Chapter II: Part 2

“I dunno. I haven’t seen it, Brick. He must ’a’ had it with him when he was killed; but it’s kinda funny he never turned it in when he quit. The gun he carried belonged to me—or rather to me and Malvene.”

“Black-handled .45 Colt?”

Buck shook his head. “Nope. Forty-four Colt, with yellow bone handles, Brick.”

“Oh,” breathed Brick without a sign of surprise. “Well, I reckon I’m goin’ to put on a little food. See yuh later, Buck.”

“Watch out for Klein,” cautioned Buck.

Brick grinned and went out of the door. It was growing dusk. Brick looked up and down the street, but there was no one in sight; so he crossed the street and went into a restaurant.

* * * * *

Silent Slade declared that he was having the time of his young life. He had found a vacant seat at a poker table in McGill’s saloon at the lower end of the street, and for the first time in years the god of good-luck smiled upon him.

McGill’s place was a small saloon, with space enough in front of the bar for a couple of tables. McGill was a fleshy-jowled sort of a person, with pig-like eyes and a round, fat nose. His lower lip had sagged from years of holding the unlighted butt of a cheap cigar, and he talked in a strangled, husky voice, caused no doubt from too much cheap whisky.

But the place and proprietor did not affect Silent in the least. His working capital had been the lean sum of one dollar and seventy-five cents, but several successive showdowns had given him enough to do business on a larger scale; with the result that he owned most of the money in the game.

Just now Silent was generous in his words; which seemed to annoy Romeo Kendall and “Snookie” Duggan, who were in the game. McGill was also in the game and McGill did not like Silent Slade. Duggan was a square-built cowpuncher, with a lantern jaw and a crooked nose. His forehead sloped back sharply from his eyebrows, which showed no break between them. Suspicion seemed to dog his tracks, but he was either clever enough or lucky enough to keep one jump ahead of the sheriff. Duggan’s eyes were like the eyes of a chimpanzee—nearly round in shape and half hidden under his eyebrows.

“You fellers ain’t got the courage to back up yore hands,” complained Silent as he drew in a fair sized pot. “You play cards like li’l children. Duggan had me beat in sight, but his mind tells him that I’ve sure got somethin’ from a ten to a ace in the hole, which mates up with one of them three face-cards in sight. Duggan thinks he’s smart as ——, when he figures thataway, but li’l old man Slade’s son only had a trey in the ho-o-ole, thasall.”

Duggan shifted in his chair. Silent’s jovial sarcasm was making him nervous.

“Li’l chips all comin’ home to roost,” chuckled Silent as he peered at the corner of his hole-card. “Don’t nobody figure me for a trey in the hole this time.”

“First king bets,” intoned the dealer, and Silent shoved in a full stack of blue chips.

Duggan had the other king, and called the first bet. Romeo stayed with a seven in sight.

“Romeo thinks we’re kiddin’ like holdup men,” chuckled Silent, and Kendall flushed at the gibe.

Another king fell in front of Silent and he roared with unholy mirth. Duggan shoved back his chair in disgust.

“You can’t win, Duggan,” laughed Silent. “Nobody who works with men who lose their guns can win at anythin’.”

“Who lost a gun?” asked McGill.

“Curley Klein. Got drunk and lost his weepin’,” Silent drawled humorously.

“How do yuh know he did?” asked Romeo.

“’Cause, m’ little dearie,” explained Silent slowly, “’cause it hath been found, that’s why. Mebbe Klein thought he was a fish, ’cause it was found in the horse-trough. Brick Davidson was a heap pleased over it, but didn’t want to carry it himself.”

“Who took it?” asked Duggan quickly.

“Ol’ man Slade’s handsome offspring. Yessir, the beautiful child got the gun. Klein gets cocky and refuses to tell us what she looks like.

“‘What size?’ asks the sheriff.

“‘Man size,’ says Klein, and then I told him he ought to pack a .22. Haw! Haw! Haw!”

Duggan looked past Silent and made a move as though to get out of his chair. Silent turned and saw Klein near the table, facing him, and Klein’s face was black with rage.

For a moment they looked at each other, while the room went deadly still. Then Klein said:

“This time I’m goin’ to laugh.”

He barely finished the sentence when he drew his gun. Silent was in no position to draw, but he did not lose his nerve for a moment. Like a flash he ducked half under the table and reared straight ahead, upsetting the table, and as he threw himself forward his left arm encircled Snookie Duggan, throwing Duggan between himself and Klein.

Klein fired once, and the bullet tore through the edge of the table, burning Silent’s forearm, but he was unable to fire again for fear of hitting Duggan. Romeo tried to get out of the way, but Silent and Duggan crashed into him and the three of them went down in a heap.

Klein was backing away from them, trying to get a shot at Silent, who had a strangle-hold on Duggan, holding him right against him as a shield, while he slowly worked his gun from his twisted belt. Klein realized what Silent was doing and took a chance. His bullet clipped through Silent’s hair, but Silent suddenly let loose of the half-throttled Duggan and rolled free, shooting as he rolled.

Klein fired once more, but his aim was hasty and the bullet hit the wall a foot above Silent’s head. Silent fired twice. Klein’s right arm went as limp as a rope and his gun fell to the floor. For a moment he shifted his balance and then sat down hard on the floor.

“Set ’em up in the other alley!” grunted Silent, sliding to his feet.

Duggan’s gun had fallen from its holster in the struggle and now he reached for it, but Silent’s gun roared again and the bullet spun the gun off across the floor.

Romeo rubbed his bruised knees and stared at Silent. McGill had made no move to interfere. Silent looked at the wrecked card-table and at McGill.

“I’ll take two hundred and fifty and call it square, McGill. I had that much in front of me.”

McGill did not hesitate, but took a fat wallet from his pocket and began peeling off bills. Klein’s right arm was out of commission and he was almost sitting on his gun; but he made no move to use his left hand.

Silent accepted the bills from McGill, backing against the wall as he counted them. Watching the men he stepped to the table and tossed several of the bills to McGill.

“Come again, Mac; those are counterfeit.”

McGill glared at Silent and at the bills.

“You’re crazy!”

“If I take ’em,” amended Silent. “Gimme good money.”

McGill opened his wallet and took out a number of well-worn bills, which he passed to Silent. Then he took the ones Silent had rejected, looked closely at them and replaced them in his wallet.

“How do yuh know them bills are counterfeit?” asked McGill.

“Make a li’l guess,” grinned Silent, backing toward the door. “So-long, Klein. I still say yuh ought to pack a .22.”

Silent had stopped in the doorway, facing the center of the room. As he slowly turned to step outside, something crashed against his head and he fell sprawling on his face.

* * * * *

Brick heard the shooting and went to the door, but was unable to locate the direction of the shots. Harp came across the street and joined him, but was not able to tell where the shooting was. Pistol-shots were common in Silverton, but these shots had been spaced as if it was something besides an exuberant cowpuncher celebrating.

“Sounded to me like she might be down by McGill’s place,” stated Harp. “There was one shot, and then in a little while another and then another. Then two shots pretty close together. Where’s Silent, Brick?”

“Wasn’t he with you, Harp?”

“Naw. I’ve been in Scotty’s place. Went lookin’ for you, and I reckon I was in every place except McGill’s; but I didn’t see Silent.”

Brick swung away from the door, leaving his hat in the restaurant, and Harp trotted at his heels. It was about two blocks to McGill’s place. No one else had heard or paid any attention to the shots, which were a common thing in Silverton. It was the usual thing for a cowboy to announce his departure with a shot or two; but it was the spacing of these shots that aroused Brick’s suspicion.

Brick halted near a window and looked inside. McGill was standing near the bar, reading a newspaper, while Romeo Kendall was alone at a card-table, playing solitaire. There were no other men in the place.

All was peace therein, but Brick was not satisfied. He walked around behind the saloon. About a hundred yards away was an old barn and corral; an indistinct mass in the night. Suddenly a match glowed dimly, as though cupped in a hand, and went out.

Brick and Harp walked slowly in that direction and reached the corral fence, but there was no sight nor sound of the party who lit the match. Came a low-pitched, half-grunt, half-groan, and the figure of a man seemed to detach itself from the heavy shadow.

“Who is that?” asked Brick softly.

For several moments the figure did not reply, and then—

“Who in —— do yuh reckon it is?”

“Silent!” grunted Brick.

“Yeah—Silent! What in —— hit me, Brick?”

“Did yuh get hit?” asked Harp quickly.

“Didn’t yuh feel the jar?” wailed Silent. “By grab, it sure made cream out of the Milky Way. Did I get hit? Kinda.”

“What did yuh get hit with?” asked Brick.

“Think I selected it?” wailed Silent.

“Yuh didn’t get shot, did yuh?” This from Harp.

“Didn’t I? Thanks, Harp. I’m sure as —— glad there’s somethin’ that didn’t hit me.”

Silent got painfully to his feet and rubbed his head. His hand went to his holster and he grunted aloud.

“They went fifty-fifty with me on guns, anyway.”

“Did—did they take the gun I found?” spluttered Brick.

“No-o-o,” drawled Silent. “They pulled m’ shirt out all the way around to get the one I put inside though.”

“That was the one I gave you, Silent.”

“Naw, it wasn’t. I figured that Klein might hanker for that gun, and I played safe and put that yaller-handled one in my holster. Danged good gun, Brick. I sure winged Klein with it. We had a nice li’l party while it lasted, but some snake-hunter popped me on the nut as I backed out the door.”

“Out of McGill’s place?” asked Brick.

“Uh-huh.”

Silent searched his pockets and grunted mournfully:

“They took all m’ money—the danged burglars. It was good money, too. I made McGill take back the counterfeits and pay me in good old U. S. A.”

Gradually Brick drew the whole story from Silent, but he was unable to tell who hit him. It was a certainty that it was neither Klein, Duggan, Romeo nor McGill. Whether any of them had a hand in taking Silent away from the doorway would be hard to prove.

Brick was sorry that Silent had mentioned the bad money and also that he had told of finding the gun. Somehow Brick knew that there was a connection between that lost gun and some of the other things, but just what it was he did not know. He wondered if Soapy Caswell was mixed up in it in some way, and if he discharged Klein for the effect it would have in his favor.

It was easy enough to see why Klein made his gun-play at Silent. Klein was smarting from the fight at Otto’s place, sore at Silent for what he had said in front of the livery-stable, and when he heard Silent repeating it—well, it would make any man fight. Duggan would probably assist Klein, if he had a chance. McGill had made little protest on taking back the bad money, but that meant nothing. If there was a lot of the counterfeit in circulation a saloon-keeper would get more than his share, especially in a town like Silverton, where every other building is a saloon.

Silent was leaning against the corral fence rubbing his head. Harp had sat down on a pile of poles, but Brick stood apart, thinking deeply.

Moonlight silvered the old pole corral and softened the harsh outlines of the rough barn. From far up the street came the shrill notes of a violin, and the hoarse voice of a man, calling a quadrille:

“Balance all! Swing yore pardners!”

A man walked between them and the rear of McGill’s place, carrying a lighted lantern, which cast a grotesque shadow of enormous legs; which seemed to take long steps but did not. He stopped at a shack, and the lifting-lever of his lantern creaked as he lifted the chimney and blew it out. From far out on the hills came the yip-yip of a lonesome coyote.

Suddenly Harp began playing soft and low—

_“Tung-g-g-g, bong-g-g, zung-g-g-g, hung-g-g”_

“My ——!” wailed Silent, shoving away from the fence. “How hard do I have to get hit to save me from that danged jews’-harp? I reckon I’ve got a awful hard head, but my ears are awful sensitive. Aw-w-w ——! He won’t quit, Brick; so we might as well go away. I’m hungry—c’mon.”

“Give me that gun, Silent,” said Brick. “I’ll feel better if I’ve got it. You talk too danged much.”

“Leaves me crippled,” wailed Silent. “I’ve got enemies; don’tcha know I have, Brick?”

“Home-made ones,” grunted Brick, passing his own gun to Silent. “If yuh lose my gun I’ll run yuh plumb into Canada.”

“Whatcha want that yaller-handled smoke-pot for?” asked Harp.

“This,” said Brick, fitting it into his holster, “this here yaller-handled gun is the one Dale packed.”

“Heaven is my home!” grunted Silent. “Dale’s gun? Did he get drunk and throw it away, Brick?”

“Dale wasn’t drunk until after midnight, and nobody seen him take a drink after that.”

They walked back past McGill’s place. Silent turned and looked at the windows.

“They done me wrong in there,” he declared, “and I’m goin’ back and see what they’ve got to say. Ain’t goin’ to let nobody pat me over the head without me remindin’ ’em of it.”

Romeo was not there when they went inside. McGill, the lone inhabitant, looked up from his paper and visibly flinched at the sight of Silent’s blood-streaked features and Brick’s bare head. It looked like trouble to McGill and he didn’t want trouble. He knew this trio well enough to know that they were not to be trifled with.

“Somebody tapped me over the head,” stated Silent, looking around and back at McGill. “They took my money and my gun, McGill. I was still inside yore place when said tappin’ was done. Bow to the gentlemen and recite yore piece.”

“And nothin’ but the truth,” added Brick meaningly.

“Honest to ——, I dunno anythin’,” declared McGill. “If you remember, Slade, I ducked behind the bar. I can’t stand shootin’, honest I can’t. After you and Klein shoots at each other I gets all kinda trembly-like, and I was afraid you’d smoke somebody else up; so I ducked. Don’tcha remember me duckin’, Slade?”

“Just like you remember who hit me,” grunted Silent.

“I tell yuh I dunno,” wailed McGill. “Duggan helped Klein out of the place, I know that. I think yuh hit him twice in the same arm. Anyway he’s sick. Romeo never left until a few minutes ago, but none of ’em mentioned that you got hit. Mebbe yuh fell against the door—or somethin’.”

“Yeah!” snorted Silent. “Mebbe I threw away my money and my gun. I’ve got a —— good notion to shoot yuh right loose from yore shirt, McGill. I’m bettin’ that yuh know who hit me and you’ve likely got that money in yore till right now; but we’ll let her go as she lays—for now. I ain’t noways grudgin’ anybody what shoots at me, but I sure do hate —— out of a danged head-hunter.”

McGill opened his mouth several times, as though searching his soul for placating words, but the three indignant cowpunchers turned and walked outside. McGill went to the door, where he stood for several minutes. Then he sacrificed gain for safety by blowing out his lights and locking his doors.

Brick got his hat at the restaurant, and left Silent and Harp devouring large quantities of ham and eggs. They were both too hungry to question him, and Silent propped his head with one hand while he ate. A lump the size of an egg had raised on the side of his head, which he explored tenderly, as he ate.

Brick had several questions which he wanted to ask Malvene, who lived just at the outskirts of the town in a small cottage.

Brick knew the place, although he never had been there.

* * * * *

A light was shining under the drawn curtain of the large front window. Brick picked his way carefully up the narrow graveled walk, with its sidelines of white boulders, until he came to the small porch, which was partly covered by a climbing rose. The porch creaked with the weight of his feet and he listened for a moment before knocking softly on the door.

A tall, angular woman answered Brick’s knock, and he asked for Malvene.

“He ain’t here right now,” she replied. “Want to come in and wait fer him?”

Brick did want to. The woman led him through a narrow, uncarpeted hall and into a living-room, where a shaded oil lamp dimly lighted up the room. Brick glanced around. Hanging on the opposite wall was a large crayon-portrait of a hard-faced man, standing stiffly in all the glory of a frock coat, head thrown back as if challenging the world, and with one hand buried to the wrist inside the buttoned bosom.

Several red plush chairs were placed at regular intervals around the room. A small parlor organ stood in one corner, with an unlighted lamp on each side-bracket. Brick could see an embroidered motto framed on the wall, which showed dimly, “We Mourn Our Loss.”

A large chair, with a high back, was beside the table, and as Brick looked around, a man suddenly got up, like a jack-in-a-box and looked at him. He was a dark-complexioned, anemic-looking person, wearing heavy glasses. He was collarless and in his shirt-sleeves.

The woman turned to Brick.

“What—I don’t believe you spoke yore name.”

“No,” said Brick, “I don’t reckon I did. Yo’re Mrs. Malvene, ain’t yuh? I thought yuh was. I’m Brick Davidson.”

“Oh, yes. Mr. Davidson, meet Mr. Nestor.”

“Yeah,” drawled Brick, as they shook hands. “Yore the cashier of the bank, ain’t yuh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Glad to meetcha, Nestor. I’m the sheriff.”

“Oh, yes,” replied Nestor vacantly. “Well, won’t you sit down.”

Brick sat down and leaned back in the chair.

“Down here on a case?” asked Nestor.

“Uh-huh.”

“Mr. Nestor rooms and boards with us,” volunteered Mrs. Malvene.

“Uh-huh,” nodded Brick indifferently.

A moment later Malvene came in. He hurried into the room, but stopped short at the sight of Brick, who was getting out of his chair.

“Well!” he grunted. “Visitor, eh?”

“Not exactly,” grinned Brick. “I just wanted to ask yuh what become of Dale’s gun. It didn’t show up at the inquest.”

Malvene squinted his left eye and rubbed the side of his face thoughtfully—

“M-m-m—I dunno, sheriff. Must ’a’ got lost in the shuffle.”

“What kind of a gun was it?”

“The one Dale had? I ain’t sure, but I think it was a .44 or a .45.”

“Likely,” said Brick dryly.

“Perhaps the robbers took it with them,” suggested Nestor.

“What robbers?” asked Brick quickly.

“Why, the—uh—the ones what shot him—the two road-agents.”

“Robbers? Was the stage robbed?”

Nestor and Malvene both looked vacantly at Brick.

“There wasn’t no robbery,” Brick shook his head. “Dale was murdered.”

“How do you figure that out?” asked Malvene.

“Why wasn’t the stage robbed?” retorted Brick.

“Well,” Malvene squinted and pursed his lips, “well, perhaps they got frightened after they killed Dale. Maybe they heard Sawyer coming. You’ve got to figure things like that, sheriff.”

“That,” declared Brick, “is just what the murderers aimed to have me do, but I—” Brick turned to Nestor—“You’ve been handlin’ money a long time, ain’tcha?”

Nestor nodded.

“Know good money from bad money?”

“Why—I—I don’t know what you mean?” Nestor seemed confused, but interested. “What about bad money, sheriff?”

“Remember the money yuh sent to Marlin City bank the time Romeo Kendall was held up?”

“Yes, I remember it; why?”

“It was all counterfeit when it arrived.”

“Is that a fact?” gasped Malvene.

Nestor dumbly rubbed his chin.

“It sure is,” grinned Brick. “Ten thousand dollars in bad money. Who owns the Marlin City bank?”

“I do not know,” said Nestor quickly. “Very likely a number of men.”

“Know anythin’ about the Redrock bank?”

“Not a thing,” declared Nestor.

Brick nodded his head and turned toward the door.

“Much obliged, folks. If yuh hear anythin’ about that gun of Dale’s, lemme know, will yuh, Malvene?”

“Sure I will,” nodded Malvene. “If I can help you in any way, let me know, sheriff.”

“Yuh never can tell,” laughed Brick. “Much obliged.”

Brick went outside and walked back toward the street. The trail was still dim, but he was not a bit discouraged. He knew that there was a link between Dale’s death and the counterfeit money, and he felt that the pistol in his holster was one of his best bets in unraveling the mystery. The counterfeit business was relegated to the background and he thought only of Dale’s death; feeling that the solving of this murder would clear up the other issue. Somewhere was the key to it all.

Brick suspected that Klein, Nebraska and Duggan knew something about it, but none of them was mentally able to conceive ways of flooding the country with bad money, much less manufacture it. Neither was Romeo Kendall nor Buzzard Bailey mentally capable of doing anything which required brains. Somehow, his thoughts reverted to Soapy Caswell. Still, Soapy was no mental giant.

Brick walked slowly back to the street. A man and a woman were coming down the sidewalk, and as they came into the light from a window, he recognized Felix Bray, the banker. They stopped in the shadow of a building and conversed for a moment. Brick stepped back into the alley, and watched. Bray turned and went back the way he had come, and the girl walked slowly past Brick. He watched her go to the alley between Otto’s place and a small general store, where she disappeared toward the rear of the saloon. It was Rosie, the singer.

Brick smiled to himself. It was rather amusing to think of the precise Felix Bray in the same breath with a honkatonk girl.

Bray was a married man. Brick had seen his wife, who was of the same type as her husband.

“The old son-of-a-gun’s steppin’ out,” smiled Brick. “Mostly all eggs look alike on the outside. Even a stick of dynamite looks kinda nice and slick on the outside, but she’s —— inside. I reckon it won’t hurt me none to talk to Mr. Bray.”

Felix Bray lived in the most pretentious house in Silverton, as befitted his position. It was a remodeled ranch-house, and was the only house in Silverton which had been painted since Brick could remember.

It was also the only house in Silverton which had any shade trees. This gave it an air of distinction, and also made it difficult of approach in the dark. No light was visible and Brick stumbled over the uneven planks, which had been laid from gate to porch during wet weather. Wet weather and hot sunshine had warped them, until it was like walking along the inside of a giant barrel stave.

Felix Bray answered Brick’s knock, carrying a small lamp in his hand, which he held high above his head to illuminate his visitor. Brick did not waste time in generalities.

“Who owns the Marlin City bank, Mr. Bray?”

“Why, I—I am not positive, sheriff; but I have been informed that Mr. Caswell but recently—ah—within the last few months—acquired control of the institution.”

“Soapy Caswell? Is that a fact? Who owns the bank at Redrock?”

“I think that is also controlled by Mr. Caswell.”

Brick grinned foolishly.

“Soapy’s gettin’ things kinda corraled, ain’t he?”

“Mr. Caswell is investing very wisely, I think,” Felix Bray was on the defensive.

“He don’t own your bank, does he?”

“He does not. Will you please tell me why you ask these questions, Mr. Davidson?”

“Well,” said Brick slowly. “Well, I’ve asked every other kind of a question and they ain’t got me nothin’; so I start in on banks. Does your cashier know that Caswell owns them banks?”

“Mr. Nestor? Certainly he does. Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity,” grinned Brick, “curiosity killed a cat oncet upon a time, but there ain’t no record of it doin’ any harm to a red-headed sheriff. Much obliged, Mr. Bray.”

“If I can be of any assistance, Mr. Davidson——”

“Yuh never can tell,” replied Brick. “Much obliged.”

Brick walked slowly back to the main street. He had worked every angle he thought worth while. Nestor had lied. Bray’s statement of the ownership of the two banks had let Soapy Caswell out of any duplicity in the business, for the reason that no man would send counterfeit money to his own bank. If Dale was mixed up in the counterfeiting gang—why was he killed? Why had Nestor lied? Brick shook his head, yawned at the moon and headed for the hotel.

“—— delight!” he muttered. “No wonder Sherlock Holmes shot himself full of hop.”

* * * * *

Brick found Harp and Silent in the lobby of the little hotel the next morning. Silent’s head was very sore and he was not in the best of humors. They ate breakfast and went to the livery-stable, where they saddled their horses. McKeever was curious to know what they had found out, but they volunteered no information. They rode out of town and headed up the road toward Redrock.

“We don’t care where we’re goin’,” said Silent, after a mile ride. “It’s a lot better to be surprized, ain’t it, Harp?”

“I ain’t never surprized at what Brick does,” Harp grinned.

“We’re goin’ out and take a look at the place where Dale was killed,” said Brick. “I’ve kinda got a hunch.”

The road led mostly over high ground, a dusty, rutty highway, with the scanty timbered hills to the left and the heavier foliage farther down in the valley; where willow, poplar and cottonwood took the place of the mesquite and bull-pine, which grew on the hillsides.

Bridges cost money, therefore Sun Dog County roads circled the heads of the ravines, instead of going across them, which made the roads go a long ways to cover short distances.

Brick knew the exact spot, and other evidence bore out the fact that he was right. There were the wheel-marks of the stage on the outer edge of the small grade, while at the upper side were the wheel-marks of Sawyer’s rig, where he had crowded into the bank in order to pass the stage.

They swung off their horses. Brick walked along the edge of the grade, looking down into the thick brush, which made a dense fringe beside the road. Suddenly he slid into the brush and came tearing his way out again. In his hand was a Colt pistol. Harp and Silent crowded around him and looked at the gun. Silent’s mouth opened in stunned astonishment.

“Mum-my ——!” he gasped. “My gun! Whatcha know?”

“That was my hunch,” grinned Brick, looking at the gun.

It was filled with cartridges. It was exactly like all Colt pistols of that model and caliber, except for a spot on the barrel, where Silent had tested the steel with a file. It was not noticeable except to those familiar with the gun.

“What does it mean?” asked Silent wonderingly.

“She was put there for me to find,” grinned Brick. “Dale had to have a gun, didn’t he? He lost his in the horse-trough.” Brick handed Silent the gun.

“Gimme back my gun and wear your own.”

Silent exchanged with him, and Brick shoved his own gun into its holster.

“Kind of a case of ‘gun, gun, whose gun yuh got?’ ain’t it?” asked Harp. “We’re right where we was before Silent got runty and lost his gun.”

Brick grinned and they swung back into their saddles.

“I wish this here gun could talk,” said Silent. “I’d sure admire to know who petted me on the head last night. Bein’ a deputy sheriff is hy-iu stuff and I like it fine, but I don’t like to have folks hammer my head. Brick, yore so awful danged smart—tell me, when do we shoot somebody?”

Brick laughed and swung sideways in his saddle, looking back:

“Mebbe there won’t be any shootin’, Silent. This here job is goin’ to take more brains than bullets, and——”

Came a sound which can only be heard—not described. A hiss, a thud, blending so quickly that one could not tell which sound came first. Brick jerked almost from his saddle, crumpled sideways and fell into a heap, while his horse whirled and clawed its way up the side of the grade.

Following the sound of impact came the _whang!_ of a rifle, which echoed clatteringly from hill to hill, destroying all chance for Silent and Harp to locate its origin.

Both Silent and Harp were off their horses, guns in hand, almost as quickly as Brick had fallen. Their horses blundered off the grade into the brush, snorting wildly. Silent grasped Brick by the shoulders and dragged him off the road into the brush, where he trampled down a space to lay him down.

“Brains,” panted Silent. “Brains, ——!”

“Is he—he dead?” faltered Harp, craning his neck to view the open road below them.

“He is,” declared Silent chokingly. “He’s too —— dead to skin. Aw-w-w, ——! Lemme find the bushwhacker what fired that shot! I’ll eat his ears, Harp; honest I will!”

“I count coup on one of ’em,” objected Harp. “The best you can figure on is one lug. ——, I wish I had a rifle.”

Their rifles were on their saddles.

The two cowboys strained their ears and eyes, but there were no further shots, no movement. A chickadee danced up and down a dead branch, chattering happily. Down in the brush a family of magpies argued, as only a magpie family can argue; disturbed, no doubt, by the clatter of the rifle shot.

Came a rustling noise behind them, and they both whirled. Brick’s arms were spread wide and his hands were opening and shutting spasmodically. His face was purple and his lips fluttered gaspingly.

“Passin’ out!” groaned Harp. “Can’tcha think of nothin’ to do for him, Silent?”

“Why don’t you do somethin’!” snapped Silent. “Standin’ there with yore mouth wide open like a fly-trap. My ——, yo’re a helpless human, Harp Harris!”

“Can’tcha see he’s huntin’ for air?” wailed Harp. “Why don’tcha blow in his mouth?”

There was no doubt of this, but neither man seemed capable of starting it. When they did, they started together and bumped heads over Brick’s face. Silent’s head, being the harder of the two, won out. Silent set his lips over Brick’s half-open mouth, after filling his enormous lungs with air, and gave Brick Davidson the benefit of it all.

“My ——, don’t bust him!” warned Harp. “Use a little judgment, Silent.”

Silent lifted his head and glared at Harp malevolently.

“Who in —— is doin’ this blowin’, cowboy?”

Before Harp could reply, Brick exhaled—a long, shuddering breath. His lips drew in, his chest seemed to jerk, but this time he inhaled without assistance. The purple seemed to drain from his face and a chalky hue took its place.

“Hear him rattle?” whispered Harp. “Folks always rattle thataway before they die.”

“Rattlesnakes rattle before they strike, too,” reminded Silent.

Brick drew his arms in across his abdomen, stretched his full length and then turned over on his belly, bracing himself with one elbow. Silent and Harp watched him in awed silence. There was no doubt but what Brick Davidson was a very sick man. Finally he turned over weakly and blinked at Harp and Silent.

“You—you ain’t dyin’, are yuh, Brick?” faltered Harp.

Brick’s whisper was faint, but plainly audible—

“I—I hope so.”

Harp and Silent exchanged looks of relief.

“It ain’t so bad to die, when yuh hope yuh will,” sighed Harp.

Silent nodded solemnly and edged in closer to Brick.

“Didja get hit in the stummick, Brick?”

Brick’s eyes opened and he squinted at Silent. Then he raised slowly and painfully to a sitting position and looked around.

“What in —— happened, anyway?” he gasped.

“Yo’re shot,” declared Silent nervously. “Somebody shot yuh plumb off yore bronc, Brick.”

Brick frowned and looked down at his waist-line. His fingers fumbled at his belt and he straightened out to get a better look. His cartridge-belt was fastened with a heavy, ornate buckle, heavy steel, which had been stamped with an intricate design.

The top of the buckle had been torn away by the bullet.

“Plumb through the stummick,” whispered Silent.

Brick painfully pulled his shirt loose, disclosing a black-and-blue spot about the size of a silver dollar. The skin was bruised but not broken. Brick grinned painfully and took a deep breath.

“The old belt-buckle stopped it from goin’ plumb through me. Ow! Danged if that ain’t sore as a boil.”

“You was turned kinda antegodlin’ in yore saddle, too,” said Harp happily. “That helped yuh a lot, Brick. Lookin’ backward sure saved yore life, red-headed cowboy.”

“Feller can’t ride thataway all the time though,” complained Silent. “That bushwhackin’ whipoorwill likely thinks he’s handed one of us a harp. Yuh got to hand it to him for a dead-center shot. Let’s round up them broncs.”

“Not me,” declared Brick. “I’m goin’ to set here and suck in good air for a while. Never will catch up, I reckon. I feel kinda upset, don’tcha know it?”

“Yuh do look kinda peaked,” admitted Silent thoughtfully. “They picked on my head and they selected yore stummick, and now I wonder where they’ll——”

Silent glanced around Harp, who was sitting against a mesquite, with his hands cupped over his mouth, playing softly on his jew’s-harp.

Silent shook his head sadly—

“Harp, if I ever catch you unconscious——”

Harp grinned, wiped the back of his hand across his lips and got to his feet:

“Don’t brag about hittin’ folks when they’re down, Silent. Let’s find them broncs.”

Their horses had become tangled in the brush and were not hard to secure. There was no further sign of the bushwhacker, but they took no unnecessary chances.

Brick got painfully into his saddle. He was still sick and weak, but thankful that it was no worse than a bruise and a shock. He swung his horse off the grade and headed southeast, in the general direction of which the bullet must have come.

“Spread out,” ordered Brick. “Don’t give anybody a chance to shoot at more than one of us.”

They separated about a hundred yards apart and rode slowly. Clumps of mesquite, scattering groups of willows and a few cottonwoods dotted the broken hills. Cattle were ranging through this bunch of hills, the Nine Bar Nine and Circle Cross brands predominating.

Three coyotes trotted into the open, took one look at the riders, and faded away like three blurred streaks. Farther on a white-tail deer stepped gracefully out of a clump of cottonwoods. An instant later it flashed away into the trees, flag held high.

Under ordinary conditions the coyotes would have been greeted with a hail of pistol bullets, fired more for effect than for injury; while the deer would have been followed for a mile or so by a yelling rider, who hoped to get near enough to cast a lariat. But these three riders gave no heed to coyote or deer, riding straight ahead, guns swinging in their hands.

The wide valley narrowed to a pass, below which stretched the range-land of the Circle Cross. Southwest of this pass, hidden by ranges of rolling hills, was Silverton. The three riders gathered at the top of the pass.

“That bushwhacker likely pulled his freight out of there right after he fired that shot,” said Silent. “He was sure he nailed Brick and he didn’t wait any longer.”

“Like huntin’ for a whisper in a big wind,” complained Harp. “Where do we go now, Brick?”

“Circle Cross,” replied Brick. “I’ve got to have a talk with Soapy Caswell.”

“Do yuh suspicion Soapy?” asked Silent, as they spurred down the hill, but Brick did not heed Silent’s question. Harp grinned at Silent and Silent’s mouth opened in a silent laugh. They were both tired of following Brick around while he asked questions, and craved action. There were men at the Circle Cross who were likely willing to act swiftly.

Duggan would not forget that Silent had used him as a bullet shield; and Duggan was a reputed gunman. Possibly they would run across Klein. The thought of it permeated the soul of Silent Slade, and he lifted his voice in song:

“She-e-e never came ba-a-a-ck, she-e-e never came ba-a-a-ck,
be-e-e-yu-u-u-te-e-ful Rosie O’Neil.
My tear drops are fa-a-a-llin’, my heart is ca-a-a-llin’
for my won-n-n-der-r-r-r-ful Rosie O’Neil.”

Harp spurred in closer to Brick.

“And that whipoorwill has the gall to kick about jew’s-harp music, Brick! Ain’t some folks got queer ears?”

Brick did not even turn his head. He was thinking of just where to begin. The guilty parties were beginning to show their hand, because they knew he was uncovering some of the evidence, but Brick was not at all sure of what he had uncovered. The finding of Silent’s pistol proved that Dale had been murdered, and that at the time of the murder the guilty parties had neglected to plant evidence which would point to the fact that Dale was killed for resisting a holdup. But why was Dale killed? Where was the counterfeit money coming from? Was Felix Bray——

Brick pulled his hat lower over his eyes and grinned to himself.

* * * * *

The Circle Cross was a trifle more pretentious than the usual Sun Dog ranch. Soapy Caswell had started to build the ranch-house of brick; but it took too long to haul it over heavy roads, and he felt satisfied with half-brick and half-lumber, making it look like a frame building on a tall, brick foundation. A wide veranda, sans railing, extended around the north and east sides.

A collection of stunted trees were planted in orderly lines in the front yard, half-smothered in patches of timothy hay. Down the slope from the house was the bunkhouse. The barn was a huge structure, and was almost surrounded with pole corrals. The Circle Cross ranch buildings almost filled the space at the mouth of a dry ravine, and commanded a broad view of the range. There was nothing to recommend it in Summer, and the Winter winds had free sway, as they swept up from the North. A huge gate, with an arched top, opened from beside the road.

They rode in through the big gate at the Circle Cross and up to the bunkhouse, where some one was playing on a banjo. They dismounted and opened the door.

Nebraska Yocum was tilted back in a chair with the banjo on his lap, while seated on the edge of a bunk, his right arm in a sling, was Curley Klein.

Klein glared vacantly at the three men, but did not speak. Nebraska unhooked his heels from the rungs of his chair, and tossed the banjo on to the bunk.

“Hi-yah, sheriff,” he said pleasantly. “How come yuh wanders so far away from home? Come in, can’tcha?”

Brick grinned and shook his head.

“Lookin’ for Soapy Caswell. Is he home today?”

“Yeah, he’s up in the house, I reckon. What’s he done?”

Brick shook his head.

“I dunno—yet. Where’s Duggan?”

“Duggan?” Nebraska pondered the question deeply. “I’m danged if I know, sheriff. I’m the foreman—not a keeper.”

Klein said nothing. His averted face was purple with rage against Silent Slade, who was grinning broadly at him.

“Didja ever find that gun, Klein?” asked Harp innocently.

Klein shot Harp a malevolent glance, but did not speak.

“Funny thing,” mused Brick aloud. “Somebody hit Silent on the head the other night, took his gun away from him, and today I found it in the brush where Dale was killed.”

“Silent’s gun?” Nebraska looked queerly at Brick, who nodded. “Yessir. Whatcha know about that? They took his gun because it was inside his shirt, but they left the gun they wanted, which was in Silent’s holster.”

Brick laughed loudly. Silent and Harp grinned, but Nebraska and Klein did not seem to see the joke.

“Well, I’ve got to see Soapy,” said Brick. “After I find out a few things which he knows I’m goin’ to put Dale’s murderers behind the bars.”

“I reckon Soapy’s up at the house,” said Nebraska absently. “Was there a while ago.”

“Much obliged,” nodded Brick, and the three of them turned around and went up to the spacious ranch-house.

Just as they reached the rambling porch Soapy Caswell came out of the front door. He scowled at Brick, but Brick grinned widely at him.

“Howdy, Mr. Caswell.”

“Howdy, ——!” grunted Soapy. “Any time you come talkin’ Mister stuff to me I’m warned. What’s on yore vacant mind?”

Brick sat down on the steps and produced the makings of a cigaret, and Soapy, after a grunt of disgust, sat down near him. Silent and Harp squatted on their heels beside the house.

“Go ahead and uncinch,” grunted Soapy, squinting sideways at Brick, but Brick finished his cigaret before he spoke.

“If they don’t stop makin’ bad money in Sun Dog county, yore goin’ broke, Soapy.”

Soapy Caswell owned a real “poker-face,” but his nose twitched for a moment. He spat dryly and squinted off across the hills.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” replied Brick.

“That,” said Soapy slowly, “that is a copper-riveted cinch, Brick. Didja think I didn’t know it?”

“I reckoned yuh did,” nodded Brick. “I never knowed a thing about it until the other day. Why wasn’t I told?”

Soapy took a fresh chew and settled himself against a post.

“It’s a Gov’ment case, sheriff. Yo’re all right when she comes to smokin’ up rustlers and such critters, but this here bad-money job requires—brains.”

“Oh!” grunted Brick.

Silent and Harp chuckled joyously, but Soapy Caswell’s face was devoid of humorous intent.

“Whatcha doin’—waitin’ for brains to grow?” asked Brick, after a few moments’ silence.

Soapy shook his head.

“Nope.”

“Brains ain’t savin’ much money for you, are they?”

Soapy spat violently and shook his head.

“Can’t say they are, Brick. ’Pears that she’s a delicate thing to handle. I ain’t sayin’ you can’t run yore own office, but they seems to opine that yuh might get to b’ilin’ around and chase ’em away. The U. S. A. wants them mockin’-birds plumb bad, and the only way to get ’em is to let ’em think they’re gettin’ away with the job. They’ll uncover pretty soon. _Sabe?_”

“By the time yore two banks are busted, Soapy. Where do you get off?”

“I dunno,” admitted Soapy sadly. “I’m leavin’ it all to Jim Clelland, the U. S. marshal at Helena. I ain’t heard from him for a week, but he told me that things was comin’ along as well as yuh could expect.”

“Who do yuh reckon it is?” asked Brick.

“Me? Huh! Say, if I even thought I knowed—” Soapy shook his head. “Got me hawg-tied, so they have. She’s a cinch that it’s two fellers, and they’re slicker than grease.”

The four men sat silently for a while, and then Brick said—

“Soapy, how much was stole from the stage the day Dale was killed?”

“Seven thousand dollars. I found out that day that the ten thousand in counterfeit had been in the Marlin City bank. If I’d ’a’ known about it before I wouldn’t ’a’ taken the chance of sendin’ that seven thousand to Redrock.”

“When did yuh first find out about the bad money?”

“’Bout four months ago. Seems that Malvene got wise to some danged rich copper property over in Sunset Valley, and he wanted me to go in with him on the deal. I gave him four thousand dollars in bills. He didn’t want to carry the money with him; so he went to the bank at Silverton to get a draft.” Soapy shook his head sadly. “He didn’t get it. The cashier told him the money was phony. Malvene hunted me up and took me over to the bank, and the cashier showed me that it was counterfeit—every —— cent of it!”

“Where did yuh get it?” asked Brick.

“Redrock bank. I went up there afterward and we examined every danged cent of currency, but it was all O. K. Since then there’s been pieces of bad money scattered all around. Pelham got some, Otto got some. I’ve won it in poker games and got it in change at the stores. Five, ten and twenty dollar bills.”

“Does anybody else know that there was money stolen the day Dale was killed?”

Soapy shook his head.

“Nope. The cashier of the Redrock bank sent me a note.”

Soapy took out an old bill-fold and removed a dirty piece of wrapping-paper.

“This was all there was in the money box.”

Brick took the paper, on which was printed in pencil:

AS LONG AS YOU’RE WISE THERE’S NO USE SHOVING THE QUEER. THANKS
FOR THE DONATION. (Signed) THE GANG.

Brick studied the penciled note for a time and handed it to Silent and Harp, who read it and gave it back to Soapy.

“When yuh goin’ to ship some more money, Soapy?”

Soapy stared at Brick for a moment and spat disgustedly.

“Never! Nossir! Pack it m’self after this, y’betcha.”

Brick laughed and shook his head.

“No, yo’re wrong there, Soapy. Tomorrow yo’re goin’ to make a big shipment. You go to the bank and tell Felix Bray that yo’re shippin’—uh—you fix up the amount so she’ll look natural. Send her out on the stage and I’ll do the rest.”

Soapy scratched his cheek, looked sideways at Brick and spat reflectively.

“Say yuh will, eh? Big shipment of money, did yuh say? Whose money—mine? Not by a —— sight! Them elegant road-agents won’t get no more wallops at my dinero, y’betcha. What’s yore brilliant idea, Brick?”

“My idea?” Brick grinned thoughtfully. “Why, I was just aimin’ to catch ’em, Soapy. Don’t yuh want ’em caught, or is it some kind of a game, where they won’t be no good unless some hired hand of Uncle Sam catches ’em?”

“Usin’ my money for bait, eh?” sarcastically.

Brick dug his heel into the dry ground and nodded his head.

“Uh-huh. I kinda reckon it will be good fishin’, Soapy. Can yuh put yoreself out that much?”

Soapy studied Brick for a while and then looked at Harp and Silent, who were humped up in the shade smoking slowly.

“I’m handlin’ the pay-roll of the Whipoorwill camp,” stated Soapy slowly. “It’s at Silverton now, and I was kinda wonderin’ just how I’m goin’ to get it to the mines. Due there tomorrow night. Nobody knows it. She’s in the safe at the bank, and she’s had me guessin’ how to ship it safe.”

“That pay-roll is about fifteen thousand dollars,” mused Brick. “That’ll do real well, I reckon.”

“Tell me yore idea, will yuh?” asked Soapy. “I don’t want to——”

“Nope.” Brick was emphatic.

“Too many minds thinkin’ on the same thing will ruin it. You furnish the money and I’ll do the rest. You tell ’em at the bank to hand the stage-driver the money and I’ll see that she gets through.”

Soapy nodded slowly.

“All right, Brick. I hate like —— to do it, but I reckon I’ll gamble a little with yuh. Did yuh find out anythin’ about who killed that Dale feller?”

“I’m thinkin’ about him a lot,” admitted Brick seriously. “That’s the —— of sending a city man into a cow country to compete with range outlaws. Mebbe Dale was a good detective, but——”

“Did Pelham tell yuh?” asked Soapy quickly.

Brick grinned and shook his head.

“Nope. Deducted most of it m’self, Soapy. Made a good guess and you told me I was right. Pelham hired him, when the U. S. marshal sent him in to smell out the bad-money business. You fellers make me plumb tired. Ought to arrest all of yuh for blockin’ the wheels of progress. C’mon, boys.”

* * * * *

Soapy had nothing to say, but sat on his porch and watched the three men mount and ride slowly out of the place. Harp and Silent said nothing until out of earshot and then Harp said,

“Klein rode away a while ago, Brick. Saw him swing in behind the cuttin’ corral and drop into that dry coulee. Mebbe he went toward town. Nebrasky has been watchin’ us from the bunkhouse window all the time. Reckon Klein went out the back window.”

Brick laughed.

“They’re gettin’ all het up, I reckon. Well, they ought to.”

He spurred into a gallop and the others followed him. They swept around the grades, riding bunched as they headed for Silverton.

The first part of the ride was around sharp curves, where the three horses crowded shoulder to shoulder to keep on the grade. None of the three men made any comment, and rode with their hats pulled low, swinging free in their saddles. Suddenly they struck a long stretch of straight road, which led along the slope of a timbered hill. Far beyond them they could see an object lying in the middle of the road. As they drew closer they could see it was a blanket-roll, lying in the middle of the road, as though some one had lost it. They instinctively drew rein to stop and investigate, but Brick suddenly drove his spurs home, whirled his horse off the road, as he yelled:

“Don’t stop! Split up and ride like ——!”

Harp and Silent obeyed like a flash, whirling off the grade, each swinging wide of the other and following in the general direction taken by Brick.

From above them on the hill came the spiteful “_whang!_” of a rifle and the bullet ricocheted off a rock in front of Harp. Another rifle joined in the chorus and bullets buzzed like angry bees around the three running horses. A running horse is a difficult target, especially when the shooter is over-anxious, and the three horses swept through a clump of cottonwoods out of view from the hillside.

Beyond this clump of cottonwoods which fringed a dry watercourse, was open, flat country, sparsely covered with clumps of small brush. The cottonwoods extended in a broken line for a hundred yards or more, filled with a tangle of briars and willows.

On the opposite side, beyond the road, the mesquite and rock-covered hill sloped gently for several hundred yards, broken here and there with deep gashes, brush-filled. The ambushers had picked a desirable site for their work; but had overlooked the fact that Brick, or some of the others, might be suspicious.

Brick slid off his horse, drew his rifle from its scabbard and darted back into the cottonwoods, followed in a moment by Harp and Silent. They watched the side of the hill for quite a while, unrewarded by anything which looked like a human being.

“They tried to fox us,” grunted Brick. “Knowed we’d stop to see what was in that bundle and they’d have a standin’ shot at us.”

“How did yuh get wise to it?” asked Harp admiringly.

“Looked too good,” grinned Brick. “Could yuh imagine any man losin’ his blanket-roll like that? Nope, they made it too danged good. Oh, o-o-o-o-oh!”

Brick squinted his eyes sharply and slid his peep-sight up to the last notch. A moment later the .45-70 roared and Brick ducked low under the cloud of smoke and peered at the side of the hill.

“—— the luck!” he swore feelingly. “Got the horse instead of the rider.”

“Make me mad if I missed a man at seven hundred yards,” agreed Silent seriously. “Yuh ought to practise more, Brick.”

A bullet spattered a handful of leafy foliage on to their hats, and all three of them fired back at a puff of smoke from the side of the hill. Then they ducked down in the brush and ran fifty feet farther down the cover, grinning at each other as they heard bullets ripping into the trees near where they had fired.