Part 10

Perhaps, he thought, there were two different gangs, or they might have blown the safe to make him think that there were two different outfits working. He grinned as he thought of Santel’s findings. Still, the descriptions covered the three of them. Baldy Malloy, Ike Welden and Meecham had all been robbed by men of the same description. Suddenly Brick laughed aloud and Silent looked at him curiously.

“What’s so ——ed funny?” Silent was tired and uncomfortable.

“Somethin’,” Brick’s brows were drawn in a thoughtful frown and the ball of his right thumb caressed the stubble on his chin. “Somethin’ good, Silent.”

“Oh, yeah,” Silent turned away, squinted at the ranch-house and nudged Brick on the knee.

A man was riding toward the ranch-house on the bluff trail, and both of them knew that it was Santel. They watched him ride up to the front door and dismount. But before he had time to go to the door, Mostano came out.

“Now what the —— is Santel doin’ there?” queried Silent.

“That’s a question,” grinned Brick. “I wish my ears were as good as my eyes, ’cause I’d sure like to hear what they’re sayin’.”

After a few minutes of conversation they walked around the house and back to the corral. Mostano, judging from his gestures, was doing most of the talking. They stopped at the corral gate and continued the conversation.

After a time Santel turned away and took several steps toward the house, as though going to leave, but turned. Mostano had stepped away from the corral, facing Santel. They were too far away for the two men in the brush to distinguish the detail of their movements, but just in front of Santel appeared a puff of smoke.

Mostano fell sidewise into the fence, trying to keep his feet. Another puff of smoke, and the closely spaced reports of two shots sounded. Brick and Silent could not see Mostano now, because he had fallen into the shadows of the pole corral.

Santel stood still for several moments, looking around, before he turned and hurried to the house. He knocked on the front door, but no one let him in. Then he stepped back, took a short run and hit the door with his shoulder. Brick grinned as Santel fell back. Brick knew that the oak bar was thick.

“He’s goin’ to smash the window,” observed Silent.

Santel had picked up a short length of pole, and now he proceeded to demolish a front window. He made short work of it, tore the curtain away and crawled inside.

“What in —— is he doin’ in there?” wondered Silent.

Brick shook his head and watched the house. In a few minutes Santel came out, looked around and mounted his horse. He did not seem to be in a hurry, but finally rode away up the bluff trail and disappeared toward the Red Hill mine.

“Well,” said Silent dryly, “we’ve got another dead man.”

“They’re almost as common as live ones around here,” said Brick sadly, his eyes glued on a certain patch of brush about a hundred feet to the east of the house. Something had caught his attention.

“Watch that patch of brush beyond the front of the house, Silent. There’s somethin’ there.”

And as an answer to his statement a woman left the patch of brush and went swiftly out of sight on the far side of the house, only to reappear, going toward the corral.

Brick got to his feet and motioned for Silent to follow him. They went swiftly down through the brush and out into the open, where they ran toward the house. The woman had discovered Mostano’s body and was too interested to see anything else.

They ran past the house and out to the brush patch before the woman saw them. She ran toward them, stopped, as though undecided what to do and went back to the corral. Brick crashed into the brush and stopped short. Just at his feet was the entrance to a tunnel, and in this entrance lay the half-breed baby and—little Whizzer Malloy.

Silent crowded in beside Brick and stared at the children. Little Whizzer looked up at them, but there was no recognition in his face. His little feet were tied tightly together with a whang-leather string, and he was as dirty as a child could possibly become.

Brick lifted him out and cut the string.

“Don’tcha know me, Whizzer?” he asked gently.

But the child only whimpered, his eyes filled with fear.

“My ——, I’ll betcha they’ve treated him tough,” declared Silent. “But how in —— did he happen to be here? Can yuh figure it out, Brick?”

Brick shook his head, his jaws shut tight. The half-breed woman was coming slowly toward them now, her shoulders drooped, her face set in lines of deep grief. She stopped in front of Brick, but would not look at him, as she said—

“My man dead—shot.”

“Yeah, I know it,” said Brick. “I reckon he had it comin’.”

“He dead,” she repeated.

“Where did you get this child?” asked Brick, not unkindly. He thought he could get more out of her by not adopting a threatening attitude. She looked blankly at him.

“Where did you get this boy?” he asked again. “You tell me where you get him.”

“Don’t know,” she said slowly, blankly.

“You don’t know? Come on now, tell me where yuh got him.”

“Don’ know.”

“She sure is a good witness,” observed Silent. “When her kind don’t want to talk, they can sure ruin the perade. Ask her why Santel killed Mostano?”

“She don’t know that either.”

“Don’ know,” she muttered blankly. “My man dead—shot.”

“Well, that’s one thing she does know.” Silent was inclined to sarcasm.

Little Whizzer Malloy whimpered and looked at Brick, as if trying to remember who Brick was.

“Don’tcha know me, Whizzer?” he asked.

But the child only looked blankly at him. Brick noticed that the little fellow had a bad bruise on the right side of his head and his right arm was painfully bruised.

“What the —— was that hole over there?” Silent pointed back toward the brush patch.

“That’s the tunnel that opens under the house,” said Brick. “They had a slick getaway. When Santel showed up Mostano put the woman and kids into the tunnel and slid the bunk over the trap-door. No wonder Santel didn’t find anythin’.”

“What do yuh reckon he was lookin’ for, Brick?”

Brick squinted at Silent and back toward the house.

“Does seem kinda funny, Silent. I’ll betcha this woman would know—if she made a sneak with the kids.”

“Don’ know,” persisted the woman blankly.

“Is there anythin’ yuh do know?” snorted Silent.

She looked blankly at Silent and turned her gaze back toward the corral.

“My man dead,” she said simply.

They walked over to the corral and looked at Mostano. Either of Santel’s bullets would have killed him. Mostano’s six-shooter was lying in the dust beside the corral, several feet away, proving that he had made an attempt to defend himself, but had dropped the gun as he fell.

“There ain’t nothin’ we can do for him,” observed Brick, “so we’ll just put the body in the house and take this kid back to Marlin.”

Little Whizzer’s legs had evidently been bound ever since he had disappeared, and they were too weak to support his body. They propped him against the fence, while they placed Mostano’s body in the house, but made the woman accompany them.

“We’ll send somebody out here,” Brick told the woman, as they picked up Whizzer and started for their horses.

“Don’ want nobody,” she declared. “You keep away.”

“Write yore own ticket,” said Brick shortly, and walked away.

They got their horses and rode back toward Marlin City with Brick carrying Whizzer in his arms. The youngster seemed to be trying to figure out what it was all about, and Brick grinned encouragingly.

“Don’tcha worry, Whizzer,” he told him. “Yo’re plenty safe now.”

They crossed the hills and came out on the grade at the little trail, just south of where Baldy had gone over the bank with the stage. Whizzer had straightened up a little and seemed less dazed now, so Brick led the way back to where the stage had gone over.

The youngster looked around, as though he recognized the spot, and finally looked up at Brick.

“Where’s my daddy?” he asked.

“For the love of mud!” exclaimed Silent. “He’s rememberin’.”

“Do yuh remember the stage, Whizzer?” asked Brick. “Remember what happened the day you rode with your daddy?”

“I fell off.” Whizzer’s eyes were round and excited.

“Yuh did?”

“Yeah!” He looked around. “I fell off on the road. Where did my daddy go?”

“And then somebody picked yuh up,” prompted Brick, ignoring the question. “Who picked yuh up, Whizzer?”

“I hurt my head. Somebody shoot a gun.”

“Didja see anybody before yuh fell off the wagon?”

Whizzer shook his head.

“I hear the gun shoot and then I fall off. Where’s my daddy?”

“Whizzer, old-timer,” said Brick earnestly, “you’ve got to remember some things for me. After yuh fell off the stage you hurt yore head. When you woke up, who did yuh see?”

Whizzer’s forehead puckered, as he stared at Brick.

“I seen two mans in house. One man got somethin’ on his face, like stage-robber. Woman and baby there.”

“One man was masked, eh? It wasn’t the Indian man, was it?”

Whizzer shook his head and looked around quickly.

“Don’tcha be afraid of him,” said Brick. “He’s dead.”

“He hit me,” said Whizzer simply. “They make me stay in the mine and I can’t git out.”

He began crying softly, still terrified at what he had experienced in the few days. Brick swore softly and hugged the youngster.

“Don’t cry, buddy,” he said. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to hurt yuh ag’in, y’betcha.”

They swung their horses around and galloped away toward town.

“Do yuh think Santel done it, Brick?” queried Silent, as they swept along the grade.

“I dunno, Silent. Me and Harp met Santel just below here that day. Anyway, he knows somethin’ about it, and I’m goin’ to find out what he knows, if I have to drill him plumb full of lead to let the information leak out.”

Whizzer was asleep when they rode up to Wesson’s home and dismounted. Mrs. Wesson met Brick at the door, and gasped with surprize at sight of his burden. Whizzer woke up and began crying, but the sleep had refreshed him and he quit crying as soon as he realized that he was no longer in the tunnel.

In a few words Brick explained how they had found him, and in less time than that Mrs. Wesson had placed him at the table behind a big bowl of bread and milk. He ate ravenously, while Mrs. Wesson sat across the table from him, her eyes filled with tears, and promised him a nice warm bath and a soft bed.

“Gotta find my daddy,” he told her. “They didn’t give me no bread and milk.”

“What did they give yuh, honey?” asked Mrs. Wesson.

Whizzer swallowed a big portion of bread, almost choking over it.

“They gimme ——,” he said simply.

“Yuh can’t beat him, can yuh?” grinned Brick. “He’s a buckaroo.”

“I lost m’ spur. Mebbe—” he smiled at Brick—“mebbe my daddy’s got it. He said he was goin’ to git me ’nother one.”

“Where’s Harp?” asked Silent.

“Him and Miss Miller went to the dance at Silverton,” smiled Mrs. Wesson. “Harp had a sweet time squarin’ himself with her, but he made Brick out to be the biggest liar in the State—and she believed him. By jinks, I think she likes him. Human nature is one queer thing. I’ll betcha Leach will be sore as a boil. He sure did want to go with her.”

Whizzer laid aside his spoon and sighed deeply.

“Had enough, buddy?” asked Brick.

“Uh-huh. I can’t hold no more.”

“Now I’ll give him a good hot bath and put him into a nice bed,” said Mrs. Wesson. “Mebbe we better have the doctor over to fix up them bruises, Brick. He’s sure been skinned awful bad.”

“Don’t hurt.” Whizzer shook his head.

“That’s fine, buddy,” nodded Brick. “Now if yuh could only tell us what that masked man looked like.”

Whizzer shook his head.

“Dunno. He had a cloth on his face.”

“But his clothes, Whizzer. Wasn’t there somethin’ yuh could remember? Somethin’ about how he looked?”

Whizzer shook his head. Brick lighted a cigaret and studied the youngster.

“Sleepy, Whizzer?”

“Nope. Say, when do I find my daddy?”

Brick sighed and shook his head sadly. He did not want to tell him now. Silent swore softly and counted the cartridge-heads in his belt.

“Want to take a ride to Silverton, buddy?” queried Brick.

“Sure.” Whizzer hopped off his chair and almost fell down. “My feet don’t feel good,” he told Brick. “They ache.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t take him plumb down there, Brick.” Thus Mrs. Wesson quickly. “He needs a bath and some good sleep.”

“I know it, Ma,” nodded Brick, “but I’ve got to take him. It might be kinda hard on Whizzer, but he’ll pull through.”

“Sure,” nodded Whizzer. “I’ll go.”

Mrs. Wesson grumbled to herself, as she wrapped him up in a light blanket. She knew that Brick must have a good reason for taking the youngster to Silverton; but she did want to clean him up a little.

“Lemme carry him,” begged Silent. “I’ve got a strong horse, and it takes a strong horse to carry two cowpunchers.”

“Sure,” agreed Whizzer. “I lost m’ spur, yuh know.”

“Yuh can have both of mine,” offered Silent, as Brick handed the youngster up to him.

“Oh, good! If daddy gives me one, I’ll have three. Mebbe he won’t though.”

“Mebbe not,” said Silent softly.

* * * * *

A dance in Silverton was almost a county affair. They had the largest hall in the county and boasted of the best orchestra. The dance usually began about eight o’clock in the evening and rarely ever ended before eight o’clock the following morning.

And it was not strange on this night that every bit of space in the livery-stable was taken and practically every inch of space at the several hitch-racks was occupied. It was also a big night for the games at the Short Horn saloon, as every cowpuncher made it a point to borrow or draw enough money to make the trip worth while.

Already the rasping notes of a fiddler tuning his instrument filtered out through the open windows of the big upstairs dance-hall across the street from the Short Horn saloon. Cowpunchers, suffering in celluloid collars, tight boots, and exuding odors of Jockey Club and cologne, were at the bar; trying to appear at ease, as if this sartorial splendor were nothing unusual.

From somewhere Slim Hunter had procured an old dress coat, which exhibited a vast expanse of his red-and-green striped shirt, and did not blend well with his light blue trousers and yellow boots. Banty Harrison, sans vest, but with a great, striped Ascot tie, was perspiring freely, trying to keep the thing on his collar. But no one criticized their apparel. Everyone was there to have a good time, regardless of clothes.

Men shouted at each other and flung their money on the bar or across the green cloth, while the roulette-wheel whizzed and the dealer’s voices blended into the babel of voices. Harp had left Miss Miller to the tender mercies of some Silverton ladies and had invaded the Short Horn for a nerve elixir.

Grant, Hendricks, and Leach were at the bar when Harp came in, and Grant went directly to him.

“Where’s Brick?” he asked.

Harp shook his head and gave his orders to the busy bartender.

“I dunno, Bill.”

“When did yuh see him last, Harp?”

Harp rubbed his nose thoughtfully. Leach had moved in close enough to listen in on the conversation; so Harp did not answer. He took his drink and drew Grant away from the bar, leaving Leach with Hendricks.

“I dunno where he is,” declared Harp. “He didn’t come home last night. I never knowed that McKeever was killed until late today.”

“Got any idea where he is, Harp?”

“Not a danged idea. Him and Silent sneaked away from me yesterday, and I ain’t seen ’em since.”

“It’s kinda funny,” mused Grant. “They wanted to hold an inquest over McKeever today, but they had to put it off until Brick and Silent showed up. Do yuh suppose they ran into somethin’?”

“Who seen ’em last here?”

“Doctor Bridger. He saw them ride out of town.”

“Uh-huh,” Harp squinted reflectively.

“Well, I dunno, Bill.”

Leach walked up to them and spoke directly to Grant.

“Well, does he know anything about them, Grant?”

Grant shook his head and looked at Harp who was looking curiously at Leach. Harp grinned softly. He could afford to grin now, because he knew that Leach had seen him bring Miss Miller to Silverton.

“Seems funny that the sheriff would avoid the inquest,” said Leach. “Perhaps he had a reason for not wantin’ to be here.”

“I’ll betcha he did,” said Harp. “Brick usually has a good reason for doin’ things.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Yuh see, Brick ain’t no detective—he’s a man-hunter.”

“Man-hunter?” Leach laughed sarcastically. “Who did he ever catch?”

“You better read local hist’ry,” advised Harp.

“Brick got a few of ’em,” nodded Grant.

“History, eh?” Leach grinned. “I suppose he has had it all written out and bound in books.”

“All except the last chapter,” said Harp seriously. “He’s writin’ that now, I reckon.”

Leach laughed and walked away.

“He don’t like you, Harp,” smiled Grant.

“By golly, that just about breaks me all up, Bill. When I look at him and know he don’t like me, I just tremble with emotion. Yes sir, it’s just like havin’ a chill. Yuh goin’ to the dance?”

“No, I don’t think so. I ain’t dressed for dancin’.”

“Yuh might borrow Slim Hunter’s coat. He looks just like one of them there doctor’s charts, which shows yore insides, after yore kinda opened up that-a-way. That shirt sure does correspond to them colored heart, liver and lung things.”

Banty Harrison came shoving his way past, but stopped to shake hands with Harp.

“Let’s go over and dance, Harp,” he panted. “It’s too danged hot in here. I’m goin’ to git a string, if I can find one, and tie this imported necktie to the top button of my pants. Dang anybody that would sell a tie like this. Yuh got to be a civil engineer to even tie it. C’mon.”

“Won’t she stay down, Banty?” queried Harp.

“Stay ——! Every time I start talkin’ and kinda wigglin’ my throat, the darned thing comes up and bumps my lower lip.”

Hank Stagg came past them and went to the bar. He was already half-drunk and talking loud. Ike Welden joined him at the bar, but Welden was still sober. Santel came in and walked past them, his eyes sweeping the smoke-filled room. Hank called to him, asking him to have a drink, but Santel either did not hear him or did not want to drink with him.

“There’ll be —— to pay before mornin’,” declared Banty. “Yuh can’t put a gang like that together, along with plenty of hooch, and not have trouble. Whisky and six-guns don’t mix. —— this necktie!”

“Why don’tcha pin it down to yore shirt?”

“Yeah—and have it pull my shirt off, eh? Harp, you ain’t got no idea of the —— in this necktie. What I need is a collar with a pistol-grip finish instead of this ——ed slick thing.”

“Cowboys goin’ to a dance, eh?” Slim Hunter stopped to look them over.

“Introducin’ to you,” said Harp seriously, “the effect of tobacco and alcohol on the intestines.”

“Jist when do I laugh?” asked Slim.

“Next time yuh go to the bar.”

“Uh-huh,” Slim grinned and went on. He had no idea what Harp meant.

“What’ll make him laugh when he goes to the bar?” queried Banty.

“He’ll be facin’ the bar,” said Harp wearily, “and the back-bar mirror ought to show him what I meant.”

“Haw, haw, haw! Aw, —— this tie! Can’t even laugh. C’mon and help me find a guy-rope. By golly, I won’t stand for my own clothes slappin’ me in the mouth.”

They crossed the street and procured a length of string at a general store, with which they secured the tie to a suspender button, much to Banty’s delight. Then they went upstairs into the dance hall, where the floor was rapidly filling for the first quadrille.

It was possibly an hour later when Brick and Silent dismounted at the hitch-rack across the street from the Short Horn saloon. Whizzer had slept nearly all the way, but he was awake now and Silent turned him over to Brick.

The music had just stopped in the dance hall, and a number of men were straggling across the street toward the Short Horn, laughing and talking. Brick heard Harp’s voice, arguing with somebody over the proper way to hold down a necktie.

“C’mon,” said Brick softly.

He hoisted little Whizzer up on his shoulder and walked boldly into the saloon. The place was filled with men, hazy with tobacco smoke. Brick shoved his way to the bar and stood Whizzer on its polished top.

It was several moments before any one recognized the youngster, who was looking them over with his wide brown eyes. It was Mose LaClede, the big trapper, who made the discovery, and his voice boomed loudly above the roar of the conversation:

“By ——! De los’ boy! Look! I’m be a —— liar, if it ain’t de leetle boy ’imself.”

The roar of conversation broke abruptly. It was not a slowing down, but a sudden silence. Even the whirr of the roulette and the rattle of poker-chips was stilled, as the crowd stared at the little overall-clad, dirty-faced youngster on the bar, who was looking at them.

There was a cleared space of several yards between Brick and the crowd. Silent had halted nearer the door. Brick could see Santel in the crowd. Hank Stagg was at the bar, just beyond Brick, staring wide-eyed at the youngster.

And before any one could voice a question Leach came striding in past Silent, but stopped quickly, wondering at the silence. He turned his eyes and saw little Whizzer. Meecham, well-dressed, came in, glanced quickly at the crowd and stopped almost against Silent.

“Well, I’ll be ——ed if it ain’t the kid!” exclaimed Bill Grant. “Where did yuh find him, Brick?”

But Brick did not reply. He was watching Whizzer.

“Baldy Malloy’s kid, eh?” Leach’s voice sounded as if he were suffering from a cold.

A man laughed, and Brick glanced in that direction to see Ike Welden standing up in a chair against the wall. Ike was partly drunk. Brick’s sweeping glance included Santel, who was leaning forward, his face tense, shoulders hunched.

“Take her easy, Brick.”

It was Harp speaking from the far end of the bar. He knew that trouble was coming. A man began crying. It was Hank Stagg. Perhaps it was from the effect of liquor—perhaps not. Meecham started to back away, but Silent blocked him.

Leach forced a smile and moved slightly closer. Whizzer was staring at Leach and now he grasped Brick’s shoulder.

“Don’t let him touch me!” The childish treble sounded loud in the silence of the room.

Leach stopped.

“Why not, Whizzer?” Brick’s lips barely moved and he did not turn his head. “Are yuh afraid of him, buddy?”

“He’s got warts on his hands! And there’s the frog on his holster!”

“Warts? Frog?”

Brick’s eyes shifted to Leach’s hands, which were turned away, as if Leach were trying to conceal them. But he could not conceal the holster, on which was the leaping-frog design in silver. Perhaps it was the symbol of a swift draw.

Leach’s face had gone white, his jaw tensed. Hank Stagg’s sobs were the only audible noise, except the heavy breathing of the crowd.

“Tell us about it, buddy,” said Brick softly. “He ain’t goin’ to hurt yuh.”

“He’s got warts on his hands,” repeated the little fellow. “The man had ’em—the man who wore the cloth over his face—and he had the frog on his holster. Frogs make warts, don’tcha know it? I don’t like warts—and he’s got ’em.”

The little fellow, in spite of his treatment, had seen the warty hands and the leaping frog, and they had impressed him so strongly that there was no chance of a mistake.

“Good boy,” breathed Brick, and then a little louder, “Bartender, will yuh please put this boy on yore side of the bar?”

The frightened drink-dispenser shuffled down behind Brick, lifted the youngster down and went quickly back to the farther end of the bar. Leach laughed. Somewhere a handful of poker-chips slid from a table and rattled to the floor.

“What’s it all about, anyway?” demanded Leach.

Brick leaned back against the bar. His face was drawn, blue, in that weak light, and he seemed tired. But those who knew him well, knew that he was dangerous now. The light-hearted, devil-may-care Brick Davidson was gone, and in his place was the sheriff of Sun Dog, a man-hunter— not a detective.