Chapter V: Part 5

“I think that would be fun, Mrs. Wesson.”

“Fun, ——! It’d be a riot.”

* * * * *

It was dark when Santel rode into Silverton. He took his horse to the livery-stable and turned it over to a skinny youngster. Santel had bought a bottle of liquor at Marlin City and had emptied it on the way down. He threw it away, as he came out of the stable and went toward the Short Horn saloon.

He was pretty drunk, but did not stagger as he went into the saloon and stopped at the bar. Leach was in the rear of the room, talking to Al Hendricks, and Santel went to them. They gave him a chair and he sat down with them at a card-table.

“Well, what’s the news?” asked Hendricks guardedly.

“I’m quittin’ the job,” announced Santel. “I told Grant what I decided upon, and he didn’t seem to believe me.”

“You mean to say that you couldn’t find out anythin’?” asked Hendricks.

Santel laughed angrily. Leach watched him closely. He knew that Santel was drunk.

“I reckon I could find out enough,” said Santel hoarsely, “but what the —— is the use? We all know that these robberies were done by three men, don’t we?”

“Well?”

“Three men,” continued Santel. “A big man, a medium-sized man and a tall, thin man. I’ve been lookin’ for three men of that description—three men who are close enough together to do this work. And—” Santel shook his head slowly—“there’s just three men in this county that answer that description, and that is the sheriff, his deputy and the big fellow, Slade.”

“Aw, ——!” snorted Hendricks.

“There yuh are,” Santel shrugged his shoulders wearily.

“And why not?” queried Leach. “Are they so ——ed pure that they wouldn’t do a thing like that, Al?”

Hendricks frowned heavily and looked at Santel.

“Is this the best you could do, Santel?”

“Suits me.”

“Where’s your proof?”

“Proof? What in —— do yuh want—a confession?”

Hendricks shook his head quickly.

“You couldn’t convict anybody on that evidence.”

“There’s a murder or two connected with this,” reminded Leach meaningly. “It might not be a jury case, Al.”

Hendricks laughed and shook his head.

“Don’t be a fool, Leach. Brick Davidson never done these things. Santel may be a good detective, but he sure got off on the wrong foot that time. I’d stake my life on Brick.”

“There yuh are,” said Santel disgustedly. “It’s about time for me to quit.”

“It sure is—if Brick finds it out.”

“All right,” Santel got to his feet. “I’ve quit. Now I’m goin’ to get drunk and as soon as I get paid for my work, I’m goin’ to pull my freight, _sabe_?”

He swaggered back to the bar, leaving Hendricks and Leach at the table.

“You sure picked a good man,” observed Hendricks.

“Did I?” Leach smiled crookedly. “I guess that Santel found out what he came here to find. It’s no fault of his if we don’t agree with him.”

“It’s a free country, Leach, and—here comes Brick now.”

Brick was coming into the place, with Silent behind him. Santel was at the bar, taking a drink, but he turned and looked at Brick, who stopped short and faced Santel.

Hendricks started to get up from the table, but Leach grasped him by the arm, drawing him back. Santel was just drunk enough to forget caution, and his lips drew up in a wolfish grin.

“Well,” he said, as his voice carried to all parts of the room, “here’s Sun Dog County’s little tin god.”

The bartender scuttled to the upper end of the bar, out of line with the two men, and those at a card-table behind Brick immediately lost all interest in their play and moved quickly. Brick was grinning and it irritated Santel.

“You, I’m talkin’ to!” snarled Santel.

“To me?” Brick laughed. “Well, that’s nice of yuh, Santel. I sure wondered who yuh meant, and I’m glad that Sun Dog likes me so well.”

“Tha’sso?” Santel sneered. “You ain’t got sense enough to know when yo’re insulted.”

“Have you insulted me?” questioned Brick wonderingly.

He turned his head and looked around the room, as if asking someone to confirm it. Hendricks caught his eye and tried to signal a warning. Silent moved in beside the bar and began rolling a cigaret, as if nothing was the matter. Santel shot a glance at Silent, and it seemed that the big man’s unconcerned attitude irritated him.

Brick turned back to Santel—

“You didn’t really mean to insult me, didja, Santel?”

“Well, I’ll be ——ed!” Santel’s voice was hoarse with indignation. “Did I really mean it?”

Santel leaned forward until his face was within a foot of Brick, his hands spread out from his sides. His anger had made him forget that Brick was egging him on.

“You red-headed pup!”

Santel had evidently figured that Brick was afraid of him, but he was jerking back as he spoke; jerking back, as his right hand flashed for his gun. As quick as a cat Brick shifted just a trifle, slashing out with his right hand; a cutting stroke with the side of his hand, which caught Santel just at the middle of his throat and made him lose immediate interest in his gun.

He straightened up, with both hands going to his throat, his face twisted with the agony of it, as he slithered along the edge of the bar.

“Ambulance on the job!” snorted Silent; and before any one could prevent him he stepped in, caught Santel with both hands, swung him over his shoulder and went striding out of the saloon.

The crowd rushed to the doorway and windows in time to see Silent step to the edge of the sidewalk and fairly hurl Santel into the street, where he rolled over and over.

“Hookum cow!” yelped Silent. “Yee-ow-w-w! Cowboy!”

Santel got slowly to his feet, but fell down once before he got himself steadied enough to stagger away across the street.

“Mebbe he don’t know what it was all about,” stated Silent, “but he’s got sense enough to not come back for information.”

“I never seen anythin’ like it,” declared a cowboy. “Brick hit him with the side of his hand. Right on the old apple. I’ll betcha that jigger will have an apple-juice taste in his mouth for a month.”

Hendricks congratulated Brick silently and Brick grinned.

“I seen yuh wig-waggin’ me, Al. Santel was on the prod, eh?”

“He sure was, Brick. You ain’t heard about what he found out, have yuh?”

“Grant was tellin’ me, Al.”

“What do yuh think of it?”

“Well,” Brick grinned widely, “I feel suspicious of myself.”

“I told Santel he was crazy.”

“Thank yuh, Al.”

“But look out for Santel, Brick. I don’t know a thing about him, but I’ll bet he won’t forgive yuh.”

“If he does, he’s plumb loco. Anyway, I ain’t lookin’ for forgiveness. See yuh later, Al.”

Brick and Silent went down to the livery-stable and found the gangling youth in charge, sitting in the office, playing a game of solitaire.

“Where’s McKeever?” asked Brick.

“I dunno. I come to work at four o’clock, but he wasn’t here.”

“He didn’t say where he was goin’, did he?”

“He didn’t say he was goin’ anywhere. I suppose he got into a poker game and forgot he owned a livery-stable.”

“He wasn’t at the Short Horn.” Thus Silent.

“Tha’sso? Didja look in at McGill’s place? He plays over there once in a while.”

“That’s probably where he is,” said Brick.

“Was it anythin’ I can do for yuh, Sheriff?”

“No-o-o, I guess not. I just wanted to ask Jimmy how one of his saddles happens to have a bullet-hole in the cantle.”

“One of his saddles?” The youth squinted at Brick, as he lighted a limp-looking cigaret. “I didn’t know about that.”

“The saddle that Meecham rode today,” explained Brick. “It’s a cheap saddle—one of them red leather hulls, with a rawhide-covered horn. Meecham was ridin’ a Triangle 8 bay filly.”

“Uh-huh?” The youth squinted thoughtfully. “I know the saddle and the bronc. Lemme see.”

He led them out into the stable and examined the saddles, but was unable to find the right one. The bay filly was in a stall, and Brick knew it was the same animal that Meecham had ridden to Marlin City.

“I dunno where that ——ed saddle is,” declared the boy. “I know it. McKeever bought it from a mail-order catalog. One of the worst forks I ever set into. Cost about fifteen dollars, I reckon. Are you sure that’s the horse he was ridin’?”

“That’s the horse.” Brick was positive.

“What about the bullet-hole? Been some shootin’ goin’ on?”

“Bullet-holes don’t occur by themselves,” grinned Brick. “We’ll see if we can find Jimmy.”

They left the stable and crossed the street, going past McGill’s saloon, but there was no sign of McKeever. McGill was behind the bar, reading a newspaper, alone in the place. They went on up to the Short Horn, but found no trace of McKeever.

They asked the bartender, who said that he had not seen McKeever since about noon. At the Boston hotel, where McKeever lived, they were informed that he had not been around there since morning.

They went back to the Short Horn and had barely entered the place when the youth from the livery-stable followed them in. He was hatless, pasty-faced, and in one hand he carried an old tin bucket.

“For ——’s sake, come on!” he panted to Brick. “Come on with me! My ——!”

He turned and ran out, with Brick and Silent close behind him. Several of those in the saloon, who had heard, followed them down the street.

Straight to the stable they went, and the boy stopped in the middle of the floor, under the light of a lantern.

“Tut-take the lantern,” he faltered. “You go ahead, will yuh? Look in the grain box. My ——!”

Brick grabbed the lantern and ran into the grain-room, a built-in room, adjoining the little office. A big grain-bin extended the full length of the room, with three different covers.

“That’n on the end,” panted the boy.

Brick lifted the cover and held up the lantern. Lying doubled up on some loose oats was Jimmy McKeever, his head a welter of blood. Silent and the men from the saloon crowded in and took a look.

“I—I ju-just found him that-a-way,” explained the boy. “I dunno how I did it. We didn’t use that bin any more. Sus-somethin’ made me look in there, I reckon.”

Brick fastened back the cover and climbed into the bin.

“One of yuh go after the doctor,” he ordered, and a man hurried away.

Brick lifted McKeever up to where they could all get hold of him, and they placed him on the floor of the stable.

Brick examined him, while Silent knelt down and held the lantern.

“I don’t reckon he needs a doctor,” observed Silent.

Brick shook his head slowly.

“Don’t look like it, that’s a cinch. Somebody beat his head all up.”

“Somebody—yeah.” It was an old cattleman from the southern end of the range. “I’d admire to know jist who that somebody was.”

The man who went after the doctor had shouted the news in at the Short Horn, and the stable soon filled with curious and interested people. Doctor Bridger came bustling in and the crowd gave him room. His examination was short and to the point.

“Been dead quite a while. Skull crushed. Who found him?”

Doctor Bridger was the coroner. The youth shouldered his way inside the circle.

“I found him, Doc. I—I thought he was out some’rs, playin’ poker, and I finds him in that danged old oat-bin. I told the sheriff jist as quick as I could.”

“I reckon he did,” agreed Brick. “He was still packin’ his oat-can with him.”

“But why would any one kill Jimmy McKeever?” Thus Banty Harrison indignantly. “Jimmy was a good guy.”

“Didn’t have an enemy that I ever heard about,” offered Slim Hunter. “By gosh, this country is gettin’ too salty to suit me. Mostly every day there’s a robbery, a killin’ or a dynamitin’. Makes a feller scared to do anythin’, I tell yuh.”

“Anything missing around here?” questioned the doctor. “It might have been done by a horse-thief.”

“There ain’t no horses gone,” declared the boy.

He was about to mention the missing saddle, but Brick’s eyes signaled him a warning and he turned away.

“Better take the body down to my place,” suggested the doctor.

They rolled the body onto a blanket and four men carried it away. Brick and Silent left the stable ahead of the crowd, and were half-way to the Short Horn when the doctor joined them.

“Murder, wasn’t it?” he asked.

“The dirtiest kind,” said Brick slowly. “They probably put him in there until they got a chance to dispose of him.”

The doctor shook his head wearily.

“I can’t understand men doing a thing like that, sheriff. Murder is so unnecessary.”

“From yore angle,” said Brick softly.

They left the doctor and went to the hitch-rack, where they mounted and rode out of town. Just at the outskirts, Brick swung off the road and led the way into the hills with Silent’s horse pounding along behind him.

“Can’t take a chance on the road,” declared Brick, as the lights of Silverton faded from view. “There’s too much —— to pay in Sun Dog. We’ll stay at the Nine-Bar-Nine tonight.”

* * * * *

It was about four o’clock the following afternoon. Brick and Silent crouched in the brush and watched the ranch-house of Mostano. They had been there since the middle of the forenoon but had seen nothing of interest.

Their few hours of sleep at the Nine-Bar-Nine had only been an aggravation to Silent, who complained wearily against accompanying a half-witted sheriff on a foolish quest. They had left the Nine-Bar-Nine before daylight, having cooked their own breakfast, and had ridden the entire distance away from the road.

Brick was taking no chances now, and he was forced to admit that his spying on the Mostano ranch was inspired by a “hunch.” Something seemed to tell him that the answer to the riddle was at that ranch. He knew that Mostano was not the only man at the ranch when he and Harp were chased out of the house.

The dynamiting of his office proved that the criminals feared him and felt that he knew too much. Just why they would dynamite the Red Hill mine safe, after stealing the payroll, was more than he could figure out. In some way it was connected with the attempted killing of Soapy Caswell, he decided.

Perhaps, he thought, there were two different gangs, or they might have blown the safe to make him think that there were two different outfits working. He grinned as he thought of Santel’s findings. Still, the descriptions covered the three of them. Baldy Malloy, Ike Welden and Meecham had all been robbed by men of the same description. Suddenly Brick laughed aloud and Silent looked at him curiously.

“What’s so ——ed funny?” Silent was tired and uncomfortable.

“Somethin’,” Brick’s brows were drawn in a thoughtful frown and the ball of his right thumb caressed the stubble on his chin. “Somethin’ good, Silent.”

“Oh, yeah,” Silent turned away, squinted at the ranch-house and nudged Brick on the knee.

A man was riding toward the ranch-house on the bluff trail, and both of them knew that it was Santel. They watched him ride up to the front door and dismount. But before he had time to go to the door, Mostano came out.

“Now what the —— is Santel doin’ there?” queried Silent.

“That’s a question,” grinned Brick. “I wish my ears were as good as my eyes, ’cause I’d sure like to hear what they’re sayin’.”

After a few minutes of conversation they walked around the house and back to the corral. Mostano, judging from his gestures, was doing most of the talking. They stopped at the corral gate and continued the conversation.

After a time Santel turned away and took several steps toward the house, as though going to leave, but turned. Mostano had stepped away from the corral, facing Santel. They were too far away for the two men in the brush to distinguish the detail of their movements, but just in front of Santel appeared a puff of smoke.

Mostano fell sidewise into the fence, trying to keep his feet. Another puff of smoke, and the closely spaced reports of two shots sounded. Brick and Silent could not see Mostano now, because he had fallen into the shadows of the pole corral.

Santel stood still for several moments, looking around, before he turned and hurried to the house. He knocked on the front door, but no one let him in. Then he stepped back, took a short run and hit the door with his shoulder. Brick grinned as Santel fell back. Brick knew that the oak bar was thick.

“He’s goin’ to smash the window,” observed Silent.

Santel had picked up a short length of pole, and now he proceeded to demolish a front window. He made short work of it, tore the curtain away and crawled inside.

“What in —— is he doin’ in there?” wondered Silent.

Brick shook his head and watched the house. In a few minutes Santel came out, looked around and mounted his horse. He did not seem to be in a hurry, but finally rode away up the bluff trail and disappeared toward the Red Hill mine.

“Well,” said Silent dryly, “we’ve got another dead man.”

“They’re almost as common as live ones around here,” said Brick sadly, his eyes glued on a certain patch of brush about a hundred feet to the east of the house. Something had caught his attention.

“Watch that patch of brush beyond the front of the house, Silent. There’s somethin’ there.”

And as an answer to his statement a woman left the patch of brush and went swiftly out of sight on the far side of the house, only to reappear, going toward the corral.

Brick got to his feet and motioned for Silent to follow him. They went swiftly down through the brush and out into the open, where they ran toward the house. The woman had discovered Mostano’s body and was too interested to see anything else.

They ran past the house and out to the brush patch before the woman saw them. She ran toward them, stopped, as though undecided what to do and went back to the corral. Brick crashed into the brush and stopped short. Just at his feet was the entrance to a tunnel, and in this entrance lay the half-breed baby and—little Whizzer Malloy.

Silent crowded in beside Brick and stared at the children. Little Whizzer looked up at them, but there was no recognition in his face. His little feet were tied tightly together with a whang-leather string, and he was as dirty as a child could possibly become.

Brick lifted him out and cut the string.

“Don’tcha know me, Whizzer?” he asked gently.

But the child only whimpered, his eyes filled with fear.

“My ——, I’ll betcha they’ve treated him tough,” declared Silent. “But how in —— did he happen to be here? Can yuh figure it out, Brick?”

Brick shook his head, his jaws shut tight. The half-breed woman was coming slowly toward them now, her shoulders drooped, her face set in lines of deep grief. She stopped in front of Brick, but would not look at him, as she said—

“My man dead—shot.”

“Yeah, I know it,” said Brick. “I reckon he had it comin’.”

“He dead,” she repeated.

“Where did you get this child?” asked Brick, not unkindly. He thought he could get more out of her by not adopting a threatening attitude. She looked blankly at him.

“Where did you get this boy?” he asked again. “You tell me where you get him.”

“Don’t know,” she said slowly, blankly.

“You don’t know? Come on now, tell me where yuh got him.”

“Don’ know.”

“She sure is a good witness,” observed Silent. “When her kind don’t want to talk, they can sure ruin the perade. Ask her why Santel killed Mostano?”

“She don’t know that either.”

“Don’ know,” she muttered blankly. “My man dead—shot.”

“Well, that’s one thing she does know.” Silent was inclined to sarcasm.

Little Whizzer Malloy whimpered and looked at Brick, as if trying to remember who Brick was.

“Don’tcha know me, Whizzer?” he asked.

But the child only looked blankly at him. Brick noticed that the little fellow had a bad bruise on the right side of his head and his right arm was painfully bruised.

“What the —— was that hole over there?” Silent pointed back toward the brush patch.

“That’s the tunnel that opens under the house,” said Brick. “They had a slick getaway. When Santel showed up Mostano put the woman and kids into the tunnel and slid the bunk over the trap-door. No wonder Santel didn’t find anythin’.”

“What do yuh reckon he was lookin’ for, Brick?”

Brick squinted at Silent and back toward the house.

“Does seem kinda funny, Silent. I’ll betcha this woman would know—if she made a sneak with the kids.”

“Don’ know,” persisted the woman blankly.

“Is there anythin’ yuh do know?” snorted Silent.

She looked blankly at Silent and turned her gaze back toward the corral.

“My man dead,” she said simply.

They walked over to the corral and looked at Mostano. Either of Santel’s bullets would have killed him. Mostano’s six-shooter was lying in the dust beside the corral, several feet away, proving that he had made an attempt to defend himself, but had dropped the gun as he fell.

“There ain’t nothin’ we can do for him,” observed Brick, “so we’ll just put the body in the house and take this kid back to Marlin.”

Little Whizzer’s legs had evidently been bound ever since he had disappeared, and they were too weak to support his body. They propped him against the fence, while they placed Mostano’s body in the house, but made the woman accompany them.

“We’ll send somebody out here,” Brick told the woman, as they picked up Whizzer and started for their horses.

“Don’ want nobody,” she declared. “You keep away.”

“Write yore own ticket,” said Brick shortly, and walked away.

They got their horses and rode back toward Marlin City with Brick carrying Whizzer in his arms. The youngster seemed to be trying to figure out what it was all about, and Brick grinned encouragingly.

“Don’tcha worry, Whizzer,” he told him. “Yo’re plenty safe now.”

They crossed the hills and came out on the grade at the little trail, just south of where Baldy had gone over the bank with the stage. Whizzer had straightened up a little and seemed less dazed now, so Brick led the way back to where the stage had gone over.

The youngster looked around, as though he recognized the spot, and finally looked up at Brick.

“Where’s my daddy?” he asked.

“For the love of mud!” exclaimed Silent. “He’s rememberin’.”

“Do yuh remember the stage, Whizzer?” asked Brick. “Remember what happened the day you rode with your daddy?”

“I fell off.” Whizzer’s eyes were round and excited.

“Yuh did?”

“Yeah!” He looked around. “I fell off on the road. Where did my daddy go?”

“And then somebody picked yuh up,” prompted Brick, ignoring the question. “Who picked yuh up, Whizzer?”

“I hurt my head. Somebody shoot a gun.”

“Didja see anybody before yuh fell off the wagon?”

Whizzer shook his head.

“I hear the gun shoot and then I fall off. Where’s my daddy?”

“Whizzer, old-timer,” said Brick earnestly, “you’ve got to remember some things for me. After yuh fell off the stage you hurt yore head. When you woke up, who did yuh see?”

Whizzer’s forehead puckered, as he stared at Brick.

“I seen two mans in house. One man got somethin’ on his face, like stage-robber. Woman and baby there.”

“One man was masked, eh? It wasn’t the Indian man, was it?”

Whizzer shook his head and looked around quickly.

“Don’tcha be afraid of him,” said Brick. “He’s dead.”

“He hit me,” said Whizzer simply. “They make me stay in the mine and I can’t git out.”

He began crying softly, still terrified at what he had experienced in the few days. Brick swore softly and hugged the youngster.

“Don’t cry, buddy,” he said. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to hurt yuh ag’in, y’betcha.”

They swung their horses around and galloped away toward town.

“Do yuh think Santel done it, Brick?” queried Silent, as they swept along the grade.

“I dunno, Silent. Me and Harp met Santel just below here that day. Anyway, he knows somethin’ about it, and I’m goin’ to find out what he knows, if I have to drill him plumb full of lead to let the information leak out.”

Whizzer was asleep when they rode up to Wesson’s home and dismounted. Mrs. Wesson met Brick at the door, and gasped with surprize at sight of his burden. Whizzer woke up and began crying, but the sleep had refreshed him and he quit crying as soon as he realized that he was no longer in the tunnel.

In a few words Brick explained how they had found him, and in less time than that Mrs. Wesson had placed him at the table behind a big bowl of bread and milk. He ate ravenously, while Mrs. Wesson sat across the table from him, her eyes filled with tears, and promised him a nice warm bath and a soft bed.

“Gotta find my daddy,” he told her. “They didn’t give me no bread and milk.”

“What did they give yuh, honey?” asked Mrs. Wesson.

Whizzer swallowed a big portion of bread, almost choking over it.

“They gimme ——,” he said simply.

“Yuh can’t beat him, can yuh?” grinned Brick. “He’s a buckaroo.”

“I lost m’ spur. Mebbe—” he smiled at Brick—“mebbe my daddy’s got it. He said he was goin’ to git me ’nother one.”

“Where’s Harp?” asked Silent.

“Him and Miss Miller went to the dance at Silverton,” smiled Mrs. Wesson. “Harp had a sweet time squarin’ himself with her, but he made Brick out to be the biggest liar in the State—and she believed him. By jinks, I think she likes him. Human nature is one queer thing. I’ll betcha Leach will be sore as a boil. He sure did want to go with her.”

Whizzer laid aside his spoon and sighed deeply.

“Had enough, buddy?” asked Brick.

“Uh-huh. I can’t hold no more.”

“Now I’ll give him a good hot bath and put him into a nice bed,” said Mrs. Wesson. “Mebbe we better have the doctor over to fix up them bruises, Brick. He’s sure been skinned awful bad.”

“Don’t hurt.” Whizzer shook his head.

“That’s fine, buddy,” nodded Brick. “Now if yuh could only tell us what that masked man looked like.”

Whizzer shook his head.

“Dunno. He had a cloth on his face.”

“But his clothes, Whizzer. Wasn’t there somethin’ yuh could remember? Somethin’ about how he looked?”

Whizzer shook his head. Brick lighted a cigaret and studied the youngster.

“Sleepy, Whizzer?”

“Nope. Say, when do I find my daddy?”

Brick sighed and shook his head sadly. He did not want to tell him now. Silent swore softly and counted the cartridge-heads in his belt.

“Want to take a ride to Silverton, buddy?” queried Brick.

“Sure.” Whizzer hopped off his chair and almost fell down. “My feet don’t feel good,” he told Brick. “They ache.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t take him plumb down there, Brick.” Thus Mrs. Wesson quickly. “He needs a bath and some good sleep.”

“I know it, Ma,” nodded Brick, “but I’ve got to take him. It might be kinda hard on Whizzer, but he’ll pull through.”

“Sure,” nodded Whizzer. “I’ll go.”

Mrs. Wesson grumbled to herself, as she wrapped him up in a light blanket. She knew that Brick must have a good reason for taking the youngster to Silverton; but she did want to clean him up a little.

“Lemme carry him,” begged Silent. “I’ve got a strong horse, and it takes a strong horse to carry two cowpunchers.”

“Sure,” agreed Whizzer. “I lost m’ spur, yuh know.”

“Yuh can have both of mine,” offered Silent, as Brick handed the youngster up to him.

“Oh, good! If daddy gives me one, I’ll have three. Mebbe he won’t though.”

“Mebbe not,” said Silent softly.

* * * * *

A dance in Silverton was almost a county affair. They had the largest hall in the county and boasted of the best orchestra. The dance usually began about eight o’clock in the evening and rarely ever ended before eight o’clock the following morning.

And it was not strange on this night that every bit of space in the livery-stable was taken and practically every inch of space at the several hitch-racks was occupied. It was also a big night for the games at the Short Horn saloon, as every cowpuncher made it a point to borrow or draw enough money to make the trip worth while.

Already the rasping notes of a fiddler tuning his instrument filtered out through the open windows of the big upstairs dance-hall across the street from the Short Horn saloon. Cowpunchers, suffering in celluloid collars, tight boots, and exuding odors of Jockey Club and cologne, were at the bar; trying to appear at ease, as if this sartorial splendor were nothing unusual.

From somewhere Slim Hunter had procured an old dress coat, which exhibited a vast expanse of his red-and-green striped shirt, and did not blend well with his light blue trousers and yellow boots. Banty Harrison, sans vest, but with a great, striped Ascot tie, was perspiring freely, trying to keep the thing on his collar. But no one criticized their apparel. Everyone was there to have a good time, regardless of clothes.

Men shouted at each other and flung their money on the bar or across the green cloth, while the roulette-wheel whizzed and the dealer’s voices blended into the babel of voices. Harp had left Miss Miller to the tender mercies of some Silverton ladies and had invaded the Short Horn for a nerve elixir.

Grant, Hendricks, and Leach were at the bar when Harp came in, and Grant went directly to him.

“Where’s Brick?” he asked.

Harp shook his head and gave his orders to the busy bartender.

“I dunno, Bill.”

“When did yuh see him last, Harp?”

Harp rubbed his nose thoughtfully. Leach had moved in close enough to listen in on the conversation; so Harp did not answer. He took his drink and drew Grant away from the bar, leaving Leach with Hendricks.

“I dunno where he is,” declared Harp. “He didn’t come home last night. I never knowed that McKeever was killed until late today.”

“Got any idea where he is, Harp?”

“Not a danged idea. Him and Silent sneaked away from me yesterday, and I ain’t seen ’em since.”

“It’s kinda funny,” mused Grant. “They wanted to hold an inquest over McKeever today, but they had to put it off until Brick and Silent showed up. Do yuh suppose they ran into somethin’?”

“Who seen ’em last here?”

“Doctor Bridger. He saw them ride out of town.”

“Uh-huh,” Harp squinted reflectively.

“Well, I dunno, Bill.”

Leach walked up to them and spoke directly to Grant.

“Well, does he know anything about them, Grant?”

Grant shook his head and looked at Harp who was looking curiously at Leach. Harp grinned softly. He could afford to grin now, because he knew that Leach had seen him bring Miss Miller to Silverton.

“Seems funny that the sheriff would avoid the inquest,” said Leach. “Perhaps he had a reason for not wantin’ to be here.”

“I’ll betcha he did,” said Harp. “Brick usually has a good reason for doin’ things.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Yuh see, Brick ain’t no detective—he’s a man-hunter.”

“Man-hunter?” Leach laughed sarcastically. “Who did he ever catch?”

“You better read local hist’ry,” advised Harp.

“Brick got a few of ’em,” nodded Grant.

“History, eh?” Leach grinned. “I suppose he has had it all written out and bound in books.”

“All except the last chapter,” said Harp seriously. “He’s writin’ that now, I reckon.”

Leach laughed and walked away.

“He don’t like you, Harp,” smiled Grant.

“By golly, that just about breaks me all up, Bill. When I look at him and know he don’t like me, I just tremble with emotion. Yes sir, it’s just like havin’ a chill. Yuh goin’ to the dance?”

“No, I don’t think so. I ain’t dressed for dancin’.”

“Yuh might borrow Slim Hunter’s coat. He looks just like one of them there doctor’s charts, which shows yore insides, after yore kinda opened up that-a-way. That shirt sure does correspond to them colored heart, liver and lung things.”

Banty Harrison came shoving his way past, but stopped to shake hands with Harp.

“Let’s go over and dance, Harp,” he panted. “It’s too danged hot in here. I’m goin’ to git a string, if I can find one, and tie this imported necktie to the top button of my pants. Dang anybody that would sell a tie like this. Yuh got to be a civil engineer to even tie it. C’mon.”

“Won’t she stay down, Banty?” queried Harp.

“Stay ——! Every time I start talkin’ and kinda wigglin’ my throat, the darned thing comes up and bumps my lower lip.”

Hank Stagg came past them and went to the bar. He was already half-drunk and talking loud. Ike Welden joined him at the bar, but Welden was still sober. Santel came in and walked past them, his eyes sweeping the smoke-filled room. Hank called to him, asking him to have a drink, but Santel either did not hear him or did not want to drink with him.

“There’ll be —— to pay before mornin’,” declared Banty. “Yuh can’t put a gang like that together, along with plenty of hooch, and not have trouble. Whisky and six-guns don’t mix. —— this necktie!”

“Why don’tcha pin it down to yore shirt?”

“Yeah—and have it pull my shirt off, eh? Harp, you ain’t got no idea of the —— in this necktie. What I need is a collar with a pistol-grip finish instead of this ——ed slick thing.”

“Cowboys goin’ to a dance, eh?” Slim Hunter stopped to look them over.

“Introducin’ to you,” said Harp seriously, “the effect of tobacco and alcohol on the intestines.”

“Jist when do I laugh?” asked Slim.

“Next time yuh go to the bar.”

“Uh-huh,” Slim grinned and went on. He had no idea what Harp meant.

“What’ll make him laugh when he goes to the bar?” queried Banty.

“He’ll be facin’ the bar,” said Harp wearily, “and the back-bar mirror ought to show him what I meant.”

“Haw, haw, haw! Aw, —— this tie! Can’t even laugh. C’mon and help me find a guy-rope. By golly, I won’t stand for my own clothes slappin’ me in the mouth.”

They crossed the street and procured a length of string at a general store, with which they secured the tie to a suspender button, much to Banty’s delight. Then they went upstairs into the dance hall, where the floor was rapidly filling for the first quadrille.

It was possibly an hour later when Brick and Silent dismounted at the hitch-rack across the street from the Short Horn saloon. Whizzer had slept nearly all the way, but he was awake now and Silent turned him over to Brick.

The music had just stopped in the dance hall, and a number of men were straggling across the street toward the Short Horn, laughing and talking. Brick heard Harp’s voice, arguing with somebody over the proper way to hold down a necktie.

“C’mon,” said Brick softly.

He hoisted little Whizzer up on his shoulder and walked boldly into the saloon. The place was filled with men, hazy with tobacco smoke. Brick shoved his way to the bar and stood Whizzer on its polished top.

It was several moments before any one recognized the youngster, who was looking them over with his wide brown eyes. It was Mose LaClede, the big trapper, who made the discovery, and his voice boomed loudly above the roar of the conversation:

“By ——! De los’ boy! Look! I’m be a —— liar, if it ain’t de leetle boy ’imself.”

The roar of conversation broke abruptly. It was not a slowing down, but a sudden silence. Even the whirr of the roulette and the rattle of poker-chips was stilled, as the crowd stared at the little overall-clad, dirty-faced youngster on the bar, who was looking at them.

There was a cleared space of several yards between Brick and the crowd. Silent had halted nearer the door. Brick could see Santel in the crowd. Hank Stagg was at the bar, just beyond Brick, staring wide-eyed at the youngster.

And before any one could voice a question Leach came striding in past Silent, but stopped quickly, wondering at the silence. He turned his eyes and saw little Whizzer. Meecham, well-dressed, came in, glanced quickly at the crowd and stopped almost against Silent.

“Well, I’ll be ——ed if it ain’t the kid!” exclaimed Bill Grant. “Where did yuh find him, Brick?”

But Brick did not reply. He was watching Whizzer.

“Baldy Malloy’s kid, eh?” Leach’s voice sounded as if he were suffering from a cold.

A man laughed, and Brick glanced in that direction to see Ike Welden standing up in a chair against the wall. Ike was partly drunk. Brick’s sweeping glance included Santel, who was leaning forward, his face tense, shoulders hunched.

“Take her easy, Brick.”

It was Harp speaking from the far end of the bar. He knew that trouble was coming. A man began crying. It was Hank Stagg. Perhaps it was from the effect of liquor—perhaps not. Meecham started to back away, but Silent blocked him.

Leach forced a smile and moved slightly closer. Whizzer was staring at Leach and now he grasped Brick’s shoulder.

“Don’t let him touch me!” The childish treble sounded loud in the silence of the room.

Leach stopped.

“Why not, Whizzer?” Brick’s lips barely moved and he did not turn his head. “Are yuh afraid of him, buddy?”

“He’s got warts on his hands! And there’s the frog on his holster!”

“Warts? Frog?”

Brick’s eyes shifted to Leach’s hands, which were turned away, as if Leach were trying to conceal them. But he could not conceal the holster, on which was the leaping-frog design in silver. Perhaps it was the symbol of a swift draw.

Leach’s face had gone white, his jaw tensed. Hank Stagg’s sobs were the only audible noise, except the heavy breathing of the crowd.

“Tell us about it, buddy,” said Brick softly. “He ain’t goin’ to hurt yuh.”

“He’s got warts on his hands,” repeated the little fellow. “The man had ’em—the man who wore the cloth over his face—and he had the frog on his holster. Frogs make warts, don’tcha know it? I don’t like warts—and he’s got ’em.”

The little fellow, in spite of his treatment, had seen the warty hands and the leaping frog, and they had impressed him so strongly that there was no chance of a mistake.

“Good boy,” breathed Brick, and then a little louder, “Bartender, will yuh please put this boy on yore side of the bar?”

The frightened drink-dispenser shuffled down behind Brick, lifted the youngster down and went quickly back to the farther end of the bar. Leach laughed. Somewhere a handful of poker-chips slid from a table and rattled to the floor.

“What’s it all about, anyway?” demanded Leach.

Brick leaned back against the bar. His face was drawn, blue, in that weak light, and he seemed tired. But those who knew him well, knew that he was dangerous now. The light-hearted, devil-may-care Brick Davidson was gone, and in his place was the sheriff of Sun Dog, a man-hunter— not a detective.

“It took quite a while,” Brick’s voice was pitched low, but plainly audible to every one in the room. “Sometimes things take a long time to work out. A lot of yuh don’t know that Baldy Malloy was shot through the heart before he went over the grade. I knew it, Doctor Meyers knew it, and Grant and Santel knew it. I reckon it’s been kept sort of a secret.

“I reckon that Baldy was shot because he bucked against doin’ any more crooked work. It kinda looks like Baldy wanted to go straight on account of his little kid; but they couldn’t let him get away, ’cause he felt indebted to me for savin’ his kid.”

“You ain’t guessin’ everythin’, are yuh, Brick?” queried Bill Grant anxiously.

“Not all of it. A lot of it is guesswork, Bill; but I’ll bet my life that I’m close to the bull’s-eye. It’s a funny thing—” Brick shifted slightly and a grin passed his lips—“we’ve had several robberies, which never occurred. Baldy Malloy was held up, Ike Welden was held up, and the Silverton bank was robbed.

“The robbers in each case were described as bein’ the same men. And the funny part of it all is the fact that the descriptions cover me, Harp Harris and Silent Slade. Nobody seen ’em except Baldy Malloy, Ike Welden and Meecham. Gents, those robberies never occurred.”

“The —— they didn’t!” Ike Welden’s voice squeaked like a discordant fiddle. “What in —— do you know about it?”

“Why—why, that is ridiculous,” faltered Meecham.

“And you better stay where yuh are,” warned Silent, as Meecham moved slightly backward.

“Baldy Malloy’s shack caught fire just before the bank robbery,” continued Brick. “Everybody went to the fire. It sure was a good chance to rob the bank.”

“Just what is all this conversation about?” queried Leach.

He folded his arms and squinted at Brick, trying to cover his nervousness.

Brick laughed at him—with his mouth; the rest of his face tensed, serious. The crowd shifted audibly.

“Mebbe yuh don’t get the drift of it, Leach,” said Brick. “I’ll start a little further back in hist’ry and give yuh a chance to foller me.

“It began in Idaho.”

Leach jerked slightly and his eyes flashed to Hank Stagg, who was slouched at the bar, looking down at the floor. Hank had stopped crying now and his thumbs were hooked over his cartridge-belt.

“Some folks got to understand each other—in Idaho,” continued Brick. “One of ’em came to Sun Dog and got in kinda solid. He made money, I reckon. But all the time he was lookin’ for bigger money; so he got them Idaho folks to migrate down here, and they formed kind of a little corporation to loot Sun Dog.

“It sure worked, too. But they got scared of the sheriff’s office. The big haul wasn’t pulled yet, and they wanted to keep me quiet until that was cinched; so they imported a detective to handle the mystery.”

Every eye in the place flashed to Santel, but he never moved. His eyes were watching Leach. Even Brick’s statement did not seem to impress him.

“They got him in Idaho, too,” said Brick softly. “He was known as a killer in that country. There’s prob’ly several sheriffs up there that would like to put handcuffs on him.”

But even the direct accusation did not affect Santel. Men moved away from him, but he remained as immovable as a statue.

“I kinda blame myself for Soapy Caswell gettin’ shot,” said Brick. “Yuh see, I lied about that hold-up. I told ’em down here that Soapy got through to the Red Hill mine with the twenty-seven-thousand-dollar payroll, when I knew better.

“It must ’a’ been that Soapy got hold of a dummy payroll, and that the gang couldn’t get in touch with the man who was to pull off the job to see if he had failed; so they shot Soapy and blew the mine safe to try and save themselves. They thought that I knew it was a dummy payroll and that I could trace ’em through the man who fixed up the dummy for Soapy; so they dynamited my office and burned half of the town of Marlin.”

Santel laughed hollowly, as if greatly amused. Leach shot a glance at Santel and his hands dropped to his sides.

“Didn’t trust me, eh?” said Santel.

“I seen you shoot Mostano today, Santel,” said Brick.

“Yeah,” Santel nodded, but did not look at Brick. “What about the frog on the holster? What did the kid mean?”

“He remembered that much,” said Brick tensely. “When his dad was shot and the stage swung off the grade, Whizzer was dumped off onto the grade. He was kinda badly hurt, but he remembers hearin’ the shot fired. The man who fired the shot wore a mask, but the kid remembers that he had a frog on his holster.”

“Leach!” Santel spat the name. “—— you, I thought you was the one!”

As Santel spoke he whipped out his gun. But Leach was not caught napping, and two guns thundered almost at the same time. There was only a short space between them—too short for either of them to miss. It was all being done in split-second time.

Brick felt the burning shock of a bullet into the muscles of his left arm, which staggered him back against the bar; but his gun came up and he fired at Ike Welden, who was standing on the chair shooting at him. Leach was falling into Brick, who fended him away with his gun-hand. Santel was on his hands and knees, coughing his life away, and Silent, with Meecham clutched in a wrestling grip, came crashing down in the middle of the floor.

Ike Welden was still on his feet, trying to pull the trigger, a vacant look on his face, as he leaned against the wall. The crowd had scattered like a covey of frightened quail. Some of them were flat on the floor, several were behind the bar, and many of them had faded out through the rear exit.

Hank Stagg was the only one who did not show fight. He still leaned against the bar, dazed, half-crying. The shooting had ceased now. Harp stepped away from the far end of the bar, a smoking gun in his hand, and stared at Ike Welden, who seemed asleep, standing up in the chair.

“He’s dead, Brick,” said Harp in an awed voice. “He’s dead, but won’t lay down.”

Then Hank Stagg suddenly came to life. With an animal-like scream he sprang away from the bar, drawing his gun, and whirling on Brick, only to be met with a bullet that caused him to spin on his heel, and a second later he went crashing to the floor, with Harp on his back.

Brick backed against the bar and looked at the wreckage. Leach was sprawled on his face, arms outstretched; Silent was sitting on the prostrate figure of Meecham, while Harp sat on Hank Stagg and tried to find out just how badly hurt his victim was. Santel was still on his hands and knees, but now he sat down, supporting himself with one arm, while he tried to brush the mists away from his muddled brain.

The crowd came drifting back in, questioning, wondering, coughing from the fumes of burnt powder which clouded the room.

There was silence, as the crowd realized the tragedy which had just been enacted. Came a crash, as Ike Welden fell from his standing position on the chair, and the crowd started to duck for cover again.

“He decided to quit,” said Harp blandly. “Takes some folks a long time to find out anythin’.”

Santel looked around the circle of faces until he found Brick. He seemed dazed, sick, but his voice was still strong enough.

“Much obliged, Davidson,” he said. “I was in on the deal, but you found out more than I could. Leach had me come here to keep you from investigating. He wanted me to kill yuh.” Santel hesitated, forcing a grin. “I suppose I would, if they hadn’t killed Baldy Malloy.

“They offered me a thousand dollars to force yuh into a gun-fight, and I—I fell down on the job. I’m glad I did—now.

“I held up you and Soapy Caswell. That was a dummy sack. They didn’t trust me. Meecham fixed it up. They took a —— of a big chance, didn’t they? Leach wanted to loot Sun Dog, just like you said. Baldy and Ike Welden robbed themselves, and then Ike set the fire that day, while Meecham hid the bank money.

“They all gave the same description. Leach thought it might put you three fellers in bad—and he wanted to elect Hank Stagg. Leach wanted too much, I reckon. I—I never got my split of the money, but it’s in the cellar of Meecham’s house. Welden set the dynamite off under your office, and Hank Stagg shot Soapy Caswell.

“Meecham was out there the night you found Mostano killin’ the beef, and one of your bullets hit his saddle. He came huntin’ for me to find out about the payroll. I don’t know who killed the livery-stable keeper, but it was some of the gang. They didn’t want you to question him about the bullet-hole in the saddle.”

“Thank yuh, Santel,” said Brick weakly. “That all proves that I’m a good guesser. But I don’t know yet why yuh killed Leach.”

Santel smiled softly and his eyes wandered around the circle of interested faces.

“Some of yuh take care of the kid, will yuh?” His voice was weaker now. “Baldy was my brother. I—I took the name of Santel, because I was no good—a killer. Baldy must ’a’ been led into doin’ wrong. They named the kid after me—Whizzer. Hank knew this, but Leach didn’t until later—and he was afraid I’d find it out. I killed Mostano today, but I couldn’t find the kid.”

“By golly, that’s where the resemblance came in, Brick,” exclaimed Harp. “Little Whizzer looks like Santel.”

“I’ll take care of Whizzer,” said Brick.

“We’ll all take care of Whizzer,” amended Silent. “Don’tcha never worry about that, Santel.”

Santel nodded as if satisfied, and little Whizzer came out from behind the bar, his eyes wide with fright, and ran to Brick.

“Geeminy gosh!” he shrilled. “Is all that shootin’ over?”

“It’s all over, buddy,” said Brick weakly. “There ain’t goin’ to be no more shootin’—not for a while, I hope.”

“I hope there never will be again,” said Santel slowly. “It don’t pay.”

He swayed sidewise on his hands and sank down on his face.

“When do I see my daddy?” asked Whizzer impatiently.

Brick drew the youngster to him with his one good arm, and looked around at the crowd, as if appealing to them for an answer.

“You better see a doctor, Brick,” advised Harp. “You’re losin’ a lot of blood.”

“Ain’t nobody goin’ to tell me where my dad is?” demanded Whizzer. “Is he out on his trip?”

“Yeah, he’s out on his trip,” whispered Brick.

Whizzer turned his head and looked out through the open door into the darkness. He knew that his father always came home before dark. His eyes came back to Brick, as he said—

“He must be takin’ a long trip this time.”

“Yeah, a long trip, buddy,” breathed Brick.

There was a silence. Then—

“Aw-w-w, —— the luck!”

It was Banty Harrison. Tears were trickling down his cheeks and his lips trembled. He started angrily toward the door, but turned and looked back at the crowd.

“Wh-what’s the matter?” choked Harp.

Banty pointed at his flopping necktie, which had crawled up above the top of his celluloid collar.

“That —— string busted—that’s what’s the matter.”

The rest of them had no alibi. But the looting of Sun Dog was over and they looked at each other unashamed, while Brick, with Whizzer clinging to his one good hand, went hunting for a doctor, and the orchestra across the street struck up a waltz.

[Transcriber’s Note:

1. This story appeared in the August 30, 1924 issue of _Adventure_
magazine.
2. This story also exists in extended novel form in the Distributed
Proofreaders Canada collection at www.fadedpage.com
]