Chapter VIII: Night Ambush

Goober and Johnny spent the day around Silver Bar. They heard that Austin was paying the expenses of shipping Slade’s body back to San Francisco. The big sheriff was pleasant enough when they talked with him at his office, and Nolan admitted that the truth had been handled carefully at the inquest.

“No use puttin’ the deadwood on Austin’s kid,” he told them, “even if it was self-defence. Least said, soonest mended. That’s the way I look at it. The kid was drunk. You both seen him.”

“Shore,” nodded Goober.

“You used to know Austin, didn’t yuh?”

“Used to,” grinned Goober. “He used to know me, too. Where does the Star A do their shipping from?”

“Indian Wells.”

“Much stock shipped from here?”

“Oh, quite a little.”

Goober stretched and filled his pipe.

“I heard quite a lot about the Star A losin’ cattle and horses, when we was over in Keno City.”

“I’ve heard the same thing,” nodded the sheriff. “Don’t seem possible. They’d have to drive ’em north, south, or over here, and you’ve got to have the local officer look ’em over before they’re shipped. No chance to ship other brands, unless yuh can damn sure prove ownership.”

“I know that,” drawled Goober. “How about Mexico?”

“Horses, yeah, yuh might sell a few down there. No market for cows. They sell most of their surplus across the line. Sands said they was losin’ a few head--enough to worry Austin. But you _sabe_ all this stuff because you used to work for the Association, I hear.”

“Yeah, I did,” replied Goober, wondering who had told Nolan. “But I got out of that kinda work. Too dangerous for the money yuh git. Might as well be a sheriff or a deputy.”

Nolan laughed. “Oh, this ain’t bad. I don’t hire any deputy. Used to have one. Pretty hard to get reliable men at the money this county can pay; so I handle the job alone.”

“And don’t git anythin’ extra for doin’ it,” said Goober.

“No, that’s plenty true. Are you fellers lookin’ for work around here?”

“Well, that was our original idea,” grinned Goober. “We heard about Frank Austin ownin’ a big outfit over here; so we comes over to have a look. I tells Johnny that Austin bein’ an old blanket-mate of mine, we’d shore get a couple of jobs. I meets Frank here the day he showed up, and you’d think I was all broke out with smallpox.”

Nolan laughed heartily. “Forgot his old friend, eh? That’s what money does to some folks. You didn’t strike Sands for a job, didja?”

“Hell, no! After that turn-down, me and Johnny decided to kinda look the places over. Not bein’ exactly broke, we could afford to loaf a while.”

“What about that 7 Bar 7 outfit?” asked Johnny.

“Terrill’s? Oh, that’s just a little outfit. He hires a couple men, and they’ve been with him a long time. Dug Blewett and Heinie Shafer, couple old cow trailers. Terrill’s ranch is kinda northwest of here. His road forks off the main road to Keno City, about a mile and a half from here.”

Nolan ate supper with them and loafed around with them until after nine o’clock. Things were quiet, only one or two games running.

“Might as well go down to the office and talk,” the sheriff suggested at last; so they did. Nolan was interested in Goober’s experiences along the border, but the old cowboy was rather reticent about his personal prowess.

“You was with the Association quite a while, wasn’t yuh?” asked Nolan.

“Three years.”

“Man on that job can make a lot of enemies in three years.”

“That’s right, and that’s why I quit. Gittin’ old, I reckon. Young feller goes hell-bent into things, takin’ a lot of chances, but when yuh git older yore life seems worth more than a lot of fool happenings. I’ve stopped a plenty lead. The Walker gang tagged me for the cemetery, but I missed the sexton by an inch. Bart Walker was a queer sort of a jasper. He had a good chance to finish me off cold, but he wanted me alive. Played dead, until my gun was empty, and then raised up to take me alive. I knocked him cold with my six-gun, and then faded out m’self. I reckon Walker thought I was dead, because he got away, and I dunno what became of him.”

Both Goober and Johnny watched Nolan’s expression, but the big sheriff either did not know Terrill as Walker, or he had a perfect poker face. They talked for an hour, and Goober decided it was time to go to bed. They told Nolan good-night and walked up the narrow sidewalk toward the hotel.

Then it came, like a flash of lightning out of a clear sky. A streak of fire, the smashing report of a heavy revolver; Goober’s grunt from the shock of the bullet, and his fall against Johnny Wells. Some one in a dark alley had fired, from not over fifteen feet away, and now was running down the alley, boots thumping on the hard ground.

Goober slithered down Johnny’s right leg, and Johnny was shooting down the alley as fast as he could pull the trigger, cursing bitterly. The sheriff was running up the street, and men were coming from the saloon across the way. Johnny’s gun was empty, the hammer clicking on an empty shell.

“He got Goober,” said Johnny. “Damn him, he got Goober!”

“Who got him?” panted the sheriff.

“Man in the alley, the dirty bushwhacker.”

“Didja hit him, do yuh think?” asked one of the men.

“No,” groaned Johnny. “Shootin’ at the sound, thasall. Git a doctor, will yuh? Goober, are yuh bad hurt?”

“Pack him into my office,” ordered the sheriff.

They stretched Goober on the floor and one of the men ran to get a doctor. Goober’s breathing could be heard out on the street, like a man suffering from pneumonia.

“Well, where did he get his?” wondered Johnny. “I can’t find no blood.”

“Look at that belt-buckle,” said a cowboy.

Goober was wearing an old army belt-buckle of solid metal, a big, oblong buckle, and to all appearances it had been hit hard. Johnny unbuckled the belt, tore open Goober’s clothes to disclose a purple bruise a little larger than the buckle.

“The luck of the Irish!” snorted Johnny in quick reaction.

Goober groaned, took a couple of deep breaths, and opened his eyes, squinting painfully. “Where’d he hit me?” he asked.

“Right in the belt-buckle,” grinned his relieved partner. “I’ve always wondered why yuh wore a monstrosity like that, but now I know.”

Goober grunted painfully and sat up. “I feel like I’d been kicked by a horse,” he told them. “My gosh, I’m shore tender.” He got to his feet and was feeling himself over as the doctor came bustling in.

“Where’s the wounded man?” he asked.

“He don’t need a doctor,” said Johnny. “Send a jeweller.”

Nolan explained what had happened, and the doctor examined the bruise on Goober’s body.

“That’s all right. Be sore for a few days. Must have knocked the breath out of you.”

“I reckon so,” grinned Goober. “I thought the town fell down on me.”

There was no use asking questions as to who had tried to kill the old cowboy. Goober carried his belt in his hand, and they went to the hotel. They went up to their room, down the rear steps, and around to the livery stables, where they saddled their horses.

“Got a hunch?” asked Johnny.

“Terrill-Walker, mebbyso. We’ll go out and see what it looks like around his place. He’s the only man I know of around here that would try to bush me thataway. Anyway, I crave a word or two with Mr. Terrill.”

Not even the stableman saw them leave. He was probably at a saloon or restaurant. Their only knowledge of the way to the 7 Bar 7 was that the road forked off the Keno City road a mile and a half from Silver Bar. They circled wide of the town and picked up the road in the moonlight. It was an easy matter to find the road to the 7 Bar 7, and they were about a mile from the forks when they heard a horse clattering over a hard piece of road behind them. Swinging quickly off the road and into the brush, they saw a rider sweep past them. Even in the moonlight there was no chance to identify him.

“Ten to one it’s Terrill,” grunted Goober, as they went back to the road.

They rode slowly, after covering what seemed to be the approximate distance to the 7 Bar 7, and they saw the light from a window. Another quarter of a mile and they could see the huddle of buildings which constituted the ranch.

They dismounted in the shadow of the big stable, which screened their horses from any one on the road, and proceeded Indian-like to investigate. The ranch house was a one-storey affair, and behind it was a small bunk house and a row of long sheds. A series of corrals linked the stable with these sheds. There was a light in the bunk house, and the window was apparently uncurtained, but a curtained window, through which the light shone dimly, precluded any chance to see inside the ranch house.

They cautiously circled the ranch house and came around to the bunk house, where they looked through a rear window. Two cowboys were at a little table, playing cribbage by a smoky oil lamp. They were a hard-looking pair, these two 7 Bar 7 cowboys.

“Know either of ’em?” whispered Johnny.

“No,” replied Goober, as they moved away.

A horseman was approaching the ranch house, and the two men dropped in the heavy shadow. They heard the man climb the porch steps and his knock on the door. Goober sneaked in close to the window to see if he could hear what was being said in there, but the voices were not audible. It was too dark to distinguish the colour of the horse, and Goober did not want to take a chance on going close to the animal. He went back to Johnny, and they squatted in the shadow of the stable.

“If Terrill bushed you, and if Terrill was the man who passed us he got out of town without knowin’ whether he killed yuh or not,” said Johnny. “My guess is that this other rider came out to tell him what happened.”

“Yo’re learnin’, son,” said Goober seriously. “After while you’ll be able to look in a horse’s mouth and tell how old he is.”

“Well, what’s yore wrong idea of it all, Goober?”

“The fact that he missed killin’ me wouldn’t cause a man to ride all the way out here to tell him what a rotten shot he is.”

“Why not? Terrill knows you recognised him as Walker. And he might like awful well to know whether yo’re alive or dead. It might make a lot of difference in what he does next.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Mebbe you’ve hit it. I shore wish I knew who this last feller is, Johnny. Walker is a human lobo, but I can’t tag anybody else. Them two punchers of his shore look forked, but yuh can’t go by looks.”

“How does yore stummick feel?”

“Sore as a boil. Hurts me to bend over. But I ought to declare a Thanksgivin’ Day and build me an idol out of that old buckle. I’ve worn that old thing for years, and I never knew why. But I know now.”

“Fate,” said Johnny. “If I----”

The thud of a shot prevented Johnny from finishing his statement. Just one shot, and it sounded as though it came from the ranch house. Suddenly the door was flung open and a man darted quickly down the steps. The horse snorted with fright, but the man was into the saddle and running his horse back to the main road. The bunk house door was open and the two 7 Bar 7 hands came running toward the house.

“Sure it was a shot!” one of the 7 Bar 7 cowboys panted to the other as they ran up the steps to the open door of the ranch house. One stopped at the doorway an instant, looked about, then followed his partner inside.

In less than twenty seconds Goober and Johnny saw the pair come back out on the porch, their voices plainly audible to the two men against the stable.

“Of course he’s dead; shot through the heart. Who in hell shot him, do yuh suppose?”

“He came back alone.”

“I know it. This is a fine mess. Well, I’ll go to town and notify the sheriff.”

“We’ll both go to town and notify the sheriff. Yuh don’t catch me stayin’ alone with any damn dead man, I’ll tell yuh that.”

“All right; shut the door.”

Goober and Johnny flattened in the shadow as the two men came down past them and entered the stable. A few minutes later the pair had saddled and were racing their horses to Silver Bar.

As soon as they were gone, Goober and Johnny went up to the ranch house. Terrill was sprawled in the middle of the floor, clad in underclothes, overalls and moccasins. His belt and gun were on a table near him. Goober drew the gun from the holster and looked at the cylinder. One empty shell indicated that a single shot had been fired.

There was no question that the one shot had been plenty, and it had been fired so close that the nap on Terrill’s undershirt had been scorched. There was nothing to be gained from a search of the place; so they went back to their horses and travelled about three miles down the road, where they slipped down into the brush and waited for the men to bring the sheriff.

“They’d like to soak us for that job,” said Goober. “It was a clear case of murder, and if anybody around Silver Bar knew that me and Terrill were old enemies, they shore might make trouble for us.”

It was nearly an hour later when several men came along the road, and Goober said he recognised Nolan’s voice. So they went back to Silver Bar, stabled their horses, without seeing the stableman, and sneaked up the rear stairs to bed.