Chapter I: Part 1

SUN-DOG TRAILS

W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Hashknife--Philanthropist,”
“The Devil’s Dooryard,” etc.

An observer might have said that it was cruelty to animals to drive a team at high speed over such roads. Perhaps the two men, sitting on the seat of the swaying lumber-wagon, might have replied that it was cruelty to human beings for a team to act in that hurried manner. There was no question but what the team of pinto horses had taken the matter into their own hands--or rather feet--and the two men had nothing to say about it.

The equipage swept around the curving grade, skidding and bouncing, while the two men clung to the sides of the seat, staring straight ahead.

Suddenly they whirled around another curve, the wheels of the lumber-wagon spinning dangerously near to the outer end of the grade, and just ahead of them, blocking the road, stood a stage-coach and four horses, headed in the same direction as the runaway. The sharpness of the curve and a strong wind blowing down the cañon had effectively masked the approach of the runaway, and there was no time for either man to jump nor for any of the people at the stage to get out of the road.

At the side of the coach stood a woman. Just beyond her stood a masked man, rifle in hand. The driver was humped on his seat, lines held between his knees, while another masked man stood on the hub of a front wheel tugging at a heavy iron box which was partly wedged under the seat. The two men saw all this in a flash, and then the runaway team crashed into the rear of the stage.

The force of the impact drove the tongue of the wagon into the flimsy body of the stage, whirling it half-around and turning it off the grade; the four horses rearing and plunging as they whirled off the road and went down the sharp embankment.

The pinto team was flung sidewise, jackknifing with the stage; the wagon, going sidewise, caught in the deep rut and turned completely over, following the wrecked stage off the grade.

The two men were thrown from the wagon-seat; one of them turning a complete somersault and landing on his hands and knees against the upper bank, while the other sprawled in the road, turned over several times and finally stopped in a sitting position with his legs dangling over the edge of the grade.

The one at the side of the bank blinked his eyes several times and then ran his hand through his mop of brick-red hair. Then he got painfully to his feet, walked to the edge of the grade and looked around.

The other, a giant of a man at least six feet six inches tall, with a long, crooked nose and a wide, humorous mouth, retained his position, except that he took a red-silk handkerchief from his hip pocket and blew his nose violently. Then he said--

“Brick, old Lafe is goin’ to be real put out about them there pintos and that wagon, y’betcha.”

The red-head nodded sadly. Then he turned and spat out some sand.

There was nothing heroic-looking about “Brick” Davidson. His hair was the color of new-baked bricks, and his thin, sensitive nose was plentifully besprinkled with freckles. His eyes were very blue and very ready to search out the humorous things in life. He looked below medium size, comparing him to the bulk of “Silent” Slade, but Brick was not a small man.

He spat out some more sand and looked at Silent.

“Whatcha drop them lines for?”

“You argued with me, didn’t yuh?”

The big man’s tone was querulous.

“Yuh always argue with me, Brick Davidson, and you know danged well I’ve gotta gesture.”

“Gesture!”

Brick Davidson spat again contemptuously.

“Gotta, eh? Why didn’t yuh go to a school where they teaches yuh to talk with your mouth? Write me a note next time, Silent. Floppin’ your arms like a he-buzzard gittin’ ready to fly don’t convey no thoughts to my mind.”

Silent Slade got slowly to his feet and peered down the hill. The stage had stopped in a clump of jack-pines, and the four stage horses, almost stripped of harness, had tangled with the limbs of a fallen pine.

One of the pintos stood near the wrecked wagon, front feet tangled in lines and neckyoke, kicking viciously at a dangling tug. The other pinto was unfortunately past kicking at tugs, unless ghost horses wear harness.

“Brick!” exclaimed Silent. “Brick, I didn’t see much before the ca-tas-trophy, but somehow I gets the fool idea that there was a woman beside the stage.”

“Whatcha tryin’ to do-o-o! Whatcha tryin’ to do-o-o!”

A long, lean face--a face that was scratched and dirty, with a long lock of grizzled hair sticking straight up like an interrogation point, suddenly appeared from behind a mesquite-bush at the edge of the grade as its owner scrambled slowly back to the road level.

He stared at Brick and Silent, and his jaws worked spasmodically as if trying to loosen something distasteful to his palate.

“It was thisaway, Limpy,” began Silent.

“I’d rather hear Davidson tell it,” interrupted Limpy Squires, the stage-driver. “You kinda alibi yourself before yuh tell anythin’.”

“There was a woman--” began Silent.

Limpy turned and looked down toward the wrecked stage; then back at Silent and Brick, masticating furiously. Brick’s toe described a circle in the dust as he averted his glance from the old stage-driver.

Limpy looked back down the hill and Brick stooped swiftly and picked something off the ground. His sudden motion caused the others to turn, but they only saw Brick’s hand coming away from his hip pocket, dangling a package of smoking-tobacco.

“Yuh ain’t mentioned the hold-up,” remarked Brick. “Have yuh forgot it, Limpy?”

Limpy scratched his tousled head, while his tongue explored the interior of his mouth. Then he nodded.

“You fellers sure busted up a regular party. I wonder----”

Limpy slid down the bank toward the stage, and Brick and Silent followed him.

Limpy led the way into the thicket and climbed up on one of the front wheels. He peered under the seat, then got down and limped around to the other side, where an iron box was lying upside down.

“They never got it,” grinned Limpy, patting the box with his toe.

“What’s in it?”

Brick knelt down and looked at it closely.

“I dunno. Sent out by the Whippoorwill mine. Danged thing must weigh about a hundred pounds.”

“Who was the woman?” asked Brick.

Limpy rubbed his hands on his hips and squinted at Brick.

“I ain’t in the habit of asking passengers for their names. She didn’t do no talkin’, and she wore a veil.”

“Reckon them there robbers kidnaped her?”

This from Silent.

“Kidnaped, ----!” grunted Limpy. “She wasn’t no kid. We’ll have to take this here box----”

“Yuh needn’t worry about the box,” said a voice behind them; and they turned to look into the muzzle of a rifle, backed up by a masked man.

* * * * *

The mask was of black material with two eyeholes, and it covered him from the crown of his hat to below his shoulders.

The three instinctively put up their hands, and just then the bushes parted and out stepped another masked man and a masked woman. The woman’s dress was badly torn, and there was a smear of blood across her wrist. In her right hand she carried a heavy pistol, while the man carried a rifle. At a nod from the first man the woman took the rifle and leveled it at the group, while one of the men appropriated the pistols from Brick, Silent and Limpy.

Then the two men picked up the iron box and carried it down the hill out of sight, while the woman still covered the three men. She made no motion to follow her companions. Brick shifted his weight to his right leg and grinned at her.

“Yuh don’t need to point that at me, sister. It wasn’t my little iron box.”

“Nor mine,” added Limpy. “Under the circumstances, I don’t even know what box yuh refers to.”

But the woman refused to speak.

“Never knowed it could be possible,” drawled Silent. “It ain’t noways reasonable to suppose that a woman can keep from talkin’ thataway. No offense, ma’am; but are yuh married?”

The woman seemed to be laughing under her mask, but did not reply.

“’Cause,” Silent pointed out, “’cause if yuh ain’t---- No, I want to see your face before I goes further in these here ne-go-ti-a-tions. Your disposition suits me to a gnat’s eyelash, but I’m kinda finicky about faces.”

From down in the timber came a shrill whistle, and the woman turned and started away, turning her back on the three men. She disappeared into the brush.

“Well,” said Brick, “you fellers might as well take your hands down.”

Silent grinned and lowered his hands. Limpy rubbed his hands together and masticated viciously, staring at the others. Silent started for the spot where the woman had entered the brush, but a bullet flupped past his head and thudded into the body of the coach. From down in the ravine came the _whang_ of a rifle.

“No.” Silent shook his head. “No, I reckon I won’t try to make a mash on her while she’s got a chapey-rone like that.”

“Held up by a woman,” chuckled Brick. “Sufferin’ sunfish! Next thing yuh know they’ll be drivin’ stages and----”

“Go ahead and laugh!” rasped Limpy. “Your hands went as high as mine did.”

“Higher,” admitted Brick. “I’m taller than you, Limpy. Let’s each take a horse and go to Marlin City. Mebbe the sheriff would like to hear about it.”

“Whatsa use?” argued Silent. “‘Bunty’ Blair’d never catch any road-agents.”

“He’s a elegant sheriff,” nodded Limpy. “Swell-elegant.”

“You helped elect him,” accused Silent.

“I didn’t!” snapped Limpy. “I voted for Brick.”

Brick stopped half-way up the sloping side of the grade and laughed.

“If yuh did, Limpy, there was crooked work at the polls. I only got seven votes. Silent, ‘Baldy’ McPherson, Sam Clayton, Bill See, Lafe Freeman, ‘Happy’ Sinclair and me. Them six was campaignin’ for me, and I know I voted for myself.”

Limpy masticated violently. The evidence seemed against him.

“I kinda thought yuh had a good chance, Brick,” he stated, ignoring Brick’s implication. “Happy told me that yuh had three hundred votes pledged.”

“I did. Election showed me one thing, Limpy.”

“What?”

“That there’s three hundred ---- liars in Sun-Dog County.”

Limpy scratched his nose reflectively and nodded.

“More’n that, Brick--seven more; only you wasn’t in no position to discover the other seven.”

Brick laughed. Brick was always ready to laugh, even if the joke was on him, and the recent election had surely been a joke--as far as Brick was concerned.

It was the first time that there had been a split in the Democrat and Republican vote in Sun-Dog. Bunty Blair, the fortunate candidate, had won over Zell Mohr by six votes.

There was no question but that the Nine Bar Nine outfit and supporters could have swung the election to Mohr, but there was little choice between Blair and Mohr. Bunty owned a small horse outfit a few miles from Marlin City, while Mohr owned a big saloon in Silverton, sixteen miles west.

Mohr was a burly, silent man, swarthy as a Mexican, but his nerve had never been questioned. Bunty, on the other hand, was slight of physique, prone to alibi himself out of all trouble--and to keep out. Limpy’s expression, “swell-elegant,” covered Bunty better than any description.

Men agreed that Brick Davidson might make a good sheriff--but Lafe Freeman, owner of the Nine Bar Nine, announced openly in the Dollar Down Saloon the night before election:

“No, Brick won’t git elected, and I’ll tell yuh why. He knows too much for the size of the jail. He’d have to build a bull-pen to hold the overflow. With Bunty Blair or Zell Mohr on the job we could tear down the jail and they wouldn’t miss it durin’ their term.”

Zell Mohr heard this statement but made no reply. Lafe Freeman knew that Mohr was there, and Mohr knew that Lafe said it for his benefit. Lafe had notches in his old single-action Colt, and Marlin City knew how he got them. Therefore, Zell Mohr feigned not to have heard the statement.

* * * * *

The sheriff’s office interior proved that Bunty Blair was “swell-elegant.” The ages-old reward posters had been torn from the walls and in their place hung works of art. The subjects of these framed ornaments were not at all decorous, but they pleased the eyes of Bunty and his deputy, “Three Star” Hennessey, who affected red vests and perfume.

Three Star was ornamental, but very unpractical. His classic features were marred by an old knife-scar which circled one of his cheeks, and his nose had come in contact with a heavy object at some past date which had moved it out of a straight line; but Three Star had decorative ideas as to raiment, which seemed to satisfy Bunty Blair’s conception of what a deputy sheriff should wear.

Easy-chairs had replaced the old whittled relics, and there was little left to suggest a sheriff’s office except the weather-beaten sign over the door. The county paid the sheriff the munificent sum of a hundred dollars per month, which was far too small a sum considering the danger connected with wearing a star in Sun-Dog County. Sun-Dog was fortunate in being able to dispose of the office.

The voters seemed willing to follow the lines of least resistance, and to elect a sheriff that would do likewise.

Just now Bunty and Three Star were sitting in the office. Bunty lolled back in a chair, his feet on the table, half-asleep, while Three Star’s long nose delved deep into the pages of an ancient magazine.

Sitting in the doorway, back against one side and feet braced against the other, was “Harp” Harris, one of Bunty’s hired men. Harp was of peculiar physique. His shoulders were narrow--so narrow, in fact, that when he stood upright one noticed that it was a straight line from the point of his shoulder to hip, and thence down his long leg to a pair of big feet. A pair of bat-ears extended well out from his head, completing the straight line from head to heels. His face was habitually sad; caused, no doubt, by the mental effort of trying to remember certain tunes. Just now Harp’s two big hands were cupped around his mouth, from which came the doleful twanging of a jew’s-harp. While other cowpunchers soothed their nerves with cigarets, Harp relaxed over the vibrating little instrument.

Suddenly he wiped his lips with the back of his hand and stared up the street.

“Somethin’,” stated Harp, turning to Three Star, “somethin’ has come to pass.”

Up to the hitch-rack came Brick, Silent and Limpy, all mounted on harnessed horses and leading two more. They tied the horses to the rack and then came over to the office door. Bunty and Three Star came to the door. Limpy masticated violently, scratched his nose and looked up at Bunty.

“Held up.”

Bunty craned his neck for a look at the horses.

“Did they steal your stage?” asked Harp.

Limpy ignored this pleasantry.

“Get anything?” asked Bunty.

“Somethin’,” nodded Limpy.

“One man?” inquired Three Star.

“Two men.”

“Oh!” grunted Bunty.

“Was yuh expectin’ more?” asked Brick.

“Where?” Bunty ignored Brick.

“Whisperin’ Crick grade. Know where them two curves is? It was the one this side. There’s a lot of brush----”

“I know the place. Where’s the stage?”

“Ditched.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“There was a female--” began Limpy, but caught a look from Brick and stopped.

“Was she hurt?”

“Not so awful danged bad,” said Brick.

“I’ll ask Limpy to do the talking,” stated Bunty. “Where is the woman?”

“I dunno,” grunted Limpy.

Bunty stared at Limpy and then at Silent and Brick, who were grinning.

“This is the ----est conversation I ever heard!” snapped Bunty, and then turned to Harp. “Go hitch up my horse.”

“Ain’tcha goin’ to take a posse?” asked Silent. “Yuh sure ain’t goin’ huntin’ road-agents with a top-buggy.”

“Since when did you start running my office, Slade?”

Harp went around behind the building, and Bunty and Three Star went back into the office, leaving Silent, Brick and Limpy looking at one another.

“This country is goin’ to the dogs,” declared Limpy.

“Mark an X in front of their name instead of tyin’ a can on their tail--what do yuh expect?” demanded Brick.

Limpy turned back to the horses, unhooked the mail-sack from over a hame and limped up the street toward the post-office. Brick and Silent grinned and crossed the street.

“What did yuh find down there in the road, Brick?”

Brick looked sharply at Silent, but Silent’s expression showed that he was not merely guessing that Brick had picked up something at the scene of the hold-up. They were at the door of the Dollar Down, and Brick shook his head warningly and they went inside.

It was too early in the day for much animation in King Cleeve’s place. Several men were lolling around the place. A gambler sat at a table, idly turning cards from a dealing-box. Over at the piano a dance-hall girl was trying to pick out a tune with one finger, and grimacing with the effort of picking out the right key.

The bartender slid a bottle down the bar and reached for glasses.

“Where’s Cleeve?” asked Brick.

“Huntin’.”

The bartender grinned as if it were a joke.

“Huntin’ what?”

“Coyotes. Zell Mohr brought his three greyhounds from Silverton, and him and King went huntin’. Reckon they’re goin’ to run ’em down. They’ve been talking about it for quite a while.”

“Sun-Dog County sure is gittin’ civilized,” nodded Brick. “Women holdin’ up stages, sheriff huntin’ outlaws in a top-buggy and gamblers ridin’ to hounds.”

“Which all happens when?”

The bartender was interested.

“Today. The stage was held up a while ago.”

“Women do it?”

“Woman,” corrected Brick.

The bartender turned away to serve a customer.

“’S ---- funny that nobody gits excited,” complained Silent, and then whispered, “What did yuh find, Brick?”

Brick drank and turned away from the bar. Silent shook his head and followed Brick outside. Harp Harris was leaning against a post in front of the Boston Café, twanging dolefully on his jew’s-harp, while from Le Blanc’s blacksmith shop came the not unmusical clanging of steel against steel.

“This here place,” declared Silent; “this here place needs a Sunday-school to wake her up. Let’s go and eat.”

They crossed the street and stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, where Brick pointed his nose toward the sky and gave a soft imitation of a coyote howl. Harp grinned and wiped the back of his long hand across his lips.

“Bunty and Three Star went buggy-ridin’,” he stated.

“Gosh!”

Silent appeared shocked.

“Did they go armed?”

Harp grinned and shrugged his narrow shoulders.

“I’d hate to tell for fear it might leak out.”

“Sure,” grinned Brick. “Bein’ as you’re Bunty’s hired----”

“Period,” grunted Harp. “I ain’t with him no more.”

“When did yuh quit?”

“Thank yuh, Brick, but I didn’t quit.”

“What did he fire yuh for, Harp?”

“Well--” Harp licked his lips thoughtfully--“well, I told him to be sure and lock up the jail ’cause somebody might steal the hinges off the cell doors.”

Brick grinned.

“Want to work for the Nine Bar Nine?”

“Gotta work,” observed Harp.

“You’re hired. Come and eat with us, hired man.”

Harp asked nothing about the robbery, and they ate silently.

Their meal over, they sauntered outside just as a roan team, hauling a buckboard, was driven up in front of the restaurant by Lafe Freeman.

“Brick, what happened to the team and wagon?” he rasped.

“Ran away. Silent accident’ly dropped the lines.”

“Did, eh?”

Freeman glared at Silent.

“Accidental, eh? Pinto dead and that Schuttler wagon all busted to ----!”

Lafe shifted his eyes to Brick.

“You’re fired. Do yuh hear that? Both of yuh fired.”

Brick nodded sadly and turned to Harp, who was starting to put the jew’s-harp between his lips.

“I’ve gotta cancel that job, Harp.”

“Thanks,” grunted Harp, “I’d hate to work for a man who was that mean.”

Lafe Freeman started to kick off the brake, but changed his mind.

“Met the sheriff and his ornyment down there,” motioning down the road. “Said there was a hold-up.”

“Yeah,” nodded Brick. “Yeah, there was, Lafe.”

Freeman held the lines between his knees while he filled his old pipe. He smiled down at the pipe and turned to Brick.

“Whatcha say, Brick?”

“I didn’t say,” drawled Brick, “but I was jist thinkin’ about hittin’ yuh for a job.”

“Say yuh was?”

Lafe’s tone was indignantly sarcastic.

“Huh! Yuh was, was yuh?”

He shifted his eyes to Silent and Harp and back to Brick.

“S’pose yuh want a job as foreman, eh? Yuh do? Then you’ll go and hire Silent Slade and that danged harp-twanger over there. My gosh, don’tcha know wagons cost money? Don’tcha know that there pinto horse was worth----”

“Sure, sure,” nodded Brick, “I knowed we’d git fired. Silent says to me--‘Brick, my heart bleeds for Lafe, but----’”

“Don’t lie!” snapped Lafe. “You’ve done enough without that. C’mere and tell me about that hold-up, will yuh?”

“A female!” gasped Lafe, as Brick described the hold-up. “Female? I tell yuh it’s gittin’ so we can’t trust our weak sex.

“Held a Winchester right on the three of yuh. Whatcha know about that? Petticoats and perfumed sheriffs. Next thing yuh know we’ll have to do the crowshayin’.”

“Here comes Limpy,” stated Silent. “Been down to the telegraph office.”

Limpy was hurrying as fast as his game leg would permit and working his jaws overtime. He shuffled to a stop beside the buckboard and spat copiously.

“Sent a message to Teton,” he volunteered. “They’ll send it to the Whippoorwill.”

“What do yuh reckon was in that box, Limpy?” asked Brick.

“We-e-ell--” Limpy squinted up the street--“well, the Whippoorwill’s a free-gold producer, and they ain’t shipped in a long time. That box weighed about a hundred pounds, and folks don’t generally ship junk, do they?”

“Hundred pounds of gold!” gasped Lafe. “Thirty thousand dollars or thereabouts! ---- fools ought to lose it when they send it without protection. Thought they was smart, didn’t they? Nobody expects a unguarded stage to haul money. Don’t believe in it myself, y’betcha. Goin’ to the ranch, Brick?”

“Not now. Me and Silent can borry a couple of broncs from Wesson. You’ve got a outfit, ain’t yuh, Harp? Harp’s workin’ for us now, Lafe.”

“Work ----!” Lafe exploded. “Never had a puncher yet that would work. All right, all right. Come out and visit us, Harp. Forty a month for visitin’ punchers. I’m goin’ to fasten that heatin’-stove on the back of this buckboard. Ought to ’a’ done that instead of sendin’ a couple of danged fools and a pinto team after it. Giddap.”

Limpy turned and went down the street. Harp yawned and opined that he would buck the wheel for a while, being as he had a new job and didn’t have any use for the last money that Bunty would ever pay him.

Brick and Silent sat down in the shade of a building. Silent watched Brick roll and shape a cigaret, and then he said:

“Yuh might tell me what it was. I say, yuh might, but the ---- only knows if yuh will or not.”

Brick lighted his cigaret and pinched out the lighted match before grinding it under his heel. Then he reached into his hip pocket and took out a soiled envelope, which he held in his cupped hands. There was just a name on it:

SCOTT MARTIN.

It had been opened. Brick slowly drew out the slip of paper, and he and Silent read the penciled note.

Tuesday, I think. J will be on stage and will signal at first
curve. If no signal, let go. If there, J will go to Marlin,
unless trouble. Can take care of self. This is big. Meet you
in same place.
(Signed) O.

Brick and Silent looked at each other for a moment and then down at the note. Brick folded it up and replaced it in his pocket.

“Know who Scott Martin is?” asked Silent.

Brick nodded and puffed on his cigaret.

“Bought out the old Weepin’ Tree ranch. Tall, freckled _hombre_, about fifty years old. Ties his gun down.”

“Rides a blaze-faced bay,” added Silent. “I’ve seen him. Kinda puts the deadwood on him, Brick. Gee cripes, a man’s a sucker to take chances on losin’ that kind of a note.”

“Fools ain’t all dead,” grinned Brick. “In fact, I reckon, they’re right in their prime.”

“Whatcha goin’ to do about it?”

Silent was getting anxious.

“Wait for the reward.”

“Here comes Sun-Dog’s swell-elegant sheriff, Brick.”

Brick and Silent strolled down and watched Bunty and his deputy get out of their buggy.

“Well, I see yuh got back safe,” observed Brick.

Three Star grunted, but Bunty ignored them.

“Did yuh find any tracks in the dust?” inquired Brick, insinuating that the officers did not get far from their buggy.

“I’d hate to have ’em follerin’ me in the snow,” stated Silent. “Betcha they’d make me go some. Did yuh find the woman?”

“You’re loco,” declared Three Star. “Women don’t hold up stages.”

“Silent, me and you can’t lie a-tall--not and get away with it.”

Brick grew very despondent.

“Other fellers can lie and make anybody believe----”

“Wait a minute!” snapped the exasperated sheriff. “You two talk too much and say nothin’.”

“What can yuh expect?” wailed Silent. “They took our guns and we’ve got all excited. Nobody can talk sense when they’re excited.”

“Can you describe the robbers?” asked Bunty.

“Sure.”

Brick stepped in close to Bunty and grew very accurate in his description.

“Medium size; mebbe a little taller. Both wore overalls, shirts and boots and had masks on.”

“One chawed spittin’-weed,” added Silent. “Yuh ought to be able to find him easy. Yeah, he sure did. And another thing--they all had guns.”

“You think you’re ---- smart!” snapped Bunty. “What about the woman? You’ve told several different stories.”

“That’s right.”

Brick grew serious.

“Silent, we’ve made a awful mistake thataway. Anyway--” Brick grinned at Bunty--“anyway, I can’t remember just what he did tell; so we’ll stick to all of ’em.”

Bunty grunted with disgust over this ridiculous statement and went into the office, followed by Three Star, equally disgusted, while Brick and Silent grinned joyfully and went back up the street to the Dollar Down, where they found Harp leaning against the bar, twanging dolefully.

“Git him away,” wailed a half-drunk cowboy from the Bar S, pointing at Harp. “His kinda music makes me cry, and when I cry I get mean,” and then he added meaningly, “I’ve been cryin’ quite a while now.”

Harp grinned. Just then came an interruption in the shape of three rangy-looking greyhounds, which came frisking into the front door. They trotted a circle around the room and then headed for Brick. Dogs always came to Brick.

He leaned down and was immediately the center of three plunging beasts, all seeking to get the bulk of caresses.

Brick managed to back away from them, and just then King Cleeve and Zell Mohr came in. Mohr was carrying several fresh coyote pelts, which were tied together. The inhabitants of the place surrounded them and Cleeve set up the drinks.

King Cleeve was of the cool, calculating type of gambler. There was nothing flashy about him, except that he wore an enormous yellow sapphire ring on his left hand, and the mate to it flashed from his necktie. He was of medium height, graceful in his movements, with the long, tapering hands of a man who drew a living without hard labor. His face was not unpleasant, although his eyes were shallow and his teeth too short and even to make his smile friendly.

Just now he was wearing a flannel shirt and a pair of well-worn chaps.

“It’s the real sport,” stated Cleeve; but there was little exultation in his voice. “Think I’ll get me some dogs.”

“Dogs run ’em down, eh?” wondered Brick. “That’s goin’ some.”

“Run ’em down all right,” assured Mohr. “Them dogs are runners.”

“Caught four of ’em, eh?” asked Brick, examining the bundle of pelts. “Betcha them dogs had to go some. Had to shoot ’em, didn’t yuh?”

“After the dogs caught ’em,” nodded Mohr. “No use letting the dogs get chawed up.”

“That’s right,” grinned Brick, fondling the lean head of a fawn-colored hound, and immediately becoming the center of the three dogs again.

Just then Lafe Freeman drove up in front of the saloon. Tied to the back of the buckboard was a heating-stove, which threatened to cave in the rear of the flimsy vehicle. Lafe came in. He nodded to several of the men.

“Hear about the robbery, Cleeve?”

Cleeve nodded.

“Yes. We met the sheriff down the street. He didn’t seem to know much about it.”

“He wouldn’t,” said Lafe. “Yuh can’t expect him to. I think Limpy is goin’ after ’em himself. As I came past his shack he was packin’ a horse and he had a riding-horse saddled.”

Mohr turned from the bar and spoke to his dogs.

“Yuh got some nice dogs there,” remarked Brick.

Mohr nodded and turned to King Cleeve.

“Reckon I’ll be goin’, Cleeve. You keep them hides. As soon as I can get them pups I’ll let yuh know.”

The crowd at the bar broke up. Brick and Silent watched Lafe swing out of town, team on the run as usual.

“We’ll borrow a couple of horses from Wesson,” said Brick as the three of them crossed the street.

“I’d kinda like to chase coyotes,” observed Silent.

“Go ahead,” said Brick. “Don’t let me stop yuh. At that you’d likely catch as many as them hounds did.”

“Whatcha mean?” asked Silent quickly, but Brick did not say.

Cale Wesson let them have the pick of his stable, and as they started down the street Limpy rode from behind the blacksmith shop, leading a packed horse.

“Goin’ huntin’ outlaws, Limpy?” asked Brick.

Limpy squinted at Brick, glanced back up the street, where a number of men were standing in front of the Dollar Down, and then back at Brick.

“I dunno--yet. If this danged pack-animal will git animated a little I’ll ride as far as the forks with yuh.”

Brick swung in behind the pack-horse, and that worthy animal, knowing the meaning of such actions, broke into a lope.

Three miles from town, at the forks of Whisperin’ Creek, Brick, Silent and Harp waved good-by to Limpy Squires, and then swung into the low hills of the Nine Bar Nine range.

“She-e-e was a shrinkin’ vi’let
And I loved her ten-n-n-der-lee-e-e.
I called her-r-r mine, my I-i-iodine,
But she nev-v-v-er came back to me-e-e.”

Silent’s face gradually came back to normal as he wailed the last line. Harp Harris gave an extra doleful twang to his jew’s-harp and nodded in appreciation.

“Yuh might like to know that Iodine ain’t a girl’s name,” remarked Brick from where he sat on the edge of a bunk, massaging his toes, which were encased in an all-too-tight boot.

“This one was named that,” retorted Silent.

“Iodine is a medicine.”

“So was she--good medicine, Brick.”

Silent watched Brick rubbing his toes.

“What yuh ought to do is this, Brick; massage your feet with a meat-grinder and then pour the results into a sausage-skin. What in ---- a feller wants to pinch----”

“Them is my feet,” stated the ungrammatical Brick.

“That there was my song,” reminded Silent, “but you took exceptions to it.”

“Some folks takes exceptions to my music,” observed Harp.

“Not me.”

Brick shook his head seriously.

“I like it, Harp. Sounds like a dyin’ Injun with his head in a barrel--and I hate Injuns.”

“A feller can wear a hat that’s too small, and all she does is fall off,” stated Silent, “but when he bunches his toes inside a boot what is three sizes too small---- Of course, if I was a tin-horn gambler or was in love----”

Brick glared at Silent for a moment, but the pain in his foot drew his attention away. He hooked the heel of the offending boot over the end of the bunk and pulled his foot out, with a sigh of relief. He picked up the boot and looked it over.

“Takes a lot of argument, but sometimes yuh show sense,” remarked Silent. “I knowed a feller down in Wyoming who was a heap like you, Brick. He was herdin’ sheep for a while, but he didn’t have sense enough to herd sheep, so he----”

Silent ducked just in time to escape the thrown boot, but as he ducked his head hit the table-top a resounding whack. He staggered back, clutching at his forehead, dazed. He started for Brick, who was convulsed with laughter and unable to defend himself.

“If yuh kill him I’ll never play for yuh again,” declared Harp, stepping in front of Silent.

“O-o-o-oh, mama mine!” choked Brick. “If it hadn’t been for that table he’d ’a’ dropped his head on the floor!”

“By cripes, yuh must think that’s funny!” howled Silent. “If yuh do you’ve got another think comin’.”

“Nobody told yuh to hammer the table with your head.”

Silent groaned and massaged his forehead. Finally he grinned and said:

“Well, are we goin’ to town, Brick? Thousand dollars ain’t much, but it helps a lot in these stingy times.”

“Funny that the Whippoorwill don’t raise that ante,” remarked Brick, pulling on his old boots. “The county never lost nothin’, but still they offers a thousand.”

* * * * *

It was three days after the robbery, but no one had found the slightest trace of the bandits. Conjectures were rife as to the contents of the iron box. The superintendent of the Whippoorwill mine refused to issue any statement of the amount, and beyond the probable value, based on Limpy’s estimate of the weight, there was nothing to show the extent of the haul.

And Limpy had disappeared. Whether on the track of the bandits or on personal business, no one knew. Limpy had been very brief in his statements, and outside of his first words to the sheriff, had not mentioned the woman. No one except Silent, Lafe, Brick and Limpy actually knew what happened at the hold-up.

Brick and Silent had not been to Marlin since the day of the robbery, but Harp had made the trip each day, gathering the latest gossip. Harp had no idea of why they wanted first news of the reward, but it was easier to ride to Marlin and loaf around than it was to work on the ranch. If the Nine Bar Nine wanted to pay him for loafing in town, fine. And besides it gave him a chance to learn a lot of new tunes on his harp.

Brick and Silent had deliberated on letting Harp in on the proposition. Harp was a square-shooter. He was fast with a gun and a top rider. They finally decided to let Harp in on their secret.

As they rode away from the ranch Brick told Harp and let him read the note.

“Well, ----!” drawled Harp delightedly. “She’s a dead open and shut. Let’s go and arrest him.”

“Him!” snorted Brick. “We seen three, and from this note it looks like four. One of them initials, I reckon it’s J, stands for the female. We’ll kinda investigate this here Martin, but for gosh sake use a little sense, will yuh? We ain’t got a danged thing except this letter.”

At the scene of the hold-up they swung off the grade and rode down to the pine thicket. The stage was still there, but Freeman had hired Joe Le Blanc to haul the wagon to his shop at Marlin City.

Brick dismounted and walked down from the stage until he reached a point where the top of the stage was barely visible. Then he searched the ground. Suddenly he grunted and picked up an empty .45-70 cartridge shell. Silent and Harp looked at it.

“World is full of .45-70’s,” stated Silent.

Brick nodded and examined the cartridge. To all appearances it was an ordinary cartridge shell. No one except a gun crank would give it a second glance. Brick turned it around in his fingers, feeling of it carefully.

To all appearances the cartridge was old. It was spotted with verdigris and scratched as if it had been handled considerably.

Brick noted this. In a country where there was much use for rifle-shooting it seemed strange that any man would have an old cartridge in his possession. A hold-up man would rarely take a chance of using an old cartridge in a repeating rifle--or in any gun for that matter.

Brick examined the butt of this shell, and noted that it was slightly swollen. The firing-pin of the rifle had dented the primer near the top, fairly cutting into the brass rim of the cartridge. Brick glanced at the others.

“Likely the one they shot past my head,” grinned Silent. “Reckon I’m lucky to be able to look calmly upon that ca’tridge-shell.”

Brick dropped the shell into his pocket and got back on his horse.

“He’s thinkin’,” observed Silent. “That shell means a lot to him, Harp. Shouldn’t be afraid to bet that he knows them bandits’ ancestors by their first name by now.”

“Sure,” nodded Harp. “Betcha he even knows it was fired in a .45-70.”

Brick turned in his saddle and grinned at Harp.

“I might fool yuh on the way I’d bet.”

“And,” observed Silent, “they send ’em to the loco lodge for thinkin’ they’re somethin’ that they ain’t.”

Brick led them straight through the main street of Marlin City. Bunty Blair was standing in front of the Dollar Down, and when he saw them he sauntered over toward the hitch-rack as if to meet them when they rode up; but they never even looked at him as they rode past.

“That’s high-tonin’ the law,” grinned Silent, watching Bunty from the corner of his eye. “Mister Blair likely was wishful to ask questions. Believe me, cowboys, we’ll hookum cow on this deal. When we turn our prisoners over to the law we’ll take receipt.”

“Yuh can’t figure on chicken stew by lookin’ at a nest full of aigs,” reminded Brick. “We’re goin’ to be danged lucky to find out who done it, and then we’ll likely earn a lot more than a thousand dollars landin’ ’em. We know there was two men and a woman, which makes it equal to about five men.”

“How do yuh figure thataway?” asked Harp.

“That’s right, Harp--you never seen that woman.”

* * * * *

The Weeping Tree ranch was what might be termed a derelict. The ranch had changed hands numberless times, and it appeared that each new owner had added a room or two to the rambling ranch-house until it had grown to be almost a complete rectangle, in the center of which grew a gnarled weeping-willow tree.

The old tumble-down barn also had many angles, and from the number of pole corrals it appeared that each owner had had a pet idea of corral construction. The ranch-house had no protection from the elements, and it appeared that each addition had shrunk away from its neighbor until it was almost possible to look between all the additions to the original ranch-house.

Smoke was drifting from the stove-pipe, or rather one of the stove-pipes, when the three cowboys rode into the rectangle and dismounted.

“Whatcha goin’ to say to him?” asked Silent.

“Party call,” grinned Brick.

“Independent party,” chuckled Harp, remembering the recent election.

They started away from their horses, but stopped. A woman was singing:

“Oh! Ye’ll tak’ the high-road and I’ll tak’ the low-road,
And I’ll be in Scotland a-fore ye,
But me and my true love will never meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.”

The words ceased, but the rich throaty contralto hummed the chorus of the old Scotch song once more. Brick Davidson’s mother had been Scotch--and she had sung this same song to him. It had been years since Brick had heard it, and it brought back a rush of memories--memories of a sweet-faced woman who used to cuddle him in her arms and call him “laddie o’ mine.”

Brick was not sentimental, but just now he found himself, hat in hand, staring down at the ground. He glanced at his companions. Harp was staring at the open door, mouth open. Silent had stepped back against his horse and was standing with his arms folded and eyes closed.

Brick’s eyes switched back to the door just as the owner of the voice appeared. For a moment she did not see them--her eyes seemingly looking far away. Then she gave a start of surprize.

She was not beautiful. Her face was tanned, her hair a tumbled brown mass, and a smudge of black discolored one of her cheeks. The faded blue-calico dress, the dejected attitude, might have made her a pathetic figure; but she was too tall, too visibly healthy to be pathetic.

“Ma’am,” said Brick softly, “yuh got a beauty-spot.”

Her hand went slowly to her cheek and a smile flashed across her face.

“I’ve been trying to fix that darned stove-pipe. When I get it level the stove won’t stand up, and when I get the stove level the pipe won’t fit. Know anything about stoves?”

“I’m a expert on ’em,” stated Silent.

“Not saggin’ ones,” corrected Brick. “I’m the sag expert.”

There was a three-cornered rush for the doorway, but Brick was the first one inside.

Some time, in the dim and distant past, this stove might have had four legs; but now it rested its four corners on a stone, two bricks, an old kettle and a block of wood. The rusty pipe, of odd lengths, made several angles before entering the tin-protected hole in the roof.

The three cowboys surrounded the stove and examined it carefully. The section of pipe which connected to the top of the stove had been freshly cut, but Silent did not note this trifling detail.

“The ---- fool that cut this must ’a’ been cross-eyed,” he declared. “No wonder it won’t fit when the stove’s level.”

“I’m not much of a mechanic,” admitted the girl soberly.

“Aw-w-w,” choked Silent, coloring to the roots of his hair. “Aw, I can see where yuh made the mistake, ma’am; one of the corners was saggin’. Anybody’d make the same mistake.”

Brick removed the offending section of pipe and proceeded to ruin his pet pocketknife in cutting the pipe square across, while Silent and Harp shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

“She’s a small world, ma’am,” declared Silent, “but I ain’t never met yuh before. I’m Melville Slade. Folks calls me Silent ’cause I never have much to say. This one here is Harp Harris. The pipe-cutter over there is named Brick Davidson.”

“Harp ain’t my right name, ma’am.”

Harp said that much and then took a deep breath, like a man who had been under water a long time--or was getting ready to go under. Then he finished breathlessly--

“I was christened Cadwallader Jones Harris, ma’am.”

Harp beamed with joy over his disclosure.

“I’d stick to Harp if I was you,” grunted Brick. “Sayin’ your full name sounds like fallin’ over a door-step and hitting your head on a chair.”

“Were you christened Brick?” asked the girl.

“His name’s Donald Campbell Davidson,” chanted Harp. “I know, ’cause I seen it on a letter.”

Brick grinned at her.

“I am Jean Martin,” said the girl simply.

“Jean Martin?”

Brick almost dropped the pipe.

“How do yuh spell it--with a G?”

“No, with a J. J-e-a-n.”

Brick came back to the stove and fitted the pipe, while Silent and Harp watched him. It fitted. Brick wiped his hands on his chaps and smiled at her.

“I reckon she’ll work now, ma’am.”

“Thank you so very much. I never could have fixed it, because I am such a poor mechanic.”

She looked at Silent as she finished; but Silent was looking at a Winchester hanging on a pair of deer-horns on the wall.

“You and your dad goin’ to run the ranch?” asked Brick.

“We--we hope to, Mr. Davidson.”

“Kinda hard for one man to run a place,” observed Harp.

“There will be three of us. Jack Oliver has been with us a long time, but he isn’t here yet because he stopped to pick up some stock.”

“Well,” said Brick slowly, “I reckon we’ll drift along, ma’am. Just stopped to say howdy.”

Jean shook hands with them and stood in the doorway, waving a farewell as they rode away.

* * * * *

None of the three men spoke for a while, and then Harp remarked--“She ought to have a new stove.”

Neither of the others disputed his assertion. Silent spurred up beside Brick.

“Lemme look at that letter again, Brick.”

He read it through and handed it back to Brick.

“Kinda fits,” he muttered. “J and O. Watcha know about that, Brick?”

“All we’ve gotta do--” began Harp, but Brick whirled in his saddle.

“Do what?” he snapped.

“We-e-ll, whatcha think, Brick?”

“Lemme think, will yuh?”

“Let me think,” grinned Silent. “Betcha forty dollars, Harp, that he’s thinkin’ right around one thing--she sure can sing.”

“Like an angel,” said Harp seriously. “Honest to grandma, I ain’t never heard no song like that in my life. Wonder if she’d sing if a feller asked her?”

“What caliber was that Winchester carbine hangin’ on the wall?” asked Brick.

“Forty-five-seventy,” said Harp. “I gotta good look at it. Model 1886, open sights.”

“Sure?”

“You’re danged right I’m sure, but that don’t spell nothin’, Brick. This here country is full of .45-70’s.”

“I’m glad it was a .45-70.”

Silent turned in his saddle and stared at Brick.

“Yuh are, are yuh?” he exploded. “Well, now lemme tell yuh somethin’, cowboy; don’t yuh try to hang deadwood on that lady.”

“A thousand dollars is a lot of money,” mused Brick.

“I ain’t so danged miserly as all that,” grunted Harp. “Forty a month and feed ain’t so much, but yuh can live on it.”

“That would mean three hundred and thirty-three dollars apiece,” stated Brick seriously. “Take a long time to save up that much, if yuh don’t drink much and don’t gamble.”

“What’s time?” snorted Silent. “That ain’t nothin’; is it, Harp?”

“Not in my life, Silent. Whatcha laughin’ at, Brick?”

“Thinkin’ what a lot of danged fools the lady has made of us three.”

They rode into Marlin and left their horses at the tie-rack near the sheriff’s office. A group of men were standing in front of the general store--a group that seemed strangely interested in the three cowboys.

Bunty Blair was one of the group, and now he left it and came down toward his office to meet the three.

Bunty stopped as if undecided. Then he pointed toward the door of his office and said--

“Let’s go inside and have a little talk.”

“What’s the main idea?” asked Brick wonderingly, glancing from Bunty to the crowd in front of the store.

“Come inside and I’ll tell yuh--all three of yuh.”

The three cowboys glanced at each other and then followed Bunty into the office. He shut the door and faced them.

“Limpy Squires was murdered.”

Brick squinted at Bunty.

“When?”

“The day of the hold-up. Shot in the back.”

The cowboys exchanged glances. Limpy had never been popular with them, but who would shoot the inoffensive old crippled stage-driver? Limpy had an acrid tongue, but no one ever took exceptions to his talk--rather they were amused at his flow of profanity. Bunty straightened some papers on his desk and continued:

“He left here with you fellers. ‘Topaz’ Tyler was coming here from Silverton when he found him. Limpy had been dead all this time, lyin’ just off the road near the forks. Topaz brought the word back, and we went out after him. We found both horses, but the pack had come loose.”

Brick listened grimly to Bunty’s statement; and then--

“Who do yuh reckon shot him, Bunty?”

The sheriff did not reply--did not meet Brick’s intense gaze, but fumbled with the papers on his desk.

“Bringin’ us in here thisaway,” muttered Silent, “’pears like yuh was tryin’ to keep it a secret.”

“You fellers rode out of town with Limpy,” stated Bunty slowly. “I’d kinda like to know where you left him.”

“At the forks,” replied Harp.

Bunty’s grin was crooked and his voice was mildly sarcastic.

“Looks kinda queer.”

“Wait a minute,” snapped Brick. “You insinuating that we had anything to do with shootin’ Limpy Squires?”

“No, I ain’t, Davidson; but there’s a few things that----”

“Why should we harm Limpy?” demanded Silent.

“There’s a lot of things that need explaining. That hold-up, for instance. You two and Limpy come here with a cock-and-bull story about female road-agents, and then you admit you’re lyin’ about the woman. You laugh like it was a good joke.

“Davidson, you and Slade stay out at the ranch and send Harp in to town to see what he can find out. Looks kinda queer to me, if anybody asks yuh.”

“Yeah?” drawled Brick innocently.

“It does,” stated Bunty, who seemed to grow bolder when he found that the fiery Brick remained indifferent to the half-accusation.

“I’m waiting for you to talk.”

“Oh!” grunted Brick, recovering from his abstraction.

“Whatcha say, Bunty?”

“I said I was waiting for an explanation.”

“Well, now that’s sure thoughtful of yuh,” nodded Brick. “If yuh only wait long enough, Sun-Dog County will grow to be a State and you might be elected governor. Ever’thin’ comes to them who waits, Bunty.”

“I want that explanation right now! _Sabe?_”

“Who’s Topaz Tyler?” asked Brick suddenly. “He’s a new one on me.”

“I know’m,” grunted Harp. “He punched cows for the Diamond H outfit in Idaho till they caught him cheatin’ in a poker game. Tall, skinny tin-horn with educated fingers. Wears a six and three-quarter hat and a number five boot.”

“You used to be in Idaho too, didn’t yuh, Bunty?” asked Brick.

“That ain’t answering my questions!” snapped the sheriff.

“I want you to explain about that hold-up--the truth of it; _sabe?_”

“Yo’re takin’ a lot upon yourself,” smiled Brick. “When in ---- did you get the right to ask questions, Bunty? ’Pears to me like you’re gettin’ personal.”

“I’m the sheriff, ain’t I?”

“Well,” drawled Brick, “you keep right on bein’ the sheriff and nobody’s goin’ to molest yuh, Bunty. Speakin’ of Idaho, ’pears like that State’s well represented around here. Bunty comes from there, and Silent used to live in that country, and now comes Topaz Tyler. Mebbe we can have a reunion.”

“Feller what bought the Weepin’ Tree outfit is from Idaho,” volunteered Harp. “Leastwise I seen a box out there with his name on it and it also had the words ‘Cottonwood, Ida.’ I-d-a means Idaho, don’t it?”

“And,” added Silent, “if I ain’t so danged badly mistaken, King Cleeve’s from Idaho. Mebbe not lately, yuh understand, but----”

Silent broke off and stared at the opposite wall.

Then his face broke into a smile of wonderment.

“What’s a joke?” asked Brick, grinning an accompaniment.

“Nothin’, Brick; I was just thinkin’.”

“What’s all this about?” demanded the sheriff testily. “I asks for an explanation and I gets a lot of fool talk. I want that explanation--now!”

“And if we refuse to talk--what then?” asked Brick.

“Well, I’ll have to present such facts as I have to the county attorney.”

Brick grinned at Bunty and shook his head.

“You ain’t got no facts, Bunty, but do the best with what yuh have. A top-buggy ain’t nothin’ to hunt outlaws in, and if the county attorney ain’t got no more sense than you have, the two of yuh ought to be able to hang some half-witted sheepherder for killin’ Limpy. Do yuh want to arrest any of us?”

“No--not now--not yet.”

“Stutterin’ loosens your teeth,” stated Brick. “Come on.”

The three of them filed out, leaving Bunty Blair glaring down at the top of his desk, his nerve almost gone. He reflected that it was a good thing that Brick Davidson had taken it as a joke. Bunty had been forced, against his will, to demand an explanation from the three cowboys. They had refused.

The bunch of men were no longer in front of the store. As Brick and his two companions went up the narrow sidewalk a tall cowboy came across from the Dollar Down, heading for the store.

“That’s Topaz Tyler,” said Harp.

“Walks like he had club feet.”

“That’s how Brick’s goin’ to walk if he don’t wear proper boots,” declared Silent seriously; but Brick was studying Topaz Tyler and did not resent Silent’s implication.