Chapter II: Part 2

“Barr Wyeth won the price of the Lightning ranch from me,” said Kelly slowly. “He should have quit gambling.”

John Fann humped a little lower in his chair and his great gnarled hands seemed to fairly dig into his overall-clad knees. His eyes were nearly closed, and Kelly thought for a moment that the old man was suffering from the blow on his temple, but he lifted his head and looked at Kelly.

“I’ve heard you say that you would like to own a ranch, Kelly; what will you give me for the JHF?”

Kelly laughed.

“Buy your ranch, John? Why, the JHF is the best ranch in Bunch Grass valley, man. Do you mean that you would sell out to pay the debts of Barr Wyeth? Give up your hard-earned money to--say, John the Baptist, you’re crazy! What would you do? Do you think that Barr would ever pay you back--that he would take you and your wife in and keep yuh? ----, you make me tired!”

“No,” John shook his head. “I do not expect much from Barr Wyeth. Neither does he expect much from me; so we might both be surprized, Kelly. Me and Ma are getting old--don’t need much.

“It has been a hard year for the cattle. The JHF has suffered with the rest--maybe more--and what’s left on this range are pretty blamed thin. We haven’t shipped any beef this year, Kelly; and you know what that means. I’ve managed to keep Bob and Splinter.”

“Still, the JHF is a good ranch, John.”

“Yes, a--good--ranch.”

“And you want to sell it to pay Barr Wyeth’s debts?”

“Perhaps,” the old man smiled wearily, “I need money for myself, Kelly.”

Kelly snorted audibly and humped over, examining his finger-nails, as he considered the proposition. Then:

“John, I haven’t a lot of money. My business is almost as uncertain as the weather, but I’ve got about eight thousand dollars. Suppose I take a mortgage for that amount. The JHF is worth a lot more than that, but if you ever obligate yourself for more than that amount, somebody is going to take away your home.”

“Thank you, Kelly. I--I guess it will be enough.”

“Too ---- much!” growled Kelly. “I’ll have the papers made out, John. You come tomorrow morning and I’ll have the money for you.”

John Fann got to his feet and turned to the door.

“Kelly, I am trusting you to keep this quiet.”

“Well--” Kelly laughed shortly--“I’m just as ashamed of it as you are, John. I think I know Barr Wyeth better than you do.”

“And yet,” John Fann paused with the door half-open, “it was written long ago, ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.’”

He closed the door softly. Pastry Pell was at the wash-stand, washing his swollen face, and he nodded to John Fann, but the old man was too deep in thought even to see him. Pastry grinned at himself in the cracked mirror and felt tenderly of his puffed lips.

* * * * *

And the sheriff was right when he said that Barr Wyeth thought he had killed John Fann. He had spurred out of Bunch Grass, dazed, fighting mad and half-drunk, but above all his whirling emotions came the soul-shrinking fact that he was a murderer.

Without warning, without giving the old man a chance in the world, he had killed him. There was no alibi, no defense in the world would save him. He tried to think calmly, and the thought smote him, that he had gone to town with murder in his heart. He had announced his intentions of killing Chet Gunning and John the Baptist.

Some one was coming down the road toward him, riding in a cloud of dust. Through dazed eyes he saw that it was his wife, and he mechanically drew his horse to a stop. She was close to him now, her face tear-stained, her eyes wide and inquiring. The dust from their horses’ feet eddied up around them, blurring their faces.

“I killed your father.”

Barr Wyeth’s voice sounded like the voice of a ventriloquist’s dummy, thin and unreal.

“You killed him,” said the woman in a flat voice, as if admitting the truth. “You said you would, you know.”

“That was a long time ago,” said Barr wearily, slowly. “I remember that I said it--a--long--time--ago.”

They stared at each other through the dust. The woman brushed a hand across her face, across her eyes, as if to wipe away the things that were before her. Then she turned her horse slowly around and started back toward the ranch. Barr Wyeth looked after her for a moment and then followed in her wake.

He was sober now and no longer dazed. No jury in the valley would ever acquit him, the evidence was all against him. He remembered that Windy, Mark and Pastry Pell were present when he had said he was going to “get” the sheriff and John the Baptist.

He felt sure that Pastry had told the sheriff and that the sheriff had disarmed him for that reason. It was a case of premeditated murder; murder in the first degree, punishable by hanging. He wondered if it would be worth while for him to go into the hills and take a chance on getting away. The whole valley would be against him.

Suddenly he wondered if he had really killed John Fann. His soul clutched at the thought, but he shook his head. The bottle had been nearly full of liquor; a heavy glass bottle, and he had thrown it with every ounce of his strength. No, it must have crushed the old man’s skull like an egg-shell, he thought.

It was a long way home for Barr Wyeth. Ahead of him rode his wife, looking into a blurred future for herself and the twin babies. Barr did not try to ride with her. He had hated John the Baptist, and just now, for the first time, he fully realized that John the Baptist was his wife’s father.

“Why did I hate him so?” wondered Barr. “The things he said about me--that was the reason. Yes, that was it. I killed him for the things he had said about me. He didn’t want me to marry Nell, but I fooled him. He said things about me and I killed him for saying those things.”

Two riders were coming down the slope of a hill ahead of him, and now they came down onto the road. It was Mark Ells and Windy Hart, heading toward Bunch Grass. Both of them spoke to Mrs. Wyeth as they passed her, but she did not look up.

Both of them drew rein, as if to speak to Barr Wyeth, but he did not stop nor speak to them. He did not want to talk to any one. It seemed so useless to talk to any one now. They watched him ride away toward the ranch and looked curiously at each other.

“Can yuh beat that, Windy?” queried Mark Ells.

“Nope--yuh can’t even tie it,” declared Windy. “Barr was a whoopin’ wolf when he left, but somethin’ has sure shrunk his howl a heap. Might be worth findin’ out.”

Mark grinned widely and they rode on toward town.

* * * * *

Buck Kelly did a lot of high-powered thinking after John Fann went out. He swore softly to himself over the whole deal, but mostly at John Fann for being such a fool. Then he lit a fresh cigar, picked up his hat and went in search of the sheriff.

He found him in his office, and lost no time in telling him what John Fann proposed to do. The sheriff listened in evident disapproval.

“I ain’t got a lot of use for John the Baptist, but I’m danged if I like to see him throwin’ money away on Barr Wyeth,” declared the sheriff. “I don’t think there’s any doubt but what Barr has been stealin’ cows from the JHF.”

“And the ---- old fool is goin’ to hock his ranch to pay Barr’s debts,” growled Kelly. “As far as the investment is concerned, I can’t lose.”

“You’ve got a mortgage on the Lightning, haven’t yuh?” asked the sheriff.

“No, but I’ve got enough of Wyeth’s notes to cover the whole works.”

“And if Barr does get that money from John the Baptist, and does pay his bills, he’ll be payin’ it to you.”

“Sure,” nodded Kelly. “It’ll be a case of shiftin’ the debt to an old man and an old lady.”

“And Barr Wyeth will never pay it back, Kelly. You’ve got to refuse to give it to him.”

Kelly laughed and shook his head.

“If he don’t get it from me, he’ll get it from somebody else, Chet.”

The sheriff stared down at his toes, a frown between his eyes, but he suddenly looked up and leaned close to Kelly.

“Buck, this ain’t a square deal to let the old man do a thing like this, don’tcha know it? Will you back me up in a ---- fool proposition?”

“What is it?” smiled Kelly.

“You’re payin’ him that money tomorrow morning. If he’s alone--” The sheriff hesitated--“Kelly, we’ve got to take a chance on him being alone and going home with the money. If he does, I’ll hold him up as he comes up through the cañon, and I’ll take that money.

“I’ll give it back to you, Kelly. There’ll be ---- raised, but we’ll set pat; _sabe_? I’ll wear a mask and do it all up proper. We’ll let the old man think he’s a big loser, but he won’t be. Do yuh stand behind me in this?”

Kelly laughed and nodded.

“Chet, I’m with yuh. But for gosh sake, do it right. If you get caught it’ll look bad.”

“Who’ll catch me? Andy Allard is laid up with a sore tooth. It’s a cinch, if the old man is alone. I don’t think he’ll go to the Lightnin’ from here--not after Barr hittin’ him the way he did.”

“It’s a ---- of a note when the sheriff turns highwayman to keep another man from payin’ his debts,” grinned Kelly.

“Accordin’ to law, Kelly,” nodded the sheriff, “but I’m goin’ outside the law, and I’m bettin’ she works.”

“---- help us, if it don’t, Chet--Bunch Grass jurors won’t.”

* * * * *

Mrs. Wyeth rode straight to the ranch-house, where she dismounted and went inside. Barr followed her into the bedroom, where he found her on her knees beside the bed, her face buried in a pillow. The babies were awake and they stared up at him with wondering eyes.

The twins had never meant much to him before. He wanted to say something to his wife, to try to console her, but what could he say to her now, he wondered? Then he backed out of the room and took the horses down to the corral.

For a while he considered taking his swiftest horse and escaping into the hills, but decided against it. Then he went back to the ranch-house and sat down on the porch to wait for the sheriff.

The sun was setting behind the Medicine Men peaks, and the road to Bunch Grass was fading out in the mist of evening. Barr’s eyes were watching the road; watching for the coming of the sheriff and his posse. Darkness comes swiftly after sunset, but still Barr Wyeth waited.

His wife came out of the doorway and sat down on the porch, but she did not speak. He looked at her, but her face was only a white blur in the dim light. He knew that she was waiting, too. Then, out of the dim distance came the dark bulk of riders and turned in at the gate.

“They’re comin’,” said Barr Wyeth softly.

But the riders moved on to the corral, where they began to unsaddle; blurred misshapen figures.

“It’s Mark and Windy,” said Barr in a flat voice.

To Barr, it seemed hours that they consumed in unsaddling. Then they went into the bunk-house, and in a few moments later there came the yellow glow of their oil lamp. Then the door shut, cutting off the light.

“Good God, why don’t they come up here?” breathed Barr wonderingly, and it was more a prayer than an imprecation.

“What is the use?” asked Mrs. Wyeth.

Then the bunk-house door opened and one of the men came slowly up to the porch. It was Windy. He stopped and appeared to be looking at the house, as if wondering why there were no lights. Then he discovered them on the porch and came up closer.

“I was jist wonderin’ if you’d gone away,” he said apologetically.

“No, I didn’t go away,” said Barr thickly.

“I didn’t see no lights,” explained Windy, and then hesitated for a moment before he said, “I--me and Mark was jist wonderin’ if you’d do us a favor, Barr.”

“A favor? What do you mean, Windy?”

“Well,” Windy laughed shortly, “last night Mark got sore and tore up our deck of cards, and I was wonderin’ if you’ve got an old deck you’d loan us.”

“A--a deck of cards?” parroted Barr. “Why, I--I----”

“I’ll find one,” said Mrs. Wyeth.

She went into the house and came out in a moment with the cards, which she handed to Windy.

“What’s new in town?” Barr asked nervously.

“Deader’n a nail.”

“Wh-what?”

“Bunch Grass allus is dead,” said Windy. “Thank yuh for the cards.”

He turned and started back, but Barr stopped him.

“Windy, did you see John Fann?”

“Yeah, I seen him.” Windy hesitated for a moment. “The bartender said he was chargin’ you up with a quart of hooch and a new bottle.”

“But--but John Fann--” faltered Barr weakly.

“I dunno whether he’s sore or not, Barr. It’s a good thing yuh didn’t hit him square. I’ll git yuh a new deck of cards next time I go to town. Good night.”

They watched him go back to the bunk-house and the door closed behind him.

“Barr,” said Mrs. Wyeth softly, and her voice broke to a sob, “Barr, you ought to get down on your knees and thank God.”

“I suppose so,” said Barr weakly, “but I’d likely make a mess of prayer, like I have everythin’ else.”

* * * * *

It was the following morning at breakfast that Bob Kern and Splinter Martin saw John Fann’s bandaged head. They had ridden in late and had not bothered Ma Fann for supper. Neither of them mentioned it, as they knew that John Fann would tell them, if he cared to have them know. But John Fann evidently did not care to tell them, and their curiosity naturally increased.

Ma Fann looked as if she had passed a sleepless night, but tried to be cheerful during the meal.

“We circled Comanche Cañon yesterday,” volunteered Bob, “and we made a pretty close count. There ain’t over two hundred head of cows on that end of the range.”

John Fann nodded thoughtfully.

“Betcha there ain’t over eight hundred JHF’s on the whole blamed range,” observed Splinter, as he balanced a piece of ham on his knife-blade, “and we had a tally of thirteen hundred and sixty-eight this Spring.”

John Fann stared at the table, as he slowly stirred his coffee.

“Bob,” he said thoughtfully, “how long would it take you and Splinter to throw all the stock onto the home ranch?”

“Eh?”

Bob dropped his fork and it clattered to the floor. He picked it up and squinted sharply at John.

“Round ’em all up and throw ’em in here?”

“Yes, Bob.”

“Why--” Bob stared at Splinter and shook his head wonderingly--“Why, I reckon we could do it in a week.”

“A week?” repeated John Fann slowly. “Well, I guess you can go ahead, Bob. Throw all you can in the horse pasture; there’s plenty of water there.”

He got up from the table, picked up his hat and went out of the room. They heard him clump down the front steps and go toward the stable. Ma Fann was standing at the stove, her back toward the boys, and Bob went over to her. He put his hand on her shoulder and turned her around.

“Ma, what does it mean?” he asked.

She shook her head and her eyes filled up with tears.

“Aw, gosh A’mighty,” muttered Bob. “F’r gosh sake, Ma, don’t cry! Here--” he drew a chair from beside the table and gently forced her to sit down. “Now, tell us about it.”

She wiped her tears away with her apron and shook her bowed head.

“He is going to sell all the stock. There was a man in Pine City who made him a flat offer a short time ago, but the price was so low that John wouldn’t take it. Now, he is going to sell out. He has given a mortgage on the ranch--on--the--old--JHF.”

“Aw ----!” blurted Splinter. “A mortgage on--say, this is the best darned ranch----”

“I didn’t know he needed the money so bad,” said Bob mournfully. “Me and Splinter have been takin’ forty a month a-piece, and we didn’t need it, Ma. Why didn’t he say he was pinched thataway?”

Ma Fann wiped away her tears and got to her feet.

“Well, we couldn’t winter all that stock, anyway. If it should be a hard winter, with the range in bad shape, we would have to buy hay.”

Splinter walked to a window and watched John Fann ride down the road toward Bunch Grass while Bob leaned against the wall and rolled a cigaret so thoughtlessly that he wasted half a package of tobacco.

“Then, I reckon, me and Splinter will have to rustle new jobs, Ma,” he observed sadly.

Ma Fann sighed and turned back to her pans.

“Mebbe,” said Splinter hopefully, “mebbe somethin’ will turn up.”

“Yeah, tha’s right,” nodded Bob. “Don’tcha worry, Ma. C’m on, Splint; we’ve gotta job ahead of us.”

They took their hats and went softly out of the house. Ma Fann looked after them tearfully. It would be like losing her own sons, and her heart echoed Splinter’s hope that something might turn up. She knew why John Fann was selling out his stock, putting a mortgage on the ranch, but she would not tell Bob and Splinter.

The two cowboys saddled up and rode into the hills. Their hearts were not in the work, and there was little conversation. They traveled slowly along the ridges, working back into the breaks. There were few cattle in sight. Then Bob Kern drew rein on a ridge and considered the outlook.

“Splinter, let’s swing back and clean up the range between Bunch Grass and the ranch. We’ll clean out this bunch when we herd in from Antelope Creek, and I don’t feel like tacklin’ Antelope today. Whatcha say?”

“Suits me,” agreed Splinter. “It ain’t noways a job that I relish, Bob. Dang it all, I wish I knowed some way to help John the Baptist. Who do yuh reckon hit him? Or was it an accident, do yuh suppose?”

“It wasn’t no accident,” declared Bob. “They’d ’a’ told about it, if it had been.”

“I’d like to meet the son-of-a-gun that hit him, Bob.”

“You’d have ---- little to do but to clean up the mess, if I found out first,” said Bob savagely. “If the JHF was owned by anybody else, I’d ’a’ helped bust up that ---- Lightnin’ outfit long ago. They’ll keep on liftin’ cows until I forget who I’m workin’ for.”

“Well, gosh all Friday, you ain’t the only one what is workin’ for the JHF,” reminded Splinter. “Any time yuh feel like startin’ somethin’, lemme know. Any old time you forget who yo’re workin’ for--I’m forgettin’, too.”

They turned and rode slowly back down the slopes, where the dry grass and brush crackled like tissue under their horses’ hoofs. Beyond them stretched the rolling hills, yellowed and browned and traversed by cattle trails. Farther beyond was the dark line of the Lost Horse River, which angled the length of the valley, and beyond that was the Medicine Men range, harsh and black in the sunlight.

Slowly they drifted around the heads of the cañons, coming nearer and nearer to the road which led from the JHF to Bunch Grass; a road that twisted its way through a narrow cañon, after leaving the flat country and opened out again before reaching the JHF ranch-house.

Suddenly Bob Kern reined his horse and leaned forward, listening.

“Thought I heard a shot,” he remarked.

“Well,” Splinter smiled indulgently, “is it anythin’ strange that we might hear a shot?”

Bob’s dusty face broke into a grin.

“No, that’s a fact. I reckon I’m kinda jumpy, and I never stopped t’ think.”

They moved along, skirting the edge of the cañon above the road, going slowly. Finally they came out on the rim, where they could see the road far below them. There were two horses standing close together--two saddled horses.

Just beyond them appeared to be a dark mass beside the road, which might be a man.

“What do yuh reckon is goin’ on down there?” queried Bob.

“Say, that looks like John Fann’s big gray bronc, don’t it? Ain’t that a man----”

Splinter stopped. One of the dark objects was a man. He appeared to get up from his knees and went quickly over to the horses. He mounted and rode swiftly toward town.

“There’s another man there!” grunted Bob. “There beside the road--that dark spot.”

“And that’s John Fann’s horse, or I’m a liar!” exclaimed Splinter. “Yuh don’t suppose that anythin’----”

But Bob had whirled his horse and was riding madly down the cañon rim, looking for a place to descend into the cañon. Splinter spurred after him. A short distance beyond, Bob whirled his horse over the edge and went angling and sliding down the steep hill, his horse fairly sitting down to keep from somersaulting, while close behind him came Splinter, ignoring the laws of gravity in his hurry to reach the road.

And they found John Fann lying beside the road, with a bullet in his head; his hair and beard gory with blood, but still alive.

“Good ----!” exclaimed Bob after a hasty examination. “He was shot from behind!”

The bullet had struck him back of his left ear and ranged upward.

“But he ain’t dead?” queried Splinter anxiously.

“No, but he ain’t a long ways from it. Poor Ma. This will about kill her, Splinter.”

“Who was the man who just left here?” demanded Splinter. “He’s the snake we’re after, Bob! Didja see what he looked like? What kind of a bronc was he ridin’?”

Bob shook his head.

“I dunno, Splint. Dark colored horse, but I ain’t got no idea who the rider was. Yuh can’t tell nothin’--lookin’ down on him thataway.”

“But he’s headin’ toward town, Bob. One of us has got to stay here with John, while the other goes after a doctor and to try and find out who shot him.”

“I’ll go, Splinter; and ---- help that man, if I find him! You stay here.”

And before Splinter could protest, Bob vaulted into his saddle and was racing off down the road toward Bunch Grass. The other rider had had at least ten minutes start of Bob, and Bob was not sure but what this man had seen them on the cañon rim. There were innumerable places where this man could swing off the road and let him go past, but Bob did not hesitate. He wanted the doctor first of all.

It was over three miles to Bunch Grass, but Bob did not slacken speed. Behind him streamed a cloud of yellow dust, like the smoke screen of a destroyer going into action. And Bob rode with a six-shooter clutched in his right hand, praying that he might catch sight of the man who had ridden away from John Fann.

But he did not see him, and straight down the main street rode Bob, jerking his jaded horse to a slithering stop in front of the Buck Horn. He swung down and strode quickly inside.

Buck Kelly was at the bar, talking to a couple of cow-boys from the 76 outfit, while several more punchers were playing a game of pool and arguing loudly. Bob strode to the bar and up to Kelly.

“Buck,” said Bob hoarsely, “John Fann was shot a while ago--shot from behind, while he was on the cañon road between here and the JHF.”

“Shot!” gasped Kelly, and his face paled slightly.

“Old John the Baptist?” queried one of the cowboys.

Came the clatter of dropped cues and the pool-playing cowboys gathered around.

“He wasn’t dead when I left,” said Bob. “Splinter’s with him. Shot in the head, boys. We saw the man who done the job, but we don’t know who he was. He headed for town.”

“For ----’s sake!” blurted Kelly. “Who do yuh suppose done it, Bob?”

Kelly was shaking in his shoes. He knew that the sheriff had gone out there to hold up John Fann, and he wondered if John Fann had put up such a battle that the sheriff had been forced to shoot him.

“You told the sheriff?” asked a cowboy.

Bob shook his head.

“Ain’t had time. Does anybody know if Doc. Knowles is in town?”

“I see him go into Pelliser’s store about five minutes ago,” volunteered a cowboy. “I’ll find him.”

He whirled and ran out of the door, and almost collided with the sheriff, who was coming in. He shoved the sheriff aside and ran across the street.

Bob grasped the sheriff by the arm and told him as quickly as he could of what had happened. Kelly was looking straight at the sheriff and their eyes met. The sheriff seemed to have grown old, tired; not at all himself.

“Old John Fann,” he repeated. “Shot in the head. All right, I’ll get a horse and be right with yuh, Bob.”

He turned and went out of the door. The cowboy was coming back to the saloon, bringing Doctor Knowles, a grayhaired physician who had spent most of his life in the Bunch Grass hills.

“What’s this?” he demanded anxiously. “John the Baptist shot? Somebody help me hitch up my buggy-team. We’ll take him home. Best place for him. Team’s in my barn and the buggy’s in the yard. Be with you in a moment.”

Two of the cowboys went out with him. Kelly turned to the bartender--

“I’m going along, Sam,” he said, and went out the rear door, where he kept a horse in a little stable.

The bartender shoved a bottle of liquor across the bar to Bob.

“Better take this along with yuh, Bob.”

Bob nodded and shoved it inside his shirt as he went outside. The cowboys were getting their horses, and in a few minutes the sheriff came from his stable, leading a tall, roan horse, which belonged to Andy Allard, his deputy, who was laid up with an ulcerated tooth.

“My horse went lame,” explained the sheriff wearily. “Lucky thing that Andy’s horse was in the barn.”

It was about fifteen minutes after Bob’s entry into Bunch Grass that he rode back at the head of eight riders and Doctor Knowles in a buggy. The riders swung into a swift gallop, but Doctor Knowles kept close behind them, his seasoned team of broncos traveling like a runaway.

Buck Kelly and the sheriff rode stirrup to stirrup, but did not talk to each other. In fact, the sheriff seemed to try to avoid Kelly’s glances.

John Fann was still alive, but unconscious. The doctor made a swift examination and ordered the boys to put John Fann into the buggy.

“Can’t tell a thing,” he replied to their questions. “Bullet is still in there. Maybe it cracked his skull.”

“Do you think he’ll live to tell who shot him?” queried the sheriff.

“Chances are he never seen the man.”

“Better see what he’s got in his pockets,” said Kelly softly. “I handed him eight thousand dollars in currency just before he left town. I took a mortgage on the JHF.”

The sheriff stepped over and searched through John’s pockets, but there was no sign of the eight thousand.

“Who knew that he had the money?” demanded Bob.

“Judge Freeman, myself and John Fann,” said Kelly slowly. He was trying not to incriminate the sheriff.

“The judge is a cripple, and you couldn’t ’a’ been there,” said Bob. “John Fann never shot himself and stole the eight thousand.”

Kelly looked at the sheriff, but the sheriff avoided his eyes. They loaded John Fann into the buggy and Doctor Knowles picked up the lines.

“Do the best you can for him, Doc,” said the sheriff. “I’m going to try and find the man who shot him.”

“You goin’ back to town?” queried Kelly, and the sheriff nodded.

“I’ll go back with you, Chet. There ain’t nothin’ I can do at the ranch. Lemme know as soon as yuh can what chances old John has got.”

The buggy, with its cowboy escort, started on, and Buck Kelly rode slowly back toward town with the sheriff.

“Now, yuh can talk to me, Chet,” said Kelly meaningly.

The sheriff turned in his saddle and faced Kelly.

“Buck, do you think I done that?”

“I’m listenin’, Chet.”

“Good ----! I wouldn’t harm John the Baptist, Kelly. I went out there to pull off that hold-up, but I went up the cañon further, where I waited. I hadn’t been there more than fifteen minutes, when I heard a horse comin’, but it was comin’ from the JHF.

“Then I seen Barr Wyeth ride past, goin’ toward town. He didn’t see me, but I figured that everythin’ was off now. He’d meet old John and old John would give him the money.

“I didn’t want to run into them; so I stayed there a while. I don’t know how long it was, but it must ’a’ been half an hour. Then I heard a shot. I got on my horse and went down the road in a hurry.

“I found John’s horse comin’ up the road; so I caught it and took it back with me. Then I finds John flat on his back in the road. I packed him into the shade and examined him. The money was gone. I was wonderin’ what to do about it, when I happens to look up at the rim of the cañon and I sees two riders, stopped on the edge.

“I know they’ve seen me, and I think it’s Bob Kern and Splinter Martin. Then--” the sheriff shook his head--“I reckon I got panicky, Kelly. I got my horse and busted out for town. I left the road and circled to come in the back way. I seen Bob Kern streakin’ along the road. My bronc looked like he’d swum the river; that’s why I’m ridin’ Andy’s horse.”

“Yuh sure it was Barr Wyeth?” asked Kelly.

“Y’betcha. Passed within twenty feet of me, Kelly.”

“If that’s told, there’s goin’ to be a first-class lynchin’, Chet.”

“And I’d have a ---- of a time tryin’ to tell my part of it, Kelly. Why, even a jury wouldn’t believe my story. All the evidence I’ve got is the fact that Barr Wyeth rode past me. That don’t make him a murderer--not in the eyes of a jury.”

“Well----” hopefully--“I hope John the Baptist lives. To ---- with the eight thousand dollars. If he dies I’ll tear up the ---- mortgage.”

They rode into town and stabled their horses. Several more cowboys were in the Buck Horn, including Pastry Pell, Windy Hart and Mark Ells. They crowded around and shot a volley of questions at Kelly, but he was able to give them little satisfaction.

“I tell yuh she’s gittin’ to be a tough country,” declared Pastry Pell. “I’m figgerin’ to pull out and see if I can’t find a calm and serene locality. Who do yuh reckon shot the old man, Kelly?”

Kelly shook his head.

“I think it was a robbery.”

“Killed old John the Baptist to rob him?” queried Pastry Pell. “Why, that ain’t----”

“He had eight thousand dollars with him,” said Kelly.

“For gosh sake!” exploded a cowboy. “Eight thousand!”

Pastry Pell’s mouth remained open so long that one of the cowboys reminded him of the fact.

“And it was gone?” queried Pastry.

“Didja think they’d divide up with him?” snapped Kelly.

“Sheriff got any idea who done it?” questioned Windy.

“Yuh might ask him,” replied Kelly.

“Is John the Baptist goin’ to die?” asked Pastry.

“Now, ain’t that a ---- of a question?” complained Kelly, addressing the cowboys. “Is it any wonder that he got his face smashed?”

“Aw, I never got it smashed for askin’ questions,” declared Pastry. “I got it for answerin’ questions that wasn’t asked.”

* * * * *

Bob Kern rode ahead and broke the news to Ma Fann. He expected her to faint or scream, but she was made of the fiber that bends much before it breaks. Swiftly she prepared a bed, while Bob heated water on the kitchen stove.

The cowboys carried the old man into the house and put him on the bed, while Doctor Knowles laid out his shining instruments and prepared to remove the bullet.

“Get Mrs. Fann away, can’t you?” asked the doctor of Bob Kern. “This ain’t going to be pretty to watch.”

Bob went out into the kitchen and gently led Ma Fann out to the back porch.

“Set down, Ma,” he urged. “There ain’t a thing yuh can do in there, and I want to talk with yuh.”

She sat down beside him and he put his hand on her shoulder.

“Ma, I want to tell yuh that somebody--the feller that shot John--stole eight thousand dollars out of his pocket.”

She nodded slowly.

“I was afraid of that, Bob. I knew he was going to get it today.”

“Why didn’t he ask me or Splinter to go with him? My gosh, I’d ’a’ hired an army, Ma.”

Ma Fann did not reply. Bob was rolling a cigaret and as he started to wet the edge of the paper with his tongue, his eyes seemed to focus on a spot a few feet away. He spilled the tobacco from the paper as he shoved away from the steps and peered down at the ground.

“Who was here today, Ma?” he asked.

“What do you mean, Bob?”

He came back and looked down at her.

“Ma, was Barr Wyeth here this mornin’?”

She nodded slowly.

“Yes. Just after you left, Pastry Pell came past here and stopped to talk a minute. He had been in a fight, I think. He only stopped a minute. Then, about nine o’clock, Barr came. I was out here and he rode around. He asked for John and I told him that he was in Bunch Grass.”

“Did he act mad?”

“No, I don’t think so, Bob.”

“Nine o’clock, eh?”

Bob glanced at his watch and put it back in his pocket.

“Bob, you don’t think----”

Ma Fann stopped with the question unasked, but Bob knew what she meant.

“Who hit John yesterday, Ma?”

She looked at him, her eyes filled with tears.

“It was Barr Wyeth, wasn’t it?”

She nodded, but did not look at him.

“I thought so,” he said softly.

“But that don’t mean ----”

Ma Fann hesitated, trying to convince herself that Barr was innocent.

“And John Fann was shot and robbed between nine and nine-thirty--two miles from here.”

Splinter clumped out through the kitchen and came out on the porch.

“Doc got the bullet,” he announced. “It’s a .44.”

“And nine out of every ten six-guns in this valley are forty-fours,” said Bob sadly.

“What does doc say about John?”

“He dunno. Says there must ’a’ been some shock, but he don’t think it’ll be serious.”

Ma Fann got up and went into the house.

“She ain’t no quitter,” said Splinter. “By golly, she’s got more nerve than I have.”

“Barr Wyeth was here this mornin’, lookin’ for John,” said Bob meaningly. “He pulled off down the road after that.”

“Yeah?”

Splinter shoved his hands into his overall pockets and rocked on his heels.

“Well, Mister Wyeth, we’ll be right on yore trail. Let’s go and have it over with.”

“Zasso?” Bob’s tone was sarcastic. “I suppose all we’ve got to do is to ride over there, ask Barr Wyeth for the money--and get it, eh? Then we accuses him of shootin’ John Fann and he’ll admit it. My gosh, that’s a simple way to settle things, Splinter.”

“Barr Wyeth started out to kill Chet Gunning and John yesterday,” stated Splinter. “I heard the boys talkin’ about it. Barr hit John with the bar-bottle at the Buck Horn and then beat it for home. That’s where John got the busted scalp.”

“I know,” nodded Bob, and went into the house.

The cowboys were getting ready to leave and Bob went to Doctor Knowles, who was sitting beside the bed.

“How long are yuh goin’ to stay, Doc?”

“Until John regains consciousness,” replied the doctor. “Anyway, I shall be here several hours.”

“Just so Ma ain’t left alone,” explained Bob. “Me and Splinter are goin’ to town.”

“I’ll stay until you get back,” assured the doctor.

Bob went out the back way, spoke to Splinter and they went out to their horses. The other cowboys were already going down the road and Bob did not try to catch up with them.

“Look for the bar-shoe, Splinter,” said Bob. “So dang much travel has likely wiped out the signs, but we’ll try and find where he turned off the road.”

Here and there, for the first mile, they were able to find an occasional imprint of a bar-shoe, but beyond that the dust became deeper and all trace was lost. They spent some time in examining the spot where John Fann had lain, but so much trampling had erased every clue that might have been there.

From there on they searched closely, but there was no sign of a bar-shoe to be seen.

“If Wyeth was in Bunch Grass this mornin’, somebody must ’a’ seen him,” declared Bob. “Accordin’ to Kelly, nobody knew about the money, except Kelly, Judge Freeman and John himself. Barr didn’t know it. He never shot old John to get the money, but he must ’a’ found it afterwards. I reckon he can use it to good advantage.”

They rode on into Bunch Grass. The cowboys had preceded them, and a crowd was gathered around the Buck Horn, listening to the latest news from the JHF. The sheriff was there, but was saying little. He was frankly worried over the whole thing, and was not sure that Kelly had believed his story.

Numerous questions were shot at Bob and Splinter, but they were unable to improve upon the stories that had already been told. Windy and Mark were there, listening much but saying nothing. As usual, Pastry Pell had made himself the center of interest although he knew nothing, except from hearsay.

“It ain’t for me t’ accuse anybody,” said Pastry, “but she ’pears as a open book t’ me.”

“It sure would have to,” laughed Splinter, “and with letters a foot-high, if you was able to read ’em with your eyes. You look like you’d tried to bull-dog an engine.”

“He talked too much, like he’s doin’ now,” said Windy meaningly.

Pastry licked his lips and tried to think of a suitable answer, but decided to keep still.

“John the Baptist was shot with a forty-four,” said Bob, “but that’s no clue at all. How many of us shoot a forty-four?”

A check of the crowd showed that all except Pastry Pell and Splinter used that caliber gun; their guns were forty-five Colts.

“Eight forty-fours and two forty-fives,” said Bob. “That’s about the average all the way across this range.”

The talk became desultory and Bob caught a signal from the sheriff. In an off-hand way they drifted together and went across the street to the office.

“What’s your idea, Kern?” queried the sheriff.

Bob hesitated. He knew that the sheriff would immediately arrest Barr Wyeth if he told him that Wyeth had been at the JHF that morning. In Bob’s mind there was no doubt that Barr Wyeth had shot and robbed John Fann, but still he held back the information.

“I ain’t got no idea, Chet,” Bob shook his head. “I seen the man ride away, but I’ll be danged if I could tell whether he was a big man or a little man, or whether he rode a black, brown, bay or a gray horse. They was kinda in the shadows, and you know how things look on a bird’s-eye view thataway.”

The sheriff sighed with satisfaction. At least, Bob did not suspect him.

“What about Barr Wyeth?” asked the sheriff.

“What about him?” asked Bob innocently.

“Aw ----!” The sheriff appeared peeved. “What are yuh tryin’ to do--protect him?”

“Are you tryin’ to arrest him?”

“No-o-o, not unless he’s guilty. Yuh see, he came to town yesterday to kill me and John the Baptist, but I took his gun away. He hit old John with a bottle and darn near busted his head. Under them circumstances, yuh’ve got to admit that it looks bad for Barr Wyeth, don’tcha?”

“Too bad,” agreed Bob.

“Whatcha mean, Kern?” quickly.

“Nothin’. I don’t reckon there’s anythin’ for yuh to do but to arrest Barr and try him for it. Yo’re sure he done the job, ain’tcha?”

“Nope--not sure enough. I thought I had enough evidence to shove him over for rustlin’, but you and Splinter and John the Baptist craw-fished out of the deal.”

“Thasso?” grinned Bob. “Well, I reckon we’ll drift back to the ranch and kinda relieve the doctor. ’F yuh hear of any good evidence, lemme hear it, will yuh, Chet?”

“I will, like ----!” retorted the sheriff.

* * * * *

Barr Wyeth was going from the corral to the house when Windy and Mark rode in that afternoon and motioned for him to stop.

“Didja hear the news?” asked Windy.

Barr shook his head.

“Somebody shot John the Baptist this mornin’ and robbed him of eight thousand dollars.”

Barr stared at them wonderingly.

“You ain’t jokin’, are yuh, Windy?”

“Honest to ----, I ain’t, Barr.”

And then Windy proceeded to tell Barr all he knew about it.

“About nine-thirty, eh?” mused Barr thoughtfully.

“About that time,” agreed Mark, and added, “There’s a lot of talk goin’ on, and I reckon they mean you, Barr.”

Barr laughed shortly and a deep furrow grew between his eyes.

“You wasn’t over there, was yuh, Barr?” asked Windy.

Barr nodded.

“Yeah, and that’s the ---- of it--I was.”

“Does anybody know it?”

“Yeah--Ma Fann.”

“And she’ll head to Bob Kern.”

“I reckon so. I must ’a’ left there just at the right time to meet the old man.”

“You ain’t got no alibi?” queried Mark.

“No. Ma Fann was the only one that seen me. I was back here at a little after ten o’clock, but that won’t help me with a jury.”

“Maybe you better do a little runnin’,” suggested Windy. “If the old man dies--yuh can never tell what folks might do, Barr.”

“If I run, it’ll look like I’m guilty.”

“And if yuh stay you’ll look like a corpse,” added the practical Mark. “I’d run, y’betcha.”

Barr turned and went to the house. Mrs. Wyeth had seen him conversing with the two punchers, and she knew from the expression on his face that something was wrong. He came up and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Nell, your father was shot this mornin’ and robbed of eight thousand dollars.”

“Shot?” she gasped. “Not dead, Barr?”

“No, he’s alive. It happened in the cañon about half-past nine this mornin’.”

“My God! Who did it, Barr?”

Her face went white and she grasped him by the sleeve.

“I reckon they think it was me,” he said softly, “and I can’t prove it wasn’t.”

“You? Why, Barr, you couldn’t do that!”

Barr shook his head.

“No, I couldn’t, Nell; but you know what happened yesterday.”

He drew away from her and leaned against the wall.

“I’ve drank and gambled away the Lightning. Buck Kelly owns it--not me. I’ve been a ---- fool, Nell, and I reckon I’m gettin’ what’s comin’ to me.”

“Don’t say that, Barr,” she begged tearfully. “How badly was my father hurt?”

“I don’t know. Windy said he’d probably live. I don’t know much about it, Nell--only what they just told me.”

“But can’t you prove that you didn’t do it, Barr?”

“No,” Barr shook his head slowly, “I can’t, Nell; but I may be able to prove who did. There’s no use of me trying to alibi myself. I can see where I’m up against it good and strong, unless I can slap the deadwood on the man who did do it--and make him admit it.”

“Have you any idea, Barr?”

Barr smiled and nodded.

“Yeah, I’ve got an idea, but I don’t know whether it’ll work or not. I’m goin’ to Bunch Grass and take a long chance on it, Nell.”

“A long chance, Barr?”

“Yeah--mighty long. Can’t wait here, don’t yuh see? Mebbe, it’s only a bluff, but a bluff is only good when yuh beat the other feller to it.”

“But they’ll put you in jail, Barr.”

“I don’t think so.”

He went down the steps and turned to her.

“If my bluff don’t work, Nell--” He hesitated and hitched up his belt--“I won’t go to jail, because I haven’t a Chinaman’s chance in there. I’m the same as convicted right now. Don’tcha worry about me nor about yore dad. He’s still alive and I’ve got a runnin’ chance.”

She watched him saddle his horse and ride toward town; watched him in a dumb sort of a way, as if she had no interest in him any more. She could not realize that her own father had been shot; possibly fatally, and that Barr was believed to have done it. Windy and Mark were coming up to the porch and she stared at them, as if they were total strangers to her.

“Where’s Barr goin’?” asked Windy, and she shook her head dumbly in reply to the question.

“If he ain’t a darned fool, he’ll beat it into the hills,” declared Mark. “If the old man dies, which he’s liable to do----”

Mrs. Wyeth swayed and collapsed on the porch.

“You ---- fool!” wailed Windy. “The old man is her father!”

They ran up the steps and looked at her. Her face was white and her body was very limp, as Windy tried to lift her.

“Help me, yuh danged fool!” he grunted. “We’ve got to get her into the house.”

They managed to get her on to a bed and placed a pillow under her head.

“Now what do we do?” breathed Mark anxiously. “What do yuh give ’em in a case like this?”

Windy scratched his head thoughtfully.

“I dunno. Only two remedies I _sabe_ are horse-liniment and castor-oil.”

“Don’t they pour water on ’em?”

“Yeah. Go and git the bucket, Mark.”

Mark departed to the kitchen to get a bucket of water, but Mrs. Wyeth’s eyes opened and she stared wonderingly around.

“You jist take it easy, ma’am,” advised Windy. “Mark’s gone after the water-bucket.”

“What happened?” she asked weakly. “Did I faint?”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s what it was. How do yuh feel now?”

“I’m all right now. I guess I just got dizzy.”

Mark stopped in the doorway and set down his bucket of water.

“Reckon yuh can git along all right now, ma’am?” asked Windy.

“Yes, I am all right now. Thank you both very much.”

“Yo’re welcome,” said Windy, and he and Mark went out through the kitchen, leaving the water-bucket.

* * * * *

Judge Henry Freeman was badly crippled in the legs from rheumatism, but was still able to continue his duties as district judge. He lived in a little house at the outskirts of Bunch Grass; prolific in his profanity, ready to argue anything from Blackstone to how to cure baldness, and smoking a very vile old pipe, which, when burning properly, sounded like eggs frying in a hot skillet.

He was a small man, with a long nose, abnormally bright eyes and a broad forehead. His hair was very thin, except in the back of his neck, where it grew down over his collar and started back up again in an attempted curl, or possibly trying to loop-the-loop. On or off the bench his tongue was as pointed as a rapier, but none could say that he was not impartial in his decisions--and just.

Just now he was hunched down in his easy chair, deep in thought. A few minutes before Buck Kelly had left him, after telling the latest news, and the judge was trying to digest the facts impersonally. Kelly had not told him which way the finger of suspicion was pointing, nor did he divulge the fact that the sheriff had gone out to try to save money for John the Baptist. And while the judge pondered, his housekeeper, Mrs. Letts, a very fleshy, middle-aged woman, admitted Barr Wyeth to the judge’s presence without advice from the judge.

“Mister Wyeth would see you, judge,” she said, after Barr was already inside the room.

“He would, would he?” retorted the judge. “My ----, woman, how many times do I have to tell you that--oh, well, go on out and let me talk to him in private. Sit down, Wyeth--go out, Mrs. Letts.”

Mrs. Letts faded out and shut the door rather hard. The judge frowned and threw his pipe on the littered table.

“Well?” He turned and faced Barr. “Go ahead.”

“You heard about John the Baptist, judge?”

“Umph! A little. Probably distorted. Always is. Never knew two men to tell the same story. Go ahead.”

“Judge, I want to tell you a little story. Yesterday I had trouble with John Fann.”

“Tried to kill him with a whisky bottle, didn’t you? I heard about it. Likely heard it all wrong. Go ahead.”

“I thought I had killed him, judge. When I found that I hadn’t I--” Barr hesitated--“I was glad.”

“Umph! Queer, ---- queer! Go ahead.”

“I have hated John Fann, judge. He has said some mean things about me, and they hurt. You know I married his daughter against his wishes, and neither of us have ever been to see them since.”

“---- foolishness!” growled the judge.

“This mornin’,” continued Barr, “I rode over to the JHF to have a talk with John the Baptist. No, I didn’t go over there to quarrel with him, judge; I wanted to make peace with him.

“But he wasn’t home; so I came back down the road, thinking that I’d come to town and find him, but decided not to. I rode out of the cañon, intendin’ to cut across the hills to my own ranch. I was takin’ my time, and after I got out of the cañon I got to thinkin’ that I’d better go on to town and find him.

“I swung around the rim of the cañon, intendin’ to hit the road where it comes out into the valley, when I heard a shot. I didn’t think much about it right then, but before I hit the road a man rode past me, and he was sure goin’ fast.

“I was back in the mesquite and he didn’t see me. I stopped and done a lot of wonderin’ why he was foggin’ along so fast. From where I was I could see a long ways down the road and this man kept lookin’ back. About half a mile below me the road curves to the right, and I seen this rider swing off the road and head into the mesquite.

“I’ve just about made up my mind that it ain’t none of my business, when here comes another rider, goin’ just about as fast as the other one was. He busted past me and I watched him until he made the curve, still follerin’ the road. The last man was Bob Kern.”

“What time was this?” asked the judge.

“Between nine-thirty and ten o’clock.”

“Umph!”

The judge scratched his jaw and reached for his pipe.

“Who was the first man?” he asked abruptly, turning his head as he reached for his pipe.

“Chet Gunning.”

“The sheriff?”

Judge Freeman’s groping hand missed the pipe, and he sat down without it.

“You mean to say that the sheriff----?”

“I ain’t meanin’ to say anythin’, judge,” interrupted Barr quickly, “but those are the facts.”

“But why in ---- would Chet Gunning shoot John Fann?”

“There’s eight thousand dollars missing,” reminded Barr. “That mortgage on the JHF.”

“Hm-m-m,” reflected the judge. “Bob Kern and Splinter Martin saw a man ride away from the place where they found John Fann. Could you prove that you were not that man?”

Barr shook his head.

“I can’t prove anythin’, judge.”

“What size gun do you shoot, Barr?”

“A forty-four.”

“And John Fann was shot with a forty-four.”

The judge reached for his pipe and began filling it, when Mrs. Letts knocked loudly and stepped into the room.

“Mister Pell would like a word with the judge,” she stated stiffly. “He’s outside, and I would not let him into the front door without a word from you.”

The judge grinned and sucked on his pipe.

“The human bulletin-board again.”