Chapter II: Part 2

There was no question but what Topaz was wearing tight boots--not only tight, but also expensive. In fact, his whole make-up bespoke the dandy. Light-blue silk shirt, lavender muffler, trousers with a diagonal stripe and the finest of black calfskin boots, with the softest of tops. His hat was of the “five-gallon” Southwest type, surmounted with a snakeskin band. In his hand he carried a pair of gray gauntlet gloves, beaded and fringed. He merely glanced at the three cowboys as he passed and went into the store.

“Smokin’ one of them Turk cigarets!” grunted Silent, wrinkling his long nose. “Jockey Club perfume and burnin’ camel-hair. Waugh! I’d kiss him if he didn’t smoke.”

“Where’d he get the nickname, Harp?” asked Brick.

“Wears ’em,” grinned Harp. “Look at his vest-buttons, Brick. All topazes. Wears a big one on a rosette to hold his muffler, and he’s got two or three on his fingers. Kinda nutty, I reckon. Feller told me that Tyler found a smoky topaz as big as a goose-egg and had a jeweler cut it up for him.”

Brick nodded and turned into the store. Silent and Harp followed on his heels. There were several men in the store. Le Blanc the blacksmith, Cale Wesson the storekeeper, King Cleeve, Lynn Barnhardt of the Lazy H, Lowdermilk, who bought stock for the Eastern markets, and Topaz Tyler.

Topaz turned from purchasing a package of tobacco and glanced at Brick and his companions. He glanced at Harp Harris, but turned and began to roll a cigaret. None of the men said a word, although it was evident that there had been earnest conversation prior to the coming of the three cowboys.

“Gimme a pack of smokin’, Cale,” said Brick, moving up to the counter.

“When did yuh leave Smoky Creek, Topaz?” asked Harp.

Topaz turned and stared at Harp, the tobacco trickling from the crimped paper in his hand.

“Smoky Creek?” he parroted. “I reckon yuh got the best of me, pardner.”

“If I did it’s the first time anybody has--when yuh was lookin’,” returned Harp seriously.

Topaz let the paper slip out of his hand, but kept his hands above his waist-line. It looked too much like a challenge for him to drop his hands.

“Just what do yuh mean?” he asked.

“I used to work for the Diamond H.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Topaz relaxed.

“Sa-a-ay, you’re the feller who used to play the jew’s-harp. Still twangin’ along?”

“Yeah,” grinned Harp. “Kinda.”

“Smoky Creek,” said Brick thoughtfully, turning. “Name’s familiar somehow. Didn’t a feller by name of Martin used to live around there?”

Topaz shifted his eyes to Brick’s face and their eyes met. Topaz turned back to Harp, but neither of them answered Brick’s question.

“Snubbed!” grunted Brick, licking the edge of a cigaret paper. “A fool and his questions never gits answered,” and then added reflectively: “She’s kinda funny about so many Idaho folks movin’ over here, ain’t it? Anybody’d think they quit runnin’ cows over there.”

King Cleeve gave Brick a searching glance, but Brick’s face told him nothing. Silent was laughing silently, his homely face wreathed in deep lines. He looked at King Cleeve, and it seemed to convulse him, but no sound came from his wide mouth.

King Cleeve’s eyes narrowed. Silent’s laugh was almost an insult--that kind of laugh; and he was looking directly at King Cleeve.

Suddenly the door opened and a man came in. He was about fifty years of age, sandy-haired, his thin face plentifully sprinkled with freckles. His arms were long, his shoulders sloping; but he carried himself with a wiry ease, and the sleeves of his faded shirt seemed to stretch under the relaxed arm muscles. His gun was tied down to a rosette on his chaps, the butt swung out at an angle which hinted at fast work.

His glance quickly took in the inhabitants of the store. For a moment his eyes shifted from one to another, and then he moved in close to the counter. Wesson walked up and leaned across the counter. Without taking his eyes off the group, the newcomer gave his order and leaned easily against the counter while Wesson tied up the purchases. Then he paid, half-turned, opened the door and stepped out, still half-facing the interior. He carried his purchases in his left hand.

No one spoke for several moments after the door closed, and then Le Blanc said:

“She’s got wan strong look, dees Martin, eh? Bah gosh, she’s tip ovair cow with hands, I’m bet.”

“Where’d he come from, Cale?” asked Barnhardt.

Wesson shook his head.

“I dunno, Lynn. You know, Cleeve?” King Cleeve shook his head.

“Idaho, I think,” said Brick. “Near Cottonwood or Smoky Creek.”

Silent laughed again, but this time it was not silently. Every man in the place looked at him, but Silent gave them no heed. Finally he turned on his heel and walked outside.

“Slade acts like he was loco,” observed King Cleeve.

“Acts like a ---- fool, if you ask me,” stated Topaz.

“If anybody asks yuh,” agreed Brick, and added, “but nobody asked yuh.”

“What do you mean?”

Topaz glared at Brick angrily.

“Want a diagram?” grinned Brick. “If yuh don’t, I’ll just say yo’re pretty new to be passin’ opinions.”

“Now, now, quit jawin’,” interrupted Wesson, who knew Brick very, very well indeed. “Sayin’ this ’n’ that back and forth is apt to make enemies; don’t yuh know it?” and then added meaningly, “There’s been one killin’ this week and gosh knows that’s a plenty in these quiet times.”

Topaz, without a reply, walked outside and crossed to the Dollar Down. Brick grinned.

“Friend of yours; ain’t he, Cleeve?”

“Mine?”

King Cleeve was astonished.

“Not that anybody knows of.”

“Oh! Not that anybody--knows--of.”

King Cleeve slid from his seat on the counter and straightened the creases in his trousers. He feigned not to have noticed Brick’s tone of voice, and when he straightened up his face was blandly innocent.

“Me, I’m thinkin’ she’s goin’ to rain.”

Le Blanc stood up and yawned widely.

“Where?” asked Harp. “It ain’t goin’ to rain here, Frenchy.”

“She’s goin’ t’ be long dry spell if she don’,” grinned Le Blanc, and headed for the door.

“That cinches the drink on you, Harp,” grinned Brick. “C’mon.”

* * * * *

Outside they found Silent sitting on the sidewalk, contemplating a faded and torn two-year-old circus poster which adorned the building just across the street. He looked soberly up at Brick and moved aside to let him sit down.

“What did yuh laugh for, Brick?”

Silent’s tone was mildly reproving.

“I had to,” grinned Brick. “Lemme tell yuh something, which yuh likely won’t believe; I was in jail once.”

“I don’t believe it,” declared Silent. “You was in jail more’n once.”

“I can remember this one. It was a little town in Idaho where I got into a argument with a feller. I reckon I was drinkin’ a little too much. Anyway I licked him. Then two fellers hopped on me and helped him put me in jail. He was the sheriff. There was only one cell--a big one. I didn’t mind, ’cause there was a good bed in there.

“I don’t know what time it was--night, I reckon--when I hears two men come inside. They unlocks the door, and one of ’em shoves the other feller inside and locks up again. After he’s gone I lights a match and looks at this feller. He’s been handled considerable and ain’t payin’ much attention to things. I went back to sleep, and pretty soon I’m woke up.

“The place is full of men. They smashes in the cell door, falls upon me in a mess and yanks me plumb outside with a rope around my neck. I can’t holler nor nothin’. I gets yanked and hauled for quite some ways, and then they stops. I hear somebody sayin’, ‘----, that ain’t no way to tie a proper knot,’ and then somebody else says, ‘Ain’t yuh goin’ to let him say anythin’?’

“Then somebody lights a match and takes a look at my face. I seen his face in the light of that match. It was all bloody and white. Then he said:

“‘----! This ain’t him, boys!’

“They crowds around me and gets a look.

“‘Git back to the jail!’ orders the feller who looked at me first, and they left me on my back out there under a tree.

“I found my bronc and I sure rattled his hocks out of there.”

Silent rubbed his neck thoughtfully and grinned widely.

“Yeah,” admitted Brick; “it sure was funny, Silent. What else?”

“Yuh can laugh now,” replied Silent. “The man they throwed into my own little cell was--King Cleeve.”

“Aw-w-w-w!”

Brick grunted his unbelief.

“I’m sure as ----!” declared Silent. “Always I’ve wondered where I seen his face, and when he was talkin’ about Idaho----”

“When do we laugh?” asked Harp.

“When I tell yuh that this here jigger that bought the Weepin’ Tree outfit was the person who lit that match and saved my neck.”

“Martin!” exclaimed Brick.

“Uh-huh.”

“Silent, is this straight goods, or are yuh romancin’?” asked Brick seriously.

“----’s truth! I carries them faces photygraphed on my brain, y’betcha. ’Course Martin was all bloody-like, but I know that face. I was kinda bothered about Cleeve, bein’ as he was beat up a lot, and not of much consequence to me--not like Martin was.”

“Which makes a different color horse,” sighed Brick. “Things are almost as clear as mud.”

“Cleeve must ’a’ been gone when they went back to the jail,” observed Harp. “They busted the door and he just walked out; don’t yuh see? After they takes you away he jist naturally went----”

“As a detective you plays real sweetly on the jew’s-harp,” remarked Brick. “Let’s go home before Harp explains the whole mystery.”

“Well--” Harp was very serious--“well, of course there’s a chance that----”

“Chances are you’re right, Harp,” admitted Brick. “I hope the stove-pipe draws well. Must take a _pasear_ out there again real soon.”

“We must,” agreed Silent; and Harp nodded, but added:

“After observin’ her paw, I’d say we better go one at a time--we’ll last longer. Let’s have another li’l shot before we go.”

* * * * *

The Whippoorwill men seemed to make little effort to apprehend the robbers. Limpy was dead; therefore unable to tell of the actual occurrence. Silent and Brick refused to talk about it.

Bunty Blair hinted at evidence--nothing absolute, but something that might incriminate a couple of unintelligent cowboys. He did not designate them by name, but every one knew whom he meant.

Brick, Silent and Harp were stumped. Silent and Harp were sure that Scott Martin, Jean and Jack Oliver were the guilty parties, but they were equally sure that they--Silent and Harp--did not want the reward, and they were also sure that they were going to act as a stumbling-block to any one else that tried to collect.

Brick spent a lot of time alone, thinking, and his actions were looked upon darkly by Silent and Harp. None of them had been out to the Weeping Tree ranch since that one day.

Just now Silent and Harp had come in from repairing a corral at Silver Spring. Brick was not at the ranch. Sing Moy, the god of the kitchen, was the only inhabitant. They asked him where Brick was.

“You go--he go,” stated Sing. “Mebby-so go town.”

“Jist like that!” exploded Silent. “Send us out to fix a darned old corral that nobody ever uses, and then he goes to town. Let’s me and you go to town. He-e-e-y, Harp! Quit mournin’ on that groan-organ. Let’s go to town.”

Harp shoved himself away from the side of the house and wiped the back of his hand across his lips, after which he carefully wrapped the offending instrument before putting it in his pocket.

The fact that he had sent Silent and Harp to repair a perfectly good corral, giving him a chance to go alone to Marlin City, was not stinging Brick Davidson’s conscience. In fact, Brick was very, very busy, trying to capture a glass of liquor which seemed to elude his every effort. Brick stepped back from the bar, looking cross-eyed at the glass, and then cautiously stalked it with his hands.

There is no denying the fact that Brick was beautifully drunk--if such an adjective may be used to describe his present condition. He was also very joyful. He loved all the world, and made it publicly known that his soul was fairly reeking with milk and honey.

He insisted that Topaz Tyler was as near perfect as any human being could be--and still live. He dilated on the virtues of Topaz. Then he eulogized King Cleeve, whom he pronounced a “pup-pup-prince.” Brick did not stammer over any other words but King Cleeve didn’t mind.

Brick was staggering drunk when he entered the Dollar Down and cast his bleared eyes around the place. Bunty Blair was there, but Bunty did not linger. Brick was not yet drunk enough to disturb the peace, and Bunty knew that when Brick got drunk enough to be safely handled he would be too drunk to disturb any one.

But Brick was not mean. Oh, far from it. He even said, “Thank you,” when King Cleeve said, “Well, here’s regards.”

Brick grew confidential with King Cleeve. Did Cleeve have any idea who held up the stage? King Cleeve did not. Brick hinted darkly that he did. In fact, he had a document that would clear up the mystery.

“What do you mean?” asked Cleeve.

“I never shed,” grinned Brick drunkenly, patting a pocket of his vest, “I got shome evidence; y’ understand?”

King Cleeve patted Brick on the back and wished him luck. He told Brick that there was nobody he would sooner see win the thousand dollars.

Then came Topaz Tyler, and King invited him to join them. For a man who was already drunk Brick stood an amazing lot of liquor. Topaz and Cleeve mourned over the fact that they could not drink liquor as Brick could. It was a gift. They boasted over his ability, and Brick’s chest swelled. Brick admitted that he was a wonder.

But finally a glass of liquor eluded him. Then he stalked it, cautiously. King Cleeve’s foot was elevated on the bar-rail, his leg encased in a very expensive, pearl-colored trouser. Brick threw caution to the winds and scooped the glass off the bar, and its contents splashed on Cleeve’s immaculate knee.

Brick chuckled with glee and sat down heavily on the floor, while King Cleeve swore at the ruination of his new trousers. A swamper volunteered to remove Brick, but Cleeve and Topaz declined his assistance. Wasn’t Brick their friend?

They lifted him to his unstable feet and piloted him out of the back door, where they propped him up on some empty kegs, afterward removing the folded note from his inside vest pocket. Then they staggered up to Cleeve’s room over the saloon and sat down on the bed. It had been a mighty job to anesthetize Brick Davidson with whisky, but they were sure, judging from their own condition, that the job had been thoroughly done.

King Cleeve read the note with both eyes, and then read it with one eye shut. Topaz nodded over it and stared at King Cleeve. Then they both went to sleep.

* * * * *

Silent and Harp tied their horses to the saloon rack and came inside. Silent approached the bar and asked the bartender if he had seen Brick Davidson lately. The bartender grinned.

“Went out the back door a while ago, but I don’t reckon he went far.”

“Drunk?” asked Silent.

“Well--” the bartender did not want to reflect any discredit on Brick’s ability--“well, I--I hope so.”

“Why hope so?” inquired Harp.

“I’ll tell yuh; Davidson was seven-eighths drunk when he came here, and he drank enough here to float a canoe.”

“Son of a gun!” breathed Silent, and headed for the back door with Harp on his heels.

Yes, Brick was there. His head jerked sidewise as they came out of the door, and he looked up at them with streaming, agonized eyes. Tears coursed down his cheeks and dripped off his chin.

“May I herd sheep if he ain’t bawlin’!” gasped Silent. “What’s the matter, cowboy?”

Brick shook his head and handed the little bottle which he held in his hand to Silent.

“Sm-smell it,” he choked.

Silent put the bottle to his nose and sniffed. Like a flash his head jerked back and he dropped the bottle.

“Uh-h-h-h--woosh!”

Silent’s choking wheeze was very emphatic. Brick sobbed with joy.

“What in ---- is that?”

Silent’s eyes were full of tears and his nose twitched violently.

“Oil of mustard,” grinned Brick. “Ain’t she a humdinger? Doc Lindsay gave it to me.”

“What’s it for?” asked Harp.

“Soberin’ up. Kicks the booze out of your head, _muy pronto_.”

“Spend your good money for liquor and then blow your head off to get rid of it!”

Silent wiped the tears off his cheeks and glared down at Brick.

“You’re a disgrace to Sun-Dog County, Brick Davidson.”

Brick got up and yawned. His legs wobbled a little as he walked around the rear of the saloon and over to the hitch-rack, where he stopped and apologized to Silent and Harp for acting so disgracefully. Silent and Harp looked with distrust upon this apology. Brick was very meek.

“Yessir,” nodded Silent as if to an invisible person. “Yessir, when I come to think about it, I do. Crazy, yuh say? Well, yuh know how it is--a feller kinda hates to say, but now that yuh mentioned it--yeah, I reckon you’re right. No, I won’t mention any certain thing, y’understand, but jist take mostly anythin’ he’s ever done--you’re welcome, I’m sure.”

Silent nodded and turned back to Brick and Harp. Brick laughed, but it was not a drunken laugh. Heroic measures had driven the alcohol from his head, leaving him a trifle unsteady on his feet, but otherwise cold sober.

Brick’s laugh nettled Silent.

“You hoodoed us away so yuh could come to town alone and git drunk, didn’t yuh? Yes, yuh did, Brick. Ain’tcha got no feelin’s?”

Brick was busy searching his pockets and ignored Silent’s question. Brick swore softly.

“Gone,” he muttered.

“What--your feelin’s?” grunted Silent.

“I had a note in my pocket--” began Brick.

“Aw-w-w-w, gosh!” groaned Silent. “You went and lost that note? Yuh didn’t, did yuh, Brick?”

Brick nodded and searched his pockets again.

“Where did yuh lose it?” inquired Harp.

“Where did he?”

Silent glared at Harp, and then hammered on the hitch-rack.

“Where did he lose it? Harp, some day you’re goin’ to ask a question and I’m goin’ to kill yuh dead--right when yuh finish askin’. If he knowed where he lost it he’d know where he was when he lost it, wouldn’t he?”

Silent snorted his disgust.

“He’d know,” nodded Harp. “He’d know where he was when he lost it if he was sober enough to know where he was when he lost it; but if he----”

Silent clenched his hands and rubbed his shoulder into Harp’s chest, shoving him slowly backward.

“Please don’t speak, Harp,” he begged. “Don’t speak.”

“Don’t speak to him, Harp,” grinned Brick.

“I won’t,” promised Harp. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say to the ---- fool. Where do yuh think yuh lost it, Brick?”

“Think!” Silent snorted. “What would he think with?”

Harp looked mildly at the exasperated Silent and then turned his back. Silent snorted again and went across toward the store, walking stiff-legged like an angry bear.

“He’s angry with me and you,” grinned Brick. “Mebbe he’ll be mad quite a while.”

“Let’s me and you go into the saloon,” suggested Harp. “Betcha forty dollars he brings a peace-pipe, ’cause he’s thirsty.”

The bartender was idly wiping a glass as they came in, and the glass fell from his fingers, making a dull _plop!_ in the rinsing-tub under the bar. He stared at Brick, who walked up to the bar, talking to Harp. There was nothing about Brick’s actions that would indicate he had ever had a drink.

“Hooch,” said Harp.

“The best yuh got,” added Brick. “I’m dry.”

The bartender’s hand shook as he placed the required articles before them. He wondered if Brick was one of twins, or if any man could handle that much---- Well, if he wasn’t one of twins, it was a sinful waste of liquor.

Bunty Blair came in and sat down at an unused card-table before he saw that Brick was still there. Bunty had expected that Brick had been laid away long before this; and Bunty watched, fascinated, as Brick rolled a cigaret with one hand and never spilled the tobacco. Then Bunty stared at the table-top. It was beyond him.

Silent came in and leaned against the bar.

“Normal again?” asked Brick.

Silent cleared his throat dryly, and Brick nodded to the bartender. Then Brick looked at Bunty, who turned away.

Brick nudged Harp, who grinned at Bunty. Then Brick turned to Silent.

“How long since you was in Idaho, Silent?”

“Nine or ten years, I reckon.”

“Did sheriffs use top-buggies to chase outlaws with?”

A man at a poker-table laughed, and several men turned and looked at Bunty. Brick had plenty of respect for the law, and in spite of his wild escapades stayed within it, but he detested Bunty Blair.

Bunty got up from the table and faced Brick. Bunty hated ridicule worse than anything else, and his soul seethed with a desire to obliterate this red-headed nuisance. He did not speak for a moment, evidently trying to control his voice, but there was a decided catch in it when he said--

“There are times when a sheriff can’t even use a top-buggy to follow outlaws.”

“Yeah?”

Brick leaned back, elbows on top of the bar, and grinned widely.

“When is them times, Bunty?”

“They don’t make saloon doors wide enough.”

Brick laughed, loudly, joyously. Bunty’s hand was at the butt of his holstered Colt and he had stepped away from the table far enough to give him room to draw. Brick knew that Bunty was fast enough with a gun; knew that Bunty would likely take a chance when he had all the advantage.

* * * * *

Brick was in no position to reach for his gun. In fact, he gave no sign that he might reach for a gun. He laughed.

Every eye in the place was on Brick. Then Brick’s eyes shifted from Bunty’s face to a point behind Bunty. Like a flash the laugh died from Brick’s lips and a look of horror came. He started to speak.

Bunty whirled, falling for an old trick; and before he could recover Brick had flung himself away from the bar, wrapping his arms around Bunty, and the two of them went over a chair and crashed to the floor. Brick staggered to his feet, still holding his grip. He removed Bunty’s pistol and tossed it away.

Bunty cursed wildly and kicked Brick on the leg; whereupon Brick whirled Bunty to the doorway and flung him bodily into the street. Bunty staggered to his feet and limped straight toward his office without a backward glance. Silent and Harp were backed against the bar, guns in their hands, watching the crowd for a hostile move.

Brick looked at the crowd.

“I reckon you gents will pardon the confusion, won’t yuh?”

No one objected. Silent and Harp walked over to Brick, and the three of them went outside and headed for the hitch-rack.

“Now yuh went and done it,” complained Silent, looking back as they rode out of town. “Yuh antagonized the sheriff a lot, Brick. He won’t forget that, y’betcha. Yuh went and got drunk and lost that letter and----”

“But with all my faults yuh love me still,” added Brick.

“Well--” Silent shook his head slowly--“well, yuh do the dangedest things, Brick. I ain’t kickin’ about yuh huggin’ Bunty Blair. She makes me no never mind how he feels, but that note was important. Suppose somebody finds it? Tell yuh one thing, though, Brick; I’m goin’ to----”

“Where did yuh leave that letter?” interrupted Harp.

Brick turned in his saddle and stared at Harp.

“Leave it?”

“We’re all in on this, ain’t we?”

Harp was very serious.

“All right. Yuh can go ahead and tell us why yuh went and got drunk, Brick. Yuh didn’t get drunk for fun, that’s a cinch. Now, where is that letter?”

Brick grinned in appreciation of Harp’s deductions.

“What makes yuh think I didn’t lose it, Harp?”

“’Cause yuh never worried about it. I know danged well you’d be r’arin’ around to beat ---- if yuh lost it.”

“It’s hid in the bunk-house.”

“Aw-w-w, ----!”

Silent’s disgust was very pronounced.

“Yuh never lost no note, yuh danged red-headed----”

“Yeah, I lost a note, Silent.”

“Whatcha mean, Brick?”

Brick laughed and looked back down the dusty road.

“I went into the Dollar Down, actin’ as drunk as a shepherd on a vacation. Mamma mine, I sure was drunk as a boiled owl. I invited Cleeve to participate, and then Topaz Tyler joined us.

“I drank all I could handle and then I sets down on the floor, after I dumped a glass of hooch over Cleeve’s ice-cream pants. Cleeve and Topaz led me out behind the place and swiped the note. They sure was lit up plentiful.”

“But about this here note,” said Silent.

“I hinted that I had a note; _sabe?_ I said I had evidence in my pocket. They picked it out of my inside pocket and all it said was--

“Since when did Nature start muzzlin’ coyotes?”

Silent and Harp stared at Brick.

“You’re awful crazy,” declared Silent. “Awful crazy. What good did it do to let ’em steal that from you?”

“I dunno,” admitted Brick, “but I’m just kinda peckin’ around, like a woodpecker on a tree. There’s a worm-hole some’ers, and I’m goin’ to be the early bird.”

“I think you’re crazy,” said Silent, and then to Harp, “You agree with me, don’t yuh?”

“Think ----! I know he is, Silent.”

“I’m just as happy as though I had good sense,” grinned Brick.

* * * * *

“You fellers just about raised ---- and put a chunk under it.”

Lafe Freeman leaned against the bunk-house door and contemplated the three bunks, wherein three blanketed figures reposed in deep slumber. A protruding leg, bare to the knee, was all that would absolutely identify any of the three humps as being human.

One of the humps choked over a healthy snore and sat up, blinking at Lafe.

“Whatcha say?”

Lafe Freeman squinted at Silent’s yawning face and repeated his statement. Silent reached down, picked up a boot and hit the nearest figure a resounding whack.

“Daylight in the swamp!” he yelled. “Up and at ’em, Brick!”

Brick uncoiled from his blanket, swung his feet around and sprang for Silent, but Silent was looking for just such a move. His legs shot out, catching Brick in the chest, and the luckless Brick sprawled to the floor.

“Take him off!” yelled Silent, as if Brick were beating him. “Take him off!”

Then he threw the other boot, which hit Harp as he lifted up to see what the commotion was all about.

“Aw-w-w-w!” wailed Silent. “Brick’s to blame, Harp. Honest to grandma, he is. I meant to hit him and he ducked.”

Harp rubbed his shoulder and stared at Lafe. Brick got to his feet and sat down on his bunk.

“The sheriff,” stated Lafe ominously, “the sheriff says that Marlin City ain’t big enough to hold you fellers.”

“Oh!”

Brick seemed surprized. Then he grinned.

“Goin’ to build her bigger, eh?”

“Says he’s got enough evidence to hold yuh all in jail.”

“He needs stren’th more than evidence,” yawned Harp.

“Well, he can make a lot of trouble for yuh, that’s one cinch. He’s got warrants all made out, so Le Blanc told me, and he’s goin’ to serve ’em the first time yuh show up down there.”

“Warrants!”

Brick was properly indignant.

“I suppose we staged that runaway and grabbed the strong-box! Rats! The fellers that done it are the same ones that killed poor old Limpy.”

“That’s what they’re talkin’ about,” nodded Lafe. “They say he rode away with you fellers, and that’s the last time anybody seen him alive. There’s talk that this robbery was all framed, and that Limpy was killed for his share because they was afraid he might get caught and squeal.”

Brick stared at the floor, deep in thought.

“Mebbe they’re right at that, Lafe.”

“Betcha forty dollars they are,” agreed Silent.

“Know anythin’ about that new feller that bought the old Weepin’ Tree ranch?”

The three cowboys looked at Lafe, but none of them admitted that they did, so Lafe continued:

“His daughter--I reckon it’s his daughter--was in Marlin last night. Came in after grub, I reckon. After she went away I heard Cleeve talkin’ to Bunty about her. Cleeve opines that they’re kinda mysterious, and then he asks Bunty what he thinks about your story about the female bandit. Bunty said it was a ---- of a thing for a feller to imagine, and wondered if you fellers lied.

“Cale Wesson said it was a shame for a nice-lookin’ girl to not have any females to wau-wau with, and he said he was goin’ to have Mrs. Wesson go out and visit her.”

“My ----!” gasped Brick. “Mrs. Wesson would talk the ear off a mule. What else did they say--Bunty and Cleeve?”

“Nothin’ much. I hears Cleeve asked Bunty why he didn’t go out to the Nine Bar Nine and serve them warrants instead of waitin’ for you to come to town, and Bunty said there wasn’t no ---- of a big hurry about it.”

“Bunty ain’t goin’ to strain himself and get his muscles all sore,” observed Silent. “I ain’t huntin’ for trouble, but Marlin City is big enough to suit me.”

“All right, all right!”

Lafe Freeman shook his head violently.

“Go ahead! Git in jail and see if I care; but before yuh get shot or hung I want you and Harp to go over to the Triangle Dot and bring back them twelve white-faced yearlin’s. Sam Clayton said he’d have ’em in the corral;” and then added as an afterthought, “They’re wilder than white-tail deer, but that ain’t no reason for runnin’ ’em all the way home.”

Silent and Harp grumbled, which is a usual thing in a case of this kind, especially as they were afraid that Brick wouldn’t sit down and wait for them to return. After breakfast they rode away, still grumbling.

Brick watched them disappear over the hills and then threw the saddle on his top horse, Glory, a hammer-headed gray. He filled half of his pistol-belt with rifle cartridges and shoved a Winchester carbine into a saddle scabbard.

Lafe Freeman watched Brick’s preparations, but made no comment. If Brick wanted to go to Marlin City and call the sheriff’s bluff it was Brick’s own business. Lafe knew that Brick could take care of himself, in spite of the fact that he was prone to get reckless. Lafe’s soul yearned to follow Brick, but he put away his desires.

But Brick was not thinking about going to Marlin City to call Bunty Blair’s bluff. Brick had an idea; an idea that was not at all clear just yet. Something seemed to tell him that the answer was written in the cañon where the hold-up had been pulled off. He was piecing together some of the things that had happened; but there were many, many things that he needed to make it complete.

As he swung away from the ranch, with the Winchester under his right knee, he wondered where the trail would end, and why he was so interested. It was not because Bunty Blair had hinted that he--Brick--was mixed up in it.

Brick’s thoughts went to the Weeping Tree ranch. Was the answer there? He knew that Jean was not guilty. What did Scott Martin know? Would any man carry a note like that to the scene of the hold-up and take a chance on losing it? Brick shook his head.

Why was Limpy killed? Did Limpy know who held him up? Where was Limpy going when he was killed? Was he afraid that his knowledge of the bandits---- Again Brick shook his head, but would not admit to himself that he was baffled. He would work on the theory that Limpy knew who held him up.

King Cleeve had incurred the displeasure of a mob, according to Silent’s story. Martin led that mob. Why hadn’t Martin recognized Cleeve? Did Cleeve know Martin? Brick scowled over these perplexing questions.

He went slowly down to the county road, and drifted along until he came to the second curve of the Whisperin’ Creek grade, where he stopped. The wrecked stage had been taken away, and there was nothing left to mark the spot except the deep ruts where the wheels had cut into the soft hillside.

Brick visualized as much as he could of the robbery, but there was nothing to give him any clue. He decided that the woman, and possibly one of the men, had jumped or been knocked off the grade into the brush out of sight. The other had stayed with the stage until it reached the pine thicket. But their manner of escape from the crash had nothing to do with their apprehension.

Brick swung his horse off the edge of the grade and rode down to where the bank broke sharp to Whisperin’ Creek, where he dismounted.

Brick felt sure that the bandits would not carry that heavy box very far. The reasonable thing, he thought, would be to open it, divide the contents and then go on. There was little water in the creek-bed, which was piled high with boulders.

Brick slid down to the creek-bed and began casting around. About fifty feet from where he struck the creek he found footprints of three people--two men and a woman. The half-wet sand had caught and held the prints perfectly.

“Men wearin’ about number nines,” muttered Brick.

Half the men in the country wore about that size boot. The woman wore what Brick would designate as a fair average size.

The tracks led across a sandy spot, all three prints well defined, especially those of the woman, whose heels made small circles. The tracks all led to a rock, which jutted up in the center of the sand-plot. The marks showed that the three had stopped for consultation or to wait for some one.

Brick studied the jumble of prints as he started to light a cigaret. Suddenly he stared at the tracks, while the match burned up and scorched his thumb. He dropped the match, circled the tracks and sprang to the top of the rock, where he perched like a buzzard, staring down at the sand.

The woman had walked to the rock, but had never walked away! Her footprints came up to the rock, but none went away. A jumble of men’s tracks led to the opposite side of the ravine, but there was no sign of a woman’s tracks.

Brick lighted his cigaret and pondered over this.

“My ----!” he exclaimed to himself. “She must ’a’ just e-vaporated.”

He studied it from every angle, but shook his head. Then he walked over to a big boulder, which he climbed, and looked around. He happened to glance down the far side of the big boulder, and there he saw the iron treasure-box, half-covered with brush.

Brick lost no time in getting down to it. The padlocks had been forced; one of them still dangled from the staple. Brick lifted the lid and stared down at a jumble of black cloth, which resolved itself into three black masks. Brick shook them out and then looked down at the untouched contents of the box--untouched except for examination.

Brick dropped on his knees beside it and lifted one of the heavy bars, weighing it in his hands. Then Brick closed the box carefully and examined the masks.

They were made of cheap material--sacklike affairs, with rough circles cut for eyeholes. An examination proved to Brick that they were not all made by the same person, as the sewing was crude, each one a different stitch and with different-colored thread.

He started to put them back into the box, but changed his mind and placed them, folded, inside his shirt. Then he piled more brush on the box, climbed back across the ravine and went back to his horse.

“Glory,” he confided to the gray, “I’ve found out more in ten minutes than all the rest have since the hold-up, and--and I don’t know a danged thing, yet. That’s the ---- of bein’ a detective.”

Brick did not stop in Marlin City; neither did he hurry through. The main street was not over three blocks long, and Brick walked his horse the full length of town, looking neither to the right nor left but seeing everything. Several cowboys in front of the Dollar Down looked expectantly at Brick, and voiced their disappointment when he passed the hitch-rack.

Three Star Hennessey saw Brick ride through town. Three Star was strong for self-preservation, so kept right on reading a year-old magazine. Bunty had boasted that he was going to arrest Brick as soon as he came into town, but that was all right with Three Star. He had made no boasts.

Le Blanc was fitting a hot shoe on a mule when Brick rode past, but the Frenchman forgot business long enough to go outside. The shoe was cold when Le Blanc came back in, and he swore fluently at the mule.

“Ba gar--” Le Blanc got confidential with the mule as soon as his disappointment was past--“ba gar, dis Breek she’s ain’t afraid for scare, an’ I’m wonder why she don’t stop. I’m mak’ you little bet dat pretty soon dere be gut for de bear to chew. She’s ride wit’ Winchester under her leg. Somet’ing be do pretty soon, you bet me.”

Topaz Tyler saw Brick, too. Bunty Blair was sleeping after a hard night at poker, but it did not take him long to wake up when Topaz sent a swamper from the saloon to tell him about Brick Davidson.

Bunty conferred with Three Star. They went over to the saloon, where Brick Davidson was the topic of conversation. King Cleeve grinned at Bunty, and Bunty grew explosive.

“He walked his horse through town,” King informed Topaz.

Bunty wondered aloud where Brick could have been going alone. King Cleeve settled that wonder by saying--

“Isn’t there a lady out at the Weeping Tree ranch?”

Bunty nodded, and exulted to himself. If there was a woman mixed up in this hold-up, why couldn’t it be--? Bunty smiled. At least it meant that Brick was alone.

Of course, Brick alone was enough to make trouble, but Brick alone was not as formidable as Brick and Silent and Harp. Bunty announced that he would attend to Mr. Davidson at once.

Three Star was inclined to be pessimistic.

“Packin’ a Winchester. I seen him shoot the tin can off a dog’s tail oncet, and that dog was fannin’ the breeze.”

“Accident,” said Topaz.

“Mebby-so.”

Three Star was unconvinced.

“Mebbe she was a accident, but that didn’t save the can, and yuh can’t never make me believe that accidents are all through happenin’.”

“This time,” stated Bunty, “there won’t be no accidents.”

“Gee cripes!” grunted Three Star. “I didn’t say it was a accident, did I? I hope there won’t be no intentionals either.”

* * * * *

Brick knew that his ride through Marlin City had caused comment, but nothing more. Bunty and Three Star were the least of his troubles, and the fact of the warrants did not disturb him, as he felt that he could clear himself before any jury in Sun-Dog County.

He rode straight to the Weeping Tree ranch-house and swung off his horse near the doorway. As he started for the open door Scott Martin confronted him, and Brick stopped.

Martin had stopped with his weight resting on his right leg, his body swung a trifle forward and his right hand hanging loosely at his side. Brick recognized the pose; knew that Scott Martin was one of the old school of gun-fighters, and that right now he was in position for fast work.

There was nothing friendly-looking about Scott Martin. His face was set in stern lines, his eyes coldly blue, and his lower jaw seemed molded to a fighting angle. Brick wondered if this man ever smiled. Scott Martin gave one the impression of implacable power--power of purpose and physique. He did not speak, but his eyes seemed to challenge Brick.

“You’re wrong, pardner. You don’t know me, but I bring a pipe.”

“Injun talk?”

Martin’s tone was colorless.

“Y’betcha. White belts, pardner.”

Martin relaxed easily, but before he could reply Jean came to the door and saw Brick.

“Hello there!” she called, and her voice was friendly.

“Howdy, ma’am,” grinned Brick. “Nice day.”

Martin glanced from Brick to Jean.

“Dad, shake hands with Mr. Davidson. He’s the man who fixed that pipe for me.”

“Oh!”

Martin smiled and shook hands with Brick, who withdrew his hand as quickly as possible. Brick’s hands were muscular and tough, but Martin’s grip was like that of a steel vise.

“Pardner, I hope yuh never take hold of me for anythin’ but a handshake.”

Brick flexed his fingers painfully as they went into the house.

Jean had done wonders with the living-room of the old ranch-house. Dainty curtains hung at the windows, a canary sang from a home-made cage against the wall, and the whole room glowed with cleanliness and cheer. An oblong piece of bright-colored rag carpet covered the center of the floor. On a little table was a jumble of colored cloth, on top of which was a fancy sewing-basket.

Brick examined the curtains, paying close attention to the sewing.

“Did yuh make all these things?” he asked.

“Yes. Are you interested in sewing?”

Jean’s eyes danced.

“Kinda,” admitted Brick, smiling at her. “I--I kinda wanted to see how yuh sewed.”

“Going to turn seamstress?”

Brick colored and shook his head.

“No, ma’am.”

“What’s the idea?”

There was a trace of suspicion in Martin’s voice.

Brick walked over to Martin.

“Pardner, I don’t exactly _sabe_ the idea myself. Yuh don’t have to answer no questions, y’ understand, and I don’t want yuh to get sore at my conversation. I want yuh both to look at this thing like I do. Spread your cards if yuh want to, or keep ’em face down. I’m spreadin’ mine.

“There’s a warrant out for me and Silent Slade for robbin’ the stage of a box of gold on July 15th. There was a woman mixed up in it.”

Brick had watched Martin’s face, but it never changed a line. Jean looked only mildly curious. Brick continued:

“They’re talkin’ about you folks down in Marlin. I found this in the dust where the stage was robbed.”

Brick handed the note to Scott Martin. Martin glanced at his own name on the dirty envelope and looked searchingly at Brick’s face. He slowly took out the note and looked down at it.

Brick could see Martin’s face lose its ruddy hue and grow blue--like taking hot steel from a forge and plunging it into cold water. Martin handed the note to Jean and the two men watched her read.

“What--where did you----”

Martin put his hand on her arm.

“Let him do the talkin’, girl.”

“There’s three of us that have seen the note--me and Silent and Harp, ma’am. It looked kinda bad. Of course we didn’t know your initial was J, and we didn’t know yuh had a man by the name of Oliver workin’ for yuh.”

“Jack isn’t here yet,” said Jean. “He stopped----”

“What do you think?”

Martin’s tone was very cool.

“I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinkin’,” grinned Brick, “but it ain’t got me much. There’s somethin’ crooked, pardner. The evidence against yuh is--too--danged--good. If yuh know anythin’----”

Brick reached inside his bosom and drew out the three masks.

“I found these today. They---- Look at the sewin’, will yuh, ma’am? It sure don’t resemble your work a-tall.”

Jean picked up one of the masks, while Martin held the other two in his hands, watching her.

Came a sound at the door, and they turned to look into muzzles of two rifles, held in the hands of Bunty Blair and Three Star Hennessey. For a moment there was silence, and then Bunty Blair laughed aloud.

“Don’t move your hands,” he cautioned; and then his eyes caught the significance of the black cloths.

* * * * *

It was a very inopportune time for the three people, each holding an incriminating mask. Circumstantial evidence, it is true, but evidence that no jury would overlook. Brick realized their danger, and his mind worked fast.

Bunty chuckled and Three Star grinned.

“Caught with the goods,” said Bunty, relishing his own words. “Gettin’ all ready for another job, eh? Kinda lucky, I am.”

There was not a ghost of a chance for anything except surrender. Scott Martin looked at Brick, and the friendliness had all left his eyes. His look was an accusation. Brick glanced at Jean, but she was looking down at the table-top, looking at one of the masks. Her face was white and her lips tightly compressed. None of them had put up their hands.

Bunty gloated. It was his moment and he was going to enjoy it.

“Unbuckle your belts,” he ordered. “Careful with your hands. Now, hand ’em to me.”

Bunty stepped inside, holding his cocked rifle at his hip, while Three Star covered them from just outside the door. Brick slowly unbuckled his belt.

Scott Martin was holding out his belt, but Bunty was watching Brick, and did not take it. Bunty was afraid of a trick.

Brick held out his belt and gun, but before Bunty could take it he let it fall to the rag carpet. Bunty stepped forward as if to pick it up, but changed his mind.

“No, yuh don’t, Davidson.”

Bunty was determined to take no chances.

“Pick it up yourself. You can’t fox me this time.”

Brick grinned at Bunty as if in appreciation of Bunty’s caution; but he was in reality grinning at his own cleverness. Bunty had been foxed, but did not know it. It was a desperate chance, but Brick delighted in taking chances.

He half-knelt to pick up the belt and gun, but his hands grasped the rag carpet instead; and with a sudden backward heave he yanked the carpet from under Bunty’s feet, throwing him upside down.

As Bunty fell Brick threw himself forward and into Bunty, and they rolled almost into the startled Three Star, who was unable to shoot for fear of hitting Bunty.

With a twist of his body Brick crashed Bunty against the side of the door, where he plucked Bunty’s pistol from its holster and sent a bullet so close to Three Star’s ear that Three Star lowered his rifle and felt to see whether he had lost an ear or not.

Scott Martin had snatched his own pistol from its holster and was covering Three Star, who capitulated audibly. Bunty’s head had hit the wall so hard that he had little interest in present conditions.

“I told him,” wailed Three Star. “I told him.”

“What did yuh tell him?” asked Brick.

“I told him to wire the governor to send out a troop of cavalry. I ain’t got a danged thing against yuh, Davidson.”

“Workin’ under protest?”

“Yeah. Soon as he wakes up I’m goin’ to resign. I’ll take my forty a month and punch cows.”

Bunty took plenty of time to wake up, but awoke audibly. His feelings were hurt, and he felt it entirely within his rights to give vent to his feelings in profanity; but Brick promptly gagged him with a handkerchief, much to Bunty’s indignation and disgust. The handkerchief was none too clean.

It had all happened in less time than it takes to tell about it. Martin had buckled his belt on again, and now he handed Brick’s gun and belt to him.

“That was what a Frenchman would call a ‘fox pass,’” grinned Brick. “Them darned masks made things look kinda bad for us; eh?”

Bunty gargled something, but Brick gave him a withering look and his eyes dropped to sullen contemplation of his toes. Three Star shifted his feet nervously.

“I--I don’t understand.”

Jean shook her head.

“Neither do I,” admitted Brick, “but I’m havin’ a lot of fun in my ignorance.”

“You knowed Bunty had a warrant for yuh, didn’t yuh?” asked Three Star.

Brick nodded. He turned to Martin.

“Do yuh know King Cleeve?”

Martin shook his head.

“No, only by sight.”

Brick wrinkled his brow and wondered if Silent had been mistaken.

“You used to live in Idaho?”

“Yes; we came here from Idaho.”

Brick stepped against the building, where he could keep an eye on Three Star and Bunty. Then he said to Martin:

“About eight or ten years ago you almost lynched the wrong man. Do yuh remember it, Martin?”

Martin’s eyes grew wider and wider until they were almost complete circles; then they snapped back to mere slits, venomous as the eyes of a rattlesnake. The lines of his face stiffened into a mask and his body seemed to lengthen until the shoulder seams of his shirt threatened to snap under the strain. His lips did not seem to move as he breathed:

“Davidson, who are you? For ----’s sake, say something!”

Brick glanced at Jean. She was leaning forward, looking at Martin, her hand raised as if to reach for his arm. Brick snapped a glance at Three Star and Bunty.

“Can’t yuh talk?” gritted Martin.

Brick stooped and picked up a coiled rope beside the door-step, and turned to Martin.

“We’ll tie up our visitors, pardner; then talk.”

Martin relaxed and stepped forward.

“You’ll pay for this!” snarled Bunty as the gag slipped from his mouth. “You can’t tie up the sheriff----”

“Mebbe not,” replied Brick, “but we’ll do our little best. There’s worse places for a rope than around your hands and feet. You don’t mind, do yuh, Three Star?”

“Nawsir. Help yourself, Brick.”

Martin opened the door and they put the trussed officers into the next room, which was unused. Bunty made many rash promises, but no one seemed interested.

Back in the living-room Martin faced Brick, and Brick noticed that Martin had aged years in the last few minutes. His eyes had lost their glare, and his hand trembled as he drew it across his eyes.

“Davidson, if you know--anything--let me--give me a chance, will yuh?”

Martin’s voice was pleading, and Brick wondered at the change.

“Pardner, I ain’t goin’ to cheat yuh out of anythin’. I don’t know much--yet. Will yuh tell me a few things? Mebbe what I know will fit in with yours.”

Martin nodded.

“I’ll tell all I can, Davidson.”

“Who did yuh buy this ranch from?”

“A man by the name of Mohr.”

“Zell Mohr?”

“Yes.”

“Whatcha know about that?”

Brick frowned down at the floor.

He had not known that Zell Mohr had owned the Weeping Tree.

“Suppose yuh tell me about that night in Idaho,” Brick suggested.

Martin looked at Jean and then walked over by the open door, where he leaned against the side and looked off across the hills. Jean stepped in closer to Brick, but neither of them spoke. Finally Martin turned and came back.

“Davidson, I reckon you’re a square-shooter. I thought--when the sheriff showed up--us havin’ those masks----”

“Did look bad,” smiled Brick; “but mebbe we can spoil the looks of it. Go ahead.”

“Davidson, I used to be an outlaw.”

If Martin expected Brick to show surprize he was disappointed.

“Did yuh ever hear of the Sandy Creek gang?”

* * * * *

Brick nodded. The fame, or rather infamy, of the Sandy Creek gang had never died out, although they had seemingly disbanded eight or ten years before. None of them had ever been brought to justice.

“I was the leader of that gang,” said Martin slowly. “For two years I rode at the head of that outlaw clan, and then I met the woman I married.

“Jean is not my daughter. Her mother was a widow, and Jean was ten years old when I met her. Men said that Mary Magone was beautiful. Women were scarce in that country--good women; and God never made a better one, Davidson.

“I rode into Cottonwood one day and met her. Two weeks later we were married and I left the old gang. Mary never knew I was an outlaw. She wasn’t the kind you could tell things like that to--and the Sandy Creek gang had been accused of a lot of devilish things they never did. I knew she could never understand, so I did not tell.

“Our game was to take the clean-ups of the mines. We had information on every ounce of gold, and very little of it ever got past us.