Chapter X: Suspects

The murder of Terrill was the big subject of conversation in Silver Bar the next day. The sheriff and the doctor, who was also the coroner, had gone out there with the two 7 Bar 7 hands, Dug Blewett and Heinie Shafer, and brought the body back to town in a wagon. It was plainly a case of murder, as Terrill was unarmed, his holstered gun being on the table. Except for that fact it might have looked like a suicide, as the bullet had been fired at close range.

In the privacy of his office, Nolan questioned the two hard-bitten cowpunchers closely. They said Terrill had gone to town early in the evening.

“He was either sore or scared,” said Blewett. “I done told Heinie that Terrill acted like he was gunnin’ for somebody.”

“And he comes back home jist a while before we hears the shot,” added Shafer. “We heard him come in.”

“Are yuh sure it was him?” asked the sheriff.

“Yeah. I went to the door and yelled at him. I says, ‘Yuh made a quick trip,’ and he said, ‘Yeah, I didn’t stay very long.’”

“How long was it before yuh heard the shot?”

“Mebby fifteen, twenty minutes. I dunno how long it was.”

“And yuh didn’t see anybody leavin’ there, eh?”

“Not a soul. We went straight to the house and seen what happened, and then we comes right over here to tell yuh about it.”

“All right. Keep still about everythin’ and don’t say a word about Terrill comin’ over here last night.”

“I reckon we know how to keep our mouths shut,” grinned Shafer.

Early in the morning Nolan had a talk with the livery-stable keeper, Oscar Knudson. “You was here at the stable all night, Oscar?”

“Sure.”

“What time did Glendon and Wells ride away from here last night?”

“Glendon and Wells? Hell, they never rode away at all.”

“Are yuh sure of that?”

“Well, they never rode their own outfits, if they did. Them horses has been right in here all night. Who said they rode out last night?”

“Nobody--I just thought they did.”

“Nossir.”

The sheriff went away and Oscar Knudson scratched his partly-bald tow-head thoughtfully. He had drunk considerable liquor last night, and he remembered playing a number of games of pool. Still, he remembered that the two horses were in their stalls, when he came back. No, he could safely swear that the two horses had not been out of the stable last night.

Nolan went back to his office and tried to puzzle it out. There was a bare possibility that either Shafer or Blewett had killed Terrill. Still, there was lack of motive. What had there been between Terrill and Goober Glendon, he wondered? Terrill had been in town, apparently unobserved by anybody, and had tried to ambush Goober Glendon. Terrill had escaped and gone home, only to meet a bullet.

Nolan knew the approximate time of the attempted murder of Glendon, and also the approximate time of the shot which killed Terrill. He knew Glendon and Wells had gone to the hotel, Glendon still suffering from the shock of that bullet. It seemed hardly possible that Glendon could have taken his horse from the livery stable, ridden out to the 7 Bar 7, killed Terrill, and brought his horse back, unobserved by any one.

Nolan left the office and went over to the saloon across the street. He remembered that several men had come over from there just after Glendon had been shot. The night bartender had not gone to bed, and Nolan drew him aside.

“Do you remember who was in here when that shot was fired at Glendon last night?”

The bartender squinted thoughtfully. “Yeah, I believe I do, Nolan.”

“Was Oscar Knudson here?”

“Yeah--sure he was.”

“Yo’re sure of that, are yuh?”

“Y’betcha. Oscar and Slim Peterson was playin’ pool. When that shot was fired, Oscar says, ‘Set ’em up in de odder alley!’”

“How long after that did Oscar stay here?”

“I dunno. Him and Slim played a lot of games.”

“Couple of hours?”

“Probably longer than that. I don’t believe either him or Peterson left here much before midnight.”

Nolan went back to his office, firmly convinced that Goober Glendon or Johnny Wells had killed Terrill. The fact that Knudson had been away from his stable until about midnight made it possible for them to have taken their horses unobserved. It looked as though Terrill had tried to kill Glendon, failed, and in turn was killed by Glendon. But there was not sufficient evidence to warrant an arrest. Nolan looked up as Johnny Wells came in.

“Where’s Glendon?” asked the sheriff gruffly.

“Goober’s nursin’ a sore spot,” grinned Johnny. “Pretty sore t’day.”

“Any idea who shot him?”

“Have you?” countered Johnny.

Nolan’s jaw jutted a little. “How would I?”

“I dunno. You know more bush-whackers around here than we do.”

“I do, eh?” flared the sheriff.

“Yuh ought to know more--you’ve been here longer.”

“I don’t like that kind of a remark, Wells.”

“About you knowin’ bush-whackers?”

“Yes. How would I know any?” rasped the sheriff.

“Ain’t it yore business to keep track of crooks?”

“I didn’t know we had any.”

“Yuh know it now, don’tcha? One murder and another attempted murder in one night. Or is that merely a common pastime among the best people, Nolan?”

The sheriff scowled thoughtfully. “It seems to me that Glendon ought to have some sort of an idea who tried to kill him.”

“Mebbe he did.”

“I think he did, too. Was that why you two rode out to the 7 Bar 7 last night?”

Nolan was watching the young cowboy’s eyes closely, but there was not a flicker of anything to suggest that Nolan’s question had startled him.

“Mind askin’ that again?” queried Johnny. “I don’t reckon I heard yuh.”

“You heard me all right, Wells. Last night you and Glendon rode out to the 7 Bar 7.”

“My memory must be failin’ me,” smiled Johnny coldly. “And what would we be doin’ out there?”

“You know what happened out there?”

“Shore; a feller named Terrill was killed. What’s that got to do with us?”

“This much,” said Nolan evenly. “You and Glendon high-tail out of here. I’m not sayin’ that Terrill didn’t get what was comin’ to him. I don’t reckon it would be hard to prove that Glendon knew Terrill; that Glendon mebbe came here to git Terrill. Mebbe Terrill knew this, Wells. Mebbe Terrill tried to bushwhack Glendon. That can’t be proved. But I’ll bet I could prove to a jury that Glendon killed Terrill last night.”

“There’s a lot of maybe’s in yore statement,” drawled Johnny.

“All right, have it yore own way. But Terrill was murdered. He never had a chance. That forty-four bullet went plumb through his heart.”

“Yeah? That’s funny.”

“What’s funny?”

“Me and Goober both shoot .45’s.”

Nolan smiled softly. “More’n one way to find out what size guns you fellers use. I hated to come right out and ask.”

“Then yuh ain’t dug out the bullet yet, eh?”

“Not yet. I’d advise that you have a talk with Glendon,” the sheriff said warningly.

“Talk with him about what?”

“Pullin’ out of here. I’ll forget what I know, if yuh do.”

“You’ll forget what yo’re guessin’ at,” corrected Johnny, as he stood up.

Nolan got to his feet and came closer to Johnny. “Guessin’, eh? I’ll show yuh how much I’m guessin’. You and that old dried-up milk-cow detective be out of here by to-night, or I’ll have yuh both in jail for murder.”

“What are you scared of?” asked Johnny evenly.

“I’m not scared of anythin’.”

“Yo’re scared to have us stick around here, it seems to me. Yo’re a hell of a sheriff. If you think we murdered Terrill, why are yuh compoundin’ a felony by askin’ us to make our escape? Threatenin’ to jail us for murder. It seems to me that it’s a personal proposition with you.”

“Don’t you try to tell me my business.”

“You shore need some tellin’.”

Sheriff Nolan was exasperated. Naturally of a hair-trigger temper, and with an exaggerated idea of his own importance, he flared red hot at the idea of this smooth-faced cowpuncher trying to tell him what to do. “You think I do, eh?” he snarled. “Well, it won’t be from you.”

“Some folks ain’t got brains enough to accept good advice.”

The last was a flame to dry powder.

“Damn you, I’ll kick you plumb across the street!”

Nolan’s intentions were of the very best, and he started his kick without regard for anatomy. But Johnny moved swiftly, caught the swishing boot at the extreme top of its arc, and yanked so hard that Nolan’s other foot left the floor. It was a terrific crash. Nolan’s head hit the corner of his desk, scoring a complete knock-out to the credit of that piece of furniture.

Johnny stepped to the doorway, grinned softly, and proceeded up the street. He met the doctor near the hotel, and the doctor said: “I wonder if Nolan is in his office.”

“He was there when I left,” said Johnny seriously. “I don’t reckon he’s left since then.”

Nolan was in his chair when the doctor came, still a little dazed and not a little mad, but the doctor did not notice. He tossed an object to the desk-top before the sheriff. “That’s the bullet that killed Terrill,” the doctor-coroner announced. “Not even battered much.”

“Thirty-eight!” snorted the sheriff.

“Yes, sir. Inquest to-morrow, I suppose, sheriff?”

“Might as well,” growled Nolan, and the doctor went out.

Nolan rubbed his sore head. The previous events were very clear. He had let his temper run away with him again, and this smart cowboy had dumped him on his head. The sight of that .38 bullet angered him and he threw it into a drawer.

“Lotta good that’ll do me,” he complained to himself. “Thirty-eight bullet--and they both shoot .45’s. I reckon I was barkin’ up the wrong tree. But who shoots a thirty-eight? Plenty men. Who shoots a thirty-eight and holds a grudge against Terrill? That’s one thing I’ve got to find out.”

Johnny Wells went up to their room at the little hotel, where he found Goober stretched out on a bed, reading an old magazine. In a few words, Johnny told him of the conversation at the sheriff’s office, and what had happened to Nolan. Goober frowned thoughtfully.

“Milk-cow detective, eh?” he chuckled. “That feller shore knows me. Set down and rest yore hoofs, kid. Don’t worry about Nolan. He may suspect that me and you was out at the 7 Bar 7 last night, but he’d have a sweet time provin’ it. There ain’t no question in my mind that Terrill tried to put me on a damp cloud playin’ a harp, last night. He’s allus been playful thataway. Terrill’s been runnin’ crooked around here. If he wasn’t, he’d never take a chance on murder, because there ain’t no warrant against him that I knowed anything about.

“Terrill high-tailed it out of here, after shootin’ me. Likely he went east from here, swung around and headed back to his own road later. Now the question is this: who came in behind us, went in the house and killed Mr. Terrill? Nolan didn’t have no hand in it, because I asked questions enough to find out that Nolan was here all the time, until them two 7 Bar 7 cowpunchers brought in the news of Terrill’s killin’.

“I can’t find anybody that is willin’ even to suspect anybody. Some of ’em kinda hinted that mebbe his two punchers killed him. But we know that ain’t true. And now Mr. Nolan is sore at us and politely asks us to fade out of the country, eh? Let’s do it, Johnny. Let’s go over to Keno City. I’d like to hear what they know about Terrill over there.”

“It wouldn’t look as though we was runnin’ away, would it, Goober?”

“Personally I don’t care what Nolan thinks.”

“I don’t want to let anybody run us out,” Johnny protested.

“They ain’t; and don’tcha worry about that. Pack yore war-bag and let’s start travellin’.”

“How’s yore stummick?”

“I reckon the crisis is past,” laughed Goober, drawing on his boots. “I soaked it with horse liniment, and she’s fine. C’mon.”