Part 6

“That’s queer,” muttered the cashier.

“What’s queer?” demanded Crane.

The cashier straightened up, his thin lips compressed tightly--

“I saw Mr. Mott put twenty-five hundred dollars into that envelope, Crane.”

Crane leaned across the counter, his brow furrowed questioningly.

“You mean to say that there was twenty-five hundred in that envelope when I got it?”

“I--I don’t know what to say. Mr. Mott had Miss Marsh get the money from the vault, and we both know that he put it into the envelope--didn’t he, Miss Marsh?”

Della did not reply.

“Well, it sure as ---- wasn’t there when I tried to pay it to Pablo,” declared Crane. “And that whole deal is spoiled. He’s got the idea now that I was tryin’ to cheat him. I said--

“Here’s your twenty-five hundred dollars, Pablo.”

“I handed him the whole works. And any old time yuh think that half-breed can’t count, yo’re all wrong. He counted it as quick as I could, and then he says:

“You pretty ---- smart, eh? Cheat Injun, eh? You go to ----!”

“And that’s what I know about it.”

“But I tell you, it was in there----”

Della stopped. Big Jim was coming into the bank. He nodded to Crane, but stopped and looked at them. It was evident at a glance that something was all wrong.

“Did you finish that deal with Pablo, Crane?” he asked.

“You know danged well I didn’t,” growled Crane.

“I do? Where did you get that idea?”

“I told you I wanted twenty-five hundred dollars, Mott.”

“Well, that’s what you got.”

“I did not! I got fifteen hundred, that’s all.”

Big Jim looked curiously at Della and the cashier, rubbing his chin with the ball of his right thumb.

“I--I gave him that envelope, Mr. Mott,” said Della.

“I got the envelope,” nodded Crane.

“Didn’t you count the money?” asked Big Jim.

“No, I didn’t have time. You know Pablo. I argued him into the deal and he wanted the money right then. I told him I had to go to the bank after it, and he started after his horse; so I ran down here after the money. ----, I didn’t take time to count it.”

“And the envelope only contained fifteen hundred, eh?” Thus Big Jim thoughtfully. “There was twenty-five hundred in--oh, well, the deal is off, anyway. Maybe we can have another talk with Pablo.”

Big Jim turned away and went into his private office. Crane squinted after him and walked out of the bank, leaving Della and the cashier looking at each other. Then the cashier turned away and went back to his desk.

There had been no accusations, but Della knew that everything pointed to the fact that she had taken the money. Was it all in the envelope when Crane got it from her, she wondered? Or did Crane take it out on his way to meet Pablo?

The cashier spoke her name and she turned to see Big Jim in the doorway of his office, motioning for her to come. She went to him and he closed the door behind them. She was not afraid.

He motioned her to a chair and sat down on the edge of his flat-top desk.

“That’s a queer deal, Della,” he said softly.

“Do you think I took it?” she demanded.

“Don’t talk that way,” he parried. “I’m not accusing any one. Crane could have taken the money.”

“But you don’t believe he did.”

Della got to her feet and faced him hotly.

“Sit down, please,” he begged. “There is no use getting mad about it, Della.”

“You think I’m a thief.”

The tears came to her eyes. She wanted to cry, but was too angry.

“You are accusing yourself, little lady. Now, sit down and be patient. It’s only a thousand dollars, anyway; and it won’t break me.” He laughed softly. “I’ve got a good many of them. Whoever got that money is welcome to it, do you understand? I will see that no one knows it, except those who already know.”

“Is that fair to me?” she demanded.

Big Jim smiled and snipped the end off a cigar with his strong teeth.

“Della,” he said slowly, “I’m not going to investigate. It would only start a scandal, and I’d rather lose a thousand than to start trouble. Whoever got that money needs it more than I do.”

“Needs it?” she repeated.

“People hardly ever take what they do not need, Della.”

The one sentence in Tex Rowland’s note--_I need about five hundred dollars_--flashed through her mind, and she looked up quickly to find him looking at her closely, as if reading her mind.

“Maybe Crane needed it,” he said softly.

It was as if he suspected her, but was willing to give her a slight doubt. Her face paled and she drew away from him.

“You mean that I did--and Mr. Crane might have?” she queried.

“Oh, pshaw!”

Big Jim threw away his cigar and came toward her.

“Listen to me, Della: We’ll both forget this. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a closed incident. I’d be willing to give you many times that amount, if you would ask me for it. I like you better than any girl I’ve ever known.”

“And still you believe I stole from you.”

“That’s all past and gone, Della.”

“It is not past and gone, Mr. Mott. This is not something you can wipe out with a few words.”

“Well,” he laughed, a half-sneer on his face, “what would you have me do? Accuse you of theft? Drag your name in the dirt? Don’t be a fool, Della. If you’ve got any sense left, you’ll let me bury this whole thing. You know that I care a lot for you, little lady.”

“But am I a thief?” she demanded hotly. “There has been no investigation.”

“Do you want one?” Big Jim’s voice hardened slightly.

“I demand one.”

He considered her seriously for several moments and shrugged his shoulders.

“There must be some Scotch blood in you, Della.”

“Yes--the McPherson blood, Mr. Mott.”

Big Jim laughed savagely and his right hand went unconsciously to his ear. He could still feel the sting of old Rory’s blow.

“McPherson blood, eh? That hard-headed old ----!” He laughed and shook his head. “He won’t welcome an investigation.”

“He has nothing to do with it,” reminded Della coldly.

“No? And you his only living relative?”

“This is my battle--not his.”

Big Jim drew out a fresh cigar and lighted it. Della moved back to the door and reached for the knob.

“Wait a minute,” said Big Jim. “I want you to be sure that you want this to go on, Della. I suppose you know what it means. It will be bad for you, no matter which way it goes. The theft lies between you and Martin Crane. One of you must have taken that money, don’t you see?

“It would be almost impossible to convict a girl like you in this country. But, even if you were cleared of the charge, there would always be a doubt, unless the money was recovered. Can you afford to take that chance?”

“You haven’t given me a chance,” she said bitterly. “You let Mr. Crane go where he would. If he took the money, he has had plenty of chance to dispose of it by this time. Was that fair?”

“Possibly not, Della. But I thought you would listen to reason. I don’t want to lose you. I gave you this position, in order to see you once in a while. You don’t need to work. Just say the word and I’ll see that you never have to work for anybody again.”

She faced him squarely, her back against the door. There was nothing timid about her now.

“Do you mean that you want to marry me?” she asked.

He smiled at her and shifted the cigar between his lips.

“I’d sure take you a long ways away from here,” he said, ignoring her direct question. “I could dress you in silks, furs and diamonds, little lady. I’d show you the bright lights and give you everything that goes with them. You’d soon forget the cattle-country.”

“Because you love me?” she asked coldly.

Something in her voice caused him to hesitate; something that made him know that she detested him thoroughly. Her head was held high and her eyes surveyed him coldly.

“And you would do this because you love me?” she repeated.

He leaned toward her, his teeth clenched tightly on his cigar, his eyes narrowed. Then he struck the top of the desk with his clenched hand.

“No, by ----!” he gritted. “But I’d do it to break the heart of that sniffling old uncle of yours. I told him I’d break him, if it was the last thing I’d ever do. I’d be good to you, just to show him that I mean what I say. Now you can take your choice.”

His lips were white with anger, but they were no whiter than her cheeks as she turned and walked out without a reply, leaving him staring after her, the drool from his cigar running down over his trembling chin.

* * * * *

She went out through the front door and up the sidewalk, just as the sheriff, Slim Whelan and Bill Smith were tying their horses at the Fashion hitch-rack. She did not see them. In fact, she was incapable of seeing anything, and almost ran into them.

“Whoa, Blaze!” exclaimed Slim softly, putting out a hand to steady her.

She looked up quickly, dazedly.

“I--I beg your pardon,” she said huskily and half-staggered past them.

The three men turned and watched her.

“Now, what do you know about that?” wondered Slim aloud. “She’s as white as a sheet and she’s got both fists shut tight.”

“Acts like she’s walkin’ in her sleep,” said the sheriff. “Mebbe she’s sick.”

Bill Smith turned as if to follow her, but remembered that he was not to do such things. There was no doubt that Della was suffering, and he wanted to help her. Crane was coming out of the saloon, and noticed that the three men were looking at Della. He, too, watched her cross the main street, and then came over to the three men. “What’s the matter with her?” he asked.

“That’s what we’re wonderin’,” said Slim. “She acts like she’s sick. Danged near ran into us, didn’t she, Bill? Kinda like she had blind-staggers, don’tcha know it?”

Della had disappeared down the little side street; so they all turned back to the saloon door.

“Didja fix up that deal with Pablo?” asked Slim.

Crane shook his head. Big Jim was coming up the street toward them and they waited for him. He nodded curtly to them and spoke directly to the sheriff--

“Lohman, I want to have a word with you.”

“All right,” nodded the sheriff, and they walked back toward the bank together, while the other three men went into the saloon.

“I wonder what Big Jim wanted of the sheriff,” said Slim, as they filled their glasses.

Crane drank thoughtfully and motioned for them to have another. It was not like Martin Crane to drink raw whisky. They noticed that he was filling his glass to the brim. Three big drinks of it went down his gullet before he turned his back on the bar.

His lips twisted in a grim smile as he hitched his holster around, and rubbed the palm of his right hand on his hip. Slim and Bill exchanged glances. They knew that Crane had shocked his system with strong liquor for a reason.

“I’ve got a hunch what Big Jim wanted him for,” he said slowly, his eyes hardening with anger. “And I’m all set, y’betcha.”

“Let’s have another drink, gents,” suggested the bartender.

“I’ve got a-plenty,” replied Crane evenly. “You fellers go ahead.”

They turned back to the bar, but took cigars this time.

“We’re with yuh, Crane,” said Bill Smith softly. “I dunno what it’s all about--but count us in.”

It was several minutes later when the sheriff came into the saloon. He stopped in the doorway and looked at the three men at the bar. Crane was slightly hunched, immovable. The sheriff gave a slight shake of his head and came up to the bar beside Slim.

“I’ll buy a drink,” he said slowly, nodding to the bartender. “I reckon I need one now.”

Crane relaxed slightly and accepted a cigar. The sheriff was very thoughtful as he drank his liquor. Crane watched him closely, standing slightly apart from the rest. Then the sheriff indicated the door, with a slight jerk of his head, and they followed him outside.

“Crane,” he said, as they grouped near the hitch-rack, “what do you know about that money deal this mornin’?”

Crane swore softly, as he outlined what had happened.

“You didn’t count the money at the time yuh got it, eh?”

“No.”

“Big Jim and the girl had quite a run-in, I reckon,” stated the sheriff. “He’s sure she got the money. But he didn’t search her; just let her walk out. Now he wants me to arrest her for stealing his thousand dollars.”

Bill Smith said nothing, but he turned away, staring back toward the bank, fighting against an impulse to go there and kill Big Jim Mott.

“No wonder she looked sick,” said Slim sadly.

“Why don’t he have me arrested?” asked Crane. “I could ’a’ taken that money. ---- him and his money! I’ve got a notion to go down there and heave a gun into his teeth. Why would that girl steal money from him?”

Slim and Bill Smith glanced quickly at each other. Both of them knew about that fraudulent note and of Tex’s request for money.

Lohman’s eye had been quick enough to read the unspoken question between them. In his pocket was a mighty good reason for Della to take the money. It would go a long way toward convincing the jury of her guilt, in case it was produced in court. He felt sure that Slim and Bill knew something about that note, but he did not want to question them.

“I wouldn’t start trouble with Mott over it,” advised the sheriff. “He’s naturally sore over losing the money, and I guess he and that girl had a row, which didn’t help matters none. Where does she live?”

None of them knew; so they went to the post-office and the sheriff inquired. Crane went back to the saloon, but Slim and Bill went down to the dressmaker’s home with the sheriff. Della was not there, but there was a note pinned to the front door. It read:

Miss Freeland: I have gone back to Rainbow Valley.

It was just signed with an initial “D.”

“Well, I’m ---- glad of that,” sighed the sheriff, as they went back to the main street, and the sheriff led them to the livery-stable. The stable-man nodded, when the sheriff questioned him, and said:

“Yeah, she went away a little while ago. Big Jim brought a horse here for her to use, but she took one of our horses instead. No, she didn’t say where she was goin’.”

They went back up the street, and Big Jim accosted them as they passed the bank.

“She’s gone back to Rainbow Valley,” said the sheriff, in answer to Big Jim’s question. “Hired a livery-horse.”

Bill Smith had stopped close to Big Jim, who scowled at the sheriff’s statement.

“Did, eh?” he grunted sourly. “Gone back to Rainbow. Well, you can find her there, can’t you, Lohman?”

“Yeah, I can.”

The sheriff did not enthuse over the prospect.

“All right--go and get her.”

“Yuh aim to put her in jail?” queried Bill Smith softly.

Big Jim squinted at him, his lips curling with sarcasm:

“What in ---- did you think I was going to do? She’s a thief and----”

Right at that point Big Jim’s sentence ended, when Bill Smith’s right fist, traveling in a wide arc, caught him midway between the point of his chin and the hinge of his jaw. It was all done in a second. Big Jim’s mouth was still set for the next word of his sentence when he hit the sidewalk.

The sheriff and Slim stepped back a few steps, staring at the prostrate Big Jim Mott and at Bill Smith. Big Jim did not move; neither did Bill Smith, who had stepped back, slightly crouched, waiting for Big Jim to recover.

“One’s enough,” whispered Slim foolishly. “My ----, what a punch!”

The sheriff looked curiously at Bill Smith, and wondered just why this handsome cowpuncher had smashed Big Jim for calling the girl a thief. It was unlooked for in a stranger. Several other men were hurrying down toward them, and among the crowd was Martin Crane, a trifle unsteady of legs. They moved in close and watched Big Jim get to his feet unassisted.

He was so badly dazed that he did not seem to realize what had happened. As he straightened up to his full height, Bill Smith shot forward, starting another punch at the big man’s jaw; but Slim blocked him.

“Hol’ fast, Bill,” he grunted. “He’s licked.”

“Let ’im go to it,” gurgled Crane. “I dunno whazzit’s all about--but let ’im go to it, Slimmie.”

Big Jim felt of his jaw and stepped back against the doorway. Things were clearing for him now and he realized that Bill Smith had knocked him down. He looked curiously at Bill Smith, trying to figure out why Bill Smith had hit him.

The blow had sapped his strength badly, and he wanted to sit down. Every one seemed to be waiting for Bill Smith or Big Jim to speak. Then Bill Smith glanced at the crowd around him and spoke directly to Big Jim.

“I’ll tell yuh why I hit yuh, Mott. Tex Rowland is my best friend--and the girl you accuse of stealin’ from yuh is the girl he loves. You let her alone or Tex Rowland will kill yuh. Now that ain’t no threat--it’s a promise.”

Bill Smith turned and walked on up the street. Big Jim blinked painfully, turned around and went into the bank without saying a word to any one. The crowd watched him disappear inside and then went back up the street.

Slim, Martin Crane and the sheriff walked along together and joined Bill Smith in the Fashion saloon. The sheriff held out his hand to Bill Smith, a grin on his lips, as he said:

“Bill Smith, I’m the sheriff of this county and I hadn’t ought to act like this; but I’d like to shake hands with yuh. I wish I had a friend that would do a thing like that for me, if I was in Tex Rowland’s place. I hope Tex appreciates it.”

“Yeah, I reckon he does,” smiled Bill, as they shook hands.

They had a round of drinks, after which Slim persuaded Crane that they should go back to the ranch. Crane was pretty drunk, but he acquiesced. Big Jim watched them ride out of town, squinting one eye speculatively, as if trying to make a decision.

Then he left the bank and walked down to the depot, which was about three blocks away. He asked the sleepy-eyed operator for a telegram blank, on which he wrote:

Warden, Elk Lodge Penitentiary.

Indications point to fact that Tex Rowland is hiding in this vicinity. Might be worth investigating.

(Signed) Jim Mott.

“Send this right away, will you?” he asked the operator.

“Y’betcha,” nodded the operator, turning to his instrument.

Big Jim walked outside, ripped a match savagely along the side of the depot and lighted his cigar.

“Friend of Tex Rowland, eh? Well, maybe you’ll be bait for us to find your dear friend. And next time I’ll be looking for you, Bill Smith.”

He strode along a few steps, puffing savagely, and an idea seemed to strike him.

“It’s a ten-to-one shot that Tex is in Rainbow Valley,” he declared to himself. “Old Rory would protect him. I’d like to see that old ----’s face, when Della tells him she’s a thief.”

It seemed to amuse him so much that he went back into the bank, his face wreathed with smiles. The cashier glanced at Big Jim as he disappeared into his private office.

“Lost a thousand dollars and got knocked down,” mused the cashier, “and acts happy over it all. Sure takes all kinds of folks to make up a world.”

VII

The following day Crane realized that he had made a sort of a fool out of himself, and that Big Jim might fire him. So he decided to go to Antelope at once and make his peace with the man who was paying him to run the XO-Bar-5.

Slim decided to go, too. He asked Bill Smith if he wanted to ride down with them, but Bill declined. As soon as they rode away, Bill saddled his horse and rode toward Rainbow Valley. He was curious to know what old Rory McPherson thought about Big Jim’s accusations, and he also wanted to see Della.

The RMP ranch had been home to Bill Smith. He knew every clump of trees, every twisting of the stream in Rainbow Valley. Yet he was a stranger in the place. He rode in past the big barns and up to the old ranch-house, sprawled under the shade of some giant sycamores which had been planted there when the first McPherson came to Rainbow.

A huge figure of a dog, half-mastiff, half-Dane, uncoiled itself from a spot near the kitchen door and came toward him, its head lowered, a deep rumble in its throat. Bill Smith grinned and swung out of his saddle.

“Pancho,” he said softly, “Pancho, do you know me?”

The great dog stopped and looked at him. Its eyes were a steel-blue in color, heavily-pouched. Its nostrils worked violently, as it caught the scent of a man it had known so well. Then, with a little rumble of delight, it came straight to Bill Smith, fawning upon him with its great paws, trying to lick his hands.

“You knew me, Pancho,” whispered Bill Smith. “You knew old Tex.”

He looked up quickly. On the porch stood old Rory McPherson and Della, a look of astonishment on their faces.

“Why, it’s Mr. Smith!” exclaimed Della. “And a ver-r-y rare young man,” added old Rory. “Old Pancho does not take to str-r-rangers, sir.”

“I can’t quite understand Pancho,” said Della. “Look at him, Uncle Rory.”

The big dog continued to manifest the greatest of joy. He had been used to romping with Tex Rowland every day, and this scent brought back joy memories to him. Faces meant nothing to him; but a voice and a scent did.

“Aye, lass; and it’s uncanny,” replied old Rory, coming down the steps to meet Bill Smith.

He held out his hand and did not wait for an introduction.

“I’d take the dog’s wor-r-rd for ye, sir,” said the old man, as they shook hands. “Ye can’t fool dogs and children. We grow up and lose that intuition. Will ye not come and sit on the por-rch? Della?”

He turned his head and looked back, but Della had slipped into the house.

“Anyway,” he said, turning back, “ye’ll sit with me, eh?”

Bill Smith accepted a seat on the porch and rolled a cigaret.

“Ye are a str-r-ranger, are ye not?” asked the old man. “I have never seen ye before.”

Bill Smith nodded.

“Yeah, I reckon I am, Mr. McPherson. I work for the XO-Bar-5.”

“Ye do, eh?”

The old man was on the defensive at once.

“Ye work for Jim Mott, do ye?”

“I did,” smiled Bill, as he examined his knuckles.

Luckily the blow had landed square, leaving only a slight soreness.

“And do ye not now, Mr. Smith?”

“I don’t know. I belted Big Jim in the jaw yesterday, and he was too tired to fire me at that time. Crane went to Antelope today, and Big Jim will probably send my time out to me by him.”

“Ye str-r-ruck him, ye mean?” demanded the old man eagerly. “Ye did? And ye brought him down?”

Bill Smith nodded slowly.

“Wonders will never cease,” said the old man softly. “Ye--” he squinted at Bill Smith closely--“ye are a chunk of a lad. Ye have the arms and chest of a man I know, and I’ve no doubt that ye jarred Mr. Mott. And did ye have a r-r-reason for comin’ here, or did ye just dr-r-rop in?”

“I came to see Miss Marsh.”

The old man regarded him steadily, glanced back toward the door and moved in closer to Bill Smith.

“Do ye know what happened yesterday in Antelope?”

“Yeah. I was there and I sure heard about it.”

“Tell me about it, will ye?”

“I’ll tell yuh what I know about it, Mr. McPherson.”

And in as few words as possible Bill Smith told the old man all he knew about the missing money and the accusation against Della. The old man’s bony hands gripped the arms of his chair, and his face grew white with wrath before Smith had finished his tale.

“Ye ar-re tellin’ me true, lad?” he panted. “This is not a fair-rry tale ye tell me?”

“Say, didn’t yuh know about this?” demanded Smith. “Didn’t she----”

“----, no! I knew there was somethin’ wr-r-r-rong, but--oh, the poor lass!”

The old man got unsteadily to his feet, panting with combined wrath and pity. As he turned toward the door, Della came out and up to him. She had been crying. He put his hands on her shoulders and they stared into each other’s faces.

“I heard him tell you,” she said firmly. “I wanted to tell you, Uncle Rory; but I--I just couldn’t. It’s a lie--all a lie. I never took the money.”

The old man laughed fiercely, gripping her shoulders until she winced from the pain.

“A lie!” he fairly shouted. “Of course it’s a lie!”

He whirled on Bill Smith, fairly shaking his bony fist under the cowpuncher’s nose.

“Do ye think it’s true? Do ye think----”

“If I did,” said Smith calmly, “I wouldn’t ’a’ smashed him in the jaw yesterday.”

“Oh, aye.”

He gripped a porch-post fiercely and looked down the valley, his old eyes blood-shot with emotion.