seat; so he hired Buzzard to drive until he can get a reg’lar man.”

“Much obliged,” nodded Brick. “I’ll see what I can find out. C’mon, Harp.”

“I know as much as anybody——”

McKeever wanted to talk, but Brick and Harp were already outside, headed for the office of Pelham & Malvene.

They found Jeff Malvene humped over his desk going over a bunch of invoices, but he got up as they came in. Malvene was a sallow complexioned person, with puffy eyes, a scraggly blond mustache and a mouthful of discolored teeth. His shoulders were rounded until it gave him the appearance of making a continuous search for something.

Pelham & Malvene’s office was located on the West side of the street, and covered a space of about twenty by forty feet. About in the middle of the room, with one end against the wall, and facing the door, was Malvene’s desk. A couple of extra chairs, a rough cupboard of pigeon-holes full of dusty papers, a stage-schedule and a fly-specked lithograph of Custer’s Last Stand completed the furnishings. The ceiling was low, with a trap-door ventilator almost in the center.

“Buck made good time, I see,” Malvene remarked. He was not very cordial in his manner.

“He missed us,” replied Brick. “Tell me all yuh know about the killin’ of Grant Dale.”

“I don’t know much. Ed Sawyer brought him in and said it happened near Smoky Hill grade. Seems that two men held up the stage and Dale went for his gun.”

“Money on the stage?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Malvene. “Sometimes there is money shipped, but it ain’t advertised. We’re not responsible for valuables.”

“You fired Dale, didn’t yuh, Malvene?”

“Nope—quit. Said he was tired of driving over the same road all the time.”

Brick thought this over, and then—

“Was Dale sore at yuh, when he quit?”

Malvene shook his head.

“Don’t look like he was, does it? Man don’t usually lose his life defending the property of a man he dislikes.”

“No,” admitted Brick. “No, he wouldn’t do that. I’m wonderin’ if it was the same two fellers who held up Romeo.”

“That was a joke,” laughed Malvene. “You can’t make anything else out of it.”

“Can’tcha?”

Brick was very thoughtful. Malvene squinted at him, but Brick turned and looked out of the door where two men, Buck Pelham and Silent Slade, were dismounting. They jingled their spurs across the threshold and Pelham went straight to Brick and held out his hand.

“Missed yuh, sheriff. Suppose you’ve heard about things.”

Brick nodded.

“What there is to know—so far, Buck.”

Buck Pelham was a big, bluff sort of a person, blunt of speech but well liked.

Brick looked at Silent, who was busily engaged in reading an old stage-schedule on the wall, but now he looked at Brick guiltily and took a ring of keys from his pocket.

“Locked up the —— hermitage, and here’s yore keys.”

“Who told yuh to leave the office?” demanded Brick.

“Don’tcha try to boss me, Brick Davidson!” Silent was very emphatic, “I won’t stand for it, I tell yuh. Lemme stay in the open and I’m val’able, but I ain’t worth a dang inside four walls. Marlin City is as calm as a horse-trough, and I’ll be —— if I stay there and let you mockin’-birds have all the fun. Don’tcha ride me, Brick!”

“Glad yuh came, Silent,” said Brick seriously and turned back to Pelham, leaving Silent open-mouthed with surprize. He had expected to go back to the office.

“Got any idea who might do the job, Buck?” asked Brick.

“Not any. Maybe Buzzard Bailey can tell us more when he gets back tomorrow, but he was likely too scared to remember what they looked like.”

“Kinda like Romeo Kendall,” suggested Harp.

Pelham laughed—

“I reckon so, Harp.”

“Why don’tcha hire men to drive yore stages?” asked Silent. “Buzz Bailey is a disgrace to his namesake and Romeo Kendall is a shrinkin’ loco-weed.”

“Dale was a good man,” observed Pelham.

“If they killed him because he was a good man, the rest of your drivers will die a natural death.”

“Tryin’ to make us mad, Slade?” asked Malvene.

“Naw—ashamed.”

Silent turned on his heel and walked outside. Brick grinned at Malvene’s flushed face and turned to Pelham.

“I reckon we’ll have to wait ’till tomorrow and see what Bailey has to say.”

Brick and Harp joined Silent and they went to the Short Horn saloon and gambling house, the largest amusement place in the county. Otto Falk, the portly proprietor met them at the door.

“I am glad to meetcha,” rumbled Otto, shaking hands with all of them.

“First we drink, eh?”

The place was only partly filled, but there was quite a crowd at one of the roulette tables. Brick filled his glass and turned to Otto.

“To Grant Dale, wherever he is, Otto.”

“To Dale,” said Otto softly.

Brick had only met Grant Dale; but Dale had seemed a clean-cut, energetic sort of a fellow, with a friendly smile for every one. His talk did not savor of the range; but he seemed to fit in. He was considered a good driver, and had demonstrated that he was a clever pistol-shot. He was one of those fortunate individuals for whom every one seems to have a kind word.

* * * * *

A dance-hall girl walked behind them and Brick turned to look at her. She was rather pretty and her dress was just a trifle different from the usual tawdry things worn in honkatonks. Otto smiled at her in a fatherly way and nodded toward the cowboys.

“Miss Rosie, I like you to meet Mr. Davidson, Mr. Harris and Mr. Slade. Mr. Davidson is the sheriff.”

The girl smiled in acknowledgment and passed on.

“Rosie she’s a new girl,” said Otto, looking after her. “She sings.”

“She ain’t the regular type, Otto,” observed Brick.

“No. Rosie she just sings. I pay her good, Davidson. Nobody get fresh with Rosie. I think she be in hard luck and take work with me. You must hear her sing.”

“Got a good face,” observed Harp. “Yuh can always tell a good face. Anyway, I can, y’betcha.”

“Yuh must ’a’ picked yours in the dark,” laughed Silent.

They talked of things in general, bought more drinks and went back to the street, where they sat down in the shade and rolled cigarets.

“Well,” said Silent impatiently, “when do we arrest somebody, Brick?”

“Who would yuh select?”

“Somebody who’ll start a fight. I’m honin’ for action.”

Harp humped over and produced his jew’s-harp. Silent glared at him disgustedly.

“——!” he exploded. “If I ever get my hands on that asthmatic organ——”

“I like it,” Brick was serious.

“Yuh do? Well, you can have it, cowboy. If yuh ain’t goin’ to do anythin’, I’ll see if I can find a poker game with a loose chair.”

“Go ahead,” said Brick. “I’ll call yuh if I need yuh.”

They watched Silent hot-foot down the street in search of amusement. A door closed behind them and they turned to see Tony Lynch, one of Otto Falk’s gamblers.

Tony was a pleasant-faced young man, and noted for his honesty at the gambling table. Tony had evidently just dressed, as he was buttoning a very flashy vest as he came up to them.

“Hello, sheriff. Howdy, Harp. How’s things in Marlin these days?”

“Shufflin’ along,” smiled Brick. “Hear about Grant Dale?”

Tony hadn’t, for the good and sufficient reason that he had been asleep since seven o’clock that morning. Brick told him the story as it had been told to him.

Tony frowned over the information—

“That’s —— funny.”

“What is, Tony?”

“About Dale. The games closed early last night. Soapy Caswell wanted to play stud, but wanted me to do the dealing. Buzzard Bailey sat in and we had a three-handed session. Long about five o’clock this morning Bailey dropped out. I think it was about half-past five when Soapy decided to quit and went to his room. A little later on I heard the stage leaving. I looked out and saw Buzzard Bailey driving the stage out of town—alone.”

“Mebbe Dale was inside the stage,” suggested Brick.

“Might ’a’ been,” agreed Tony. “Been used to seeing him on the driver’s seat and never thought about him being inside the stage.”

“Did yuh know Dale very well?” asked Brick.

Tony shook his head.

“No, not very. He’s been here about three months. Nice kind of a boy. Never seen him drinking anything until last night.”

“Drunk?” queried Brick.

“Yeah, he was.”

Brick humped over, tracing meaningless patterns in the dust with a match. Tony watched him for a few moments and sat down beside him.

“Sheriff, do yuh know anything about phony money?”

Brick jerked up his head and stared at Tony.

“Meanin’ what, Tony?”

The gambler took out a long bill-fold and extracted several bills.

“Somebody,” said he slowly, “somebody is passing bad money around here. I’ve collected these in the last four months.”

Brick examined the bills. They were clever imitations.

“Anybody else know about this?” asked Brick.

“Buck Pelham. He got some, too. I showed him the first two I got, but I don’t know who passed ’em to me. That was about four months ago. Since then I’ve got the rest, but I’ve never been able to find who spent ’em.”

“Why didn’t you or Buck notify me, Tony?”

“I wanted to, sheriff; but Buck said it was a job for the U. S. Marshal.”

“Buck’s right,” agreed Brick, “but I wish I had known.”

“Likely a lot of it circulating around. Maybe they thought that a gambler was a good person to pass it on.”

Harp grinned down at the ground. He knew of eighty dollars of bad money that had bought chips for him and Silent, but through no fault of theirs.

“Well, I’ve got to go to work,” stated Tony, brushing off his trousers and replacing the bill-fold. “If I can help yuh any, sheriff—just yelp.”

“Yuh never can tell,” smiled Brick. “Much obliged.”

A small middle-aged man, well dressed, was walking up the other side of the street, going toward the bank. Brick got to his feet and called to him—

“Can I see yuh a minute, Mr. Bray?”

The man stopped and squinted at Brick, as he and Harp crossed the street. Felix Bray was president of the Silverton bank. He was precise in his conversation, held himself aloof from the rest of the community and was not entirely popular in Silverton.

Felix Bray dressed well and his linen was immaculate. He never appeared unshaven. Brick had noted that Felix Bray never seemed to be looking at him while in conversation, but just past him. Bray’s nose was sharp at the end and very thin at the bridge. He had a habit of compressing his lips tightly at the end of a sentence and often closed his eyes, as if amazed at his own wisdom. There was no question but what Felix Bray was a prominent citizen of Silverton, whether Silverton cared or not.

Brick lost no time in idle talk, but went straight to the point—

“Was there any money from your bank on that stage this morning?”

Felix Bray cleared his throat slowly, seemingly reluctant to divulge any information.

“Yuh know it was held up, don’t yuh?” asked Brick.

“I—I heard that it was, sir; but I have no information as to what was stolen. I believe there was a certain amount of money aboard, but am not prepared to say what amount. If it is necessary for you to know the exact amount, perhaps Mr. Nestor can give you the figures, sir.”

“He’s yore cashier?”

“Yes, sir. Is there anything else?”

“Nothin’ but curiosity,” grinned Brick. “Thanks.”

“You are entirely welcome, sir.”

Felix Bray gave a bird-like nod of his head and went on up the street.

“Nestor, eh?” mused Brick aloud. “Know him, Harp?”

“Heard of him,” grinned Harp. “Heard that he went out to see Soapy Caswell’s daughter. Soapy got real tough and told Nestor to rattle his hocks off the Circle Cross. Said he’d be —— if his daughter would ever marry a counter-jumper.”

Brick grinned—

“Soapy is goin’ to raise Susie to be a old maid, don’tcha know it? Cashier of a bank ain’t so bad.”

“Soapy’s got so danged much money that he likely wants Susie to marry some prominent galoot,” said Harp.

A tall, cadaverous individual was going down the street, but hurried across when he saw Brick and Harp.

“Howdy, Doc,” greeted Brick.

Doctor Bridger shook hands with them solemnly. Doc always appeared solemn. He was a fixture in Silverton, and had a sure-thing business. He was the only M. D., owned the only drug store in the town, and was coroner and undertaker. No matter whether the patient survived or not—Doc profited thereby. It was a business in which levity had no part.

“Suppose you’re down here on the Dale case. Hold an inquest as soon as the stage gets in tomorrow,” said Doc.

“Have yuh examined the body?”

“Yes. Dale was shot with a .45 caliber gun. The bullet severed an artery near the heart. Death was instantaneous.”

“Bullet go plumb through him, Doc?”

“No, not quite. It ranged downward. Malvene says that Dale was a very good shot, but he did not have a chance, I suppose.”

“I don’t reckon he did, Doc. I’ll be plumb glad to hear what Buzzard Bailey has to say.”

* * * * *

Buzzard Bailey was not unlike the bird after which he was named. He was slight of frame, stoop-shouldered and with a parchment-like scrawny neck, which appeared wattled at times. His face was bony and his nose prominent.

His testimony showed that Dale had been a passenger on the stage and had resisted the attempt of two masked men to rob the stage, during which time he was shot and killed. Sawyer had appeared on the scene, coming toward Silverton, and had offered to take Dale’s body to town. Buzzard’s testimony was short and to the point.

“Where was Dale going?” asked Doctor Bridger.

“Redrock,” replied Bailey.

“Paid his fare?” asked Brick.

“N—not to me,” said Bailey. “He said that Malvene——”

“I wouldn’t take his money,” said Malvene generously.

“Was Dale on the seat with you?” asked Brick.

“Yeah—sure he was.”

“When yuh left Silverton?”

“He was drunk when the stage left,” volunteered Malvene. “Too drunk to ride outside; so we put him inside the stage.”

“He sobered up and made me stop and let him onto the seat,” said Bailey. “We just got to the curve on that little grade this side of the Camp Creek crossin’ when these fellers popped out of the brush. Dale went for his gun, but they beat him to it. They made me dump off the money box. One of ’em held a gun on me and told me to mind my own business. I dunno what the other one was doin’, but all to once they both vamoosed into the brush and then Ed Sawyer came along.”

“Yuh don’t know how much they stole, do yuh?” queried Brick.

Bailey shook his head.

“Nothin’, I reckon. The box was there on the road behind the stage. I put her back on and turned it over to the bank at Redrock. If there was anything stolen the bank never said nothin’.”

“How much money did you have in the box?” asked the doctor.

“——, I dunno, Doc. She’s locked when I got it.”

“The man who fired the shot—was he down on the lower side of the grade, Bailey?”

“Uh-huh—in the brush.”

“Any more questions you care to ask, sheriff?” inquired the doctor.

Brick smiled and shook his head.

“No, I reckon I’ve found out all I expected to; which may be sufficient.”

“Got an idea, sheriff?” asked Buck Pelham.

“Y’betcha, Buck. C’m on, boys—” this to Silent and Harp.

“What I don’t know is this,” said Harp, “I——”

“Don’t start recitin’,” begged Silent. “What you don’t know would take a danged long time to tell.”

They sauntered down to the livery-stable and sat down on the horse-trough, which was in the shade. The trough was about half full of water, with six inches or so of muddy sediment at the bottom. Brick was slowly rolling a cigaret and staring down at the surface of the water, where a few flaky crumbs of tobacco had fallen. Suddenly he leaned closer and peered downward.

Pulling back the sleeve of his shirt he reached to the bottom of the trough and brought out a muddy Colt pistol. The light had flashed on the metal across the bottom of the butt, all of the gun except that part being buried in the sediment.

“For —— sake!” grunted Silent staring at the dripping weapon. “Whatcha know about that?”

Brick dried the gun on a handkerchief. It was a .44 caliber, with yellow bone handle, but without any distinguishing marks to identify it.

“Now, who in —— throwed their gun in the trough?” wondered Harp. “Must ’a’ been drunk or crazy.”

“Here comes somebody,” whispered Silent. Brick shoved the gun inside his chaps and turned to see “Nebraska” Yocum and “Curley” Klein coming near them. Nebraska was a mouthy sort of a cowboy, but Klein was a sullen sort, who wore his holster tied down.

Nebraska was thin-faced, with close-set colorless eyes and a shock of blond hair scraggled over his forehead below the line of his sombrero. He had one front tooth missing from his thick-lipped mouth. Klein was small and dark, with a Hebrew cast of features and close curling, black hair. The whites of his eyes were shaded darkly, like the eyes of an Indian. Both men were wearing gay colored shirts and gayer colored mufflers. Nebraska affected bat-winged chaps; but Klein wore tight-fitting pants, tucked in the tops of his boots.

“Hi-yah, sheriff,” greeted Nebraska loudly. “Waitin’ for some horse-thief to ride up to water his horse?”

“Mebbe,” grinned Brick.

Klein walked on into the stable, but came back out in a moment and circled the trough as though looking for something.

“Find it?” asked Nebraska.

Klein shook his head—

“Naw, it wasn’t there.”

Brick did not question him, but Nebraska volunteered the information that Klein had lost his gun.

“I reckon I was pretty drunk,” admitted Klein, slapping his empty holster.

“What kind of a gun was it?” asked Harp.

“Six-gun,” growled Klein sullenly.

“Which covers several varieties,” said Harp slowly. “Was this anythin’ out of the general run?”

“Good gun,” muttered Klein.

“What size?” asked Silent.

Klein squinted at Silent for a moment.

“Man sized, if yuh want to know, Slade.”

“Yo’re just as well off without it,” drawled Silent. “Yuh ought to pack a .22.”

Klein muttered a curse and his hand slid to his empty holster. Silent glanced at his hand and then at Nebraska.

“Loan him yore gun, Nebraska. He’s soreheaded like a old she bear, and if he wants action——”

Klein glared at Silent for a moment, but turned and went into the door of the livery-stable. Nebraska shrugged his shoulders, grinned at Brick and went in behind Klein.

“Watch out, Silent,” cautioned Harp. “That —— Klein had a gun in his holster when he went in there the first time.”

“He won’t shoot,” said Brick. “Not with three of us here. Now who in —— lost this gun and why does Klein want it?”

“Don’t yuh reckon it belongs to him?” asked Harp.

“If it did he’d describe it. He knows that somebody lost a gun and he wants to get it before somebody else does.”

Nebraska rode out of the stable door and swung his horse up to the trough.

“You didn’t find his gun, did yuh, Brick?” he asked.

“No,” replied Brick. “No, I never found his gun.”

“He got paralyzed drunk last night and lost it,” explained Nebraska. “Feller hates to lose his gun. Sore as a bear about it. Wanted him to come out to the ranch, but he says he’s goin’ to sleep in the stable for a while and then hunt some more for his gun.”

“You still with the 88 outfit?” asked Brick.

“Naw, I’m with Soapy Caswell—the Circle Cross. Me and Curley and ‘Snookie’ Duggan. I’m foreman now, Brick.”

“That’s nice,” agreed Brick. “Mebbe I’ll come out and see yuh some day.”

“Come ahead,” grinned Nebraska. “We’d sure welcome yuh.”

Nebraska swung off down the street.

Brick shook his head in wonder that Soapy Caswell should hire those three cowboys to guide the destinies of the Circle Cross. Duggan was the most unsavory of the lot, which did not mean that Klein and Nebraska were good citizens, by any matter of means.

Soapy was a solid citizen, but his interests seemed to be more centered around a poker table than they did around the Circle Cross ranch. Soapy was as crabbed as a badger and his tongue was vitriolic to a startling degree, but nobody disliked him because of his disposition. Soapy did not like Brick, whose very presence seemed to irritate the old cattleman. Soapy was touchy about certain things—things which Brick never failed to mention.

Brick got up and cautiously handed the pistol to Silent, who was wearing a coat.

“Slip that into your pocket, Silent; but for gosh sake don’t let anybody see it. I’m goin’ to see if I can find Soapy Caswell.”

“He’s up at Otto’s place, bogged down in a poker game,” said Harp. “You better wait ’till he gets through.”

But Brick waited for no man. Soapy looked up as Brick came in, and growled something inaudible as Brick moved in behind his chair. He shook his head at the dealer and moved back his chair.

“Got a —— jinks behind me,” he growled. “Deal me out.”

Brick smiled and walked back outside and in a moment Soapy joined him, grumbling about his run of ill-luck. They stopped at the edge of the board sidewalk. Across the street a couple of cowboys were settling an argument over which could jump the farthest, while several more stood on the sidewalk and made uncomplimentary remarks on the ability of both contestants. One of them made a jump, landed on his knees and sat down on his own spurs, much to the amusement of his competitor and the audience. Soapy watched them for a moment, with no trace of a smile on his face, and turned to Brick.

“Couldn’t win ’f I had the pick of the deck. Whatcha want, you red-headed raw-hider?”

“What makes yuh think I want anythin’?” grinned Brick.

“Go ahead—I’m listenin’,” said Soapy seriously.

“You got three nice burglars workin’ for yuh, Soapy.”

“Have I? What do you care who works for me?” Soapy was very indignant.

“Keep cool,” advised Brick. “You never bit anybody yet, Soapy.”

Soapy glared at Brick, masticating rapidly.

“Yo’re a —— old fool,” stated Brick. “Drinkin’ and gamblin’ and hirin’ crooks to run yore cows. Ain’tcha ashamed? Hirin’ cowboys who get paralyzed drunk and lose their guns.”

“Who did?” demanded Soapy. “Who got paralyzed and lost his gun?”

“Curley Klein did—last night.”

“Like —— he did!”

“Sure did, Soapy. I found the gun in the horse-trough.”

Brick grinned triumphantly, but Soapy demanded to see the gun.

“I’ve got her,” stated Brick. “Forty-four Colt, with yaller bone handle.”

“Smart, ain’tcha?” chuckled Soapy. “Oh, ve-e-ery smart; but Klein’s gun ain’t a .44 and it ain’t got bone handles.”

“Much obliged, Soapy,” grinned Brick. “Go back to yore little game and lose a few more cows.”

Brick sauntered off down the street, whistling unmusically between his teeth, while Soapy swore wonderingly and went back to his game.

Buck Pelham was alone in the stage-office when Brick came in, and Brick lost no time in opening conversation.

“Buck, how long ago did yuh first find out that bad money was rangin’ around here?”

Pelham rubbed his chin, wondering where Brick got his information.

“Did Tony tell yuh, Brick?”

“Yeah, but I knew before that, Buck. That Romeo holdup wasn’t no joke, but everybody don’t know it. There was ten thousand dollars in counterfeit in that treasure-box, when it got to the Marlin City Bank.”

“Is that a fact, Brick?”

“Uh-huh. Tell me what you know.”

“Not very much, Brick; except that most of the currency in the country is bad stuff. Used to be that silver and gold was about all yuh ever got hold of, but in the last few months it seems to have kinda dwindled down and currency took its place.”

“But where does it start from, Buck? There’s got to be some place where it starts, ain’t there?”

Buck nodded slowly.

“Sure has, Brick. You find the men who killed Dale and you’ll have the men who are flooding the country with bad money.”

Brick silently agreed. He had met Dale, but knew little about him. He seemed entirely capable.

“Where did Dale come from, Buck?”

“Came here from Miles City, Brick. He was a good man.”

“Do yuh reckon he was mixed up in this stuff in any way?” asked Brick. “Mebbe he knowed——”

“No, I don’t think Dale was mixed up in it. He wasn’t that type, Brick. I knew Dale pretty well, I think.”

“Do you think he was killed because he went after his gun?”

Pelham frowned at the wall for a moment.

“I wish I knew just what happened, Brick.”

Brick yawned and grinned.

“I’ll tell yuh just as soon as I find out, Buck. _Adios._”

Romeo Kendall was coming in as Brick went out, and Romeo was very anxious to talk about holdups with Brick.

“Had any luck, sheriff?” he asked.

“I quit playin’ my luck a long time ago,” replied Brick. “How would yuh like to have me show yuh the fellers who held you up, Romeo?”

Romeo rubbed the back of his hand across his lips and said—

“I—I reckon somebody was funnin’ with me.”

“We’ll ask ’em pretty soon,” grinned Brick.

Romeo gawped at Brick, who brushed past him and went across the street into Otto’s place.

* * * * *

The place was partly filled. A number of men were standing at a poker table, watching Soapy Caswell, who was betting recklessly. Over at the piano an emaciated-looking young man was explaining a piece of music to the girl, Rosie.

Brick sat down and began to roll a cigaret, but looked up and noticed that the girl was watching him. She nodded to the piano-player and came slowly up to Brick, who got to his feet.

“I was just looking over a new song,” she said.

Brick nodded. For several moments neither of them said a word and then the girl said softly—

“Have you investigated the killing of Grant Dale?”

Brick stared at her curiously, and it suddenly struck him that perhaps the girl had been interested in Dale.

“Yes’m, I’ve kinda pried into it a little.”

“Do you know a man they call Nebraska?”

Brick nodded slowly—

“Yes’m. Name’s Yocum.”

“He and Dale were together about midnight. I heard him tell Nebraska that he was going to bed because he had to take the stage out the next morning.”

Brick studied the toes of his boots for a while.

“He likely meant that he was leavin’ on the stage,” said Brick. “He was headin’ for Redrock. Kinda looks like he went for his gun and they nailed him, ma’am.”

Brick turned his head and saw Buck Pelham coming in the door. He glanced around, saw Brick and came straight to him.

“Just got word from the Redrock bank, sheriff. Their money was intact. Nothin’ missing.”

“Another Romeo, eh?” smiled Brick, but Buck caught his meaning.

“Maybe. Barely possible that they heard Sawyer comin’ and beat it.”

“They did not,” declared Brick. “Two road-agents are not goin’ to lose a box of money, after killin’ a man. They’d at least stay and see who it was, and it’s a cinch that they’d ’a’ stood Sawyer in a corner while they helped themselves.”

“I reckon you’re right,” agreed Buck. “I hope yuh find the guilty ones, Brick. I liked Dale. He was a nice feller and drove well and he never got drunk until last night.”

“Got loaded for bear, eh?”

Buck nodded—

“Malvene said he was so drunk that they loaded him into the stage at the stable. Let me know if I can help yuh in any way, Brick.”

“Yuh never can tell,” replied Brick. “Much obliged.”

Buck sauntered back to the door, and Brick turned to the girl.

“Was Dale drunk when you saw him last night?”

“No. I did not see him take a drink during the evening.”

Brick scratched his head thoughtfully and nodded.

“Thank yuh, ma’am. I’m sure obliged to yuh, and that’s a fact. _Adios._”

Brick walked straight to a roulette layout, where Tony Lynch was spinning the wheel for a lone customer, Curley Klein. Klein looked up at Brick, watched Tony rake in the bet and walked away. Brick watched him stop at the poker table and then turned to Tony.

“Did you see Grant Dale drunk last night, Tony?”

The gambler thoughtfully rubbed his forehead, but shook his head quickly.

“No, I didn’t, Brick. I heard—danged if I don’t believe it was——”

Tony glanced at the crowd around the poker table, and called—

“Klein!”

Klein turned and looked at Tony, who motioned for him to come over. Klein was in an evil frame of mind, judging from his sullen countenance, and Brick noticed that his holster held a gun.

“Whatcha want?” he half growled.

“Wasn’t it you who told me last night that Dale was blind drunk?”

Klein squinted hard at Tony and hesitated for a moment before he said:

“Well, what about it? Ain’t a man got a right to get drunk?”

“What time was this?” asked Brick.

Klein turned his head and looked at Brick—looked him over from boots to hat and his lips curled sarcastically.

“None of your —— business!”

Klein’s right hand had dropped to his gun as he spoke, but Brick did not seem to notice this. They were only about three feet apart—so close that the first shot would win. Brick laughed—laughed as though Klein had sprung the one big joke of the season. Klein’s hand dropped away from his weapon and he shifted his glance to the gambler, as though seeking an answer to all this merriment.

The shifted eyes was all that Brick required. Like a flash he whipped his left fist flush against Klein’s jaw, knocking him into the roulette wheel. Before Klein could recover from his astonishment Brick’s right fist swung in a short arc to the angle of his jaw on the opposite side from the first blow, and Klein lost all interest in things.

It all happened in a few seconds, yet the room was in an uproar by the time Klein slid to the floor. Brick backed against the bar and Buck Pelham crossed over beside him. Brick did not know how many friends Klein had in the place, and he was not taking any foolish chances.

Klein sat up in a moment and looked around vacantly. He felt of his lower jaw and got slowly to his feet. Soapy Caswell scowled at Brick and at Klein.

“What was it about, sheriff?” asked Otto nervously.

“I asked him a question—a question he could have answered, and he told me it was none of my —— business,” replied Brick evenly.

“Was it any of yore business?” queried Soapy.

“It sure was, Soapy.”

Soapy turned back to the dazed Klein.

“Yo’re fired, Klein! Understand what I’m sayin’? You’ve got six days’ pay comin’ to yuh. Go out to the ranch, roll yore little bundle and shake loose from the Circle Cross. Here’s yore six-days’ pay.”

Soapy handed Klein some money and Klein put it in his pocket. His jaw seemed to bother him considerably, but he did not look at Brick as he went out of the door. Soapy turned back to the poker table, talking loudly.

“I ain’t got a —— bit o’ use for the sheriff, but I ain’t goin’ to let my hired men talk back to him, y’betcha.”

Brick grinned at Buck Pelham, but Buck was serious.

“Look out for Klein, Brick. He’s a killer if there ever was one, and he won’t forget very quick. Whoo-o-ee! Boy, you sure do hit hard and fast. Mind tellin’ me what yuh asked him?”

Brick explained the question and quoted Klein’s reply.

“Klein got drunk last night and claims he lost his gun,” added Brick. “I found a gun today. Klein refused to describe his gun; so he didn’t get a look at the one I found.”

Buck did not seem curious to know what kind of a gun Brick had found; so Brick continued:

“Who got Dale’s gun, Buck?”

Buck shook his head.