Chapter III: Part 3

“That’s why he amounts to something,” complained Brick. “I can’t forget him. That _hombre_ amounts to somethin’, Silent. He didn’t stumble into my ankle that day accidental. He went plumb out of his way to walk on me, and he hit the floor so hard he forgot what he was to do next. Jeff Seldon called him a quitter. I wonder if--if he was tryin’ to pick a quarrel with me.”

Silent turned and looked at Brick’s grinning face.

“Now he’s happy, Harp. He’s happy to think that this horse buyer wanted to pick a fight. It don’t take much to please our pink-topped friend.”

Brick humped over his saddle horn and frowned under his low-pulled hat. He concentrated on Jack Smith. Feature by feature he analyzed that face; trying to remember where he had seen it, but in vain. Recognition was just beyond his grasp.

There was no sign of life at the Weeping Tree ranch-house, but when they rode into the quadrangle of the old buildings they saw Jeff Seldon coming from the door to his horse, which was tied at the old willow, which gave the ranch its name. They rode up to him and he looked up.

Seldon resembled an old buzzard more than ever, with his old faded Prince Albert coat which flapped around his thin shoulders and the once-white celluloid collar surmounting a dirty shirt.

“Lookin’ fer somebody?” he asked, and added, before they could reply, “There ain’t nobody home--but me.”

“You ain’t home,” said Brick.

Seldon bobbed his lean head.

“Yes, I am too. This here ranch belongs to me, if anybody asks yuh.”

“Where’s Miss Martin?” asked Brick.

“I dunno. She went home with Mrs. Wesson last night. Reckon she’s downtown. Goin’ to have the inquest today, yuh know.”

Brick’s face hardened as he looked down at Seldon. He noticed that Seldon wore a holstered gun under his flopping coat. For a few moments Brick looked at Seldon, then turned his horse and rode away, followed by Silent and Harp. They rode straight away from the ranch, into the hills, while Seldon mounted his horse and rode the other way--toward Marlin City.

* * * * *

Brick pulled up and looked back at the ranch-house. Far down the road he could see a tiny dust cloud kicked up by Seldon’s horse, as its owner raced to town. He would lose no time telling which way Brick had gone, and a posse would be on his trail as soon as the coroner’s jury brought in a verdict. Brick was positive there could be but one verdict.

Harp and Silent watched Brick sitting silently on his horse, gazing back. Finally Brick shook his head sadly.

“I reckon I’m due for trouble, boys. You fellers better go back now. It won’t be long before you’ll be reading reward notices----”

Brick stopped in the middle of his sentence and his hand went slowly to his forehead. He leaned forward in his saddle staring at the ground. Silent and Harp both leaned forward, seeking what Brick appeared to be watching, but there was nothing except bare, sandy ground. They exchanged glances, and then Silent spoke softly:

“He’s thinkin’, Harp; he’s thinkin’. Give him air, cowboy.”

Brick did not hear Silent. There was a deep crease between his half-shut blue eyes and his mouth was partly opened, as though panting from exertion. Suddenly he threw up his head and laughed aloud--a laugh of joy. His eyes flashed from Silent to Harp and he spurred his horse in a quick circle, headed down the hill.

“Come on!” he yelled. “I’ve got Jack Smith!”

Silent and Harp swung in behind him, and the three horses pounded down the hill past the ranch and swept into the road toward town. Silent and Harp did not know what Brick meant, did not know what lay before them, but they were willing to follow Brick wherever he might lead.

They rode straight down the main street of Marlin City to the sheriff’s office. The hitch-racks were filled with a motley collection of saddle-horses and vehicles, but not a person was in sight.

Marlin City did not have a court-house nor city hall, but held court in an old dancehall above Wesson’s store. Brick knew that this was where the crowd was congregated, making a big event of the coroner’s investigations.

At the front of the sheriff’s office they dismounted. Marlin City was very quiet. Suddenly a door banged shut. The three men whirled quickly, but it was only Le Blanc closing the door of his shop.

Le Blanc was dressed in his Sunday clothes and was smoking a cigar. He smoked three cigars a year: one on Christmas, one on the Fourth of July and another on his birthday. This day was none of the three, which proved the importance of the event. He fastened the door and then stared across at the sheriff’s office, shading his eyes with his hand.

He looked toward the front of the hall and then walked swiftly toward the office. The office door was unlocked--probably for the reason that Brick had forgotten to hand in his keys, and spring locks were still unknown in Marlin City. There was no one inside. Brick stepped in, while Silent and Harp leaned against the doorway and watched the street.

Brick went swiftly along the walls, glancing from face to face on the old reward posters. Many of them were torn; the faces obliterated. Suddenly Brick stopped and felt of a certain old poster, but it was pasted tight. He took out his knife and cut out the section of sagging paper.

For a moment he studied the paper, and then put it in his pocket before coming to the door, where Le Blanc had joined Silent and Harp.

“Hello, Le Blanc,” smiled Brick.

The blacksmith slowly removed the cigar from between his bearded lips.

“H’lo, Breek. Me, I t’ink you be ’fraid for scare to come here today.”

Brick laughed.

“As bad as that, Le Blanc?”

“Ba gar, I’m t’ink she’s bad.” Le Blanc’s face was grave. “She’s ---- bad, Breek. Everybody she’s say bad t’ing about you.”

“Le Blanc, do you remember telling me about shoeing a horse in Dakota--putting on shoes without toe-calks?”

Le Blanc stared at the ground, rolling the cigar between his fingers. He looked up and nodded.

“Would you know that horse if you seen it?”

Le Blanc scratched his head, while he studied the matter.

“I’m don’ know, Breek. I’m shoe plenty cayuse--me. I’m be-lieve for sure dat she’s wan leetle brown mare. Mebbe two year ol’ by dat time--four year ago. De leetle mare she’s keek! Ha, ha, ha!”

Brick untied the horseshoes from his saddle.

“Come on,” he ordered, and the three men followed him to the saloon hitch-rack.

* * * * *

Brick circled the horses to the far side of the rack, where he went in between two of the animals, boosting one aside with a heave of his shoulder. He pointed to a brown mare, wearing a high-forked, beautifully stamped saddle.

Le Blanc cocked his cigar at an angle and walked around the mare. He examined its teeth; half-knelt and felt of its forelegs; and then grinned up at Brick.

“You feel, Breek--here. De leetle cayuse got plenty scar from de toe-calk. All heal up now, but she be dere for sure.”

“Is that the mare?” asked Brick.

“I’m bet you my life,” Le Blanc was positive.

Silent touched Brick on the arm and pointed across the street.

Mrs. Wesson and Jean were just coming out of the hall entrance. They did not look toward the hitch-rack, but turned and went around the corner toward Wesson’s home. Brick watched them disappear. He turned back to Le Blanc, who was still looking at the brown mare.

“Did you know anything about the man who owned this mare?”

Le Blanc puffed on his cigar and shook his head.

“No, I’m no t’ink so, Breek. She’s jus’ have de job for me.”

“You’ve see the cowboy with Pete Kane?”

“De black wan? Ba gar--” Le Blanc removed his cigar and stared at Brick. “Ba gar, I’m t’ink I see dat face be-fore.” Brick took out the piece of paper which he had cut from the office wall, and let Le Blanc see it. For a moment the blacksmith stared at it and then laughed.

“She’s de man, Breek--sure t’ing. W’at de paper say, Breek? I’m can’t read de English.”

“Come on and I’ll show yuh,” replied Brick, and hurried for the hall entrance, with the three men trailing at his heels. At the bottom of the steps he stopped.

“Boys, there’s liable to be ---- turned loose before noon. I’m tellin’ yuh in time.”

“Hurrah for crime!” grunted Silent. “If you disappoints me, Brick, I’ll massacree yuh. Let’s start the dance.”

“She’s beeg day for me,” grinned Le Blanc. “See--I smoke de see-gar.”

Harp did not make any statement; merely shifted his holster and started up the stairs.

“Take things easy,” cautioned Brick. “Remember they’re most all against us, but don’t spill any lead without yuh got a good reason. Watch me.”

“I hope somebody gits brave,” said Silent. “I do hope that much, ’cause I’m gittin’ rusty.”

Neither of the cowboys had seen what Brick cut off the wall of the office, but they knew that Brick had a reason.

The hall was about sixty feet long by thirty feet wide. At the front of the hall was a slightly raised platform, which held the judge’s table and chair. Just in front of this platform stood a table, for the use of the lawyers.

The seats were, in the most part, made by placing a board between two backless chairs or between boxes. On the left side of the hall, as you came in, the seats extended against the wall. Down the center was a narrow aisle, and between the next row of seats and the opposite wall was another aisle.

On the platform sat Judge Grayson, the local justice of the peace, a dignified personage, but lacking any great amount of judicial knowledge. His pudgy hands were clasped around his flowered waistcoat and his florid countenance was cocked upward and sidewise above an all-too-high collar, as he followed the proceedings. About fifteen feet in front of him was the first row of seats. To his right, as he sat facing the door, was another row of seats, presumably placed at that angle for the use of a jury. Behind this row of seats was the doorway to a small ante-room.

As Brick led his men inside the hall, six men were just coming out of this ante-room. It was the coroner’s jury, bringing in their verdict on the death of Scott Martin.

Every available seat was taken and standing room was at a premium. Women did not attend court in Marlin City--probably for the reason that nobody knew just what might happen in a Sun-Dog court room. Mrs. Wesson and Jean had left, after giving their evidence.

Every eye in the room was focused on this jury, and none saw Brick Davidson moving softly up the outside aisle, going to the front of the room. Silent, Harp and Le Blanc separated and followed over half-way up the aisles, attracting no attention. Brick moved up the room until he was near the table in front of the judge, and facing the jury. On the front row of seats sat Lafe Freeman, sitting between Bun Partner and Barney O’Mera.

On a chair, which had been moved out beyond the front row, and near the jury seat, sat Pete Kane, the newly appointed sheriff. On the second row of seats Brick could see the swarthy face of Jack Smith; eyes half-closed as he watched the jury.

Seldon, Voorhies, Jack Sloan, a gambler, Mel West, owner of the Emporium hotel, Frank Padden, a cattle-buyer, and “Tiny” Taylor, a Bar M cowboy, composed the jury.

Doctor Meyers had been sitting on the front row of seats, but now he got to his feet and faced the jury.

“Have you arrived at a verdict?” he asked.

* * * * *

Voorhies got ponderously to his feet and nodded.

“We have, Doc. We finds that Scott Martin was shot by Brick Davidson, the sheriff, actin’ in--uh----”

“Excess of his duty,” prompted Mel West.

“Excess of his duty,” parroted Voorhies. “And we asks that Brick Davidson be arrested for mur----”

Voorhies, stumbling over his verdict and request, had lifted his eyes and looked straight at Brick Davidson. Brick was looking at Voorhies, a half-smile on his lips; his right hand resting on his hip, while in his left hand he dangled the two horseshoes.

Seldon looked up at Voorhies, as did West, who again prompted--

“Murder.”

But Voorhies did not complete his sentence. He started as though to sit down, but straightened up again. Every one was watching him closely. West touched him on the arm, but Voorhies did not respond. Then Judge Grayson turned and looked at Brick, who was only a few feet away. For an instant the judge stared. His hands unlocked from around his fancy waistcoat, and he took a deep breath--a breath that was audible to all.

Then every man in the hall looked at Brick. Pete Kane half turned in his chair and looked at Brick, his mouth open in astonishment. Kane had visions of a man hunt in the hills, in which he would be the leading character.

Not a man in the audience, except those who came with Brick, and possibly Lafe Freeman, ever expected to see Brick at the inquest. Not a word was spoken. The crowd leaned forward. This had put a new light on what was to have been an ordinary inquest, in which every one seemed to know the verdict before the jury was even drawn.

Brick let his eyes drift over the audience and then back to Voorhies.

“Murder, eh?” Brick’s voice was softly pitched. “Found me guilty of murder, did yuh? Well, well!”

Voorhies wet his lips with his tongue.

“The evidence--” he began hoarsely.

“Set down, you sheep owner!” snapped Brick, and Voorhies dropped back as though from a pistol shot.

The smile had left Brick’s face. He glanced quickly behind him. Chet Malloy, a cowboy, was leaning against the wall, almost in a direct line with Brick and Voorhies. Instead of stepping out of line, which might attract attention to him, Malloy hunched down, slid his feet out and sat flat on the floor. Brick merely flashed the look and turned back, but Malloy knew what it meant. Brick looked at Seldon, and Seldon squirmed.

“Steady, son,” cautioned Lafe Freeman, and his whisper was audible to all parts of the room. No one even glanced at Lafe.

“I wasn’t invited to this inquest,” observed Brick; “but it ’pears to me that I should ’a’ been.”

“If you’ve got any evidence--” began Dal Melchior apologetically.

Brick tossed the horseshoes to the table-top. For a moment the tension was broken, as the audience leaned forward for a view of the horseshoes. A cowboy started forward, as though to come up to the table.

His boot-soles squeaked loudly, and he stepped back quickly, bumping into another cowboy, who had also started forward, and they both sat down awkwardly in the same chair. No one paid any attention to them, but they remained in that position, with the under man craning his neck around the other’s shoulder.

Voorhies took advantage of the lull to attract Kane’s attention.

“Get your man, Pete!”

Voorhies did not intend to make his order audible to every one. Brick laughed mockingly.

“Any time you’re ready, Kane.”

But Kane did not heed Voorhies’ order nor accept Brick’s challenge. Rather he ignored both.

“The law gives a feller the right to be heard, don’t it?” asked Brick.

“Go ahead, son,” chuckled Lafe. “They’ll all listen.”

Lafe had slid his belt around when he sat down and the butt of his old single-action Colt was concealed under his folded hands. In this position he could get into action without any unnecessary motion, and nobody could check him by grasping his arms.

Brick glanced around at the crowd. Sitting, humped down in their chairs near the center aisle, were the two sheepherders. Standing in the aisle, with his left hand resting on the back of Sharpshooter’s chair, was Le Blanc, who nodded toward the two sheepherders as he caught Brick’s eye. Le Blanc was not armed, but depended on his mighty hands for offense or defense. Brick looked at Kane.

“Turned the shepherds loose, did yuh?”

“There wasn’t nothin’ to hold ’em on,” growled Kane.

Brick nodded.

“That’s right, I reckon, only yuh turned ’em loose too late to do you any good.”

“What do yuh mean?” asked Kane.

“They wasn’t hired to miss nor talk. They done both, Kane.”

Came a sudden movement, as Sharpshooter started out of his chair, but Le Blanc’s hand clamped on his shoulder and shoved him back.

“She’s h’all right here, Breek,” boomed Le Blanc.

* * * * *

Kane glared at Brick and then looked at Seldon, who was humped up in his seat; his skinny head drawn down into his collar, like an old snapping-turtle. His eyes flashed like a pair of amber beads, and his hands fussed nervously with the lapels of his coat.

“What about them horseshoes?” asked Sloan.

“The man who shot Scott Martin rode the horse that wore those shoes,” declared Brick.

“Where did yuh get ’em, Brick?” inquired Cale Wesson.

“Hangin’ to a nail on the sheepherders’ cabin,” grinned Brick.

“Tryin’ to hang the crime on a poor sheepherder, are yuh?”

Seldon’s question was a whining bit of sarcasm.

“No-o-o.” Brick pursed his lips and shook his head, as though he was correcting a child. “Yuh don’t need to get nervous, Seldon, ’cause I’m goin’ to hang the deadwood right where she belongs. Tell me about this here deed to the Weepin’ Tree ranch, will yuh?”

“What’s that got to do with it?” growled Seldon.

“Just to prove that yuh own it, Seldon.” Seldon took a folded document from inside his coat and tossed it to the table.

“Anybody here know Zell Mohr’s signature?” inquired Brick.

“I do,” replied Judge Grayson. “Know it well.”

Brick handed him the deed, and the judge studied it closely, while the crowd seemed to relax.

“No question about it,” declared the judge. “That’s Zell Mohr’s writing and signature. It is witnessed by Pete Kane and Bill Voorhies. Ain’t nobody writes just like Zell did.”

“Voorhies, did you witness this deed?” asked Brick.

“I did.”

“Satisfied?” sneered Seldon.

“Of certain things,” nodded Brick. “Is it recorded?”

“Not yet. I been kinda busy and----”

“You hang onto it, judge,” ordered Brick.

Seldon shot to his feet.

“Gimme that deed!” he shouted. “That belongs to me, you--you----”

“Calm down,” advised Brick softly, and then snapped, “Set down!”

Seldon dropped back into his seat, shaking with anger. Brick looked at Jack Smith for several seconds.

“Your name is Smith?”

Smith shifted his feet and seemed inclined to ignore the question, but finally nodded.

“Buyin’ horses for the British Government?”

Smith was plainly irritated.

“What’s the meanin’ of the questions?” he growled.

“Would yuh mind coming up on a front seat?” asked Brick. “I want yuh where I won’t have to talk over other folks.”

Smith’s eyes narrowed and he started to fold his arms.

“The red-headed gent asks a favor,” said Silent, who had moved in close to the end of Smith’s row of seats.

Smith looked up at Silent, who towered over him. The two men between Silent and Smith obligingly got up and moved into the aisle. Somebody laughed aloud.

“Sh-h-h!” cautioned a voice.

Smith got up slowly and came out past Silent. Brick pointed to a space in front, two men removed from Lafe Freeman, and Smith sat down.

Immediately the men behind him either left their seats or moved aside. The men of Sun-Dog could read signs. Pete Kane sat leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, never taking his eyes off Brick. He might be able to catch Brick off his guard, but he knew that he would have to contend with Harp, Silent and Lafe.

“Feel better now?” queried Smith uneasily.

Brick nodded and turned more toward the jury.

“I’m talkin’ straight to you jurymen, but my conversation affects every man in the room. Seldon, I asks yuh to keep your hands in sight and try to be calm. In regards to your hands--I only asks this once.”

Seldon’s jaw tightened, but he obeyed.

“You all know that sheep ain’t wanted in Sun-Dog,” continued Brick. “Legally they’ve got as much right as cows, but morally they ain’t--not accordin’ to our morals. If the sheep got protection from the sheriff, with the assistance of a few cattlemen, they might get a start. If they once got started they’d sheep out Sun-Dog inside of a year. To get a start, they’ve got to have a friendly sheriff.”

“Is this a inquest or a speech?” demanded Voorhies. “I moves that we----”

“Overruled,” interrupted the judge. “Let Brick talk.”

* * * * *

“There’s a man on this range,” continued Brick, “who hates the cattle association. He’s plumb stingy, but he’d give his right eye to see the cattlemen put out of business; and there ain’t nothin’ as sudden as sheep. Am I right?”

The crowd murmured a ready assent.

“There’s another man on this range, who has sold most all of his stock in the last six months, and I’m bettin’ that at least twenty per cent of that stock wasn’t never bought nor raised by him.”

Voorhies sprang to his feet and took a step toward Brick.

“The boot fits him!” yelped Lafe Freeman, and the crowd laughed. Voorhies flushed angrily and stumbled backward into his seat, knowing he had blundered badly.

“That man,” smiled Brick, “wants to own the county. He never could be a big cattleman; so he decided to be a sheep king. He bought two hundred head----”

“Prove it!” roared Voorhies, struggling to his feet. “Prove it!”

“Set down,” advised Brick. “You’ve proved it yourself. I wasn’t sure until now, but I know that you and Seldon owns ’em together. The Sharpshooter and his pardner were hired to bring in them sheep. You kinda figured that I’d be in jail for the killing of Scott Martin, and you’d have your own sheriff, but you made a mistake when you let Sharpshooter know that you were willin’ to pay for my scalp. Bein’ a case of two-to-one, they could prove self defense, and my recent reputation would make it easy for them.”

Brick smiled at the expression on the faces of the jury.

“Keep talkin’, Brick,” urged a cowboy joyously.

“What’s this got to do with the killin’ of Scott Martin?” asked Seldon hoarsely.

“Scott Martin was killed for two reasons; to get me and him both out of the road, and to get somethin’ that Scott Martin owned.”

The audience watched Brick closely, silently.

“The man who killed him--or thought he had killed him--rode a horse that wore them shoes. Likely there was more than one man. Maybe there was three or four. One of ’em rode a horse, which wore them shoes.

“Do yuh know where that old tumbledown cabin is along the Weepin’ Tree road? They bushwhacked him from there. He fell just at the edge of the road. I seen where his hand made a track in the dust. There was blood on the dusty grass at the edge of the road.

“They thought he was dead, I reckon; so they carried him down the cañon to where they had the calf all roped and the fire all set. Then they robbed Scott Martin, and left him there to prove that I killed him for maverickin’ a calf. Other calves have been mavericked with the Weepin’ Tree to cinch things.”

“What about this robbery?” asked Cale Wesson.

Pete Kane’s right hand slipped slowly off his knee. “Don’t mind me, Kane,” smiled Brick. “I don’t want all the best of it.” Kane slowly brought his hand back to his knee.

“The main idea was to make a sheep ranch of the Weepin’ Tree,” explained Brick.

“That’s a ---- lie!” shrieked Seldon, starting to his feet, but Voorhies pulled him back.

“They shot Martin in the back with a .41. Yuh see, I shoot a .41. My, my, but they sure did frame me nice! Accordin’ to their view of it, I didn’t have a chance on earth. Gents, they sure did frame me to a fare-thee-well, but they overlooked one of the big points.

“Their scheme was horse-high, bull-strong, and sheep-tight, but they didn’t know that the big gate was wide open. They sure did leave a hole that yuh could drive a team through.

“Zell Mohr got Scott Martin to come to Marlin City. He knowed that Scott didn’t have much money; so he let Scott have the Weepin’ Tree ranch. He wrote out a paper, which showed that nobody but Zell Mohr could make Martin move off the ranch.

“Zell Mohr, bein’ dead, and not havin’ any relations--well, it kinda lets Scott Martin stay on the Weepin’ Tree, don’t it? Scott Martin had that paper with him the day he was shot, and the man or men who shot him took the paper. They wanted to get a sample of Zell Mohr’s writin’ and also his signature, which no man could make without a copy, and he had to be some hand-writer to do it at all. Judge Grayson has the deed that was made thataway.”

“What’s this?” gasped the judge. “A forged deed?”

* * * * *

Brick did not turn, merely nodded his head as he leaned forward, hooking his thumb over the belt above his gun. Lafe Freeman leaned forward, hunching low over his folded hands. Silent stepped a little closer, while Harp shoved away from the wall and rubbed his hands on his hips.

“Yes, it was forged, judge,” replied Brick evenly. “I don’t blame yuh for mistaking it for the real thing.”

Seldon got to his feet and spat contemptuously.

“How do yuh make out a thing like that? That’s Zell Mohr’s writin’ and his signature. You’re cinched, Davidson; and you’re framin’ a cock and bull story to try and clear yourself. Who in ---- could write like Zell Mohr? Eh? Tell me that, will yuh?”

“No Sun-Dogger,” smiled Brick. “We ain’t educated enough for that, Seldon.”

Brick was looking at Smith as he talked to Seldon, but now he spoke directly to Smith.

“Smith, you’re a clever man.” Brick’s tone was merely conversational, with a tinge of admiration. “Education sure done things for you. Now, if you was plumb ignorant like the rest of us you’d be safe and happy, don’t yuh know it?”

Smith tried to smile and barely managed to contort his features. He was getting more uncomfortable each minute.

“Yuh made a mistake in Dakota, Smith,” stated Brick.

Smith’s head jerked up and into his black eyes came a hunted look, but he did not blink.

“You kinda had me up a tree,” continued Brick slowly. “That deed kinda had me wonderin’ a few things, too. I knowed I had seen your face somewhere, but I’ll be danged if I could place yuh. No, I never met yuh, Smith.

“I didn’t know yuh--not personally, but I sure did need yuh. Did yuh ever set into a game of poker, with a bob-tail straight in your hand? Yuh had everything, except the one card, to make a bettin’ hand. You was the filler for my bob-tail.

“Yessir, I needed you--bad. Fact of the matter is, I needed yuh as bad as Seldon did. My, my, but you was a handy man, Smith.”

Brick grinned. Every man in the house knew things were drawing to a climax. Lafe Freeman had hunched to the very edge of his chair, and was watching Voorhies and Seldon like a hawk. Brick’s eyes shifted from Smith and he appeared to be talking to every one now.

“Gents, do yuh remember that I got a thousand dollars for cleanin’ up Zell Mohr and his gang? Well, before Zell was sent on his way to the penitentiary, me and him had a talk. He was kinda sorry about his end of the deal--what he done to Martin. Zell didn’t have nobody to leave his property to, and he didn’t have no use a-tall for the Weepin’ Tree ranch; so me and him talked turkey, and he sold me the Weepin’ Tree ranch for--one--thousand--dollars!”

Brick drew the document from his pocket and tossed it beside the horseshoes.

“There’s the hole in their scheme,” said Brick, and then took out the piece of paper he had cut from the office wall, and tossed it beside the deed.

“There’s an old reward notice for Carl Garcia alias Jack Carl; wanted in Dakota for forgery and murder. He’s the man who killed or helped kill Scott Martin, and he’s the man that Seldon hired to forge the deed to the Weepin’ Tree. He’s knowed by several names, but I’ll add--

“Jack Smith!”

As Brick snapped the name his hand flashed for his gun.

Smith was game. He threw himself forward, with one hand buried in his coatpocket, grasping a gun, but Harp’s pistol spouted fire and Smith stumbled head first almost at Brick’s feet.

Kane threw himself sidewise, shooting from an awkward angle and masking Voorhies and Seldon. Kane managed to fire three times, but his bullets were going wide of their mark--partly on account of his haste, but more because Brick was shooting deliberately and was not missing.

As Kane plunged to the floor with three of Brick’s bullets dragging him down, Voorhies, slow of movement, swung his gun forward, but before he could pull the trigger Lafe’s old Colt roared for the first time in years and Voorhies crashed back into Seldon, spinning the old man half-around.

Seldon screamed a curse and shot at Brick from his hip. Brick felt the bullet strike like the blow of a hammer, but he braced himself, shot twice at Bun Partner, who was trying to pull down on Lafe, and fired his last shot at Seldon, just as Seldon staggered through a jumble of upset seats and sprang for the open window.

Seldon turned half-around, dropping his gun; but his iron nerve carried him to the window and over the sill, where he fell to the street below. Brick’s bullets whirled Partner around and he sprawled across a chair, but his one shot had torn through Lafe Freeman’s right arm, inflicting a painful wound.

Brick looked around, dazed. At his feet lay Smith, with Harp straddling his body. Voorhies was sprawled on his back, with one arm over the seat of the chair, almost on top of Pete Kane, who lay face down.

Silent was holding Lafe Freeman by the arm, and the old man’s face was very white. In the center of the room was a commotion, and above it all came the roaring voice of Le Blanc:

“Go ’head, Breek! I’m got sheepherd in bot’ hand!”

Judge Grayson had fallen backward out of his chair at the first shot, and remained in that position until now, when he got blindly to his feet, groped for his gavel and struck his desk a ringing blow.

“Order in the court!” he cried, but no one gave him a thought. Brick tried to go to Lafe’s assistance, but the room began to spin like a top. He heard Lafe saying:

“That’s all right, Brick; that’s all right. I only got hit in the arm.”

Then he heard some one saying:

“By ----, they did hit him!”

Then everything went black for Brick Davidson, but he felt strangely indifferent.

* * * * *

Brick blinked his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He turned his head on the pillow and looked at the wall, where the dim faces on the old reward posters stared down at him. Near his cot stood a chair, on which were several medicine bottles and a water glass, over the top of which had been placed a playing-card, surmounted by a sticky-looking spoon.

Brick’s eyes shifted back to the wall. Slowly he remembered the fight in the hall; remembered that he had been hit by a bullet. But what was he doing in a bed in the sheriff’s office? Hadn’t he proved his case? Was he a prisoner? He listened. Somewhere there was music.

“Hong-g-g-g, hung-g-g-g, um-m-m, hong-g-g,” sounded the doleful humming of a jew’s harp.

“Harp,” called Brick, and his voice was strangely weak. Came the scraping of feet, as Harp unhooked himself from his favorite seat in the doorway; and he walked up to Brick, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He grinned down at Brick.

“Gosh!” he chuckled. “Yuh finally did wake up, did yuh, sheriff?”

“Sheriff?” wondered Brick aloud.

“Y’ betcha. The commissioners met and refused to take your resignation; and so me and Silent moved yuh in here. You got a slug through yuh, but Doc Meyers fished it out and he says you’ll be all hunkydory now. Old Seldon had the .41 that hit yuh. I reckon Smith is goin’ to be able to attend his own trial; but Partner won’t care which way it goes, ’cause he cashed in quick. Kane lived long enough to go out kinda clean. He said that him and Smith and Seldon shot Scott Martin, but he didn’t get time enough to tell which one done the job. Smith handled the sheep deal for Seldon and Voorhies; so that nobody’d know who was doin’ it.”

“How’s Lafe?” asked Brick, suddenly remembering that Lafe was hurt in the fight.

“Goin’ around with one arm in a sling and braggin’ about how fast he is with a gun. Thinks he done it all.”

Harp laughed and leaned closer.

“A couple of ladies have been in to see yuh every little while. I told Mrs. Wesson that they didn’t give you a square deal a-tall by thinkin’ you was guilty. Y’ betcha, I gave ’em particular----”

Brick shifted his eyes away and Harp grinned.

“Didja ever rub Mrs. Wesson the wrong way, Brick? Don’t never do it. Whoo-ee! But say, Brick; they both knowed you wasn’t guilty.”

“Why--” began Brick weakly.

“Lemme tell yuh, Mrs. Wesson’s a wise lady owl. Them two knowed you wasn’t guilty. Mrs. Wesson didn’t care if you did know how she felt, but she made Miss Martin act like she thought you was guilty.”

“But why?” asked Brick.

“Mrs. Wesson told her it would make yuh feel bad for a while and then you’d git mad as ---- and start throwin’ dust. She said you had plenty of brains, but that you couldn’t be happy and be smart all at the same time.”

Brick smiled up at the ceiling and shook his head at the wonderful wisdom of some women, while Harp leaned on the edge of the bed and clumsily arranged the blankets.

“Mind if I play yuh a tune, Brick?”

Brick looked at Harp’s homely face and smiled.

“Wish yuh would, Harp--thanks. If yuh feel like singin’--go to it.”

“Gittin’ shot sure does create a hankerin’ for music,” observed Harp. “I could sing, but I reckon I’ll stick to the harp.”

Harp started for the door, but stopped.

“When yuh git well, I don’t want yuh to point out the fact that I picked on yuh when yuh was flat on your back, Brick.”

“Go ahead and play,” grinned Brick. “I--I don’t think I’d mind anything now.”

It was neither a request nor a compliment to Harp’s musical ability; rather it was a concession, but Harp was hard-boiled, and all he needed was a chance to play.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 30, 1921 issue of Adventure magazine. This story is believed to be in the public domain in the United States. Please note that copyright status may differ in other countries.]