Part 2

“That didn’t cause it to belong to you,” reminded Barnhardt. “They can jail yuh for that, Tex. It’s plain embezzlement. I’ve got to account for that eight thousand dollars.”

“How soon, Lee?”

The lawyer frowned thoughtfully. He knew he could defer the accounting for a long time, but what good would that do Tex Alden, whose monthly salary was seventy-five dollars.

“Got something in sight, Tex?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Tex studied the toes of his dusty boots. “But yuh never can tell what might turn up.”

“I see.”

Barnhardt relaxed and lighted his pipe. After a few puffs he said—

“I think the Santa Rita pay-roll comes in tonight.”

“Thasso?” Tex stared at Barnhardt. “How do yuh know?”

“Chet Le Moyne rode in a while ago. He always shows up just ahead of the pay-roll and takes it back to the Santa Rita himself.”

Chet Le Moyne was paymaster of the Santa Rita mine, which employed close to three hundred men. The mine was located about twelve miles from Blue Wells. Le Moyne was a handsome sort of a person, dark-haired, dark-eyed, athletic, although slender. Like Tex Alden, he was an inveterate gambler, although not inclined to plunge wildly.

“I think probably he went out to the Taylor ranch,” offered Barnhardt casually. “He never does stay very long in town.”

Tex scowled at his boots, and tried to make himself believe that it didn’t make any difference to him if Le Moyne went out to see Marion Taylor. But down in his heart he knew it did—a lot of difference. Paul Taylor owned a small ranch about two miles south of Blue Wells, and there was no one to deny that Marion Taylor was the best-looking girl in that country.

Even Lee Barnhardt had cast covetous eyes in that direction, but Marion showed small favor to the thin-faced lawyer. In fact, she had showed little favor to any of the men, treating them all alike. Perhaps Tex and Le Moyne had been the most persistent suitors.

Old Paul Taylor, often known as “The Apostle,” did not favor any certain one as a son-in-law. They were all welcome to call, as far as he was concerned. Between himself, his son, a wild-riding, hot-headed youth, known as “Buck,” and one cowboy, a half-breed Navajo, known as “Peeler,” they managed to eke out a living. Buck and Peeler were as wild as the ranges around Blue Wells, and The Apostle was not far behind, when it came to making the welkin ring. The Apostle was a typical old-time cattleman, who hated to see civilization crowding into the ranges.

Barnhardt studied Tex, while the big cowboy humped in a chair and studied the floor. Finally Tex lifted his head and looked at Barnhardt.

“Just why did yuh tell me about the Santa Rita pay-roll comin’ in tonight, Lee?”

“No reason, Tex; just conversation, I reckon. It must run close to thirty thousand dollars. Le Moyne had one man with him. That train gets in about nine o’clock. Le Moyne probably will ride straight for the mine. That’s quite a lump of money, Tex. I hear they always pay off in gold, because there’s quite a lot of Mexicans working there, and they like the yellow money.”

“Uh-huh,” Tex’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Barnhardt. “Thirty thousand is a lot of money.”

“It sure is plenty,” nodded Barnhardt. “More than a man could make in a lifetime out here.”

Tex got to his feet and rolled a cigaret.

“Yuh can keep that eight thousand under cover a while, can’tcha, Lee?”

“For a while, Tex—sure thing.”

“Thank yuh, Lee. _Adios_.”

Tex sauntered out and the lawyer looked after him, a crooked smile on his lips, feeling that he and Tex Alden understood each other perfectly. He could look from his window and see Tex get his horse at the livery-stable and ride away.

The sheriff did not go back to the Oasis Saloon that afternoon. The whole incident wasn’t quite clear in his mind. He had a lump on his forehead, where he hit the floor, and one shin was skinned from the chair, but he wasn’t quite sure just who was to blame for it all. Anyway, he wasn’t sure that they had tin-canned the minister’s horse with Louie Sing’s copper can.

He wished Al Porter, his deputy, were there. Al knew how to get along with those fellows from the AK. But Al had gone to Encinas that afternoon to see his girl, and wouldn’t be back until late that night, even if he were fortunate enough to catch a freight train. Encinas was twelve miles east of Blue Wells.

The election of Scotty Olson had been more or less of a joke. There had been quite a lot of mud-slinging between the Republican and Democrat candidates, and a bunch of the boys got together and induced Scotty to run independently. And while the two favorites in the race, to use a racing parlance, tried to cut each other down in the stretch, Scotty, hardly knowing what it was all about, won the election.

He had appointed Al Porter, a former deputy sheriff, to act as his deputy and mentor, and the office was really run by Al, much to the amusement of every one concerned, except Scotty, who was satisfied that he was making a big reputation for himself.

Oyster Shell, Johnny Grant and Eskimo Swensen continued to make merry at the Oasis, mostly at the expense of the bartender, who writhed under punishment but grinned in spite of it, because he owned an interest in the Oasis, with Neal, and the boys of the AK were good patrons.

It was after dark when Johnny Grant decided that it was time to go back to the ranch. He announced the fact, and his two companions suddenly found themselves of the same notion.

Out to the hitch-rack they weaved their erratic way, only to find the rack empty of horses. Johnny leaned against the end-post and rubbed his nose, while Oyster walked up and down both sides of the rack, running one hand along the top-bar.

“Nossin’ here,” he declared. “’F there’s a horsh at thish rack, I can’t fin’ him. Whatcha shay, Eskimo?”

“I shed,” replied Eskimo heavily, “I shed, tha’s queer.”

“Isn’ it queer?” asked Oyster. “I ask you open and ’bove board, ain’t it queer? Whazzamatter, Johnny—gone in a tranch?”

“He’s drunk,” declared Eskimo, trying to slap the top-bar of the rack with his hand, and hitting his chin instead.

“And yo’re cold shober,” said Oyster. “Losin’ a horsh makes you so mad that you bite the hitch-rack. Go ahead and gnaw it f’r me, Eskimo. Johnny, what-cha think, eh?”

“I think,” said Johnny thickly, “I think it’s between the sheriff and the preacher. Shomebody took our horshes.”

“He’s commencin’ to wake up, Eskimo,” said Oyster. “He’s had a vision, that’s what he’s had. Oh my, tha’ boy is clever. Let’s have a vote on which one we kill firsht—sheriff or preacher.”

“I vote for the sheriff,” declared Eskimo. “We need lossa gospel ’round here. Let’s kill the sheriff firsht. Then when the preacher preaches the funeral shervice, if he shays a good word for Scotty Olson, we’ll kill the preacher and let the morals of thish here country go plumb to ——.”

“Let’s not kill anybody—yet,” advised Johnny. “Lissen t’ me, will yuh. Didja ever hear that sayin’ about whom the gods would destroy, they firsht make awful mad? Didja? Well let’s make Scotty Olson awful mad, eh?”

“But we ain’t gods,” reminded Oyster.

“Tha’s a fact,” admitted Johnny. “We ain’t gods. But,” hopefully, “mebbe we’ll do until shome better ones come along.”

“We’re jist as good,” declared Eskimo. “I’m jist as good as any I’ve ever sheen—prob’ly a lot better. Let’s go ahead and do shome thin’. Whazza program, Johnny?”

“First,” said Johnny, “we’ll ask Scotty in a ladylike manner what he done with our horshes. And I don’t want you pelicans to forget that you’re as drunk as a pair of boiled owls. C’mon.”

They weaved across the street. Johnny Grant lost his hat, and after several minutes’ search, it was discovered that Eskimo was standing on it.

“Thirty dollars gone t’ ——!” wailed Johnny.

“Aw, ——, it ain’t hurt!” snorted Eskimo. “Jist dirty, thasall.”

“After you wearin’ it on one of yore big feet all over the street? My ——, I can see the moon through it.”

“Wonnerful!” gasped Oyster. “I tell yuh the boy’s got shecond shight. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! There ain’t no moon.”

They managed to reach the door of the sheriff’s office. A light from the front window attested to the fact that Scotty Olson was in the office, and he answered their knock.

“What do you want?” he asked. Johnny leaned against the door-sill, his torn and dusty sombrero pulled rakishly over one eye.

“We want you to shettle a question that’s been botherin’ us, Scotty. C’n we come in?”

“All right,” said Scotty grudgingly.

He stepped aside and the three cowboys came in. They had been in the office many times, but not in this same mood.

“My, my, thish is a nice office!” exclaimed Eskimo. “Gotta desk and a chair and a lot of outlaw’s pitchers on the walls!”

“What question did you want answered?” asked Scotty nervously. He suspected them of having ulterior reasons.

“The question is thish:” said Johnny. “What did you do with our horshes?”

“A roan, a bay and a sorrel,” enumerated Oyster.

The sheriff shook his head.

“I ain’t seen yore —— horses.”

“Jist try and remember,” urged Johnny. “Try and recall the fact that you got mad at us and took ’em away.”

“Aw-w-w, ——!” snorted Scotty vacantly. “I can’t remember nothin’ of the kind.”

“I’ll betcha,” said Oyster seriously, “I’ll betcha he’s got ’em in one of his cells.”

“Aw-w-w-w!” Scotty goggled at him.

“That’s a —— of a thing to say. Put a horse in a cell!”

“Mind if we look?” queried Johnny.

“Well, of all the drunken ideas! No, I don’t care if yuh look. ——, yuh can’t put a horse in a cell!”

He turned on his heel and led them to the rear of the building, where a series of three cells had been built in, leaving a corridor down the center. The doors were heavily barred and fitted with spring locks. Just now there were no occupants in the Blue Wells jail, and the doors sagged partly open. Scotty, half-angry, more than half disgusted, swung the door of the first cell wide open and stepped partly inside, turning to let the cowboys see for themselves that there were no horses in the cell, when Eskimo seemed to stumble, flung his weight against the door, which promptly snapped shut, locking the sheriff in his own cell.

“Hey! You —— fool!” yelled Scotty. “Whatcha tryin’ to do, anyway?”

“Look what you done!” wailed Johnny. “You’ve locked the sheriff in his own jail. Now, you’ve done it. My, my!”

“Go and get the keys out of my desk,” ordered the sheriff. “They’re in the top drawer.”

The three cowboys trooped obediently out through the office, extinguished the lamp, closed the door and stood on the edge of the sidewalk, chuckling with unholy glee.

“Let’s see if he put our broncs in his stable,” suggested Johnny. But the sheriff’s stable was empty. They went to the livery-stable and found it locked.

“How about visitin’ the preacher?” asked Eskimo.

“He never done it,” declared Oyster. “That jigger is too timid to go near a bronc. I’ll betcha that smart sheriff jist turned ’em loose on us, that’s what he done. We might as well git a room at the hotel, or walk back to the ranch.”

“I’ll walk,” said Eskimo. “I stayed one night at that old hotel and the bedbugs et holes in my boots.”

“Shall we let the sheriff loose before we go?” asked Oyster.

“Let ’m alone,” said Johnny. “Somebody will turn him loose after while, and I don’t want to be here when they do. Eskimo, if I was you, I’d buy a bottle to take along with us. It’s a long, hard walk.”

“That’s a pious notion,” declared Eskimo, and they went weaving back toward the Oasis.

IV—JIMMY GETS HIS DANDER UP

Jim Legg sprawled on a seat in the day-coach and tried to puzzle out from a time-table just when they would arrive at Blue Wells, mixed train, both passenger and freight, stopping at every station along the branch line; sixty miles of starts and stops, and the highest speed would not exceed twenty miles per hour.

It had been sweltering hot, and Jim Legg’s once-white collar had melted to the consistency of a dish-rag. But the shades of night had brought a cool breeze, and the gruff brakeman had assured him that the train would probably arrive on time.

Not that it made much difference to Jim Legg. He had never seen Blue Wells. To him it was merely a name. He had been forced to leave Geronimo to the tender mercies of a hard-faced express messenger, and had seen him tied to a trunk-handle in the express car.

It suddenly occurred to Jim Legg that he had made no provisions for feed and water for the dog. It did not occur to him that the messenger might be human enough to do this for the dog. The engine was whistling a station call, and Jim Legg resolved to investigate for himself.

The train clanked to a stop at the little station, and Jim Legg dropped off the steps, making his way up to the baggage car, where the messenger and a brakeman were unloading several packages. Jim noticed that the weather-beaten sign on the front of the depot showed it to be Encinas, the town where the deputy sheriff’s sweetheart lived.

The brakeman went on toward the engine and Jim Legg got into the express car. Geronimo’s tie-rope had been shifted to a trunk farther up the aisle, and the messenger stood just beyond him, looking over a sheaf of way-bills by the dim light of a lantern.

The train jerked ahead, but Jim Legg did not notice that they were traveling again, until the train had gained considerable speed. The messenger turned and came back toward the door, not noticing in the dim light that he had a new passenger. The dog reared up and put his paws on the messenger’s overall-clad leg.

But only for a moment. The messenger whirled around and kicked the dog back against the trunk.

“Keep off me, —— yuh!” he rasped.

The dog rolled over, but came to his feet, fangs bared.

“Try to bite me, will yuh?” snarled the messenger.

He glanced around for some sort of a weapon, evidently not caring to get within kicking distance of the dog again, when Jim Legg spoke mildly—

“You really shouldn’t do that.”

The messenger whirled around and stared at Jim Legg. He did not recognize him as the man who had put the dog in the car at the main line.

“What in —— are you doin’ in my car?” he demanded.

Jim Legg shifted uneasily.

“Well, I—I’m watching you mistreat a dumb brute, it seems. That’s my dog, and I didn’t put him on here to be kicked.”

“Your dog, eh?”

The messenger came closer. He recognized Jim now.

“Got on at Encinas, eh?”

“I think that was the name. The train started, and I had no chance to get back to the coach, you see.”

“Yeah, I see. But that don’t make any difference to me. Nobody is allowed to ride in here. You’ll have to get off at Blue Wells.”

“Is that the next station?”

“Yeah. We’ll be there in a few minutes.” He looked back at the dog. “You hadn’t ought to ship a dog like that. He’s no —— earthly good, and he tried to bite me just now.”

“You’re a liar!”

It was the first time Jim Legg had ever said that to any one, and this time he had said it without a thought of the consequences. It seemed the natural thing to say.

“I’m a liar, eh?”

The messenger would weigh close to two hundred pounds and was as hard as nails.

“Yes, sir,” declared Jim Legg. “If you say that Geronimo tried to bite you just now, you’re a liar. I could report you for kicking that dog.”

“Oh, you could, could yuh? Like ——! The company ain’t responsible for dogs. You never checked him. He’s just ridin’ here, because I was good enough to take him in; just a —— dead-head.”

“Good enough, eh?”

Jim Legg took off his glasses, put them in a case and tucked them in his pocket. The messenger came closer. The train was whistling, and they felt the slight jerk as the brakes were applied.

“I saw you kick that dog,” said Jim calmly, although his heart was hammering against his ribs. “No man would do a thing like that. It was a dirty trick—and then you try to lie out of it.”

“Why, you little four-eyed pup!” snorted the messenger. “I’ll make you take that back. Anyway, you’ve got no right in this car, and I’m justified in throwin’ yuh off.”

Jim Legg threw out his hands in protest to any such an action. He had never fought anybody, knew nothing of self-defense. But the messenger evidently mistook Jim’s attitude, and swung a right-hand smash at his head. And Jim’s clumsy attempt to duck the blow caused the messenger to crash his knuckles against the top of Jim’s head. The impact of the fist sent Jim reeling back against a pile of trunks, dazed, bewildered, while the messenger, his right hand all but useless, swore vitriolically and headed for Jim again.

But the force of the blow had stirred something in the small man’s brain; the fighting instinct, perhaps. And in another moment they were locked together in the center of the car. The train was lurching to a stop, but they did not know it.

The messenger’s arms were locked around Jim’s body, while Jim’s legs were wrapped around those of the messenger, which caused them to fall heavily, struggling, making queer sounds, while Geronimo, reared the full length of his rope, made an unearthly din of barks, whines and growls, as he fought to get into the mélée.

The train yanked ahead, going faster this time. Jim managed to get his right hand free and to get his fingers around the messenger’s ear, trying ineffectually to bounce the messenger’s head on the hard floor.

His efforts, while hardly successful, caused the messenger to roll over on top of Jim, who clung to the ear and managed to roll on top again. They were getting perilously near the wide door. Suddenly the messenger loosened one hand and began a series of short body punches against Jim’s ribs, causing him to relax his hold on the ear. It also forced Jim to slacken his scissor hold on the messenger’s legs.

Quickly the messenger doubled up his legs, forcing his knees into Jim’s middle, hurling him over and sidewise. But the shift had given Jim a chance to get both arms around the messenger’s neck, and when Jim swung over and felt himself dropping into space, he took the messenger right along with him.

They landed with a crash on the edge of a cut, rolled slowly through a patch of brush, and came to rest at the bottom of the cut. Fortunately Jim was uppermost at the finish. The breath had all been knocked from his body, and he was bruised from heels to hair.

He separated himself from his former antagonist, and pumped some air into his aching lungs. The train was gone. Jim looked up at the star-specked Arizona sky and wondered what it was all about. It suddenly struck him funny and he laughed, a queer little, creaky laugh. It sounded like a few notes from a wheezy old accordion he had heard a blind man playing in San Francisco. San Francisco and the Mellon Company seemed a long way off just now.

He crawled to the track level. There was no sign of the train. Everything was very still, except the dull hum of the telegraph wires along the right-of-way fence. Then the messenger began swearing, wondering aloud what was the matter. Jim Legg got to his feet and filled his lungs with the good desert air. He looked back toward the cut where he had left his opponent.

“Shut up!” he yelled. “You got whipped and that’s all there is to it.”

And then Jim Legg guessed which way was Blue Wells, and started limping along the track. The stopping and starting of the train between stations meant nothing to Jim Legg. He did not suspect that the first stop had been because a red lantern had been placed in the middle of the track near the Broken Cañon trestle, thereby stopping the train, and that just now three masked men were smashing through the safe, which contained the Santa Rita pay-roll. There, three men had cut the express car, forced the engineer to drive his engine to within about two miles of Blue Wells, where they stopped him, and escorted both engineer and fireman back to the express car.

The absence of the messenger bothered them, because they were afraid he had suspected a hold-up and had run away, looking for help. At any rate, they went about their business in a workmanlike manner, and a few minutes after the stop they had exploded enough dynamite to force the safe to give up its golden treasure.

Quickly they removed the two canvas sacks. One of the men stepped to the doorway. Somewhere a voice was singing. The road from Blue Wells to the AK ranch paralleled the railroad at this point.

“Come on,” said the man at the door.

Swiftly they dropped out of the car, leaving the engineer and fireman alone. A lantern on a trunk illuminated the car. Suddenly the engineer ran across the car and picked up the messenger’s sawed-off Winchester shotgun, which had fallen behind a trunk during the fight between the messenger and Jim Legg.

He pumped in a cartridge and sprang to the door. Just out beyond the right-of-way fence he could see three shadowy figures, which were moving. Then he threw up the shotgun and the express car fairly jarred from the report of the heavy buckshot load.

The distance was great enough to give the charge of buckshot a chance to spread to a maximum degree, and none of the leaden pellets struck the mark. But just the same the three shadowy figures became prone objects.

Again came the long spurt of orange flame from the door of the express car, and more buckshot whined through the weeds.

“What kinda —— whisky was that yuh bought?” queried the voice of Johnny Grant from among the weeds.

“Well, if you think I’m goin’ t’ let any train crew heave buckshot at me, yo’re crazy,” declared Eskimo Swensen, and proceeded to shoot at the glow from the express car door.

“H’rah f’r us!” whooped Oyster, and unlimbered two shots from his six-shooter. His aim was a bit uncertain and it is doubtful if either bullet even hit the car.

Wham! Skee-e-e-e-e! Another handful of buckshot mowed the grass. Three six-shooters blazed back at the flash of the shotgun, and their owners shifted locations as fast as possible, because those last buckshot came too close for comfort.

Then came a lull. In fact the shooting ceased entirely. The three men in the grass saw the light go out in the car. There was no noise, except the panting of the engine, its headlight cutting a pathway of silver across the Arizona hills. Minute after minute passed. It was too dark to see an object against the car or engine, and the three men in the grass did not see the engineer and fireman crawl along to the engine and sneak into the cab.

“Where’s that —— murderer with the riot-gun?” queried Eskimo Swensen. He was anxious to continue the battle.

“Sh-h-h-h-h!” cautioned Johnny. “Somebody comin’.”

They could see the vague bulk of a man coming along the track. Then it passed the end of the express car, blending in with it. The three cowboys could hear the crunch of gravel, as the newcomer walked along the car, and they heard him climb inside. Came the tiny glow of a match, the snappy bark of a dog. A few moments later came the thud of two bodies hitting the gravel.

“I whipped him, Geronimo,” they heard a voice say.

“My ——!” snorted Eskimo. “I thought Geronimo was dead or in jail.”

Then the engine awoke and the part of a train started backing down the track, but there was no more shooting. Once away from that immediate spot the engineer put on more power, and went roaring back toward where they had cut loose from the rest of the train.

The three cowboys sat up in the grass and watched the dim figures of a man and a dog, heading toward Blue Wells, while from far down the railroad came the shrill whistle of the locomotive.

Johnny Grant got to his feet, and was joined by Eskimo and Oyster. The shooting had sobered them considerably, and when Eskimo produced the bottle Johnny shoved it aside.

“Aw, to —— with the stuff!” he said. “I’ve been seein’ too many things already. Let’s go home before we get killed for bein’ on earth.”

“I dunno,” said Eskimo, after a deep pull at the bottle. “It seems like anythin’ is liable to happen around here, but I never expected to be ambushed by a danged train.”