Chapter II: Part 2

“I don’t think there is, Brick.” Mrs. Wesson shook her head. “Them two clumsy doctors are out there and if they can’t kill him, he’s a wonder. They didn’t tell me to vamoose--not in so many words, but I don’t have to git hit with a boulder. I’m goin’ home after some clean clothes.”

“Is he--has he said anythin’?”

“Not a word. Doc Meyers thought he was conscious, but Doc Meyers knows a ---- sight more about ringbone and spavin than he does about human ills. You know that Scott Martin was almost deaf anyway, and I reckon this bullet ruins what’s left. He couldn’t hear the crack o’ doom. And here he comes out there with Doctor Winchell. Where’d that horse doctor get any right to prognosticate on the human form, I’d admire to know?”

“How’s Jean?”

“Well, she ain’t singin’, if that’s what yuh mean. I asked her if she didn’t think it was funny that you hadn’t been out, and she said she didn’t think so under the circumstances. She thinks you shot him, I reckon.”

“Don’t you, Mrs. Wesson?”

“Good----!” Mrs. Wesson’s eyes bored into Brick’s face.

“Brick Davidson, I’m plumb ashamed of yuh! Don’tcha think I’ve got any--giddap!”

The ponies sprang forward and the buckboard rattled off down the road, with Mrs. Wesson humped up in the seat, while Brick sat on his horse beside the road watching her disappear. Then the lines of his face relaxed and he patted his horse’s shoulder.

“Button, we’ll show ’em yet. Didja hear what she said? She was mad at me, ’cause I even thought she believed it. Lafe knows I didn’t, and Silent and Harp don’t believe it, and now Mrs. Wesson don’t. Button, we ain’t in the majority, not by a ---- sight, but we’ve got a fightin’ nest-egg. Now watch our dust.”

Brick headed into the hills. He had no desire to go to Weeping Tree--today. Mrs. Wesson’s indignant reply to his question had warmed his whole being. It seemed to clear his mind. He had thought of what Silent had told him, and had almost decided to resign his office, but this meeting with Mrs. Wesson had been like handing a loaded gun to a cornered fugitive.

Brick gave no heed to his direction, and suddenly pulled up his horse at the top of a butte and looked down upon the rambling ranch-house and sprawling corrals of the Star Dot. A spirit of daredevilry came to Brick. For the first time since he had found Scott Martin lying shot, he became normal. As far as he could see there was no one at the Star Dot. Several head of cattle browsed around inside one of the corrals, while in another were several horses.

Brick shook up his horse and rode straight for the house. He rode past the front porch and around the corner, where he found Jeff Seldon, tilted back in a chair against the side of the building. Seldon had changed clothes and had evidently neglected to wear his belt and gun.

* * * * *

Seldon stared at Brick, as though Brick were a ghost. His thin face seemed to grow thinner and the parchment-colored skin seemed fairly to crack. For the space of ten seconds neither of them spoke; then Seldon exploded a curse and swung his chair away from the wall.

“Nice afternoon,” observed Brick seriously.

“Nice ----!” choked Seldon. His hand dropped to his hip, but there was nothing there except sagging overalls.

He swallowed with difficulty.

“You spoke about two Herefords what had been mavericked,” remarked Brick.

“You’re ---- right I did! Don’tcha believe me?”

“Like to see ’em, Seldon, if it ain’t too much trouble.” Seldon got to his feet and led the way to the corral, with Brick riding behind him. There were several head of cattle in the corral, all Herefords. Seldon pointed out the two mavericks, or which had been mavericks until the Weeping Tree had been run on their right shoulder. They were nearly full-blooded Herefords.

“You could swear that they belonged to you, Seldon?”

“Swear? ’Course I could swear. Any jury in the country would give ’em to me. The Weepin’ Tree ain’t got no Herefords.”

“They were mavericks,” observed Brick. “Must be nearly yearlin’s.”

“Uh-huh. Fellows found ’em way back in the breaks of Piney Crick. They was mavericks, but they’re mine, y’betcha. Danged nice pair of animals.”

“If you’ll open the gate, I’ll cut ’em out,” offered Brick.

“Cut ’em out?” Seldon was plainly surprized. “What for--cut ’em out?”

“Take ’em back with me. You swear that they belong to you, Seldon, but your brand ain’t on ’em. You swear that the Weepin’ Tree ain’t never had no Herefords. I reckon we’ll turn ’em over to the association and let ’em decide whether either outfit owns ’em.”

Seldon leaned against the corral fence and grew incoherent. Would he stand for anything like this? Not by several adjective sights. He’d see Brick Davidson skating in a mythical region, where heat is said to be excessive, first. In fact, Seldon exhausted his extensive vocabulary of “nots and won’ts,” while Brick grinned in silent wonder that any human being could think of so many curses and have them all fit the situation.

Seldon started for the house, but Brick swung his horse across Seldon’s path and asked Seldon where he was going. Seldon informed him that he was going to town, but first he must get his coat. Brick grinned and shook his head.

“From that window up there you could salivate me with lead, old-timer. No, I can’t let yuh go into the house--not today.”

“---- yuh, I don’t want to go into the house!” Seldon’s voice was high-pitched in spots, like a youngster, whose voice is changing. “My coat is right there around the corner from the kitchen door.”

Brick glanced at the kitchen door. He could watch Seldon get the coat, but what would prevent Seldon from jumping around out of sight? Brick shook his head.

“You stay here, old-timer, and I’ll get the coat for yuh.” Brick got off his horse and walked to the corner, keeping an eye on Seldon. Just around the corner, leaning against the wall, was a Winchester rifle. There was no coat.

Seldon said nothing, when Brick came back, but his eyes narrowed. He was caught with the goods, and he knew better than to try to lie out of it.

“You’ve got a good tailor,” said Brick, examining the rifle, “but I reckon we’ll kinda spoil the fit.”

He levered all the cartridges out of the magazine and then motioned for Seldon to go back to the corral. Brick took the rifle in both hands and swung it across the top of a post. After three swings there was neither stock, magazine lever nor mechanism left. Brick threw it aside and motioned for Seldon to open the gate.

It was but a moment’s work for Brick to send the two yearlings out of the gate. Seldon was beyond words. His skinny jaws were set, but he did not look at Brick as he rode past, and followed the two maverick animals. Brick headed them straight toward Marlin City. Where the road swung around a high point, about half a mile from the Star Dot, he looked back, and saw two horsemen riding in from another direction.

Brick let the yearlings drift, while he watched the ranch-house. Few loose animals will follow a road, unless carefully herded, and these two Herefords were no exception. They drifted on for a while and stopped; looked back, and swung back into the hills.

* * * * *

Brick’s patience was rewarded. In about fifteen minutes three riders left the ranch and swung up the road toward Brick. One of them was evidently Jeff Seldon, as his pinto was easily distinguished at that distance.

Brick rode off the grade and down into a tangle of mesquite, where he was effectually screened from the road. As they rode swiftly past him, he recognized Seldon and Pete Kane; but the third man was a stranger. As soon as they were out of sight, Brick rode back to the grade and went slowly toward town. He had no idea why the three riders were in such a hurry. Perhaps they figured on overtaking him and getting the yearlings. Brick did not make any search for the Herefords, knowing that they now headed into the hills. At any rate, they were of no value to him. They had been an excuse for a visit to Jeff Seldon, and the visit had turned out very well.

Brick did not hurry back to Marlin City. He rode slowly to where the road led off to the Weeping Tree, scanning the road carefully for a sign of the missing toe-calks, but there were none. Seldon, Kane and the stranger had ridden two shod horses and one barefooted one. On the saddled ones the toe and heel calks were plainly visible.

Brick wanted to go to the Weeping Tree, but after due deliberation went on to town. Protesting his innocence would not do him any good. In fact Brick did not want to protest his innocence--he wanted to prove it by finding the guilty parties.

As he rode into town he noticed that there was an unusually large number of saddle-horses at the hitch-rack beside the Dollar Down; but this was Saturday, which would account for that. Brick had intended to go to the office, but when he saw Seldon’s pinto at the hitch-rack he changed his mind and went to the saloon.

Pete Kane and the stranger were just coming to the door, as Brick stepped inside. As Brick stepped aside to let them pass, Kane spoke to the stranger. The man turned his head toward Kane, and then appeared to stumble into Brick; his toe striking Brick’s ankle. The man had stumbled on a smooth floor and had gone entirely out of his way to collide with Brick.

For a moment they were face to face, but the stranger’s eyes held no hint of apology, rather he appeared to blame Brick. Brick made as though to pass on into the saloon, but his right foot swung sidewise, catching around the stranger’s ankle, throwing him completely off his balance and he crashed to the floor.

Brick had barely stopped in his stride and now he faced Kane, who had stopped just inside the door, and the fallen man, who was sitting on the floor staring at Brick. The man was taller than Brick, but of about the same weight. His features and complexion stamped him as a Spaniard or a Mexican. He wore a small, well-trimmed mustache on his short upper lip. His nose was prominent and his close-set eyes were very black. He was a trifle overdressed; his range clothes extreme in color and cut. A businesslike gun reposed in a stamped leather holster on his hip, and his heavy, wide belt was well filled with cartridges.

He glanced around at the crowd and got slowly to his feet. Kane was almost behind him as he got up, but stepped quickly out of line with Brick, who was standing easily, feet braced and hand swung idly beside the holster of his gun. He appeared to hold little animosity toward Brick, and his mouth twisted into a semblance of a grin. Then he turned and went out.

“Quitter!” grunted a voice in the group.

Brick turned and looked at them. His eyes singled out Seldon.

“Quitter?” queried Brick wonderingly.

“Started it, didn’t he?” asked Seldon quickly. Brick grinned.

“’Pears to me like he did, Seldon. Who is he?” asked Brick.

“Name’s Smith--Jack Smith,” replied Seldon. “Horse buyer for the English army.”

Brick considered this, and turned back to the door. Lafe Freeman and Bunch Thornton came up to Brick and asked him to step outside. They were both very serious.

“Brick, I’m plumb scared that they’re goin’ to ask yuh to resign,” stated Lafe. “Lot of these snake-hunters think you shot Scott Martin, and nothin’ will stop ’em thinkin’ that--except findin’ the guilty ones.”

“I’m for yuh, Brick,” said Bunch. “I’ll make yuh foreman of my outfit, if yuh need a job.”

“He won’t.” Lafe Freeman spoke with conviction. “If Brick needs a job, his old place on the Nine Bar Nine is still waitin’ for him.”

“But I ain’t needin’ a job,” grinned Brick. “I’m goin’ to keep right on bein’ sheriff.”

* * * * *

“Bill Voorhies is chairman of the board of county commissioners, and he’s goin’ to take up the matter,” said Lafe. “Bill kinda runs that bunch of horse-thieves, and Bill’s down on you, Brick. I’ll do all I can, but----”

“Bill wasn’t in favor of me when Bunty resigned,” remarked Brick.

“Sure, sure,” nodded Thornton, “and Bill’s the worst maverick in the whole county, Brick. He can’t afford to have yuh spoilin’ his game, can he?”

“When all is said and done, why should I resign? I haven’t done a danged thing that was wrong.”

“Old Seldon said yuh came out to his place and herded him around with a gun and turned his stock into the hills and smashed his rifle. Said yuh run off them two mavericked yearlin’s, likely to square yourself with Martin in case he gets well. Voorhies was there and heard it all. He said there’s due to be a change in your office real soon.”

“Heard anything from Martin?” asked Brick.

“Paralyzed, so Doc Meyers says,” replied Lafe. “Can’t talk nor hear nor move. Bullet kinda crimped his spine, I reckon.”

“Say, who owns the Weepin’ Tree ranch?” asked Brick suddenly.

“Seldon,” replied Thornton. “He’s got a deed from Zell Mohr. He was talkin’ about it today. It joins the Star Dot and there’s a couple of good springs, which flows well all Summer. Kinda funny that none of us picked up that ranch on account of them springs. Betcha Seldon never paid Zell nowhere near what the place was worth.”

“It was worth nothin’ to Zell,” grinned Lafe.

“So Mohr sold the Weepin’ Tree to Seldon before he went to the pen, eh?” queried Brick. “Where does Martin come in on this deal? He’s got a paper that Zell gave him, which shows that Martin can live as long as he wants to on that ranch.”

“I dunno.” Thornton shook his head. “Seldon’s got the deed to it, that’s all I know.”

Brick smiled and turned to Lafe.

“I’m goin’ to keep on bein’ sheriff, Lafe. Ne’mind them commissioners.”

Brick went back to his office and sat down. From a locked drawer he took a legal-looking document and perused it thoroughly. Suddenly he stopped and stared at the wall. Before him came the face of the man he had knocked down in the saloon--the full lips, hooked nose, waxed mustache. Where had he seen that face before?

He had not given the man’s face a close study as he sat on the saloon floor, but something seemed to tell him that he had seen this face before.

“Jack Smith,” wondered Brick aloud. “That’s a ---- of a name for a face like that. Spaniard, with an American name, buying horses for England.”

Brick wondered why Seldon had said “quitter,” when Smith had left the saloon. Was there a frame-up to start trouble with him? Silent came in excitedly.

“Whatcha think, Brick? Barney O’Mera just came in from out on Piney crick, and he says that somebody has brought in a herd of sheep.”

“Sheep?” Brick stared at Silent, who nodded emphatically. Sheep were the bugbear that haunted the dreams of cattlemen. Sun-Dog had always been free of sheep, but they knew that their coming was inevitable, knew it was only a question of time until the advance guards of that great, gray army would swoop down upon them and drive the cattlemen off the ranges. The cattle interests could not afford to buy up the great amount of range needed for their herds. The coming of sheep meant war. Legally the sheep had the same rights as the cattle, but the cattlemen figured that possession was nine points in the law and that a six-shooter was the best argument.

A sheep war would mean a lot of work for the sheriff; that is, if the sheriff upheld the rights of the sheepmen.

“Did Barney say how many sheep?” asked Brick.

“Not a big bunch. Few hundred, I reckon; but it ain’t numbers--it’s sheep!”

“I reckon that’s right,” nodded Brick. “Numbers don’t count.”

* * * * *

The next morning Brick decided to go to the Weeping Tree. He had an idea, and when Brick got an idea he gave that idea every chance in the world to bear fruit. The fact that Scott Martin could not move, hear, nor talk did not affect this idea. Silent grumbled at being left at the office.

“Might’s well be a chambermaid in a livery stable,” he wailed. “Anybody’d think yuh was runnin’ a grocery store or saloon, the way yuh act about this danged old office. Yuh even tore down them pictures that Bunty had on the wall, and there ain’t nothin’ but them old reward notices to look at. Danged old walls look like they had small-pox.”

“Ne’mind me,” he grunted, when Brick sought to pacify him. “I’ll git along. Mebbe I’ll git some ol’ lady to learn me how to knit. Jimminy gosh, I wish somebody’d git drunk and shoot up the town. Think I’ll run for Sunday school principal next election. Hurrah for crime and disorder!” He kicked the door shut behind Brick, who laughed and went to saddle his horse.

Mrs. Wesson was hanging up a washing when Brick rode up to the Weeping Tree ranch-house. Jean stood on the steps and watched Brick stop beside Mrs. Wesson, but turned and went inside. Brick followed her with his eyes until the door closed and then turned back to Mrs. Wesson.

“What yuh got on your mind, Brick?” mumbled Mrs. Wesson, without removing the clothes-pin from between her teeth.

“How’s Martin?”

“I dunno, Brickie,” Mrs. Wesson removed the clothes-pin and looked back at the door. “He ain’t sufferin’ none, I reckon; but he can’t hear nor talk. Just lays there and looks at the ceilin’. Mebby he knows what’s goin’ on--I dunno.”

“Can I go in and see him?”

“Why, I reckon yuh can--sure.”

Brick followed Mrs. Wesson inside. Jean was standing near the head of the bed, looking curiously at Brick, who walked up beside her and looked down at Martin. The injured man looked at Brick and a ghost of a smile seemed to flash across his eyes.

“He don’t seem to suffer none,” said Mrs. Wesson, in a half whisper, as though forgetting that Martin was stone-deaf. Jean turned away.

“If he could only talk,” said Mrs. Wesson. “Them danged horse-doctors----”

Brick nodded and took a sheet of paper and a pencil from his pocket. He wrote on the paper and then held it up for Scott Martin to read: “Can you read this? Shut your eyes once for ‘no’ and twice for ‘yes’.”

Martin blinked twice.

Brick turned and explained it to Mrs. Wesson and Jean. “Well, bless my soul!” exclaimed Mrs. Wesson. “Brick Davidson, you’re too smart to be a sheriff. Ain’t that some idea? We tried that writin’ idea, but there wasn’t no use of it, bein’ as he couldn’t make any answer; but nobody ever thought about a wink message.”

Brick grinned and wrote again.

“Do you know who shot you?”

Martin blinked just once--“No.”

Brick had banked on Martin being able to tell him who did it, and his hand trembled over the next question. Mrs. Wesson and Jean were leaning forward, watching closely. Brick studied Martin’s face for a moment and then turned to Jean and Mrs. Wesson.

“I ain’t got no right to ask him this question, but I want to find out what he knows.” Brick wrote the question--

“Were you branding a calf when you got shot?”

Martin stared at the question, but did not respond. Brick wrote--

“Do you know what I mean?”

Martin blinked once.

Brick turned to Jean.

“Your dad had a paper which Zell Mohr gave him, telling your dad that he could have the use of the Weepin’ Tree ranch as long as he wanted it, didn’t he?”

“Yes. Zell Mohr gave it to dad after we came here. He said it was legal. Dad always carried it with him, because he felt it was safer than if he hid it away.”

“Do yuh know where it is?”

Jean hurried away to make a search, while Brick turned back to Martin and wrote:

“Zell Mohr gave you a paper, which showed you had the right to use this ranch. Did you have it with you when you were shot?”

Martin stared at the question for a moment, but blinked twice. “It isn’t in any of his pockets,” said Jean. “Perhaps it fell out.”

“Uh-huh, I reckon it did,” smiled Brick. He turned to Martin and patted him on the shoulder. A smile seemed to come to Martin’s eyes, and Brick turned away.

“Keep this dark, will yuh?” asked Brick of Mrs. Wesson. “You folks can talk to him, but don’t let anybody----”

Brick had turned toward the open door and saw Kane and the one called Jack Smith standing in the doorway. Kane nodded and spoke to Jean.

“How’s the sick man?” he asked.

“About the same, Mr. Kane,” said Jean.

“Shucks, that’s too bad.” Kane seemed downhearted and his voice was sympathetic. Smith tried to appear indifferent to Brick’s presence by half-turning his back. Brick watched the two men closely. It is hard to ignore a person under these circumstances, but Smith and Kane succeeded admirably. Brick looked back at Martin, who was slightly propped up on his pillow, and waved good-by. He turned to Jean.

“I reckon I’ll be driftin’, folks. Got a sheep deal to look into.”

Jean made no move to follow him, appearing indifferent as to whether he stayed or went. Mrs. Wesson watched Brick from the doorway, with a smile, and then shook her head as if to say, “I’m with you, Brick.”

Brick rode straight into the Piney Creek hills, heading for the sheep-camp; but he was not thinking about sheep. The face of Jack Smith troubled him. Was it just a chance resemblance to some one he had known?

* * * * *

Brick had been born and raised in the range country, where there is small chance of meeting a man without at least a short acquaintance. Brick couldn’t remember any one who looked like Jack Smith. Very few Mexican or Spanish cowpunchers ever get to the Northern ranges, and Brick knew he was not confusing Smith’s likeness with any other dark-skinned cowboy he had known. Still, Smith’s face was familiar.

Brick was satisfied that Scott Martin was not branding the calf when he was shot. He felt sure that Martin had been shot from his horse while traveling on the road, and that the would-be murderers had framed the rest of the evidence. It looked as though their idea had been to fasten the crime to Brick, but Brick felt that there was more to it than merely trying to get rid of the sheriff. They had, no doubt, believed that Martin was dead, or they would have finished the job.

“Somebody,” muttered Brick aloud, “somebody is goin’ to lose a lot of sleep pretty soon, and it ain’t goin’ to be me.” He had no trouble in finding the sheep-camp. The herders had moved into a small cabin at the mouth of a small cañon. As Brick rode up to the door of the cabin, the two herders came out.

Brick noted that there were no sheepdogs in evidence, which proved that it was not a well-organized outfit. The men were a hard-looking pair; unshaven and unwashed. Brick mentally classed them as “range-thugs,” rather than regular sheepherders. There was neither surprize nor friendliness in their faces.

“Whatcha want?” growled the larger of the two.

“Whatcha got?” grinned Brick.

The big man growled something deep in his throat. Brick glanced around.

“Sheriff?” asked the smaller man. Brick nodded.

“Uh-huh. Thought I’d see yuh before the cattlemen did.”

“Whatcha want?” growled the big man again.

“How many sheep yuh got?” asked Brick.

“Couple hundred.”

“Won’t take yuh long to round ’em up and drift back where yuh came from, will it?”

“We’ve got a right here,” whined the small man. “You’re the sheriff and you’ve got to see that we git a square deal.”

Brick grinned.

“Who told yuh that?”

The two men exchanged glances. The big one shrugged his shoulders and spat copiously.

“Anybody knows that, sheriff.”

The small one began to tirade against the injustice of the range country, but Brick was not listening. Hanging on a nail, driven into one of the corner logs of the cabin, hung two horseshoes--two worn horseshoes, made without toe-calks. The smaller man broke off his discourse and followed Brick’s gaze.

“Herd sheep on horse-back?” asked Brick.

“Naw.”

“Who left the horseshoes?”

Neither man spoke for a moment and then the big one said, “We dunno.”

Brick rode in closer and examined the shoes. To all appearances one of the shoes had come loose from the hoof, and the other had evidently been pulled off.

“Yuh don’t know who owned the horse that wore them shoes?”

“Nope.” The big man was very positive.

“You two own the sheep?”

“Kinda looks like we do. Anythin’ else you’d like to ask?”

“Uh-huh,” nodded Brick. “Lots of things I’d like to ask, but gettin’ a honest answer is a horse of another color.”

Brick reached over and took the horseshoes.

“Mebbe I can double my luck,” he grinned, and tied them to his saddle. He swung his horse around and headed for the cañon. He knew there was no use trying to find out anything from the sheepherders. He guided his horse into the brush, angling up the side of the cañon. He had traveled about three hundred yards from the cabin, and had just swung sidewise in his saddle to turn his horse to the left up the hill, when there came a thud, a yank at his belt, and from down the cañon came the whip-like pop of a rifle.

* * * * *

Brick threw himself out of the saddle, pulling his Winchester out from its scabbard as he went down. The brush masked him from the cabin now, and he investigated the effects of the bullet. A neat notch had been cut through the right side of the cantle of his saddle, and the bullet had ripped a chunk of leather from the inner side of his pistol holster. If Brick hadn’t thrown himself sidewise at the right time, the bullet would have ripped through his hip or thigh.

Brick considered this and his blue eyes snapped. It did not appear that the sheepherders needed his assistance to protect them from the cattlemen. He slipped down the hill and started angling down toward the cabin, when he caught a glimpse of the smaller of the two men coming cautiously up the hill.

The man was taking no chances, but investigating every inch of the brush in front of him. Brick grinned. The man felt sure that he had killed Brick. He darted from one clump of brush to another, cutting the hill above Brick. He passed out of view. Brick watched closely. Finally the man reappeared, but this time he was more cautious.

His head snapped from side to side and he fingered the trigger of his rifle nervously. His nerves were almost gone. He had no idea of Brick’s whereabouts. He had shot and missed. Brick grinned. He knew just how the man felt. Suddenly the man’s nerve broke and he ran down the hill, jumping from side to side, as though to disconcert any one trying to shoot him. Once he tripped and fell, flinging his rifle far down the cañon, but he did not stop to pick it up. Brick wiped the tear out of his eyes. The man disappeared, still running and limping.

Brick got up and started for the cabin, but taking no chances on another shot from the sheepherders. Then he saw the big man. He was across the cañon, nearer the cabin, standing there with a rifle in his hands. He turned toward the cabin, and evidently saw his partner. He turned and hurried down there, while Brick sneaked into the cañon bottom and came in at the rear of the cabin, which was well masked with brush. The two men were in front of the cabin and their voices were very audible.

“---- ain’t there, I tell yuh! Cut a notch in his saddle, that’s all.”

“You’re a ---- of a crack shot,” grumbled the other. “Never miss ’em, says you. Shot with a rest, too, yuh did. Now what will we do?”

“Git to ---- out-a here,” whined the other, which Brick recognized as the voice of the small man. “Didn’t he say the sheriff was a shootin’ hound? I missed him, and he’s some’ers in that brush-- Do yuh think I want him to line his sights on me?”

“What about the sheep?”

“Aw, ---- the sheep! He said he’d likely lose ’em, didn’t he? He can afford to lose ’em.”

“You shot too soon,” argued the big man. “You’ve spoiled the whole ---- deal. The sheriff was fallin’ for our game, but you spoiled it all.”

“Him?” There was a world of scorn in the little man’s voice. “That red-headed _hombre_ fallin’ for any game? Oh, yeah! Whatcha reckon he took them horseshoes for?”

“Well, what’ll we do?” asked the big man. “Stand here and argue?”

Brick had sneaked to the corner of the cabin and he answered the big man’s question--

“Stand still and hold up your hands!”

The big man dropped his rifle and they both put up their hands.

The small man took a deep breath and expelled it slowly--an audible sigh of relief. His face plainly showed that he would rather be a prisoner than a fugitive.

“Now what do we do?” asked the big man.

“You’re full of questions, ain’t yuh?” grinned Brick. “I reckon I ought to give yuh both a hundred yards runnin’ start and then fan yuh with lead.”

“Yuh won’t though, will yuh?” The small man was still apprehensive.

“No-o-o, I reckon not--not unless yuh deserve it, but yuh never can tell what I think about a man who misses an easy shot like you did.”

Brick’s face was serious, but he knew that the little man was a good shot. He had grown panicky when he found that he had missed, and the distance was at least three hundred yards.

“Whatcha goin’ to do with us?” asked the big man.

“Well, Mr. Question Mark, I reckon I’ll ask you two jaspers to hoof it to Marlin City ahead of me. It’s only about twelve miles. I’ve got a nice little house to put yuh in and I’ve got her fixed so that nobody can bust in and hurt yuh. Like the idea? No? Tell me what the little game was--the one I didn’t fall for, and I might let yuh go your own way.”

The two men seemed surprized, but their surprize was not genuine. The small man acted as though he thought Brick was joking. Brick smiled and pointed across the hills.

“Twelve miles; forward march!”

* * * * *

The two men turned and plodded ahead of him, while Brick rolled a cigaret and smiled to himself. His idea was working out slowly, but Brick did not mind the slowness. He really held no animosity against the two sheepherders for attempting his life. A few days in jail wouldn’t hurt them. Brick did not believe in jailing a man for missing his shot, but he felt that jailing the two sheepherders might make a change that would expose something he wished to find out.

It was hard traveling, but neither of the men complained. Brick herded them across the hills and struck the road near the spot where Brick had left the Hereford yearlings. They had followed the road about a mile, when a body of horsemen swung around a curve and rode up to them. The two sheepherders crowded to the side of the road and sat down. It was a representative group, Bill Voorhies and Lynn Barnhardt, of the Lazy H, Jeff Seldon, of the Star Dot, Dal Melchior, Barney O’Mera, and “Slim” Hoskins, of the Bar M, and Lafe Freeman, of the Nine Bar Nine. Voorhies reined up beside Brick and looked at the two tired sheepmen.

“Who yuh got there?” he asked.

“Couple of sheepherders.” Brick’s voice was just as belligerent as Voorhies’. He was not going to let Voorhies get away with any bluff talk.

“Sheepherders, eh?” Jeff Seldon urged his horse forward and looked at the two men. “Puttin’ them in jail for herdin’ sheep?”

“No-o-o,” drawled Brick. “Puttin’ ’em in for makin’ a mistake.”

“How many sheep did they have?” asked Lafe Freeman.

“Said they had two hundred. I don’t reckon they’ve got more than that, Lafe.”

“Mistake?” asked Voorhies.

“Uh-huh,” nodded Brick. “Shot at me and missed.”

“Thought you’d run ’em out all by your lonesome, eh?” sneered Seldon.

“What did they shoot at yuh for, Brick?” asked Lafe.

“For money, I reckon.”

“Money?” Voorhies seemed amused, and his amusement was shared by Seldon, who laughed in a rasping manner.

Brick’s eyes narrowed and the freckles showed like rust splotches on his white skin.

“Hold her, Brick!” cautioned Lafe. “Don’t git sore, old-timer. I’m ---- glad yuh arrested the herders. It makes things easier for us. We’ll just razoo that herd of sheep so far they’ll smother to death in wool before they ever find a man to clip ’em.”

“Goin’ to jail ’em for shootin’ at yuh?” asked Seldon. He emphasized “shootin’,” and the tone of the question was sarcastic.

“Was yuh thinkin’ of takin’ ’em away from me?” queried Brick, but Seldon did not answer.

“Brick sure is organized,” observed Lynn Barnhardt, pointing at the two horseshoes tied to Brick’s saddle.

“Whatcha do, Brick--put ’em on your bronc when yuh get ready to start down hill? Betcha he’s got the uphill shoes on his bronc now.”

“Barefooted now, Lynn,” smiled Brick. “Level goin’. Some system, eh?”

“This thing has got to be kind of a ---- nuisance,” observed Seldon. “What I figured on was to warn them sheepherders to take their sheep and vamoose. We can’t go chasin’ them sheep all over the country, can we?”

“Reckon I ought to turn ’em loose and kindly ask ’em to take their sheep away?” Brick laughed at Seldon and shook his head. “Nope, your idea is all wrong, Seldon. I’m goin’ to put them two specimens in jail; _sabe?_”

“There’s no need of a warnin’,” said Dal Melchior, “bein’ as there ain’t nobody to warn. It won’t take us long to dispose of two hundred sheep.”

“I know a high cliff,” observed Barney O’Mera meaningly.

“Do yuh think it would be legal for us to kill off them sheep?” asked Seldon seriously.

Brick looked at Seldon and then around at the other men.

“Well, I ain’t no lawyer, Seldon. I swore to uphold the law, yuh understand? If the owner of them sheep will ask me to protect ’em----”

* * * * *

Brick looked at the two tired prisoners, but neither gave any sign that he had heard. Brick shook his head.

“I reckon they’re willin’, gents. I’ll ask the first lawyer I meet for rulin’ on the case. Somehow these two sheep-owners act plumb willin’ to get a divorce from them woolies. I’m goin’ to have a little talk with ’em soon.”

Brick motioned to his two prisoners and they got up. Brick grinned at Seldon, and then rode past the horsemen, following his prisoners, with never a backward look. Then Brick enjoyed his first good laugh since Scott Martin had been shot. The two prisoners looked back at him and exchanged glances of wonderment.

“I ain’t been so tickled since I wore a knit shirt,” chuckled Brick. “Didja notice the look on Jeff Seldon’s face? He’s goin’ out and help kill his own sheep. Ha, ha, ha!”

The prisoners stared at him, and the big one spoke.

“Which one was Seldon, sheriff?”

“Don’t try to be funny,” advised Brick. “You know him ---- well.”

“Honest to ---- we don’t,” stated the little fellow. “You’re wrong there. I never heard of Seldon.” The man’s voice and actions were convincing. Brick studied the two men and then motioned them to go ahead.

“Will yuh tell me who owns the sheep?” asked Brick.

“No--not unless you’ll believe that we do,” said the big man.

“I don’t,” said Brick. “You fellers ain’t sheepherders nor cowpunchers. I don’t know what you are.”

“I do,” said the little man.

“What?” asked Brick.

“Pair of ---- fools!”

“We all have our little failin’s,” said Brick, but he was not thinking of the sheepherder’s reply. He had been sure that Seldon owned the sheep.

Seldon hated the cattle association--hated cow-men, although a cattleman himself. He had told Brick he hoped the sheep would run the cattlemen out of the country. All the cattlemen knew that the sheep must come eventually, but they were determined to fight the issue as long as possible.

“Who else could it be?” wondered Brick. “Seldon hates the association and would do anything to put ’em out of business in Sun-Dog. Seldon hates me. Does he want to mix me up in a cattle and sheep war and get me killed off?”

Brick wondered over these problems, as they went slowly along under the hot sun. The herders had denied knowing Seldon, and Brick felt that they were not lying. There was no question in his mind but that it was sort of a test case on the part of some Sun-Dog rancher. The men had said there were two hundred head of sheep in the band.

“Voorhies hates me, too,” grinned Brick to himself. “Voorhies don’t want anybody that he can’t boss. Voorhies don’t like that maverick idea, a-tall--and Voorhies has sold a lot of beef in the last few months.”

Brick herded his prisoners down the main street of Marlin City; thereby causing much interest. He noticed that Kane and Smith were among those present. Silent stood in the doorway of the office and grinned expansively. At least it meant that he would have company.

“’Lo, Sharpshooter,” called Harp Harris.

The smaller of the prisoners turned his head and gave Harp a sharp glance, but did not speak.

“Know him, Harp?” asked Brick.

“Yeah. Used to was up around Fort Benton. Heard he deserted from the cavalry. He sure did clean up their best shots in that country, and they calls him the ‘Sharpshooter’.”

The Sharpshooter did not seem interested in Harp’s description of him.

“Shall I put ’em in the little wickiup?” asked Silent. Brick nodded and the two sheepherders filed in ahead of Silent. Kane stepped over to Brick.

* * * * *

“What did yuh do with the sheep?” Kane asked.

Brick elevated his eyebrows at Kane’s question.

“Sheep? Did I mention sheep?”

“Well--uh--they’re--uh--” Kane stammered in his confusion.

“Funny that you thought they was sheepherders,” grinned Brick. Kane turned away to hide his confusion, as several men laughed.

“Ba gar, I’m bet dat Breek--” began Le Blanc, but broke off his exclamation to examine the horseshoes tied to Brick’s saddle. Others stepped in to see what the blacksmith had discovered. Kane and Smith turned and walked back to the saloon paying no further attention, but Brick saw Le Blanc look from the horseshoes to the retreating Smith, with a quizzical expression on his face. Brick picked up his reins and led his horse to the stable, while the curious crowd went back across the street.

Silent was jubilant. He did not know why Brick had arrested the two men, nor did he care. It meant something to talk about and a possibility of action. He was overflowing with curiosity, but did not ask any questions of his prisoners. Neither of the prisoners made any comment when Silent generously supplied them with tobacco and cigaret papers. This was Silent’s idea of true hospitality. They were prisoners, it is true, but their coming broke what Silent termed “a terribul lonesome year,” and he was willing to entertain them as much as possible.

Harp separated himself from the crowd as they dispersed, and proceeded to jackknife himself into the doorway, where he began to regale the jail and office with sonorous strains.

“May lightnin’ strike yuh in two places to oncet!” swore Silent disgustedly. “Every time I gets to feelin’ glad, you comes along and sinks my feelin’s. Can’tcha never do nothin’ but hong, hong, hong? My ----, that ain’t music!”

Harp wiped the back of his hand across his lips and looked up at Brick, who had come up to the door. Brick motioned to Silent, who had to step over Harp to get outside.

“Them two are the shepherds,” exclaimed Brick. “I had a wau-wau with them, and when I was pullin’ out they took a shot at me--the short one done the shootin’.”

“You’re lucky to be tellin’ of it,” drawled Harp.

“I noticed the notch in your saddle,” nodded Silent.

“What kind of a rooster is the Sharpshooter, Harp?”

“They runs him out of Dry Lake,” said Harp. “Dead shot with a rifle. Yuh hadn’t ort to put him in jail, Brick. His kind belongs in Boot Hill.”

Brick grinned and told them what happened after the shot was fired, but Silent and Harp could see no humor in Sharpshooter’s predicament when he found that Brick had not been hit. Brick described it with a wealth of humor, but the two cowboys failed to see anything funny about the incident.

“And yuh let him get away with it,” wailed Silent. “Wouldn’t that rasp yuh, Harp? Brick, you ought to have a job as mish’nary to the Pecan Islands. Lettin’ that pop-eyed murderer run circles in plain sight, fall down, git up--all in plain sight. Huh!”

Silent was disgusted. There was nothing savage nor hard-hearted about Silent, but he had his own ideas of visiting judgment on men who shot from ambush.

“Whatcha arrest ’em for?” asked Harp.

“Moral effect,” grinned Brick. “Killin’ ’em would ’a’ put me in bad, don’t yuh know it? They ain’t so much to blame, ’cause they just work with their hands.”

“I know what yuh said,” nodded Harp; “but I’m ---- if I know what yuh mean.”

“Don’t ask him,” begged Silent. “Brick’s a danged Injun, with a Greek tongue, when it comes to lettin’ folks in on somethin’ that might interest ’em. I ain’t no deputy--I’m a chambermaid in the jail. Everything Brick says to me sounds like them conundrum things which you’re supposed to guess at.

“I’m all through guessin’. Here he comes skyshootin’ in with a couple of prisoners breakin’ trail for him and a couple of rusty horseshoes tied to his saddle. ‘Moral effect,’ says he. Work with their hands. Huh!”

“Give Brick two shepherds and a couple of horseshoes and he sure can compose some tune,” drawled Harp. “I ain’t no puzzle rustler, but I trails my bets with Brick.”

An hour later the sheep-hunting cattlemen rode back into town, and with them came Doc Meyers in Wesson’s buckboard. Brick stood in the doorway and watched them drive up to the saloon hitch-rack. Silent and Harp were quarreling over a two-handed game of seven-up.

“One man shy,” observed Brick, noticing that Lynn Barnhardt was not with them.

Silent and Harp left their game and came to the door. Lafe Freeman rode away from the rest and came straight to the office, where he dismounted slowly and came up to Brick.

“Scott Martin died about an hour ago,” he stated softly.

“Died?” gasped Brick.

Silent and Harp moved in closely, their faces expressing disbelief.

“Uh-huh,” nodded Lafe sadly, looking back at the men going into the Dollar Down.

“For ----’s sake!” breathed Brick.

* * * * *

Lafe turned and put his hand on Brick’s arm.

“I ain’t advisin’ nothin’, son, but under the circumstances I wish you’d come out to the ranch tonight. Kinda give ’em a chance to cool off, yuh understand.”

Brick looked queerly at Lafe.

“Do I look like a runner?”

“It ain’t that,” faltered Lafe. “Lord knows you ain’t no front-runner, Brick. But look at this right, can’t yuh? You ain’t got no alibi, have yuh?”

“No-o-o. I can’t prove nothin’, Lafe, but I ain’t goin’ to run away. I thought a lot of Scott Martin. Would they try to hang me? None of them cared for Martin. Ain’t they goin’ to give me a chance to prove that I didn’t do it?”

“Human bein’s ain’t no better than wolves, Brick. Will yuh come out to the ranch and let ’em cool off?”

“After I resign,” said Brick slowly. “Voorhies is the boss of the county commissioners, so I reckon he can accept it.”

Brick went into the office and wrote his resignation; wrote it short and to the point:

I’m through with this sheriff job right now.
Brick Davidson.

Brick showed it to Lafe.

“I’m goin’ to present it right now,” he announced, starting toward the saloon.

“Go easy, son,” advised Lafe. “Keep cool and don’t forget you ain’t alone in this deal.”

Brick smiled. Lafe Freeman was more like a father to him than any man had ever been, and the old cattleman’s cool head had saved Brick from making a fool of himself many times. Brick walked into the saloon and up to Voorhies, who was at the bar. The conversation stopped as Brick came in. He and Voorhies faced each other and Voorhies was the first to turn his eyes away. Brick handed him the resignation, and watched Voorhies read it.

“Saves askin’ yuh for it,” remarked Voorhies, and then turned to the crowd. “Davidson has resigned as sheriff of Sun-Dog County.”

Seldon grinned.

“Mebbe we’ll get a sheriff now that won’t insult folks.”

“Maybe,” nodded Brick good-naturedly. “Of course it all depends.”

“Yuh heard about Martin, didn’t yuh?” asked Voorhies.

Brick nodded and walked outside, followed by Barney O’Mera, who had stood near the door.

“Brick,” he said; “it ain’t none of my business, but I heard Kane tellin’ Voorhies and Doc Meyers that you was out to the Weepin’ Tree this mornin’, and that you got Martin all excited over somethin’. Doc Meyers said it was likely the excitement that made Martin worse; _sabe?_”

“Well, I was talkin’ with Mrs. Wesson and she said that Kane saw how you talked with Martin and that he pestered Martin for an hour or more, asking questions on paper. She said that Martin had to keep his eyes shut to make Kane quit. It ain’t none of my business, Brick, but I thought yuh ought to know.”

“Much obliged, Barney,” said Brick. “Mighty good of you to tell me this.”

“Not so danged good,” smiled Barney; “but I want you to get a square deal as far as I can help yuh.”

Brick went to the stable and found Silent saddling both horses.

“I don’t need to write a resignation, do I?” asked Silent. “I just natcherally quit and that’s all there is to it. That was the worst ---- job I ever had.”

Lafe and Harp met them at the front of the office.

“Will yuh do me a favor, Harp?” asked Brick.

“Hope to die,” drawled Harp.

“Stay here in town this evenin’ and find out what they’re aimin’ to do, will yuh?”

“Be home by ten o’clock, bustin’ with news,” nodded Harp, and turned his horse back to the hitch-rack across the street. Brick, Silent and Lafe rode out of Marlin City, heading into the sunset, silently, except for the soft thud thud of horses’ hoofs in the soft dust, the creak of leather, jingle of bit-chains. From the side of a little butte came the sharp bark of a prairie-dog. Overhead came the shirl of a bull-bat. A great owl flapped softly across the road in front of them; a flying ghost, headed for an indistinct cottonwood clump.

“What did yuh do about them sheep?” asked Brick softly. Lafe jerked up his head as though Brick’s question had jarred him from sleep.

“The sheep? Voorhies decided that we might be liable for damages if we destroyed ’em. We argued it out, and finally agreed to have Barnhardt and Breamer take care of ’em until we can find the owner and make him take ’em away. They’re goin’ to hold ’em on the Weepin’ Tree ranch.”

“Seldon tell ’em he’d allow sheep on the Weepin’ Tree?”

“Uh-huh, kinda funny, Brick. Seldon and Voorhies both talks big against the sheep, but after they meets you today they kinda gets cold feet.”

“It’s to be expected,” grinned Brick. “Who do yuh reckon they’ll appoint for sheriff?”

“Some friend of Voorhies, you can bet on that,” replied Lafe.

“Voorhies is gettin’ too much to say about things. Somebody will come along and cut his comb some of these days, and there won’t be no mourners from the Nine Bar Nine.”

“He’s sold a lot of cattle lately,” observed Brick.

“Mostly everything he’s got,” replied Lafe. “I dunno what he means by sellin’ out so short. Maybe he’s goin’ to sell out.”

Brick grinned and shook his head.

“He’d better hurry, Lafe, ’cause there’s a big dust-storm gatherin’.”

Lafe looked curiously at Brick, but asked no questions.

* * * * *

It was a few minutes after ten o’clock when Harp rode in. Brick, Lafe and Silent were sitting on the ranch-house steps, and Harp delivered his news before stabling his horse.

“Voorhies got hold of Steve McLean and Sam Boyle, two of the commissioners, and they accepted your resignation, Brick. Then they proceeds to appoint Pete Kane sheriff. They’re goin’ to hold a coroner’s inquest tomorrow, and they’ve got it framed to swear out a warrant for you as soon as the jury brings in a verdict. Voorhies said there was no use holdin’ them sheepherders so Kane turned ’em loose.”

Lafe grunted his disgust, but Brick made no comments.

“Sun-Dog County’s goin’ to the dogs,” complained Lafe. “I’m goin’ to oil up my old six-gun, y’ betcha. I ain’t acted foolish for a long time--years. Are yuh goin’ to fade out of the country, Brick?”

Brick got to his feet and leaned against one of the porch posts. A big, pale moon was just peeping over the mesquite-covered hills, casting a soft blue mist over the ugly corrals and low, mud-covered barns, and making them things of beauty. From the corral came the low bawling of a calf. Brick touched a match to his cigaret, and Lafe noticed that Brick was smiling. Brick snapped the match away and shook his head.

“No-o-o, I don’t reckon I will, Lafe. Fact of the matter is, I reckon I’m goin’ to become prominent, like a boil on a pug nose. Any time I run--I’ll be the one behind.”

* * * * *

The next morning after breakfast, Brick, Silent and Harp saddled their horses. Silent and Harp asked no questions as Brick tied the horseshoes to his saddle. Both of them had rifles in their saddle-boots and their belts showed no empty cartridge-loops. Lafe Freeman came down to the corral to get his horse and Brick observed that the old man was wearing his gun and belt. Old Lafe patted the gun and grinned foolishly.

“Feelin’ kinda chipper,” he chuckled. “Ain’t got a speck of old age in my system. Look!”

Came a snap of a palm against leather, and the old Colt seemed to hop from its holster into the old man’s hand.

“Trained that gun myself,” grinned Lafe, flipping it back into the holster with a twist of his wrist. “Could teach some of you young fellers a trick or two if I tried, y’ betcha. I’m goin’ to town now, and I reckon I’ll go heeled. Feller feels free to prognosticate when he’s got somethin’ on his hip besides the weight of his overalls.”

Brick slapped the old man on the shoulder and mounted his horse. Lafe did not ask where they were going; merely observed that they went across the hills toward the Weeping Tree instead of going around the road. He caught his horse, threw on a saddle and galloped down the road toward Marlin City. The trio rode slowly into the mesquite-covered hills, with Brick leading the way. Finally he broke the silence.

“Did either of you fellers ever see that Jack Smith before?”

“Not me,” said Silent.

“Nor me,” added Harp. “He’s buyin’ horses for the British Government.”

“Has he bought any?” asked Brick.

“I ain’t heard of none. Whatcha know about him, Brick?”

“Somewhere I’ve seen him, Harp. Where was it? I’ve been wonderin’ and wonderin’, and I can’t place him. If I had any brains I’d get a headache wonderin’ about him.”

“What does he amount to?” inquired Silent. “Forget him.”