Part 3

Roaring Rigby cuffed his hat on one side of his head, looked Wind River Jim over carefully. His face was puckered from an effort to think just what to do. Then he reached in his pocket, took out a deputy’s badge and gave it to Wind River Jim.

“Pin ’er on you, cowboy; that’s your license to git shot, and no damages asked.”

“Do I swear to anythin’?” asked Wind River, as he pinned the badge on his vest, swelling his chest beneath the shining badge.

“Swear to nothin’,” said Roarin’. “Make no promises, and you won’t have anythin’ to break. Here’s the key to the office. I’m goin’ to ham and egg m’self. See you later.”

* * * * *

Wind River Jim rode down to the office, tied his horse to the little hitch-rack, spat vigorously, unlocked the door and went in. He sent his tall Stetson spinning toward a nail, missed it by three feet, sat down in the rickety swivel chair, hooked his feet over a corner of the desk, and yawned.

“Well, I’ve reached my height,” he said aloud. “Officer of the law, and I’ve got a badge to prove it. Next thing I know I’ll be a Senator or some other funny thing, and you never can tell where I’ll go from there. Hello, yourself!”

Jefferson Ryker, prosecuting attorney of Black Horse, stepped inside the office and looked curiously at Wind River. Ryker was above average height, but was very thin. He wore tall white collars and a stringy black bow tie. The collar was big enough to give ample play to his Adam’s apple. His suit was a rusty black and would have fitted him had he been fifty pounds heavier.

Ryker was rather an old-timer in the country. For a number of years he had operated an assay office in Turquoise City, but with the falling off of the mining industry he had devoted himself to the law, had been admitted to the state bar and was now serving his third term as prosecutor. “Mica” Jones, formerly assistant to Ryker in the assay business, was running the assay office for Ryker, and barely making a living.

Wind River Jim did not like Ryker. He took one look at him and groaned slightly; but otherwise he remained silent, after his first greeting, which had not been returned by Jefferson Ryker. The prosecutor stepped back to the doorway and looked up the street.

“Where’s the sheriff?” he asked.

“He’s eatin’ breakfast.”

Ryker leaned against the doorway and examined a cigar, which was rather badly unwrapped. He licked it gently in spots, trying to work the wrapper back into place. Finally he lighted it and puffed convulsively, but got no results.

“Anythin’ you want around here?” queried Wind River. “I’m doin’ the sheriffin’ while Roarin’ Rigby nourishes.”

“You are?” Ryker looked curiously at Wind River, who gave him plenty of opportunity to see the nickel-plated badge.

“Oh, I see.” Ryker came back closer to Wind River. “All right, Wind River, I want to see the prisoner.”

“The prisoner?”

“Yes--Pete Conley.”

“Huh!” snorted Wind River. “Well, now, from where I set, you’ve got a fine chance, Ryker.”

“I have a right to see him!” snapped the lawyer.

“Yea-a-a-ah, the devil you have!”

Wind River jerked his feet off the desk and faced Ryker.

“Your rights and wrongs don’t mean nothin’ to me. If you keep your hat on until I let you see Pete Conley, they’ll have to saw it off when you’re dead.”

“I wonder how Roaring Rigby ever happened to appoint such an ignorant person,” said the lawyer.

“Because he couldn’t trust the smart ones, that’s why. The smarter they are the crookeder they are, Ryker, and I’ve heard that you’re the smartest man in this valley.”

Ryker walked back to the door, boiling with wrath.

“I’m going to find the sheriff,” he said hotly. “You can’t call me a crook and get away with it.”

“Well, you’re a friend of English Ed.”

“What has that got to do with it?”

“He’s crooked. You never see a lot of lambs hobnobbin’ with a coyote, do you?”

Ryker whirled on his heel and left the office.

Wind River Jim chuckled to himself as he uncoiled his length from the creaking old chair and walked over to a cracked mirror on the wall. He looked intently at himself.

“You don’t look crazy to me,” he told himself, “but you must be. Appearances are shore deceptive. But I don’t like that cat-eyed lawyer, and it was a good chance to let him know it. Anybody who didn’t know me would think I was mean as dirt.”

The jail adjoined the sheriff’s office, and there was no exit, except through the sheriff’s office. The front of the jail was a blank wall. At the side and rear were small barred windows, not large enough for a man to crawl through. It was not a well ventilated jail, it is true, but it was built to hold a prisoner.

Roaring Rigby came back a few minutes later, carrying a tray of food for Pete Conley.

“This is your job after this, Wind River,” he said, placing the tray on the desk. “What did you say to Ryker?”

“He wanted to see Pete,” grinned Wind River. “I told him to go to hell.”

Roaring grinned widely.

“I thought so. He shore was sore as a boil. Met me at the door of the restaurant and jumped all over me about you.”

“The devil he did! What did you say, Roarin’?”

“Me? I slapped his old face loose from his hat. Mebby that wasn’t exactly the right thing for a sheriff to do, but it’s all I could think of at the time. I never took no oath of office. Anyway, I don’t think there’s anythin’ in the oath about not slappin’ lawyers. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Let’s feed the animal.”

They unlocked the door into the jail and carried the tray in. There was a short hall, about six feet wide, across the room, at each side of which were barred doors. Pete Conley leaned against the bars of one cell, smoking a cigaret.

“Got you some ham and eggs, Pete,” said the sheriff cheerfully.

“Good!” said the half-breed. “What’s new?”

Roaring unlocked the door and put the tray on a chair.

“Nothin’ much. English Ed’s gang is pretty sore. They rode all night. Ha-haha-ha! Aw, they’ll cool off. Last night they was in a lynchin’ mood, tha’s all. Ryker wants to see you, Pete. Jist remember he’s the jigger that’ll try to hang you. Don’t tell him a thing, _sabe_? You don’t have to talk.”

Pete nodded quickly.

“I like see Judge Beal.”

“You can’t, Pete; he’s the judge.”

“He’s good man.”

“Uh-huh--shore, but he can’t see you until you walk into his courtroom. You’ll have to hire a lawyer, I reckon.”

“What for?”

“To prove you didn’t kill Mallette.”

“What lawyer see who kill him?”

“Oh, hell, there you are, Wind River!” exploded Roaring. “Can you imagine that? What lawyer seen who shot him?”

“I dunno,” said Wind River innocently. “Did any?”

Roaring stared open-mouthed at Wind River. Finally he closed his mouth and shook his head sadly.

“Well, I reckon it’s all right,” he said resignedly. “I hired you because you was honest, Wind River.”

“My old man come town yet?” asked Pete, beginning to eat.

“Not yet.”

“Huh! How soon they hang me?”

“Are you in any hurry, Pete?”

“Not much.”

“Well, that’s fine. They’ll have to try you first, so you’ll jist have to be patient. First they’ll give you a hearin’ and decide if yo’re worth hangin’. Then they’ll hold the trial and see when you git hung. It’ll take quite a while.”

“Nobody ask me if I kill Mallette,” said Pete, his mouth filled with food. “I like kill him pretty good, but somebody kill him. He stole my money.”

“You like to kill him, eh?”

“Sure.”

“Uh-huh. You’ll make a hell of a good witness for the State--as long as you last.”

* * * * *

Roaring left Wind River Jim with Pete and went to see Dr. Shelley, the coroner, who had an office at the east end of the street. The old doctor was a short, fat, breathless man, with two double chins and no waist-line.

“Going to have an inquest, I suppose,” puffed the doctor.

“Shore,” nodded Roaring. “He won’t keep a long while this kinda weather. You fix up about the inquest, Doc. That’s somethin’ I dunno anythin’ about. Are you shore Mallette didn’t kill himself?”

“Might have shot himself at long-range. No powder marks on his face, and the bullet went through his head.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Funny thing,” said the doctor. “You know, Mallette wore boots--the short kind. Well, there was dirt in both boots.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t know; I just mentioned it.”

“Uh-huh. Mallette didn’t look to me like a man who had taken a bath very often. You fix up about that inquest, will yuh, Doc? You’ve held ’em before.”

“All right, Roaring. Ryker was down to look at the corpse. He says there’s no doubt in his mind that Pete Conley killed Mallette. They chased Conley all night last night.”

“Yeah, I heard they did.”

Roaring didn’t bother to tell the doctor that he had Pete in jail. He went from the doctor’s office to Judge Beal’s home, where Wong Kee opened the door for him. The old judge was slumped down in an old rocker, half dressed, an uncorked bottle of whisky beside him on the table. On his lap was a much worn copy of the Bible.

“Come in, Roaring,” he said softly. “Sit down and tell me all the news. We’ve only heard rumors here. Between Wong’s rheumatism and my bottle of rye, we’ve not been able to get out and gather the news. Have a drink--it’s good stuff. Wong, bring the gentleman a glass.”

It was evident to Roaring that the judge was mellow with liquor. But that was as far as he ever got--mellow. No one had ever seen Judge Beal drunk--as a drunk is measured in Turquoise City.

Roaring took the drink and told the judge what had happened the night before. The old jurist chuckled over how Roaring drew the lynchers away from the ranch, while Jimmy Moran brought Pete safely to Turquoise.

“Oh, they’d have hung him, Judge,” assured Roaring. “Pete wasn’t stuck on comin’ to jail, but he could see that it was the only safe place for him.”

“That’s very true, Roaring. I got my second warning yesterday.”

“You did? Gosh! What are you goin’ to do, Judge?”

The old judge smiled grimly.

“Die in a good cause,” he said slowly. “Why run away? I’ve no place to go. After all, I am the judge of this district. English Ed and his cohorts fear justice, and it may be that English Ed has political influence enough to get a friendly judge elected, or rather appointed, in case he can frighten me into resigning.”

“Mebby,” nodded Roaring. “He scared Randall out.”

“But you are not one of his men, Roaring.”

“I hope to die if I am! I’ve got Wind River Jim for a deputy and I’ll run that office as long as she’s got a wheel to turn on--and when she ain’t, I’ll keep her draggin’. I dunno much about my office, Judge. Randall never did tell me much, so I’ve kinda got to run her by ear. English Ed and his gang don’t like me; but that ain’t goin’ to git me down. Well, I better go back and see how Wind River is makin’ out. I plumb forgot to tell him that bein’ a deputy sheriff don’t give him a right to shoot anybody he happens to get sore at. See you later, Judge.”

* * * * *

The inquest over the body of Mallette created quite a lot of interest, and the six jurors did not hesitate to bring in a verdict to the effect that Mallette had been killed by Peter Conley. Roaring Rigby refused to produce Pete in court.

“That half-breed is behind the bars, neck intact,” he told the coroner, “and there he stays until he has to go into a reg’lar courtroom. There’s too much iron among those present, I’ll tell you that.”

Jimmy Moran’s testimony regarding the poker game in which Mallette stole a card was rather in favor of Pete; and the audience enjoyed Jimmy’s story of how Roaring was chased by the posse. Jimmy admitted that it was he who brought Pete to jail that night.

Every one noticed that Jimmy showed Dawn marked attention during the trial, and Slim was foolish enough to mention this to Jimmy later on.

“Is it any of your damn business?” demanded Jimmy. “You may be in charge of my father’s cattle, but you’re not in charge of my father’s son. And get this straight, Slim. If I want to marry--”

“Sure, sure,” nodded Slim hastily. “Excuse me, Jimmy.”

Slim subsided, but he hurried to the telegraph office and sent a long telegram to Franklyn Moran, explaining what had happened and mentioning that Jimmy might need a bit of fatherly advice regarding matrimony. Not that it mattered to Slim, except that he had orders to keep Moran informed on Jimmy’s activities. Franklyn Moran loved Jimmy, in his own way, and he wanted Jimmy with the Big 4. According to his views of the matter, the sooner Jimmy went broke, the better, perhaps, for the relations between father and son.

Kent Cutter, owner of the 7AL, failed to see any humor in Jimmy’s recital of the fruitless chase of Pete Conley. Kent went back to the Black Horse after the inquest, imbibed a sufficient number of drinks to make him free of speech and then proceeded to tell the world that he didn’t care very much for Jimmy Moran.

Lovely Lucas, Jimmy’s sole remaining cowboy, was in the Black Horse and heard Cutter’s loud-voiced, profane opinion of Jimmy. Lovely was a huge figure of a man. In fact he was so big that his eight and one-half by six and one-half Stetson did not seem at all out of proportion on his head. He had a big nose and an enormous mouth. He had been born and raised in southern Texas, and he had an easy drawl. He sauntered over to the bar, rested one elbow lazily and considered Cutter.

“You jist kinda like to talk, don’tcha?” he said slowly.

Cutter turned his bloodshot eyes upon the bulky Lucas.

“Mebby,” he said shortly, and turned his back.

“He-he-he-he-he!” chuckled Lovely. He had imbibed a few drinks himself.

“My talkin’ don’t ache you none, does it?” demanded Cutter frigidly.

“It ain’t got that far--yit,” smiled Lovely, “but you’ve done got to remember that Jimmy Moran is my boss, Cutter. He ain’t no damn angel, so anythin’ you feel like sayin’ about him might better be said to his face, ’cause I’ll shore tell him what you said, and I might make it sound a heap worse ’n you would.”

“Huh!” snorted Cutter. “That’s no dream!”

“I’d prob’ly lie,” said Lovely softly.

“You would,” admitted Cutter incautiously.

Lovely Lucas moved swiftly for a big man. One huge hand caught the back of Cutter’s muffler, while the other caught the back of his cartridge-belt and, with a heave, he swung Cutter off the floor.

“Comin’ up!” snorted Lovely, and he swung Cutter over the bar, letting loose of him in mid-air.

The bartender fell out of the way, giving Cutter plenty of room to catch his legs across the top of the back-bar, hooking his spurred heels behind stacks of polished glasses, and bringing everything down on top of him when he crashed to the floor.

Lovely whirled around and headed for the door, his mouth wide open in a chuckling laugh. No one tried to stop him. He crossed the street and went straight to the sheriff’s office, where he found Roaring Rigby and Wind River Jim. It was several moments before Lovely was able to tell them what had happened.

“I jist kinda valised him over,” laughed Lovely.

“Yeah, and you’ll wish you hadn’t,” said Roaring. “That whole 7AL gang will lay for you.”

“But he called me a liar,” protested Lovely. “He said somethin’ ought to be done about Jimmy Moran marryin’ Dawn Conley.”

Roaring Rigby shifted his eyes and looked down at his boots. Wind River Jim looked reprovingly at Lovely and shook his head. Wind River knew more about it than Lovely did. But Lovely didn’t understand.

“If Jimmy wants to wed with that half-breed girl, I reckon we’ll all step out and help make it a success, eh, Roarin’?”

Roaring rubbed a thumb along the edge of his boot-top.

“Yea-a-ah,” he said slowly. “I reckon you’ve got to stick up for your friends, Lovely.”

“Shore! That’s why I played ante-over with Cutter. He-he-he-he! I s’pose English Ed will send me a bill for damages. Cutter’s legs swept every glass off the back-bar.”

“And you better tell Jimmy to look out for Ed,” advised Roaring. “That gambler ain’t forgot that Jimmy cooled him off the night that Mallette was killed.”

“Oh, Jimmy ain’t asleep, Roarin’. Say, I’ll let you in on somethin’, if you’ll keep still about it. After the inquest, old Mose Conley told Jimmy to keep away from the Hot Creek ranch; said he appreciated what Jimmy was doin’ for ’em, but that Jimmy was to keep away from Dawn. I reckon it was because he hates Jimmy’s pa. He didn’t say that was the reason. Jimmy got kinda hot and told the old man he was aimin’ to marry Dawn. He-he-he-he! The old man says Jimmy better think it over a long time, ’cause Dawn is a half-breed; and Jimmy asks him how long he took to think things over before he married Dawn’s mother. He-he-he-he-he!

“He had the old man up a stump, but the old man stuck to it. Jimmy asks him what he’ll do in case he decides to come to see Dawn. ‘I told you not to,’ says the old man. ‘All men look pretty much the same in the dark, and I’ve got to protect myself.’ And there you are. I didn’t talk with Jimmy afterwards; he piled on his bronc and went home.”

Some one stopped at the doorway of the office, and they turned to see English Ed. He looked coldly at Lovely.

“You owe me forty dollars, Lucas,” said the gambler. “That is the amount of glassware you broke awhile ago.”

“Forty dollars,” said Lovely softly. “Lotta glasses, Ed.”

“A month’s salary,” said Wind River Jim.

“And here’s a letter to take to Jim Moran,” said English Ed, handing Lovely an envelope. “You see that he gets it.”

“Yea-a-a-ah? And I owe you forty dollars, eh?” Lovely sat up straight and glared at the gambler. “Say! You cold-jawed card-slicker, do you think I’ll ever pay that? Pay you forty dollars for busted glasses! Why, I wouldn’t give forty dollars for everythin’ in your place, even if they’d throw in your hide and taller.

“You think you’re runnin’ this town, don’tcha? You runs Jim Randall out, but the rest of us has kinda got our heels braced, _sabe_? You’ve got a couple gunmen dealers over there. Mack Ort and Keno Smiley, I’m meanin’. You had three, until Mallette got hung on the hot end of a bullet.

“Well, you tell ’em to cut loose any old time. See if they can tear forty dollars’ worth out of my hide, English; and that’s the only way you’ll ever collect. Yeah, I know all about the warnin’ you sent to Jim Randall. You scared him out; but you ain’t scared old Judge Beal out yet. And if I was you, I’d turn right around and go back to my little playmates, knowin’ well that old man Lucas’ little boy ain’t never goin’ to give you that forty dollars. What do you think?”

English Ed did not change expression, no matter what he felt. It was no place for him to protest Lovely’s decision. These three hard-bitted cowboys were closer than brothers and, judging from their expressions, welcomed any argument he might start. So he merely nodded coldly, turned and walked away.

Lovely grinned widely and looked at the envelope. It was unsealed, and Lovely did not hesitate to open it and take out the enclosure. It read:

Jim Moran: Your I.O.U.’s, aggregating over twelve hundred dollars, are long past due. These must be met at once, or I shall be obliged to levy an attachment on the Stumbling K.

—Edward Holmes

“Twelve hundred dollars!” exploded Lovely. “Jimmy shore played high and handsome, didn’t he! Whooee! Levy an attachment, eh? What kind of a thing is that, Roarin’?”

“Some law thing. I told you English Ed would shut down on Jimmy.”

“And Jimmy can’t pay it,” declared Wind River Jim. “Why, he ain’t got it. Every time pay-day came around he had to sell enough cows to pay us off. Betcha he ain’t got fifty head of stock left. The Black Horse Saloon has got rich off of Jimmy Moran. He owes the bank, too. They’ve got a mortgage for a couple thousand.”

“Yeah, it kinda looks as though Jimmy was about sunk,” agreed Lovely.

He walked back to the door and looked out. Cutter was crossing the street, looking down toward the office. He met Ryker in front of the post-office, and they went up the street together.

“Cutter and Ryker are pretty good friends, ain’t they?” asked Lovely.

“Always have been,” grunted Roaring.

“Cutter’s prob’ly fixin’ to have me arrested,” grinned Lovely. “Mebby I better go home while the way is clear. How soon do they have Pete’s trial?”

“Next week,” replied Roaring.

“Before Judge Beal?”

“If he lives that long.”

“Who--Pete?”

“No, Judge Beal.”

* * * * *

The overland train ground to a stop at the little station of Sibley Junction, unloaded one passenger and a couple of heavy valises, and then hurried on, as if glad to get away.

Sibley Junction consisted of the depot, a water-tank and a saloon. The depot and water-tank were on one side of the railroad; the saloon was on the other. The saloon was a weatherbeaten, false-fronted structure, one side of which still bore traces of having been decorated with a circus poster.

There was no sidewalk, no awning. The false-front leaned back, as if weary of it all. The surrounding hills were hazy with the afternoon heat, and the dust from the passing train seemed to hang suspended in the windless atmosphere. There was no sign of life, except two saddled horses dozing at the hitch-rack beside the saloon.

The lone passenger from the overland picked up his valises and walked heavily to the waiting-room of the depot, dropped the valises and mopped his red face. He was a big man, square-headed, heavy-jawed, well dressed. His baggage was of expensive leather. He looked around sourly as the head and shoulders of a sleepy-eyed depot-agent appeared at the ticket window.

“Howdy, Mr. Moran,” said the man with the sleepy eyes. “I kinda thought somebody got off Number Six.”

“Yeah!” grunted Franklyn Moran.

“Goin’ over to Turquoise City, eh?”

“Yeah. Train on time?”

“Might be here on time tomorrow--not today. They went in the ditch this side of Wiebold, and the report is that they won’t move nothin’ over this jerkwater line for at least twenty-four hours, Mr. Moran. I’m sorry.”

Moran almost exploded. Slim Regan’s telegram had caused him to drop everything and head for Turquoise City. And here he was, twenty-five miles away, with no hotel, no livery-stable, no way for him to travel that twenty-five miles, except on foot.

“That means I can’t get a train to Turquoise until tomorrow, eh?”

“Probably about tomorrow even’.”

“Anybody around here got a horse I could buy or rent?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I saw two horses over at the saloon rack.”

“Couple of strange cowboys. They rode in today from the Outpost country. Been punching cows for the Muller outfit.”

“I wonder if they’re headin’ for Turquoise City?”

“I don’t think so. They asked about the Long Bend country.”

“Maybe I better take a look at ’em. I’ll leave my baggage here.”

Moran mopped his face again and crossed the track to the saloon. It was a dusty, fly-specked place. The bartender was humped over in a chair, reading a paper-backed novel; a gray cat was curled up on the end of the bar, and at the one card table sat two dusty cowboys, eating canned salmon, peaches and crackers.

Moran stopped at the bar and looked around. The bartender showed mild interest, marking the page of his book by crimping a page. The two cowboys did not even show mild interest. One of them was very tall and thin, with a long, serious face, which just now he was stuffing with food. The other was of medium height, broad-shouldered, with very wide blue eyes and a deeply-lined face. Their well worn garb was typical of the cow-country.

“I’ll buy a drink,” invited Moran.

The tall cowboy swallowed heavily and shook his head.

“Thank you just the same,” he said pleasantly. “We tried it.”

“They don’t know good liquor,” said the bartender rather plaintively, and getting to his feet.

“I reckon that’s right,” nodded the tall one, digging into the salmon can with his pocket-knife.

“Beer?” queried Moran.

The tall one grimaced.

“Hot. There ain’t been no ice here since the glacial period.”

“What’ll you have?” asked the bartender.

Moran considered.

“Anything cold?”