Chapter XVIII: Smith Turns Detective

Comanche Beadle swung the stage team through the gate at the Diamond R on his southern trip the next morning, and drew up near the kitchen door of the ranch-house. He had some stuff to deliver. Scotty looked him over sourly, and Comanche grinned to himself. He had heard about Scotty’s turning a flip over a billiard cue. Scotty’s eyes were bloodshot, but he was perfectly sober.

“Hello, Mulligan!” yelled Comanche to the Chinese cook, who came shuffling out, skillet in hand.

“H’lo,” replied Mulligan.

“Got some stuff for you, you flat faced heathen.”

Comanche unroped some boxes from the boot and put them on the steps.

“Hyah, Comanche,” grunted Scotty.

“Howdy,” Comanche grunted back at him. Comanche was a tough old bull whacker. He grinned at Scotty, spat copiously and said, “They tell me you’re gittin’ good at pool, Scotty.”

“They do, eh?” Scotty said coldly.

“Yea-a-ah. They say you shore believe in signs.”

“What kinda signs?”

Comanche grinned widely.

“There’s a sign in the War Paint which says for pool players to keep both feet on the floor. They tell me you—”

“I’ll make somebody laugh out of the other side of their mouth,” gritted Scotty angrily.

“They ain’t laughin—they’re marvelin’.”

“Thasso?”

“Uh-huh.”

Comanche bit off another generous chew.

“You lived in Santa Dolores a long time ago, didn’t you, Scotty?”

“What if I did?”

“’Member a feller named—uh—” Comanche consulted a sheet of paper for a moment—“a feller named Neilan, Nolan, Nelson or Neal, who used to be up that-away about twenty years ago?”

Scotty shut one eye and squinted closely at Comanche.

“What’s the idea?”

“I jist thought mebbe you’d know him.”

“What about him?”

“Sheriff’s sendin’ a wire to the penitentiary, askin’ for information about this feller. I jist thought mebbe you knowed somethin’ about him.”

Scotty hitched up his overalls and walked over to look at the boxes. Comanche climbed back on his seat, picked up the lines and sat there, looking at Scotty.

“You didn’t say,” reminded the old driver.

“Didn’t say what?”

“Whether you knew him.”

“Knew who?”

“Feller named Neilan, Nolan, Nelson or Neal.”

Scotty’s face turned red, puffed angrily and he seemed about to turn the vials of his wrath on old Comanche. Then he took a deep breath.

“Comanche, if there was a taxidermist around here, I’d shoot you and have you stuffed. I don’t know any Neilan, Nolan, Nelson or Neal. Git to hell away from here before I haul you off that stage and rub your nose in the dirt.”

“You and what other six cowpunchers? Rub my nose in the dirt! I’m sixty years old, but I can whip you on a sheepskin. Gittin’ mad jist because I wondered—”

“Wondered, eh? Can’tcha drive and wonder at the same time, or can’t you do two things at once?”

“Giddap!” snorted Comanche. “I never seen a pool player yet that—” The rest was lost in the rattle of the heavy stage as he turned swiftly to the right, and headed back for the main road.

Scotty stood there, scowling after Comanche, his jaw set belligerently.

“Neilan, Nolan, Nelson or Neal, eh? That’s damn’ funny.”

“You no feel good t’day?” queried Mulligan.

Scotty gave the Chinese a blistering look and walked around to the front porch, where he sat down on the steps and tore up several cigarette papers before he succeeded in rolling one.

A few minutes later Buck Haskell rode in from Willow Wells and got off his horse at the porch.

“Jack Erb is still alive,” he said. “Unconscious yet. As far as I can find out, everybody believes Jack was bushed. If Hartley knows Reese done the shootin’, he ain’t tellin’ nobody.”

Scotty spat dryly.

“That’s the hell of it! Hartley don’t tell _all_ he knows. That _hombre_ is dangerous, Buck. Look out for him.”

“I’m not worryin’ about him. Here’s a funny deal, and I got it straight. Pink Lowry captured Bill McGill between town and the SP ranch last night. He took the tenderfoot to jail, roped to the saddle, tied the horse in front of the office and went in to tell Evans. And somebody blocked the door on him, took McGill away and nobody knows where he went nor who got him.”

“Bill McGill, eh? Well, I’ll be danged! So that blamed tenderfoot is still around here.”

“Must be. And Pelliser fired Hartley and Stevens yesterday.”

Scotty laughed with evident amusement.

“They’re stayin’ at the hotel,” offered Buck. “I wonder why Pelliser fired ’em.”

“I dunno. They told old man Noon that he was stealin’ his cows.”

“They did, eh?”

“Yeah. Well, if they ain’t got no job, mebbe they won’t stay long. If they do stay, it won’t be long before me and that Hartley person locks horns.”

“Don’t never tackle him with your fists.”

“Not me.”

“Lee says he’ll get him.”

“Yea-a-a-ah, he will! Lee’s as yaller as a sunflower. Reese said he’d get him, too. And Reese is hightailin’ it for Cinnabar, lookin’ behind himself at every straight piece of road. He’s scared, if you ask me.”

“I guess he is. How’s your shoulder?”

“Pretty sore. He thinks he pulled a slick one on me, and I’ll admit it was; but it don’t end there. It’s a wonder he didn’t unjoint me.”

Buck laughed shortly.

“Any man who can think that fast—well, I hope him and his pardner pull out of the Valley pretty soon.”

“They will—or they won’t never leave here,” declared Scotty. “They ain’t got me scared.”

“Oh, I’m not scared, but I don’t want no truck with ’em if it can be avoided.”

Buck took his horse down to the stable, and Scotty sat down again. He had told Buck that he was not afraid, but there was a worried expression in his eyes.

“Neilan, Nolan, Nelson or Neal,” he said softly. “I wish I knowed what it was all about. A telegram to the penitentiary, eh? Mebbe I better try and get Evans to talk.”

He nodded slowly to himself, but suddenly his jaw sagged.

“Hartley was over at Santa Dolores, I’ll bet! That’s how he happens to be in Cinnabar. Damn’ him, what’s he up to, anyway?”

Scotty got to his feet, staring off across the hills.

“That’s it,” he muttered. “Hartley! Tryin’ to spoil my deal, eh? Yeah, he will—not! I’ll stop him if it’s the last thing I do.”

Buck and Smith, the scar faced cowboy, were coming up from the stable, heading for the bunkhouse. Scotty called to Smith, who came over to the porch.

“How good a detective are you, Smith?” he asked.

Smith grinned and shook his head.

“Not very good, I don’t reckon.”

“Prob’ly not. But here’s what I want you to do. Go to town and kinda mix around with the folks. If you can git in with Hartley and Stevens, that’ll be fine. Or even with the sheriff. Steer the talk around to Cinnabar and Santa Dolores. Mebbe they’ll ask you some questions.”

Smith scratched his stubbly hair and looked at Scotty.

“How could I answer their questions, Scotty? You’ve got to know—”

“Lie about it. Tell ’em—lemme see. Tell ’em you had a brother out in this country a long time ago, up around Santa Dolores. See the idea? Tell ’em you’d like to git some track of him.”

“But I never—”

“Aw, lie, you damn’ fool!”

“What’s the joke, Scotty?”

Scotty shook his head.

“Mebbe it’s a joke, and mebbe it ain’t. Go ahead and lie to ’em. They’ll talk, and you tell me what they talked about.”

Smith nodded slowly.

“All right, I’ll do it. I reckon I can rig me up a brother. I never had any, you see.”

“Git yourself one to use. But find out all you can. And see what else you can find out about Bill McGill. He’s back in the Valley again.”

Smith laughed softly and shook his head.

“That feller is a wonder.”

“He’s a locoed tenderfoot, that’s what he is. Did Buck tell you?”

“About the deputy sheriff losin’ him? Yeah. Funny, wasn’t it?”

“Lots o’ funny things happenin’.”

Smith saddled his horse and rode to Willow Wells. The first bit of information he received was in the War Paint Saloon, where he went to get a drink. The bartender had the story from Hashknife, and he gave it to Smith for what it was worth.

“That feller Jack Erb was conscious for a little while, and I’ve heard that he told quite a few things to the sheriff. The doctor says he can’t live, you know.”

“Told about what?” asked Smith.

“I dunno. Kinda queer about him bein’ bushwhacked, wasn’t it? Mebbe he had somethin’ to tell, eh?”

“Mebbe.” Smith was quite positive that this would interest Scotty. It might also interest other people, he thought.

* * * * *

The town was quiet and there was no sign of Hashknife and Sleepy. Smith got into a small poker game to while away the time. The stage was due to pass the Diamond R ranch at about suppertime, and Scotty happened to be out at the road with a letter for Comanche when the stage came along.

“Kinda dusty, ain’t it?” grunted Comanche as he reached down for the envelope.

“It is dusty, Comanche. Didja get the information you wanted?”

“What about?”

“That feller named Neilan, Nolan—”

“Oh, no,” grinned Comanche. “Fact is, I never asked anybody else. Got a telegram for the sheriff, but the damn’ thing’s sealed. Mebbe that’s the information. Well, see you later. Giddap, broncs!”

And Comanche wheeled away in a cloud of dust, springs creaking. Scotty walked back to the house, buckled on his chaps and headed for the stable.

“Goin’ to town?” asked Buck Haskell.

“Right now, Buck.”

“We’re all goin’ in after supper. This is Sat’day night and I’d like to draw a few dollars.”

“See you in town, Buck.”

“All right. We’ll be in about seven o’clock.”

Buck went on to the house, where the boys were washing up for supper.

“He’ll meet us in town,” explained Buck.

“Must be in a awful rush to go before supper,” said Lee.

“All on aidge,” said Barney East, his face muffled in a towel. “Since old man Noon had him arrested for rustlin’, Scotty has been keyed up—and that billiard cue business didn’t calm him down a bit. I’ve jist got a hunch that there’ll be powder smoke in the old town tonight.”

“I hope not,” grunted Buck. “I got a cactus spine in my right foot and I can’t run very fast.”

“Powder smoke or no powder smoke, I’m goin’ to play some poker,” declared Barney. “I’ve got some easy money comin’, and I’m goin’ to make me a bankroll or go busted right.”

Smith did not see Hashknife or the sheriff until the stage rolled in; it stopped for a moment at the sheriff’s office to deliver the telegram, then went on to the stage station. The sheriff opened the telegram, read it and handed it to Hashknife. It was from the State penitentiary, signed by the warden.

NEAL SERVED FULL SENTENCE BELIEVED RINGLEADER IN ATTEMPT TO DELIVER TWENTY MEN TEN YEARS AGO WAS BAD PRISONER NO FURTHER INFORMATION.

—TAYLOR

Hashknife swore softly and handed the telegram back to the sheriff.

“My mistake was in not askin’ how long a sentence Neal got. But this might be enough.”

Smith came up to them, sauntering along, and Hashknife pocketed the telegram.

“How are you this evenin’, Smith?” asked the sheriff.

“Pretty good; how are you? Any news about Jack Erb?”

“Not since this afternoon,” said Hashknife. “He was conscious for a few minutes—long enough to talk a little.”

“And he shore talked,” said the sheriff, backing up Hashknife’s lie.

Smith smiled to himself, wondering what Erb had said. Not for a moment did he suspect that Hashknife had circulated this information for an especial purpose. Even the sheriff did not know what it was for.

“Was either of you men ever up around Santa Dolores years ago?” asked Smith seriously.

“I never was,” said the sheriff. Hashknife’s gray eyes twinkled a little.

“Why I asked you was because I had a brother out in this country a long time ago, and I kinda lost track of him. He wrote me letters from Santa Dolores, and I kinda thought somebody might remember him.”

“Named Smith?” asked Hashknife.

Smith snorted softly.

“Naturally. First name Henry.”

“You might ask Caliente Smith,” suggested Hashknife. “He was up in that part of the country a long time ago and he might remember a Smith, bein’ as that’s his name, too.”

“I might ask him. Thanks for the suggestion.”

Smith went back up the street and Hashknife looked after him, a curious expression in his eyes. He turned to the sheriff.

“That was kinda funny, wasn’t it? Comin’ right after that telegram?”

“Yeah, it was.”

They walked up the street and met Comanche, who had turned his team over to the stable. Comanche evidently saw nothing wrong in having read the telegram entrusted to his care.

“Didja git an answer to your telegram?” he asked. “The one I sent out for you this mornin’? Quick work, eh? Send her out and git an answer inside of a couple hours. I stopped at the Diamond R on my way down, and I happened to remember that the McGowans used to be up around Santa Dolores. I asked Scotty if he remembered anybody by them names, but I guess he didn’t.”

“You showed him my telegram?”

“Didn’t show it to him—no.”

“Read it to him?”

“No, I jist asked him about a feller of that name. He didn’t know any.”

Hashknife sighed deeply and shook his head as they walked on.

“That’s a lesson,” he said to the sheriff.

“Always seal your telegrams.”

“That’s right. But there’s no harm done, is there?”

“I reckon not. Mebbe it’s best that way. Let’s go and eat.”

“All right. I’ll lock up the office. Pink’s gone out to the Pelliser ranch again, I reckon. Love must be a awful thing, Hartley.”

“No question about it. It shore ruins a good officer.”

“Then it won’t hurt Pink; he ain’t a good one.”

By the time Scotty reached town Smith was back in a poker game, which had built up considerably. It being Saturday night, the cowboys would all be in, especially if they were able to draw some of their wages. Scotty came to the War Paint and hung around until he was able to attract Smith’s attention. Smith shook his head at Scotty, indicating that he had no information. He had forgotten that Erb was said to have talked. Anyway, that was common knowledge, and Scotty might already have heard about it. Scotty had a drink and went to the restaurant, where he found Hashknife and Evans.

Ignoring them, Scotty sat down at a table as far removed as possible, and ordered a meal. Thursday and Sid Brayton came in, yelped gleefully and sat down with Evans and Hashknife.

“Didn’t wait for supper,” they said. “Wanted some ham and aigs. Hey! Sing Lee! Two order soup and two order ham and aigs, straight up.”

Scotty scowled at them as they talked softly, wondering what they were discussing. With Hashknife and Sleepy fired from the outfit, and with Sid and Thursday in town, it meant that Mary and Steve were alone at the ranch.

Scotty was still eating when they left the restaurant and went to the War Paint, where they found Sleepy playing pool with Chris Halvorsen. Chris was too easy for Sleepy, who asked Hashknife to play a game with him; but Hashknife shook his head shortly and Sleepy knew his lanky partner had something on his mind.

The rest of the Diamond R outfit showed up, but paid no attention to Hashknife. They wanted liquor and cards—not trouble. The sheriff sat down to watch another poker game, and in a few minutes Scotty came in. He gave the men some money and they went straight to the bar.

Hashknife saw the bartender talking to Barney East, and the Diamond R cowboys seemed deeply interested. They turned and spoke to Scotty, who listened to what Barney told him. Hashknife had no way of knowing what was said, but he felt sure the bartender had told Barney that Jack Erb had talked. Scotty nodded shortly and they went back to their drinks. Hashknife watched Scotty closely now. He stood there under the hanging lamp, with tobacco smoke wreathing around his face, his eyes half closed. He caught Smith’s eye and the scarfaced man cashed in his few chips and drew out of the game. Hashknife had never practised lip reading, but he watched the two men closely as Scotty asked Smith a question. And Smith’s answer was very plain.

“Yeah, I knew about it.”

Hashknife caught it easily—as also he caught Scotty’s reply.

“You fool, why didn’t you tell me?”

Smith shrugged his shoulders. Scotty was whispering swiftly, too swiftly for Hashknife to catch any of it. Scotty was vehement. His eyes swept the room and his lips said—

“They’re all here now.”

Smith glanced around, and Hashknife saw his eyes pick out Thursday and Sid Brayton. He nodded quickly. Scotty said something more, but Smith did not reply. Scotty turned quickly and left the saloon without saying anything to his men. Smith glanced around sharply, went slowly to the doorway, where he stood for several moments, idly looking around. Then he slipped outside and headed for the hitch-rack.

Hashknife touched Sleepy on the arm and they went outside, not appearing to be in a hurry. Once out of the lights, Hashknife ran swiftly toward the livery stable, with Sleepy at his heels. The stablekeeper gawked at them as they saddled quickly, mounted almost on the run and fairly shot through the wide front doors.

“I reckon,” said the stablekeeper thoughtfully, “I ought to run and tell the sheriff that them two gents has either killed somebody or robbed the bank—but I won’t. It’s none of my business, and I like ’em both.”