Part 5

* * * * *

Brick mounted and went slowly down the road about a quarter of a mile, where he swung up the side of hill, heading northwest of the Red Hill property. A narrow hog-back ridge led back to the top of the hill, from where he could get a bird’s-eye view of the big mine.

As he rested his horse he saw Mostano ride away from the mine, traveling in the same general direction as Brick was heading. Brick waited for Mostano to disappear in the timber before going on.

The ridge led back through fairly heavy timber, forcing him to travel slowly. About two miles from the mine he stopped. He knew that the old Hooper ranch was located about due north of where he was, and that Mostano must cross that ridge on his way home.

In a few minutes he was rewarded by seeing Mostano ride up the side of the hill, cross the ridge about two hundred yards beyond him and ride down into the next cañon. Brick moved on and found the trail. He gave Mostano plenty of time before following him.

The trail led around the head of the next cañon, twisted down the opposite side and came out into more open country. There were several head of cattle on this side, and Brick noted that all of them were branded with the big H.

The trail led to the edge of a high bluff, where he drew rein. Below the bluff, about half a mile away, he could see the buildings of the old Hooper ranch, standing in the middle of a big, partly cleared meadow. But he could see nothing of Mostano now.

There was no sign of life about the place. The corrals were empty. Brick considered the place for quite a while. He was suspicious of Mostano. Whoever was killing the beef must have a ready market for meat. There were other big mining crews at Redrock, but that was too far away for any one to transport the meat at a profit.

Finally he decided to take a closer view of the place; so he spurred down the bluff trail and rode boldly up to the old ranch-house. A half-breed woman came to the door, as he dismounted, shading her eyes from the sun. She was a slatternly looking woman, poorly dressed, bare of feet.

“Howdy,” grinned Brick. “You Mrs. Mostano?”

“Um-m-m.” She was not at all friendly.

“Where’s Joe?” he asked.

She squinted at him and shook her head. A number of mongrel dogs came from behind the house and created a din with their barking. Brick slapped at them with his hat and they went yelping for cover. It was evident that Mostano had taught them their place.

“Nice dogs yuh got,” offered Brick.

“Um-m-m.”

“Me and you don’t seem to be able to find things to talk about,” grinned Brick. “Don’tcha get lonesome livin’ up here?”

The woman squinted down at her bare feet and up at Brick.

“W’at you want here?” she demanded.

“I want to talk to Joe?”

“W’y you want Joe?”

“Mebbe I want to buy some cheap meat.”

She considered this thoughtfully. Brick thought he had made an impression, but this was quickly dispelled by—

“I think you —— liar.”

Then she turned, stepped into the house and shut the door. Brick laughed and swung back onto his horse.

“Mebbe that’s right, too,” he chuckled. “My reputation must ’a’ got here ahead of my winnin’ personality.”

He rode past the house and looked over the corrals. There was no sign of any one having butchered stock there, and Brick decided that Mr. Mostano must do the butchering in the hills. He was sure that Mostano had not come home, as there was no sign of himself nor of the pinto horse.

As he rode back past the house he noticed that the place commanded a fine view of the high bluff and trail. It would be impossible for any one to approach the ranch unseen in daylight from that direction.

At the top of the bluff he looked back, but there was no sign of any one moving around the house. He swung to the left, heading in almost a direct line toward Marlin City, taking a chance that he would be able to strike the Big Elk grades about where they sloped down onto the lower ground.

Brick had never been through that part of the hills, but felt that it would be easier than going back to the Red Hill mine. The timber was fairly heavy and that side of the hill was grown up with jack-pine and willows, making it rather difficult traveling.

He had just skirted a willow thicket and was looking for a good place to cross a rocky swale, when he caught a glimpse of a rider skirting the side of the hill about an eighth of a mile beyond him. The heavy cover made it difficult for him to catch more than a glimpse.

Brick drew his horse into the cover of a willow bush and waited. His sorrel horse blended in well with the colors of the hillside, and he was curious to know who this rider might be.

But try as he might he could not locate him again. He felt that the rider was not coming toward him, because it would be impossible for a horse to travel silently. He scanned the hills in all directions. There was something further up on the hill—something that moved.

“Prob’ly a cow,” said Brick to himself. “That jigger couldn’t ’a’ got up there that quick.”

Then came the smashing report of a gun. The echoes clattered from hill to hill, dying away in diminishing echoes. Brick dropped out of his saddle, gun in hand. He had not heard the bullet. Whoever it was, they were not shooting at him.

Again the rifle awoke the echoes. Brick grinned to himself.

“Shootin’ cattle,” he told himself. “Somebody is killin’ a load of meat for the Red Hill mine, and here’s my chance to put the deadwood upon him.”

There was no more shooting. Brick squatted on his heels and waited. He intended to give the man a chance to get busy on his butchering before making a search. He knew that this man might wait quite a while after his kill, to make sure that no one was going to make an investigation of the shots. Brick was a good waiter.

It was possibly fifteen minutes after the last shot had been fired, when Brick heard a noise. It came from below him, and sounded like the snapping of a dry stick. Brick’s horse was well concealed by the willows from any one coming up the slope.

Just below Brick was a jack-pine thicket, growing up out of a tangle of rocks and old logs, and he studied this closely. One of the jack-pine tops jiggled, as if something had struck it slightly. Brick humped a little lower and drew back the hammer on his six-shooter.

Something was coming out through the thicket within ten feet of Brick. At first he thought it was a bear. Brick did not want trouble with a bear just now. A six-shooter is an unreliable bear weapon—and Brick was after bigger game.

Then the bear resolved itself into a man—Santel. He lifted his head slowly, his eyes searching ahead—and looked into the muzzle of Brick’s six-shooter.

For several moments they looked at each other. Then:

“It’s yuh, eh?” said Santel softly.

“Yeah,” nodded Brick. “Yuh better let go that gun, Santel.”

“I know it.”

Santel sat up, leaving his gun on the ground, while Brick moved down and secured it. Then he sat down and they considered each other.

“Where’s your rifle?” queried Santel. He did not seem greatly concerned over his capture.

“I haven’t any,” replied Brick.

“No?” Santel wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. “No rifle? Huh! Yuh didn’t kill my horse with a six-gun?”

“I didn’t even shoot at your horse,” declared Brick.

“No?” Santel’s brows lifted slightly, and a grin twisted his lips. “Well, somebody did, sheriff. My horse is dead—neck broke.”

“Yeah?” Brick’s blue eyes squinted thoughtfully. “This must ’a’ been a three-handed game, Santel. Just what are yuh doin’ over here?”

“Just lookin’. No law against lookin’ around, is there?”

Brick grinned and handed Santel his gun.

“Not a bit.”

“Thanks,” Santel holstered his gun. “What was it all about?”

Brick shook his head. He was as much in the dark as Santel. He told Santel what he had seen, but he did not say that he was of the opinion that the shots were fired by a meat-thief.

Santel got to his feet and looked around. Brick walked back to his horse and picked up the reins.

“You ride a sorrel, too, eh?” remarked Santel thoughtfully. “My horse is a sorrel.”

“Mebbe,” said Brick seriously, “it was a good thing for me. We’ll cache yore saddle and ride my horse double.”

They found Santel’s horse, unsaddled it and hid the saddle in the heavy foliage of a fir-tree. Santel studied the landmarks to get his bearings, mounted behind Brick and they headed for Marlin City.

“Have yuh got any idea who done that shootin’?” asked Santel.

“Not for publication,” replied Brick. “Anyway, the county commissioners told me to let yuh alone, Santel. They said that yuh wouldn’t need my help in findin’ out things.”

“Tha’sso?”

“Yeah, yo’re supposed to be a regular finder, yuh know.”

“I’m tryin’ to find out some things, sheriff.”

“Well,” laughed Brick, “they can’t expect to have yuh find out everythin’.”

“They probably will be ——ed sorry if I do.”

“Oh, yeah,” grunted Brick. “I’ll betcha that’s right.”

But Brick hadn’t the slightest idea what Santel meant.

They rode to the Star Dot ranch, where they found Hank Stagg and Sam Leach sitting on the porch, talking with Bill Grant. Their coming, mounted on one horse, must have caused a certain amount of speculation in the minds of the three men, but no questions were asked.

Santel dismounted and held out his hand to Brick.

“I’m sure much obliged to yuh, sheriff,” he said.

“Same here,” smiled Brick.

“Get off and rest yore feet, Brick,” invited Grant.

Brick shook his head and gathered up his reins:

“Not today, Bill, thank yuh. I’m kinda busy these days, lookin’ after the morals of our feller-men.”

“That’s a good job for you,” declared Sam Leach.

“Y’betcha. There’s a lot of ’em that need lookin’ after, Leach. I don’t want to be personal, but I will say that there’s a lot of loose cinches in this country, and if they ain’t tightened up pretty quick—somebody’s saddle is goin’ to turn.”

“Meaning what?” queried Leach.

Brick swung his horse around and headed for the gate, without answering Leach’s question. In fact, he couldn’t have answered it. He disliked Leach, and he knew that such a statement would rankle in Leach’s bosom for quite a while.

That someone had mistaken Santel for him—Brick—was almost a certainty, Brick decided. Just what Santel was doing in that part of the hills, he had no idea. Brick had left the Red Hill mine and had ridden up the hog-back in full view of the mine. It was possible that Mostano had seen him and had tried to kill him.

It was not a place frequented by cowboys, and it would have been easy for Mostano to mistake Santel for Brick, as they were both mounted on sorrel horses. At any rate, thought Brick, Joe Mostano was worth watching.

Santel’s statement regarding the county commissioners set Brick to thinking. Just what would it make them sorry for him to find out, he wondered? Miss Miller had recognized Santel as being a bad man—a gun-fighter. According to her, Santel had been a hired gun-man for the sheep interests, and had been suspected of murdering two cowpunchers in Idaho.

Brick was willing to discount the murder statement. He knew that, under those circumstances, an ordinary killing would be termed murder. Santel did not look like a murderer, but he did look like a gun-man, whose gun might be for rent.

“Well,” Brick resolved, “I’m not goin’ to worry about Santel. Mebbe between us we can kinda launder old Sun Dog and hang her out to dry in the sun. Anyway, somebody has fired the first gun of the battle—and all they got was a horse.”

* * * * *

It was several days later that Soapy Caswell came to Marlin City, driving a spirited pair of bronchos, hitched to a buckboard. He tied them at the Dollar Down hitch-rack and met Brick in front of Wesson’s store.

“Goin’ some place, or just got there?” queried Brick.

“If I wanted to go some place, I wouldn’t stop here,” grunted Soapy. “Don’t like yore town. What do yuh think of that?”

“That’s fine,” grinned Brick. “Mebbe we better call a meetin’ and let everybody grieve. What do yuh know, Soapy?”

“Danged little, Brick. Doin’ any good for yoreself?”

“Not much.”

“Uh-huh.” Soapy lowered his voice. “Did that detective ever show up?”

“Been here quite a while, Soapy. Name’s Santel.”

“Tha’sso? I reckon I might as well expect to get all that stolen money back pretty soon, eh?”

“Yuh might as well expect to, Soapy.”

“Gosh, that’s fine! I’m all excited, like an old lady. It’s too bad he wasn’t here to find the little Malloy boy.”

“He was here. He helped hunt for him, Soapy.”

“Pshaw! Then he ain’t no wizard, is he? Well, mebbe I won’t get that money back. What are yuh doin’ today, Brick? Anythin’ special?”

“Nope.”

“Then come and take a ride with me, will yuh? I’ve got to go out to the Red Hill mine and see Barney Devine, and I sure hate to travel alone. We’ll be comin’ right back. What do yuh say?”

“Well, all right, Soapy. I’ll tell Harp that I’m goin’.”

Brick went to the office, where he found Harp stretched out on a cot, groaning out an alleged tune on his jew’s-harp.

“I’m goin’ to Red Hill with Soapy Caswell,” stated Brick. “If anybody tries to break into jail—stop ’em, Harp.”

“Aw-w-w right. Leave me plenty of shells for the riot-gun and I’ll sure keep the place sanitary. I’ve got a new tune, Brick. Listen to this, will yuh? It’s a dinger. Wa-a-ait a minute!”

But Brick ducked out through the doorway and hurried up to the hitch-rack, where Soapy waited for him. Harp got up and went to the doorway, where he watched Soapy and Brick drive out of town.

Slim Hunter was dismounting in front of Wesson’s store, so Harp wandered up there. Slim was talking to Cale Wesson about putting up an announcement in his store, when Harp came in.

“Hello, yuh long-geared ant-eater,” greeted Harp.

“Same to you, you bat-eared cattywampus,” grinned Slim. “How are yuh?”

“Finer ’n frawg-hair. Watcha doin’, Slim?”

“Advertisin’ a dance.”

“Tha’sso? Where—Silverton?”

“Y’betcha. Next Friday night. Oyster supper, too. Goin’ to have some reg’lar music, too, Harp. Yuh want t’ be there.”

“Friday night, eh?”

Harp was thinking fast. Here was his chance to take Miss Miller and he was not going to lose any time in asking her.

“See yuh later, Slim,” he grunted, turning to the door. “I’m kinda in a hurry right now.”

Harp went outside and headed for Wesson’s home, going as fast as he could walk on high heels. Mrs. Wesson answered his knock, squinting at him quizzically.

“Miss Miller to home?” asked Harp.

Mrs. Wesson shook her head.

“No, she is still at the schoolhouse, Harp. She won’t be home until after four o’clock.”

“Uh-huh.” Harp shifted his feet nervously. “There’s goin’ to be a dance at Silverton next Friday.”

“So I heard.”

“Yuh did? Who told yuh, Mrs. Wesson?”

“Why, Sam Leach was here kinda early this mornin’ to ask Miss Miller to go with him.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Harp in a far-away voice, “Uh-huh. We-ell, I reckon they’ll have a real nice dance. Much obliged, Mrs. Wesson.”

“I’m makin’ some doughnuts,” offered Mrs. Wesson, knowing Harp’s fondness for such delicacies. But this was one time when Harp’s sweet tooth had turned sour.

“Just as much obliged,” he said painfully. “I’ve been havin’ a touch of inde-jest-shun. Mebbe next time, thank yuh. Nice weather we’re havin’, Mrs. Wesson. Well, I’ll be jiggin’ along.”

Mrs. Wesson stood in the doorway and watched Harp go back to the street, walking dejectedly. She tried to laugh, was a failure; so she went back to her kettle. Harp went back to the street and headed for the Dollar Down.

His soul was sore within him and he needed a bracer. Slim Hunter had given the bartender one of the notices to put on the back-bar, and Harp gazed upon it with sad eyes.

“Drinkin’ anythin’?” queried Slim.

“Yeah—anythin’,” replied Harp sadly. “My stummick is kinda antegodlin’, and mebbe a shot or two will fix her up.”

They had a drink on Slim, one on Harp and then the bartender opened his heart enough to shove out the glasses. After these three drinks, Slim began to dilate upon the wonders of the coming dance.

“Naw, I don’t want to listen to it,” declared Harp sadly. “If you’ve got any tale of sufferin’—tell it to me, Slimmie. My soul is in the slough of despond. Stummick trouble sure does paint things blue.”

“You ought to do somethin’ about it,” stated Slim. “Feller like you ain’t got none too many insides; so yuh got to protect what yuh have got. Mebbe another drink, eh?”

“Yuh sure diagnose, cowboy,” applauded Harp.

But liquor only served to make Harp more sad. He became maudlin in his grief, trying to tell the story of his life and only remembering some sad stories he had read. His grief affected Slim, and they cried crocodile tears on the top of the bar and swore eternal friendship, while the bartender begged them to go away and let him sleep.

* * * * *

While Harp bathed his soul in tears, Brick and Soapy rode along the Big Elk grades, rattling along at a good pace over the narrow road. They were nearing the spot where the stage had gone over the edge, and Brick was telling Soapy about how he and Harp had passed the wreck without knowing it.

Suddenly the team swerved widely on a hairpin turn, throwing one rear wheel off the grade. Brick grabbed the side of the seat, as he was thrown violently over the side, and his eyes caught a flash of a masked man just ahead of the horses, his rifle pointing at them.

The next moment he landed in a heap on the steep side-hill and rolled into a clump of brush, so badly jarred that he was unable to move. It was possibly a minute before he could realize what had happened to him.

He sat up and looked around at a landscape that would not hold still. His eyes gradually regained their focus on objects and he got painfully to his feet. He was bruised all over and his face was bleeding from several cuts. He looked back at the grade, but was unable to see anything on account of the extreme angle.

He remembered the flash he had had of the masked man. His holster was empty, but about half-way up to the grade he found his gun, wedged in the rocks. It was a stiff climb back to the grade, where he found Soapy trying to untangle his team.

Soapy gawped at him and swore wonderingly.

“By ——, I thought you was killed,” he told Brick.

“I was,” panted Brick. “What in —— was it, Soapy? Was it a hold-up?”

Soapy yanked the team straight on the grade.

“Whoa! You ——ed rattle-brains! Was it a hold-up?”

“Well, was it?” queried Brick, hanging to a rear wheel.

“Git in,” ordered Soapy. “I can’t keep these ——ed hummin’-birds on the grade, if we don’t git goin’.”

Brick climbed into the seat and Soapy got in beside him. The team started with a jerk and they rattled away toward the Red Hill mine. Brick noticed that Soapy’s jaw was set at a belligerent angle and that his profanity was even more cutting than usual.

“Mind talkin’ about it?” queried Brick. “Yuh must remember that I unloaded early in the game, and all I got was a glimpse.”

“You was pretty ——ed lucky, at that,” said Soapy. “Did yuh notice the stuff I had in the back of the rig? That old gunnysack and an old rug?”

Brick glanced back. There was nothing in the rear of the buckboard now.

“Yeah, I remember it, Soapy. Where’d it go?”

“It didn’t go—it was taken. I’ve been held-up, by ——!”

“Held-up? Then it was a——”

“Appears that it was,” dryly. “Do yuh remember—” Soapy jerked the team to a slow trot—“do yuh remember me tellin’ yuh once that I was the biggest ——ed fool I had ever met?”

“Yeah, I remember it,” grinned Brick, wiping some blood off his face.

“Well, I ain’t been improvin’,” stated Soapy bitterly. “That old gunnysack and that old rug was concealin’ the monthly payroll of the Red Hill mine.”

“Love of gosh!” exploded Brick. “The payroll? Why, Soapy, that must ’a’ been——”

“Right dog-gone close to twenty-seven thousand dollars.”

Brick caressed his bruised face and tried to collect his thoughts.

“I’m smart,” said Soapy bitterly. “I was afraid to take a chance on the stage. Just one man, Brick; one man with a Winchester. He didn’t say much. By ——, I don’t think he said anythin’, come to think of it.

“The team swerved into the bank, after you fell out, and I stopped ’em. He motioned for me to get out—and I got. He made me unbuckle my belt and drop it. Then he walked past me, kicked the belt and gun along with him and lifted the sack out of the buckboard.

“It was a mighty heavy sack, Brick. The team got to fussin’ and I had my hands full with them. When I looked back, he was gone around the turn—and that’s all.”

“What did he look like?” asked Brick eagerly.

“I dunno. The hole in the muzzle of that rifle was perfectly round—if that’s any description. He knowed how to do it.”

“Didn’ yuh get any idea of what he looked like, Soapy? Was he a big man, small man, thin man, or what did he look like?”

“He sure was,” nodded Soapy seriously. “I’ll betcha that’ll cover him to a T. He was wearin’ clothes, too.”

“And he didn’t talk, eh?”

“——, he didn’t need to, Brick. A man with a gun don’t have to tell me what to do. Now, I’ve got to go to the Red Hill and tell Barney to wait another day. Tomorrow is pay-day, too.”

“Twenty-seven thousand dollars,” muttered Brick. “That’s a lot of money, Soapy.”

“Uh-huh. There’s over two hundred men at that mine, and their wages runs about five dollars a day apiece. Figure it out for yourself. I’m the loser, Brick.”

“Soapy, yo’re the best loser I ever seen,” complimented Brick seriously.

“No, I ain’t. If I had any sense, I’d get so mad that I’d bite myself. Yessir, I’d just faunch around until I got me a temperature, bust a blood-vessel or a ham-string. But I’m just —— fool enough to set down and make fun of myself.”

“Well, why didn’t yuh tell me what yuh was carryin’?” asked Brick. “I’d ’a’ brought the sawed-off shotgun and we’d ’a’ stopped his play.”

“Yeah, you’d sure looked fine doin’ a high-dive with a short shotgun in your hands, wouldn’t yuh? Prob’ly shot yourself and me, too.”

“Who knew you was goin’ to carry the payroll?”

“Not a danged soul. I hope Barney won’t be put out about it. “I suppose I should ’a’ sent it by stage, with half a dozen guards—but I didn’t. No-o-o, I got real smart and tried to take it in for myself, thinkin’ that nobody would think that I had the danged stuff. Too ——ed much thinkin’, tha’sall.”

* * * * *

It was almost four o’clock when Harp began to get back to normal. Whisky had only made him feel his troubles more keenly. He left Slim arguing with the bartender and started back toward the office. He was not on exactly an even keel and his vision was slightly impaired.

As a result he almost ran into Mrs. Wesson, who was coming out of the store, carrying some groceries.

“How doo-o-o,” he said thickly.

“Hello, Harp,” she smiled. “Did you see Miss Miller?”

Harp scratched his head and gawped at her.

“Shee Miss Miller? Whaffor?”

“Wasn’t you goin’ to ask her to the dance at Silverton?”

“Oh!”

Harp rubbed his long nose and reflected deeply, with both eyes closed. Then—

“But you said she was goin’ with Sam Leach.”

“I didn’t say she was goin’ with him, Harp. I said that he asked her to go with him. She told him that she had already been invited.”

“By whom had she been invited—by whom?” asked Harp.

“I don’t think she has been invited by any one, Harp. I know she didn’t want to go with Leach; so that was her excuse.”

Mrs. Wesson bustled on down the sidewalk, leaving Harp looking after her. He cuffed his hat over one ear and hitched up his belt, as he headed for the office. He wanted to find a place where he could sit down alone, because his soul was filled with joy and he wanted to express his feelings with music.