Chapter XII: Inquiries

“Then I’ll make lo-o-o-ove to so-o-o-me turtle do-o-ve, ’wa-a-ay up on the mounta-a-a-a-ain.”

The last lingering note of sadness faded from Smoky’s throat as the deputy struck a few tentative discords on his guitar.

“Yo’re quite a singer,” said Goober Glendon.

“All the difference between him and a medder-lark is a lotta feathers,” said Pete La Plante, the sheriff of Keno City. “He’s wastin’ his time.”

“Wastin’ time doin’ what?” queried Smoky.

“Singin’.”

“There yuh are,” sighed the deputy. Smoky hung his guitar on the rifle rack and sat down on his heels against the wall, where his long fingers began the manufacture of a cigarette.

“I liked yore singin’, Smoky,” reminded Goober. “Mebbe I ain’t got no ear for music--I dunno. But it seems to me that you carry a tune real well, and yuh shore can quiver the old voice. ’Course I don’t _sabe_ them words. I’ve done et a lot of turtle doves, but I never made no love to ’em.”

“I wouldn’t put anythin’ past Smoky,” said the sheriff.

Johnny Wells, jackknifed in the doorway of the office, turned and spoke to the sheriff. “Does Hal Austin ride a sorrel?”

“Rode one through here t’-day,” replied Pete.

“I thought it was him. Stopped at the courthouse.”

“He’s stickin’ around Indian Wells pretty close,” grinned Smoky. “But I don’t blame him. That there Diaz girl shore is a dinger. Hal kinda took the play away from Cal Sands, it looks t’ me.”

“Money--prob’ly,” said the sheriff.

“Yeah, that might be. But wait ’ll she hears that Frank Austin has made Cal half owner of the Star A outfit.”

“When did that happen?” asked Goober.

“I dunno jist when Austin done this here Sandy Claws act, but he done it. Sands is now half owner of the whole outfit.”

“Did you fellers know Terrill very well?” queried Johnny.

“Not very,” replied the sheriff. “He was out of my county, of course. Funny thing about him gettin’ killed thataway. You think he shot you, Glendon?”

“I hope so,” grinned Goober.

“Why do yuh hope so?”

“’Cause he won’t be able to try it agin.”

“My theory is that one of his own men killed him,” said Smoky. “He’s got a couple forked gents workin’ for him. If Silver Bar keeps goin’, they’ll have a bad reputation. Nolan must have his hands full; him not havin’ any deputy.”

“Hell!” snorted La Plante. “Lotta good a deputy’d do him or any other sheriff.”

“T’ me,” said Smoky thoughtfully, “a sheriff is only a figger-head. He wears the big star, draws the big money, talks a lot--but the downtrodden deputy is the brains and the action of the office. ’Course the sheriff gits the credit for anythin’ his office does--but the deputy is the man behind the gun.”

“He’d shore be behind somethin’,” retorted the sheriff. “A deputy shore don’t take chances. All the brains I’ve ever seen one of ’em use was in defence of their own life.”

“That may all be true,” grinned Smoky, “but who ever seen a dead sheriff, except one that died from natural causes?”

The argument might have gone on indefinitely, but a horse and buggy drew up to a hitch-rack across the street, and a tall, gray-haired man climbed out and tied the horse. He stood there for several moments, looking around, finally coming toward the sheriff’s office.

“That’s Ed Chandler, prosecutin’ attorney from Silver Bar,” said Smoky.

The sheriff went to the doorway and met the lawyer, who smiled seriously as they shook hands. “Yore quite a stranger over here, Ed,” said the sheriff.

“I know I am, Pete. Hello, Smoky.”

“Hello, Ed. How’s crime over in yore country?”

“Well, not very serious.”

Smoky introduced him to Goober and Johnny. The lawyer considered Goober gravely before he said: “The fact of the matter is this--I came over here to see you, Glendon.”

“To see me?”

“Just a little private matter which probably doesn’t concern you, but of importance to me.”

“Shore,” nodded Goober.

“Might go over and sit in my buggy.” They crossed the street and climbed into the buggy.

“You have done work for the Cattle Association,” said the lawyer.

Goober glanced at the stern profile of the lawyer, wondering where this might lead, but merely nodded.

“I sent them a wire,” continued the lawyer. “Their reply stated that your word was as good as gold.”

“Kind of ’em,” smiled Goober.

“Very,” dryly opined the prosecutor. “But I needed that assurance. You were in Silver Bar the night that a man named Slade was killed?”

“Yeah, I was there.”

“You did not see the shooting?”

“Heard it,” Goober stated.

“Do you mind telling me what you know about it? You say you heard the shots fired, but I want to know what else you heard, Glendon.”

Goober hesitated. The inquest had settled all the legal facts, and Goober did not want to incriminate Hal Austin. He had no idea what the prosecutor might be digging up.

“I don’t quite git yore drift, Mr. Chandler,” said Goober thoughtfully. “Everythin’ was settled at the inquest, wasn’t it?”

“Apparently. But later developments----”

“Put yore cards on the table,” grunted Goober. “It’s yore lead.”

“I’ll do that. You probably know that Frank Austin had the body shipped back to San Francisco to Slade’s relatives. The body was cremated.”

“I understand they’re crematin’ lots of folks these days.”

“Yes, that is true. Did you hear that Slade was shot in the back--murdered?”

“Can yuh imagine that?” muttered Goober softly.

“And that the cowboy from Flask River, who is supposed to have killed Slade in self-defence, died four months ago from an injury caused by a fall from a horse.”

Goober whistled softly.

“Here’s my cards, Glendon. I don’t know where the report comes from, except that my informant believes young Austin started it in Indian Wells. However, it is to the effect that young Austin shot Slade in the back, and that Frank Austin paid certain officials a lot of money to cover up on the deal. As soon as I heard this, I wired San Francisco officers to make an examination of Slade’s body. The body had been cremated the day they got my wire. The coffin had been prepared by our coroner, and was not opened by the relatives, except to identify the corpse.”

“Kinda kills off any chance to prove murder,” said Goober. “Didja say anythin’ to the sheriff or coroner?”

“Not a word. I can prove that the sheriff lied about that Flask River cowboy, but he could say he was mistaken. I happen to know Frank Austin drew five thousand dollars from the bank on the day of the inquest. That is not evidence that he bribed anybody, but it raises a suspicion. Those are my cards, Glendon.”

“Yore cards are good, but the game closed at the end of the inquest,” Goober pointed out. “All you’ve got is a lot of aces, and nobody to play ’em against. Here’s my hand, and it’s no good to you or anybody else. After that shootin’, Sheriff Nolan dragged Hal Austin into that saloon, claimin’ that Austin shot Slade in self-defence. But out of consideration for Frank Austin, he said he’d swear a cowboy from Flask River done the shootin’. They piled young Austin into a buggy and sent him back here.”

The lawyer smiled grimly. “So that’s how Nolan happened to pick the wrong cowboy, eh? An easy mistake to make, because he didn’t know this cowboy was dead. What did young Austin have to say about it at the time?”

“Not much. He was drunk and kinda dazed.”

“Did you see the body?”

“I didn’t examine it. The doctor was lookin’ it over.”

“He is also the coroner,” observed Chandler.

“Yeah; I recognised him at the inquest.”

“You didn’t hear any rumours about Austin buying off officials, did you?”

Goober shook his head quickly.

“Another thing, Glendon; did Hal Austin still have his gun, when you saw him?”

“The sheriff had it. Anyway, he said it was Austin’s gun.”

“Nobody seems to know where that gun is, but that doesn’t matter. I’m glad for your information. Not that it will help the situation a bit, but it shows how Nolan made his mistake. I’d hate to believe that any of our officials would accept a bribe. In fact, it appears that they covered up, before there was any promise of a bribe.”

“Call it a present,” smiled Goober, as they climbed out of the buggy.

“I believe it would be better to forget it, Glendon. I am sure you will not repeat what I have told you.”

“Not unless I talk in my sleep.”

They shook hands, and the attorney rode out of Keno City. Johnny Wells was crossing the street, and Goober joined him. As they entered the Keno Bar, Hal Austin left the courthouse, untied his horse and came down to the Keno Saloon. It was not over fifteen minutes later that Cal Sands rode into town, noted the sorrel at the hitch-rack, and immediately rode over to the sheriff’s office.

“Young Austin gettin’ drunk, as usual,” he remarked to Smoky.

“Well, he ain’t had much time yet,” grinned Smoky.

“He’s jist got here.”

“Where’s he been?”

“He was out to the ranch, wasn’t he?” asked the sheriff.

“Yeah, but he left there quite a while ago,” Sands said.

“Oh, he was over at the courthouse quite a while,” said Smoky.

Sands laughed shortly. “I wonder what he was doin’ at the courthouse?”

“Mebbe gettin’ a marriage licence,” laughed Smoky maliciously.

Sands frowned quickly.

“Speakin’ of courthouses,” said the sheriff, “I wonder what Chandler wanted of Glendon.”

Sands turned quickly to the sheriff. “Chandler from Silver Bar?”

“Yeah. He was here a while ago. Said he wanted to talk private with Glendon, and they went over to Chandler’s buggy. Chandler jist left here a little while ago.”

Sands frowned thoughtfully for several moments, then asked: “Pete, what is that Glendon doin’ over here, anyway?”

“Huh!” snorted the sheriff. “You’ll have to ask somebody that knows.”

“Jist a couple driftin’ cow-pokes,” said Smoky.

“Yea-a-a-ah?”

“Well, that’s all we know about him,” Smoky retorted.

“What’s yore suspicions?” queried the sheriff.

“Hell, it don’t make no difference to me what he’s doin’,” Sands disclaimed.

“They tell me yo’re half owner of the Star A,” said Smoky.

“Yeah,” the foreman admitted indifferently. Sands finally left the office and went up the street.

“I’ll betcha he’s goin’ to the courthouse to see what Hal Austin was doin’ there,” said Smoky.

The sheriff grinned. “He better let young Austin alone. Jist ’cause Sands is pardner with the old man, it don’t give him no right to ride herd on the kid. I got a tip that Frank Austin came out here to bust up the love-affairs of Hal and that Diaz girl; but from the amount of time the kid is spendin’ in Indian Wells, it kinda looks as though Frank was fallin’ down on the job.”

“And she was Sands’s girl before Hal showed up. Mebbe Austin has hired Cal to ride herd on the kid.”

This was partly true, and Sands meant to find out why Hal was at the courthouse. It was an old two-storey building on the main street, and the first office on the ground floor was the county clerk’s office. The door was open, and Sands sauntered in, apparently to merely pass the time of day with the clerk.

“Who’s goin’ to be best man, Cal?” asked the assistant clerk, grinning.

“Best man? What do yuh mean?” asked Sands.

“For Hal Austin’s wedding.”

Sands swore under his breath. Smoky’s guess had been right. The clerk drew out the licence book, flipped it open on the counter, and showed Sands where a marriage licence had been issued to Harold Austin and Juana Diaz, both of legal age.

Sands passed the matter off easily, talked a few minutes about nothing in particular, and went out. His first impulse was to ride back to the ranch and tell Frank Austin. But, knowing that Mrs. Austin and Betty were intending a trip to Indian Wells to-morrow to meet Juana and her mother, Sands decided that Hal and Juana would not get married until after that meeting.

He waited in Keno City until Hal left, and after a discreet interval, followed his rival down the road to Indian Wells.