Chapter I: Part 1

Hashknife rides into a mystery in Stormy
River County and gets himself called

THE MEDDLER

by W. C. Tuttle

It was early morning in the town of Pineville; so early, in fact, that there was little activity. The lamps were still burning in the Stormy River Saloon, where tired-eyed cattlemen, ignoring the fact that this was Sunday morning, shuffled and dealt poker hands, drinking occasionally.

At the long hitchrack in front of the place nodded a dozen cow horses, whose owners had forgotten them since early in the evening. A man came from the saloon, carrying two big buckets, which he proceeded to fill at a squeaky old pump, breaking the stillness of the sleeping town.

Two men were standing in front of the sheriff’s office. One man was tall and thin, with a sad face; the other was a small, wiry, sharp-faced man, with graying hair. The tall man was dressed in wrinkled black clothes that did not fit well, a white shirt, polished of bosom, and an extra high stiff collar. He wore no vest, and his glaring red four-in-hand necktie gave him the appearance of a man who had had his throat cut. He leaned against a porch post, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as if his new boots were just a size or two too small.

“You say you busted it all to hell, eh?” said the small man, who was Pat Lynch, the sheriff of Stormy River County.

Oscar Johnson, the black-clad deputy, nodded sadly.

“Tryin’ to drive with one hand, Oscar?”

“No, sir.”

“Had a girl with you, didn’t you?”

“Shore, Annie Hall was with me, Pat. I was drivin’ with both hands, though. I dunno. Mebby the horse flipped his tail over the lines. It was dark. First thing I knowed, he kicked the dash off the buggy, and then started runnin’. Busted dash didn’t mean nothin’. I says fer her to set tight, and we come a-runnin’. ’Course, everythin’ was all right, until we hits that culvert jist outside of town, and we does a ‘thank-yuh-ma’am’ that jist caved in the wheels. But I hung to the lines, and when we lit—well, as soon as I gets untangled from Annie, I finds the horse upside down and the buggy fit fer fixin’. I gets the horse to his feet and managed to drag the buggy behind the blacksmith shop. And that’s where she is now, Pat.”

“Annie Hall?”

“Hell, no! The buggy. Annie went home.”

“Wasn’t she hurt?”

“Nothin’ special; kinda limped.”

“And you in that new black suit, Oscar.”

Oscar sighed deeply and looked down at himself.

“I thought of that, Pat; but there wasn’t no time to make a change. I’m sorry about the buggy.”

“You ought to be. Cost me a hundred and sixty dollars in Cheyenne—almost new. Damn good buggy, I’ll tell you!”

“One of the best I ever smashed.”

“You don’t need to be funny about it, Oscar.”

“Think I ort to cry about it? You’re lucky to have me back alive.”

“Some folks have a queer idea of what constitutes luck,” said the sheriff dryly.

“Oh, it wasn’t all luck; I used my head.”

“Yea-a-ah, I’ll betcha. Well, let’s go over and look at the wreck. I reckon you’d like to see me git it back in the same condition it was when I loaned it to you, Oscar.”

“Like to—yes; but it ain’t hardly possible.”

“I mean, I don’t like to have to pay for fixin’ it.”

“I don’t blame you, Pat. Won’t hardly be worth it. Anyway, you don’t need no buggy.”

“Well, you was the one who busted it.”

“You can’t argue with me. I did.”

The sheriff snorted disgustedly. He didn’t like to come right out and ask Oscar to pay for the fixing of the buggy and he knew that Oscar never would do it voluntarily.

“That was a great dance at Garnet,” offered Oscar, as they crossed the dusty street toward the blacksmith shop, which was near the Stormy River Saloon.

“Best callin’ I ever heard. My hoofs shore feel like I’d been on hard pasture for a long time. Fact of the matter is, I wouldn’t know I had any feet, unless I look down at ’em, they’re that numb. Good crowd, too. Lotsa girls.”

“You ort to wear boots that fit you, Oscar.”

“Fit? I got into ’em, didn’t I?”

“You wouldn’t call the skin of a sausage a perfect and comfortable fit, would you? Some of you cowpunchers make me sick. Ain’t got brains enough to wear comfortable boots. My Lord, you’d think there was a prize offered for the most uncomfortable feet.”

“There’s your buggy,” said Oscar sadly, as they halted at the rear of the shop, which was littered with the running gears of wrecked wagons, a wheelless cart and all the refuse of a cow town blacksmith shop.

“Yeah, that’s my buggy,” admitted the sheriff. “If it wasn’t fer that yaller paint on the wheels, I’d never recognize her. You shore massaged it a-plenty, Oscar.”

“The top’s all right, Pat.”

“Yea-a-ah, and one shaft. Why didn’t you bust off that shaft and use it to beat hell out of the top? Might as well have made it unanimous.”

“I s’pose. Still, old Sam Hall is a pretty good blacksmith, and he might put her together ag’in.”

“Oh, yea-a-ah! Take the blacksmith’s daughter to a dance and—— Whatcha tryin’ to do—git in good with old Sam?”

“Aw, I didn’t do it on purpose, Pat. ’S far as I’m concerned, I don’t give a darn whether he fixes it or not.”

* * * * *

Pat Lynch straightened up from an examination of a smashed wheel, sighed deeply and considered his deputy.

“Sometimes I almost hate you, Oscar.”

“Tha’sall right, Pat. Everybody is entitled to their opinion. I won’t argue with you. Fact is, I’m too sleepy and sore to argue with you. Remember, I got drug about forty feet, with Annie on my lap. She ain’t no feather piller, you know. Jist about ruined my new suit. I’m inclined to be sorry about that buggy, but at the same time—”

Oscar’s voice trailed off to a stop as he stared at the corner of a little corral, which enclosed a small stable behind the Stormy River Saloon. The sheriff turned and gazed in the same direction.

“What’sa matter, Oscar?” he asked.

“I dunno.” Oscar spat dryly. “Feller layin’ on the ground over there by the corner of the fence. Mebby he’s jist drunk, but he’s in a funny position.”

The sheriff stepped past Oscar, where he could get a better view.

“Too much liquor,” he decided.

But Oscar wasn’t sure. He walked over to the corral and looked at the man.

“You better come here, Pat,” he called softly. The sheriff left the wrecked buggy and came quickly.

The man was lying flat on his face, arms spread out, fingers clutching the dirt. His hat was lying several feet away. The back of the man’s head had been smashed in, and he was a welter of blood. Neither the sheriff nor the deputy spoke for several moments.

There was no use of an examination; no use in turning the body over. They both knew that it was Buck Dennig and that he was dead. Oscar reached out and braced himself against the corral fence, as he wet his dry lips with his tongue.

“Somebody’s killed Buck Dennig,” he said softly.

“Somebody did,” nodded the sheriff. “Been dead quite a while, too; prob’ly couple of hours, or more.”

Oscar nodded slowly, and they considered the murder in silence.

“We ought to tell about it,” suggested Oscar.

He stepped farther toward the other corner and looked between the poles of the corral. On the opposite side of the corral, tied to the fence, was a tall sorrel horse.

“That’s Buck’s horse,” said Oscar. “He mostly allus ties him back there. Said that the sorrel scares easy and might break loose from the hitchrack. Who do you suppose killed Buck?”

“This ain’t no guessin’ contest. C’mon.”

* * * * *

They went back through the alley and entered the Stormy River Saloon. Only one poker game was still in progress; around the table sat Hootie Cooper, a merchant, Frank Shell, a gambler, Mort Heffner, prosecuting attorney, Lester Cline, another merchant, Dobe Severn and Bud Hough, two of the TD cowboys.

They nodded to the sheriff and the deputy. Heffner yawned widely and looked at his watch, not realizing that it was already daylight.

“When did Buck Dennig leave?” asked the sheriff casually.

“About two o’clock,” replied Dobe Severn sleepily, “and it’s about time for us to foller suit, Bud.”

“Yeah, or get me somethin’ to prop my eyes open with,” grunted Bud, intent on his cards.

“Well, he didn’t git far,” said the sheriff seriously. “He’s layin’ out there by the corral, with the back of his head smashed in.”

The players blinked at the sheriff, hardly understanding what he had said. Heffner got slowly to his feet, his hands on the table.

“You mean that somebody killed Buck?” he asked.

“Jist that, Mort. Smashed in his head.”

“Well—well,” faltered Bud vacantly, “he was all right when he left here.”

“That shore sounds intelligent,” grunted Oscar.

None of them waited to cash in their chips. They filed out through the rear entrance, which was only about sixty feet from where the body lay.

“Don’t touch him,” warned the attorney. “One of you go and get the coroner. Just let the body alone. There isn’t a thing you can do now.”

Dobe Severn ran down the alley, hotfooting his way after the coroner, while the rest of the men stood stiffly around the body.

“Looks pretty damn bad,” said Hootie Cooper, a thin-faced little man, with a huge nose and a squeaky voice.

“For Blanco,” said Lester Cline, a much younger man than Cooper.

They were business rivals in everything except kerosene. Hootie wouldn’t handle it, because it had been the cause of his burning out his store at one time.

The sheriff turned his head quickly and looked at Cline.

“What about Blanco?” he asked sharply.

“That don’t prove anything,” said Shell, the gambler, quickly.

“No, it shore don’t,” agreed Cline, “but just the same—”

“What’s this all about?” demanded the sheriff.

“Buck Dennig and Blanco quarreled last night,” said the gambler. “Buck just the same as accused Blanco of stealing a card. I didn’t see it; mebby Buck had been drinking.”

“I didn’t see it,” said Hootie. “I was watchin’ the play. Blanco was dealin’. Looked to me as though it was square.”

“Did they fight?” asked the sheriff anxiously.

“No,” said the gambler shortly.

“They was mad enough,” yawned Bud. “Blanco’s lips were as white as anythin’ you ever seen. And he never turned a hair, when Buck—”

“Don’t say too much,” advised the gambler. “Just because two men quarrel—”

“I want the straight of this,” interrupted the sheriff. “You say they didn’t fight, eh? Did Blanco leave the game?”

“He did. It must have been about one o’clock. He never even stopped to cash in his chips. I’ve still got ’em for him—about sixty dollars’ worth.”

“And Buck left about an hour later, eh?”

“I looked at my watch,” said Hootie. “It was a quarter of two.”

Little more was said, and in a few minutes the coroner came with Dobe. The coroner was an old cow town doctor, short of speech, familiar with the ailments of everybody within a radius of twenty-five miles. His examination of the dead man was very brief. Except for the smashed skull, Buck Dennig had not been touched.

“One good swipe would have done it,” said Hootie.

“One _good_ swipe,” admitted the doctor grimly. He had known Buck for a long time.

“Take him out to the ranch?” queried Dobe.

“Take him to my office,” said the doctor shortly.

After they had taken the body away, the sheriff and the prosecutor went back across the street to the sheriff’s office, with Oscar tagging behind them.

“You better go to bed,” said the sheriff. “And for the love of gosh, git that collar and shirt off!”

“All right,” sighed Oscar. “I’m sorry about that buggy.”

“I hoped you would be.”

The sheriff and the prosecutor sat down in the little office and looked at each other.

“What do you think, Mort?” asked the sheriff.

The lawyer stroked his unshaven jaw. A full night session of poker did not tend to make him abnormally bright, not that he was a tower of wisdom at any time.

“I don’t know, Pat,” he replied vaguely.

“You was there when they quarreled?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Any threats?”

“Hm-mm. Well, there usually is at a time like that. I don’t remember just what was said—everybody talking, you know. But Blanco was mad, and so was Buck. In fact, Buck was mad when he came there last night.”

“Mad about what?”

“Oh, I don’t know what was the matter with him. Buck was usually good tempered. But something was wrong. You know, there has been a bad feeling between the TD and the Blanco outfits. Nobody has ever preferred any charges, but I think it was over some alleged rustling.”

“I’ve heard the same thing, Mort, but never from either side. Things like that leak out, you know. But what do you think? Is there enough to base an arrest on?”

“To arrest Blanco?”

“Yeah.”

The attorney shook his head quickly.

“Not in my opinion. Blanco may be as guilty as hell, but we can’t prove it. Not yet.”

The sheriff sighed with relief. He didn’t want the job of arresting Tex Blanco, owner of the B Arrow outfit.

“We may be able to gather some evidence,” said the lawyer reflectively, and then yawned widely.

He was a sallow-faced, angular sort, with heavily pouched eyes. He wore a celluloid collar, cut well back to give plenty of room for his Adam’s apple, and celluloid cuffs, with huge cameo cuff buttons.

“We may be able to,” agreed the sheriff dubiously, “but it looks to me like one of them crimes that you can’t hang on to anybody. If Blanco killed him, and keeps his mouth shut, how are you goin’ to put the deadwood on him, Mort?”

“I dunno,” said Mort, yawning again. “I guess I better go to bed.”

“How did Buck quit the game?”

“Lost about fifty dollars, I think. Ho-o-o-hum-m-m! Well, I’ll see you this afternoon, Pat.”

He stopped in the doorway and turned to the sheriff.

“Buck had more money with him, Pat. Had a roll of bills, fastened with a rubber band. Might see if he’s still got it on him.”

“All right, Mort. See you later.”

* * * * *

The Tolman-Dennig cattle outfit, known by its brand as the TD, was the biggest outfit in the Stormy River country. Cleve Tolman had been the original owner, but ten years before the killing of Buck Dennig, Buck had drifted into the valley, a youth of twenty-three, with a bankroll big enough, in the vernacular, to choke a horse.

Buck was not a cowboy in those days; merely a wild youth, who had come down through the country, pitting his luck against the games of chance. He landed in Pineville with more money than he knew how to handle. Cleve Tolman needed a partner and Buck needed an investment; so they became partners, registered a new brand and proceeded to build up a big cattle business.

Buck was a handsome, likable sort of chap, and he soon learned the cattle game, plunging into the business with the same dash he had used in beating cold-eyed gamblers, whose abilities had been as nothing against his phenomenal luck.

No one knew anything of Buck’s past life—of his family or whence he came. This was no novelty in the cattle ranges. Men told their past if it pleased them to do so; nobody asked. Buck played on the square with everybody, and that was all that was required.

Cleve Tolman was a big man, with the square jaw of a fighter, but rather short of speech. He always seemed content to sit back and let Buck do it. Some of the men said that Cleve was lazy. He liked to gamble, but his bad luck was proverbial.

Neither Tolman nor Buck had ever married. They employed from six to twenty cowboys, according to the season. Buck had always acted as foreman. Tolman was a director in the Pineville Bank and always had a finger in the local politics, although he had never aspired to an office.

The TD ranch was located about five miles southwest of Pineville, on Lobo Creek, the buildings almost hidden away in a big grove of cottonwoods. Little money had been spent on the ranch buildings, and none for paint. The ranch house was a rambling one-story building, that sprawled hither and yon among the cottonwoods, as if the architect had started something he didn’t know how to finish. The bunkhouse was a long, low building, with a swayback. The big stable also swayed badly along the ridgepole, as did the sheds and other buildings.

But in spite of all this, the TD was a prosperous outfit, with rather a happy-go-lucky crew, until Dobe Severn and Bud Hough rode in that morning and told them that Buck Dennig had been murdered. Cleve Tolman and Shorty Gallup were in the kitchen, getting a list of provisions from old Luke Jones, the TD cook, when the two cowboys brought the news.

Old Luke dropped a dozen eggs on his own feet and never even looked down at them; and Luke was a thrifty cook, too.

“You ain’t jokin’, are you, Dobe?” asked Shorty hoarsely.

“I wish t’ hell, I was, Shorty. He’s dead, all right. Somebody smashed in his head, and he’s laid out at the coroner’s office right now.”

Dobe went on to explain how the body had been found and what had been done; but Tolman did not wait to hear the details. He was heading for the stable to get his horse.

“What did the sheriff say?” asked Shorty.

“What could he say? He don’t know no more about it than we do.”

Matt Sturgis, Alex McLean and Eddie Grimes, the other cowboys were at the stable and heard the news from Cleve Tolman; so they came up to the house, eager for more details from Dobe and Bud, while Tolman mounted his horse and rode swiftly up the road toward Pineville.

Bud and Dobe gave them plenty of details, and they were willing listeners.

“It kinda looks to me as though Blanco’s cinch was kinda gettin’ frayed out,” said Shorty Gallup meaningly.

Shorty was about thirty-five years of age, five feet six, of tough muscles, stringy, colorless hair, pale blue eyes deeply set on each side of a crooked nose over a thin-lipped mouth. Shorty’s reputation included a willingness to fight anybody or anything at any time.

His bunkie, Matt Sturgis, was a tall, thin, grimy-featured cowboy who wore his holster tied down and said little.

“Looks thataway,” he said, in response to Shorty’s observation.

“Don’t prove nothin’,” said Eddie Grimes, who was inclined to be technical. He added hastily, “Oh, I know how it looks, but just because they quarreled over a poker game—”

“You worked for Blanco one time, didn’t you?” asked Shorty.

“I shore did, Shorty. And Tex Blanco never struck me as bein’ a murderer. Anyway, his punchers think he’s on the square, and he’s darn nice to his old woman.”

“She’s a funny old woman,” grinned Dobe. “Sets out there on the porch, smokin’ a cob pipe. Betcha she’s seventy years old.”

“Sixty-nine,” corrected Eddie, “and she shore can cook. She thinks a lot of Tex, and the punchers like her, too.”

“The first thing we know we’ll be right neighborly with the B Arrow,” said Shorty sarcastically. “Eddie, you ought to tell all this to Tolman.”

“No, I don’t need to do that, Shorty. Every man is entitled to his opinion, you know. I’m not boostin’ the Blanco outfit and I ain’t tryin’ to prove no alibi for Tex. But he was square with me, and I’d like to bet that a lot of the stuff he’s blamed for, he never done.”

“Let’s arise and sing hymn number thirteen,” said Shorty Gallup seriously.

Eddie smiled shortly and turned away. He knew that Shorty was looking for trouble, and he had no desire to carry the matter any further; not that Eddie wasn’t perfectly capable of holding his own, but he could not see where anything could be gained by fighting.

“Well, you shore run your sandy on him, Shorty,” laughed Sturgis, as they watched Eddie enter the bunkhouse.

“Looks thataway,” agreed Shorty.

“You did like hell!” snorted Luke Jones, standing in the kitchen doorway. “You jist think you did. Any old time Eddie Grimes backs down it’s ’cause he don’t want to take advantage of a weaker man.”

“Go on back to your mulligan, you old spav!” growled Shorty. “What do you know about war? You never cocked a cannon.”

“War? Say, I could take a umberelly and chase a whole damn brigade of jaspers like you plumb down to the mouth of Stormy River and never lay a hair. You’re allus lookin’ fer trouble, and hopin t’ hell you never find it. Some of these days somebody is goin’ to saw off your horns; and if you git comical with me, folks will point me out and say, ‘There goes Luke Jones, the feller who made a hoop out of Shorty Gallup and rolled him out of the State!’”

The door slammed shut, and they heard old Luke laughing to himself. Shorty’s ears were fiery red and he started for the door, but Dobe Severn blocked him.

“Don’t be a fool, Shorty,” he advised. “You know Luke.”

“The dirty old sheep waddy!” rasped Shorty.

“Aw, I know,” grinned Dobe, “he shore can git under your hide. But he does it for fun. He couldn’t whip nobody, but he shore can make you mad. Let him alone, Shorty.”

“I suggest that we go to town,” said Bud. “There won’t be no work done on this ranch on Sunday, that’s a cinch. And it might look better if we went down.”

“Suits me,” growled Shorty. “I reckon you’re right, Bud.”

* * * * *

Cleve Tolman found several people at the coroner’s office, and they greeted him with a certain sympathy. He looked at the body, asked a few perfunctory questions and went up to see the sheriff.

He found the sheriff talking with Lester Cline and Frank Shell, the gambler. They had gone over the cause of the quarrel between Buck Dennig and Tex Blanco, and they detailed it to Tolman again.

“But there’s no evidence that Tex killed him,” said the sheriff.

“He was pretty mad,” offered Cline. “It looked as though they might start shooting it out right there.”

“Did Blanco steal a card?” asked Tolman.

“Nobody seems to know,” smiled Shell. “Buck was pretty mad; so I reckon he thought Blanco stole it. Do you know—it seemed to me as though Buck was looking for trouble.”

“What do you mean?” asked Tolman quickly.

“Well, sort of irritable.”

“He came down early, didn’t he?”

“Sure, I saw him in the middle of the afternoon.”

“It wasn’t a case of robbery,” said the sheriff. “He had a hundred and sixty-five dollars in his pocket.”

“Makes it look worse than ever for Tex Blanco.”

“I’d like to notify Buck’s relatives, if we knew where they are,” said the sheriff.

Tolman shook his head.

“He never mentioned any, Pat.”

“Did Buck ever have any trouble with anybody else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, did he ever have a quarrel or a fight—I mean, lately?”

Tolman looked closely at the sheriff for several moments, as if wondering what had prompted the question. Then he shook his head shortly.

“No.”

“Uh-huh. Well, it looks as though we was kinda up a stump. We could arrest Tex on circumstantial evidence, I reckon; but Heffner says it wouldn’t do us any good.”

“Probably not,” said Tolman slowly. “When is the inquest?”

“Tomorrow mornin’.”

“I’ll be down.”

Tolman walked away from the office, and the three men looked at one another curiously.

“He’s a cold blooded fish,” said Shell. “I don’t suppose Buck’s death affects him at all. I think he knows something, Pat.”

“Knows somethin’? What about, Frank?”

“Didn’t you notice the look he gave you when you asked him if Buck had had a quarrel or a fight lately?”

“You don’t think Tolman knows how Buck got killed, do you?”

“Probably not; but your question froze him up, just the same.”

“I guess we’re all lookin’ for somebody to suspect,” said the sheriff dryly. “And there’s too damn much talk about Tex Blanco; too much talk and too little evidence. Tex is hot-headed, and about the time he hears what’s bein’ said, somebody will get pistol-whipped.”

“Don’t you suppose that the TD outfit will kinda ask Tex how about it?” queried Cline.

“Prob’ly. I’ll bet I know what he’ll tell ’em. But I hope they won’t. There’s been bad blood between ’em for a long time, and somethin’ like that might touch off the fireworks. Cleve Tolman is pretty level-headed, as a rule, but he might accidentally make a fool of himself.”

Shell walked over by the door and stood there looking up the street.

“The rest of the TD outfit just arrived,” he said. “I guess I better go over and open up a game.”

As Shell started to step off of the wooden sidewalk, he looked down the street and saw Tex Blanco and Frank Judd, one of Tex’s cowboys, riding up the street toward him. He hesitated for a moment, but stopped and waited for them to ride up. The sheriff and Cline came out, and Tex reined his horse over to the edge of the sidewalk. Judd rode on to the front of a store, where he dismounted.

Tex smiled pleasantly and spoke to the three men as he dismounted. He was a trifle over six feet tall, well built and graceful. His brown eyes and olive tinted skin showed his Spanish blood, as did his coal-black hair, slightly gray at the temples. His nose was slightly hooked and his teeth were whiter than those usually displayed in the range countries.

He wore a gray Stetson, nearly new, adorned with a silver band of Spanish workmanship. His shirt was of blue silk, and around his throat was a red silk handkerchief. Around his waist he wore a multi-colored sash, with the beaded ends hanging down his left hip, and a wide cartridge belt, sagging heavily to one side from the weight of his holstered gun. He wore gray trousers, tucked in the tops of his fancy stitched, high-heeled boots.

There was no denying the fact that Tex Blanco was what is generally known as a “fancy cowboy”; perhaps just a bit more picturesque than the average, but his clothes fitted him well, and these touches of aboriginal color were by no means glaringly objectionable.

He stepped up on the sidewalk, still holding his reins, while the tall sorrel came in close behind him. His saddle was hand stamped and decorated in silver, tarnished to a soft gray.

“Well, what do you know, Sheriff?” he queried pleasantly.

“Not very much, Tex.”

The sheriff was uneasy. Across the street and a little farther up the block was the Stormy River Saloon hitchrack, where all the TD horses were tied. He was afraid of what the TD outfit might do if they discovered Tex.

Tex seemed to feel that something was wrong. He followed the sheriff’s gaze, but saw only the string of horses at the hitchrack. Shell was looking curiously at Tex.

* * * * *

“What’s the matter with you fellers?” asked Tex bluntly.

“You didn’t hear about it, Tex?” asked the sheriff.

“Hear about what?”

“Somebody killed Buck Dennig last night.”

Tex frowned slightly, narrowing his eyes as he looked from one to the other.

“Buck Dennig killed? Who killed him?”

“Nobody knows, Tex. I found him this mornin’, out behind the Stormy River Saloon, layin’ almost against the little corral fence. He’d been hit on the head—from behind.”

Tex’s eyes swept the other side of the street, and his right thumb hooked carelessly over the top of his belt, just above his holster.

“That’s shore news to me,” he said slowly. “Wasn’t there no clue of any kind?”

“Not a thing, Tex. He’d been dead several hours. Left the poker game about two o’clock and was prob’ly killed on the way out to his horse. He kept it tied to the corral fence, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” said Tex evenly.

“Well, most everybody did,” said the sheriff quickly.

Tex rubbed his freshly shaven chin thoughtfully as he looked at Shell.

“Me and Buck quarreled last night,” he said. “You was there, Frank.”

“Yes, I was there, Tex.”

“I didn’t steal that card, Frank.”

“I didn’t see it, Tex. None of the rest saw it; but that’s all past. I guess Buck made a mistake. He was drinking quite a lot.”

“But he wasn’t drunk. I suppose everybody knows about the quarrel by this time, eh?”

The sheriff turned from looking at the saloon.

“They do, Tex. Too bad it happened. Nobody accusin’ you or anybody else, but I wish you’d pull out before that TD outfit see you. You know what I mean, Tex. They’ll be drinkin’, and there’s always been bad blood.”

“I usually do my runnin’ straight ahead, Pat,” said Tex coldly.

“I know you do, Tex. I’m your friend, ain’t I? Do this for me. Give that wild bunch a chance to cool off. The odds are all against you, if anythin’ starts, and it will start if they run into you. Give ’em twenty-four hours, and they’ll see things different.”

“Meaning that I killed Buck Dennig, and that I better give the TD outfit a wide berth, eh?”

“Oh, Tex, have a little sense.”

Tex’s brown eyes flashed with resentment for several moments, but finally he laughed softly and slapped the sheriff on the shoulder.

“All right, Pat, I guess you’re right. You can tell Tolman and his gang that—no, I’ll tell ’em, when the time comes up.”

Judd came from the store and Tex motioned for him to come down the street. Without saying anything more, Tex mounted his sorrel, joined Judd, and they rode back the way they had come.

The sheriff sighed with relief and shook his head.

“I reckon I rubbed him the right way. I shore was scared he was goin’ over and meet the whole gang. And he’d do it, too.”

“Didn’t seem so awful surprised over Buck’s death,” observed Cline.

“What did you expect him to do—faint?” asked the sheriff caustically. “How did you act when you heard it?”

Cline grinned sourly, but did not reply. They walked up the street to the front of a small store, where they met Guy Shearer, the cashier of the Pineville bank. Shearer was about forty years of age, stockily built, and wore glasses. He had been with the bank for several years.

“I heard about Buck Dennig getting killed,” he told the sheriff. “Wasn’t it awful? Things like that are an awful shock. Any idea who did it?”

“Not an idea,” said the sheriff.

“Queer, isn’t it? Buck was in the bank yesterday afternoon just before closing time, but he didn’t have much to say. I asked him if he was buying more cattle, but he either didn’t hear me, or didn’t care to answer.”

The sheriff pricked up his ears quickly.

“Just what made you think he was goin’ to buy cattle?”

“From the amount of money he drew, I thought—”

“How much did he draw, Shearer?”

“Ten thousand dollars. It was a lot of money to draw from a bank the size of this one. But I gave it to him.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” wondered the sheriff. “Drew it on a check?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, I’ll be damned! Huh! That puts a new angle on it. Who knew he drew all that money?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. I was alone in the bank when he drew it; so if any one else knew it, he must have told them.”

“That’s an awful lot of money,” said Cline slowly.

“Lot of money to have somebody steal from you,” said the sheriff. “The question is—who knew about it?”

“Well, he must have had a reason for drawing it,” replied the cashier. “Somebody else must have known about it.”

The sheriff nodded and went straight across the street to the Stormy River Saloon, where he found the boys from the TD ranch at the bar. They had absorbed a number of drinks and were in the right mood for anything.

“The law is among us,” declared Shorty Gallup, seeing the sheriff step through the doorway. “Hyah, Paddy?”

“All right, Shorty.”

Cleve Tolman was at the back of the room, talking with Mort Heffner, the prosecutor, who had slept only an hour. They came back to the front of the saloon, when they saw the sheriff, and the three men went outside together.

“You got any opinion on this, Pat?” asked Tolman.

“I have not,” replied Pat firmly.

“I’ve been trying to convince Tolman that there isn’t a bit of evidence to connect Tex Blanco with it,” said Heffner.

“And I don’t agree with him,” said Tolman coldly. “Tex and Buck had it in for each other. They’ve never been friends. And you can see for yourself that it was purely a case of revenge. His money was not touched.”

“And here,” said the sheriff slowly, “is just where your theory gits all shot to hell, Cleve! Yesterday afternoon Buck drawed ten thousand dollars from the bank.”

Heffner whistled softly. Tolman blinked nervously and seemed unable to speak for several moments. He cleared his throat harshly.

“Ten thousand dollars,” he said hoarsely. “That’s a lot of money.”

“A hell of a lot,” agreed Heffner. “Who told you, Pat?”

“Shearer. Buck cashed his check just before the bank closed yesterday. And Buck had a hundred and sixty-five dollars in his pocket when we searched him at the coroner’s office.”

“How much did he lose in the poker game?” asked Tolman.

“Not over fifty dollars,” replied Heffner.

“Did Tex lose very heavy?”

“I think he was ahead of the game, but he never stopped to cash his chips; he was too mad. But he’ll get his money.”

“Now the question is: Who knew Buck had that money?” said the sheriff. “Shearer knew, of course; but as far as he knew, Buck disposed of it right away. Anyway, Shearer ain’t the kind of a person to do a thing like that. Cleve, did you know that Buck was goin’ to draw that money?”

Tolman’s eyes narrowed slightly, and it was at least ten seconds before he replied—

“No!”

“Buck had his own bank account?”

“Yeah.”

“Wasn’t there a company account?” asked Heffner.

“No.”

“Well,” said the sheriff, “it looks as though Buck was killed for his money.”

“Not necessarily,” replied Tolman. “Most any man could use ten thousand dollars.”

“Sure,” nodded Heffner. “That’s a lot of money.”

“It’s a funny deal,” sighed the sheriff. “No evidence at all. Tolman, I hope you’ll order your men to let Blanco and his outfit alone. It’ll only start trouble. Tex was in town a while ago, and heard all about it. I didn’t want him to meet your gang today, so I induced him to go back home. But he knows what everybody’s thinkin’.”

“He does, eh?” Tolman smiled grimly. “I reckon you didn’t have to argue much with him to get him to pull out.”

“Tex is no fool. You’ll speak to the boys, Cleve?”

“Is the law goin’ to lay down on the job?”

“Not by a damn sight!”

“I’ll speak to ’em, Pat.”

* * * * *

It was a week after the murder of Buck Dennig that Marion Evans, erstwhile of Chicago, later of Cheyenne, climbed aboard the stage at Garnet, while Windy March, the stage driver, roped her trunk to the boot, and cast quizzical glances toward the back of his lone passenger.

Windy was thin of form and face, and tanned to the texture of old parchment. His face was not classical, due to numerous and sundry encounters, and his average chew of tobacco gave him a mumpy appearance. As a dispenser of local news, Windy was an animated bulletin board, but he was just a trifle timid around the weaker sex.

He had taken one look at Marion Evans, knocked his sombrero off when he tried to be polite, and almost swallowed the contents of his capacious mouth. She was quite the prettiest girl he had ever seen. In fact, he had never seen any girl with such a lovely complexion. The girls of the Stormy River country were tanned from the sun and wind. None of them had such big brown eyes, that looked steadily at you. And her clothes were different. Windy leaned against the rear wheel of the stage and wished he didn’t have to sit beside her all the way to Pineville.

But there was no way out of it. She had climbed unbidden to the driver’s seat. He took plenty of time in arranging his load, but he was finally obliged to climb up beside her and drive out of town. A close observer might have noticed that Windy had failed to fill his mouth with tobacco, and that he did not anathematize his four half-broken horses.

For a mile or more they rode in silence. The sun was warm, and a breeze sent the dust cloud behind them. The road was not too bad, and the stage was well enough ballasted to make easy riding.

The girl asked—

“Do you have many mornings like this?”

Windy, looking straight up the road, shook his head.

“First one I ever had,” he said slowly.

“First one you ever had?”

“Mostly travel alone, ma’am. Sometimes a puncher goes to Granite and loses his bronc, you know, and he has to ride back with me. This stage don’t pay much—not in passengers. Haul the mail, you know, and some freight.”

“I see. What kind of a town is Pineville?”

“Oh, all right. Need a railroad. They thought they was goin’ to git a railroad, but the railroad company didn’t think they was, and the railroad company built it, so they didn’t let Pineville’s thoughts amount to much. Mebby some day they’ll extend the line over there; but I dunno what for.”

“You are pretty well acquainted around here?”

“Know every sage bush by its first name, ma’am. Raised here and got m’ eddication here. Could ’a’ been a big cowman, I reckon, but m’ tastes didn’t run thataway.”

“I suppose the transportation business was of more interest to you.”

“Well, I—I—” Windy floundered badly. He didn’t know what transportation meant, but he ended weakly, “Yes, ma’am, it was.”

“This country is not what one might call thickly settled,” she observed a little later.

“No, it ain’t, ma’am. You’re from the city, ain’t you?”

“Chicago. I came here from Cheyenne.”

“Chicago, eh? Well, well! I was down there six year ago. Went down with a load of TD cows. Uh-h-h-h-huh-h-h-h! I sh’d say I did. Say, you don’t happen to know a Miss Smith in Chicago, do you? Had yaller hair and chawed gum. No? I dunno if she’s there yet or not. I took her to a show, and durin’ the evenin’ somebody stole my watch and my money. She was a right good lookin’ girl.”

“No, I don’t think I ever met her,” smiled Marion. “Chicago is rather a large city, you know.”

“You bet. Are you goin’ to stay in Pineville?”

“For several months, I hope, Mr.—er—”

“Name’s March, ma’am. M-a-r-c-h. Jussa same as the month. Most everybody calls me Windy.”

“Windy March?”

“Shore,” laughed Windy. “Sounds like bad weather, eh? Buck Dennig named me Windy. I got sore at a couple fellers one night, you know. Mebby I kinda overestimated m’self. Anyway, I went into the Stormy River Saloon, intendin’ to knock the whey out of ’em. I reckon I announced m’ intentions, so that all might gather around and see the fun. Well, it didn’t happen jist the way I planned. You see, them two waddies jist nacherally knocked the tar out of me. They seemed to have a lot of fightin’ that had to be done, and they shore worked me over a-plenty; and when it was all over, I went out on m’ hands and knees, plumb meek and lowly. That’s how I got my name, ma’am.”

“But I don’t quite understand,” laughed Marion.

“Don’tcha? Buck Dennig said that March came in like a lion and went out like a lamb; so they shortened it to Windy.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Yes’m, that’s how it comes.”

“I am Miss Evans—Marion Evans. And unless something unforeseen happens, I shall teach the Pineville school this coming term.”

“Well, what do you know about that? A schoolma’am, eh? Well, you don’t look it, and that’s a fact.”

“This will be my first school,” she confessed.

“Well, that accounts for it, I suppose.”

Windy slammed on the brake and paid close attention to his driving, until they left the short grades and entered the flat country again.

“Accounts for what?” asked Marion. Windy squinted against the sun, trying to recall what he had said.

“Oh, yeah; I done forgot for a minute. Well, I meant that they don’t stay so pretty after they teach school for a long time. I reckon it kinda takes all the pretty out of ’em. It’s shore a job—learnin’ kids. I know they had a job learnin’ me. But they stuck to it, and I came out of it all right. Takes patience, I reckon.”

“I suppose,” smiled Marion. “It will be a new experience for me; but one must work.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I feel that I was very fortunate to be accepted by the Pineville school board. I applied from Cheyenne, and they accepted immediately.”

“Prob’ly had to have somebody.”

Marion wanted to laugh, but she realized that there might be much truth in what Windy had said.

“I do not suppose that they are flooded with applications,” she said.

“Flooded? My God! Excuse m’ language, ma’am. No, I don’t reckon nobody has ever had to set along the road with a loaded Winchester to keep the teachers out of Pineville. The last one we had almost died on us.”

“Almost died on you?”

* * * * *

“Uh-huh. There’s the Blanco ranch ahead of us, ma’am. It’s a good-sized outfit. Tex Blanco owns it. We’ve got to stop there and drop off a package for Tex. I dunno what’s in it, but it’s from the Colt Company; so I don’t have to be no mind reader to know it’s six-shooters.”

“What is a six-shooter?” she asked.

“You don’t know? Well, what do you know about that? A six-gun is a—a hawgleg—aw, you know—a revolver.”

“Yes, I know what a revolver is.”

“Well, that’s them.”

“I notice you carry one, Mr. March.”

“Everybody does around here. Puncher without a gun is plumb naked.”

“But they don’t shoot each other, do they?”

“Not reg’larly, ma’am. It ain’t what you’d call a common occurrence. In fact, it don’t happen often enough to make it pop’lar. We wear ’em to prevent trouble.”

As they drove up to the big gate, Tex Blanco, astride his tall sorrel, was just coming out.

“Got a package for you, Tex,” said Windy.

He handed the lines to Marion and stepped down over the wheel.

“All right, Windy,” replied Tex, his eyes on Marion.

His steady gaze caused her to turn her head, and he said softly—

“Oh, I beg your pardon, ma’am.”

“Two bits, charges,” informed Windy, producing the package.

Tex paid him, and Windy climbed back to the seat.

“Oh, I plumb forgot,” he laughed. “Miss Evans, I’d like to make you used to Tex Blanco. Tex, this is Miss Evans, who is goin’ to teach the school at Pineville.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Evans,” said Tex slowly.

“Thank you,” said Marion.

“I’ll betcha you’re sorry you ain’t got no kids to send to school, Tex,” laughed Windy.

Marion flushed slightly, but did not look at Tex, who said—

“I never thought of that.”

Windy spoke to the team, kicked off the brake, and they went away in a cloud of dust, while Tex sat there on his horse, the package on the pommel of his saddle, until they disappeared into the hills.

“Nice lookin’ feller,” said Windy.

“Seemed very pleasant,” replied Marion.

“He’d be jist that pleasant if he was goin’ to shoot you full of holes, ma’am.”

“Good gracious!”

“Good shot, too. Nobody paws him around. I feel kinda sorry for Tex. Lotsa folks think he murdered Buck Dennig. Mebby he did. ’Course, they can’t prove it. The coroner’s jury said somebody unknown killed Buck; but jist the same they all felt that Tex done it. There’s bad feelin’ between the TD outfit and Tex. The TD outfit belonged to Cleve Tolman and Buck Dennig, you see. Everybody liked Buck. I reckon somebody will git hurt before it’s all over.”

“I am sure Mr. Blanco does not look like a murderer,” said Marion.

“Didja ever see one that did, ma’am? They most all look like ordinary folks, until they git convicted, and then everybody says they’ve got the face of a murderer. No, I can’t say that Tex looks like a killer.”

For the next mile or so Windy devoted himself to driving, as the road was bad. Once more they reached the long slope that led down toward Stormy River, and Windy relaxed.

“You spoke about the last teacher nearly dying,” reminded Marion, opening the conversation again.

“Oh, yeah, but he didn’t die. Kinda funny, too. The schoolhouse ain’t so very big, ma’am. There’s quite a few kinda big boys goin’ to school, and a couple of them got so they hated the teacher, so they framed a job on him.

“At the back of the schoolhouse is a hole big enough for a man to crawl under, and at the front, under the steps is another hole, not so big. Well, the kids got to playin’ around under there, and the teacher ordered ’em to keep out from under there, ’cause they might crawl over a rattler.

“Well, a couple of the big boys kinda hung around after school one night, and one of ’em went in and told the teacher that a little kid had got under there and couldn’t git out. He led the teacher around to the hole at the back, while the other big kid stayed under the steps and cried through the other opening.

“The teacher tried to talk with the cryin’ kid, but the kid wouldn’t do nothin’ but cry; so he crawled under to git the kid, and these two big boys blocked the two holes. They piled cordwood against the holes, shuttin’ the blame place up tight.

“Next mornin’ there wasn’t no teacher and no bell rung; so everybody thought the teacher had jumped the job. And by golly, it was two days later before anybody found him.”

“What a terrible thing to do!” exclaimed Marion. “What did they do to the two big boys who perpetrated such a thing?”

“I ain’t sure, but I think they got dispelled.”

“Literally, I hope,” laughed Marion.

“I ain’t sure about that,” said Windy seriously.

They drove through the Stormy River crossing, where the water barely reached the hubs of the wheels. It was near the middle of September, and in a couple more months there would be plenty of snow and cold weather in the Stormy River valley. Cattle were trailing along the bank of the river, and Windy pointed out the different brands.

“There’s some TD’s,” he told her. “Biggest outfit in the valley. I reckon it all belongs to Cleve Tolman now. Buck didn’t have no folks.”

“Buck was the man they think was killed by Mr. Blanco?”

“Yes’m—murdered. Prob’ly killed for his money.”

“Did he have lots of money?”

“Y’betcha. Had ten thousand on him, they say.”

“Gracious! Isn’t that a lot of money to be carrying around?”

“I’ve heard that it was, ma’am; but I never had no personal knockdown to that much cash. After it gets over forty dollars, it all looks alike to me.”

“I guess I know how you feel,” sighed Marion.

Windy shot a sidewise glance at her. Windy was not so dumb that he did not understand that his fair passenger was not overly burdened with worldly wealth.

“Oh, I’ve got a few dollars salted away,” he told her confidentially.

“It must be a comfortable feeling, Mr. March.”

“Mm-m-m-m.”

Windy had the munificent sum of eighty-three dollars in the Pineville Bank.

“Well, there’s Pineville ahead of us, ma’am,” he said. “That’s her skyline, you can see. Looks like a set of bad teeth, don’t it. See them two molars in the middle. Them’s the Pineville Bank and the Stormy River Saloon; two of the big business places. They’ve got false fronts.”

* * * * *

“Do you know Mr. James Lawrence Cooper?”

“James Lawrence—oh, yea-a-ah. That’s Hootie Cooper. Runs a store in Pineville. Yeah, I shore know Hootie.”

“I am to board at his home—board and room.”

“That’s fine. Mrs. Cooper is a great big fat woman. Awful nice woman, too. You’ll like her fine. Good cook. Tell her she’s gettin’ thin and she’ll love you. But she ain’t. If anythin’, she’s gettin’ fatter.”

“Have they any children?”

“Didn’t have last Friday.”

Marion laughed outright.

“Well, that’s the truth,” said Windy seriously. “I never lie to a lady. If it came to a showdown, I’d bet they ain’t, but I wouldn’t make no definite statement.”

“I am just a little afraid of the board of trustees,” admitted Marion. “I am not so sure of my ability, you see.”

“Well, you jist forget that, ma’am. There’s Hootie and old Sam Hall and Hennery Goff. That’s the trustees.”

“Mr. Cooper said they would investigate my qualifications, but he felt sure I would do. They will probably ask me to pass an examination.”

“They will? Lemme tell you somethin’, ma’am? If them three old pelicans make you pass an examination, they better ask you to write out the answers of the questions they’re goin’ to ask you, or they’ll never know whether you’re right or wrong.”

They drove in on the main street, and Windy drew up in front of Hootie Cooper’s general merchandise store, with a squeal of brakes and a jingle of trace chains. Hootie was in the doorway, and he came slowly out to the stage.

“Hootie, this here is Miss Evans, the new teacher,” said Windy grandly.

“Well, howdy!” exclaimed Hootie. “Gosh darn! C’mon right down, ma’am.”

He turned around toward the doorway, cupped his hands around his mouth, and bellowed:

“Ma-a-a-a-a! C’mere, Ma-a-a-a!”

A portly figure, dressed in printed calico, darkened the doorway, carrying an armful of packages. Her face beamed like a full moon.

“Ma, this is Miss Evans,” said Hootie excitedly.

“Well, bless your heart!” panted Mrs. Cooper.

She dropped the bundles and advanced to Marion, holding out her hands.

“My God!” exploded Hootie. “A dozen aigs busted. There’s your omelette on the sidewalk, woman; omelette and sugar and oatmeal. Turn your team around, Windy. Here’s their dinner.”

But Mrs. Cooper paid no attention to her scattered groceries.

“Oh, I’m so glad to see you,” she panted. “I told Hootie I hoped you’d be young and good lookin’. We’ve shore been fed up on men teachers and homely wimmin ones. You shore do look nice. Hootie—” she turned to her husband—“you’ll have to set on the porch with a Winchester and keep the cowpunchers away.”

“Looks thataway,” grinned Hootie.

“Well, drive around to my house and take off that trunk, Windy,” she ordered. “You didn’t think the lady was goin’ to pack it down there in her hand, did you?”

“Well, shore I’ll take it down, Mrs. Cooper. My, my! You’re a lot thinner than you was last Friday.”

“I am! Last Friday I weighed two hundred and forty; today I barely tipped the beam at two hundred and forty-four, you liar!”

Windy skipped up over the wheel and landed in the seat, where he kicked off the brake and headed for the Cooper home. Marion laughed with Mrs. Cooper.

“Well, that’s that,” sighed the fat lady. “Hootie, put me up another order, will you. No, never mind. Bring it down when you come to supper. I’ve got to talk with Miss Evans, and I need both arms. What did you say your first name was? No, that’s right, you didn’t. Marion? Say, that’s pretty. Mine’s Gladys. But call me Ma Cooper. I shucked Gladys when I got over a hundred and seventy-five. Kinda outgrew it. I suppose Windy told you all about everybody, didn’t he? Oh, he would. When he tells you anythin’, strain it through a sieve. He can git himself all excited over one of his own lies. But he’s all right, Windy is. His heart is in the right place. You’re from Chicago, ain’t you? That’s what Hootie told me. I’ve heard a lot about Chicago from Windy. He met a girl named Smith.”

“He told me about her,” laughed Marion, as they walked down the street.