Mavericks
Paint heard the noise of their departure.
“That’ll mean trouble,” said the sheriff sadly.
“Barkin’ dogs,” grinned Hashknife, as he lined up his shot.
“I hope it ain’t nothin’ worse.”
The sheriff watched the game for awhile, yawned widely and told them
good night. Hashknife and Sleepy played another game, bought a drink for
the bartender and themselves and headed back for the hotel. They were in
the middle of the street when they saw three riders coming toward them.
It was light enough for them to recognize Thursday and Sid. The third
man was Bill McGill. Hashknife snorted aloud.
“Hello,” said Thursday. “Look what we caught. Willyum McGill, at our
services. Caught the son of a gun peekin’ in the ranch-house winder. Can
you imagine that? Can you? Me and Sid will split that thousand two
ways.”
For several moments Hashknife did not know what to say. Then—
“What did he have to say for himself?”
“Not a word. This jigger ain’t opened his mouth. Mebbe he’s gone dumb.”
“He won’t tell where he came from, what he wants, nor nothin’. We’ll
take him to the sheriff and then join you.”
“Listen to me, Thursday,” said Hashknife seriously. “Bill has been on
the ranch ever since he got out of jail. Mary has been feedin’ him, and
he’s been livin’ in that dugout behind the stable. She’ll be all broke
up if she knows he’s been taken. In the first place—”
“Why in hell didn’t somebody tell us?” asked Thursday.
“You can’t spread that kinda knowledge around.”
“You say Mary’s takin’ care of this feller?” asked Sid.
“Ever since he got out of jail. Why, even Pink knows about it, and he
ain’t tellin’.”
“Well, for gosh sake! There goes our winter stake, Thursday.”
“Looks thataway. Great gosh! Well, back he goes. I wouldn’t hurt Mary.”
“Not a chance,” agreed Sid heartily. “Let’s git off the street before
somebody sees him.”
“Bill,” said Thursday, “can you find your way back to your hole in the
hill?”
“I have no doubt of it,” replied Bill.
“There!” snorted Thursday. “He ain’t dumb. That’s the first word he’s
spoken since we caught him. All right, Bill, you go home. Leave the
bronc in the stable. Don’t worry about the saddle. We’ll take care of
that.”
And without another word Bill McGill swung his horse around and went
back up the street.
“My Gawd!” breathed Thursday. “If I ever want to share a secret, I’ll do
it with Bill McGill. Let’s go and git a drink.”
In the meantime Pink left the SP ranch, knowing nothing of what had
happened. He had spent the evening with Mary and he was in good spirits.
The moon was bright and he sang to the wide world as he galloped along.
Suddenly he turned a curve in the road, and almost ran into a rider. He
jerked back on his reins in time to avoid a collision. The other horse
stopped short.
“Who are you?” grunted Pink.
“William Allen McGill.”
“Christmas daisies! Bill McGill!”
Pink was off his horse and up to Bill, poking him with the barrel of his
six-shooter.
“So it’s you, is it? Why, you danged pin headed— Keep your hands up! Now
keep ’em up, or I’ll bore you plenty. Stole a SP horse and saddle, eh?
Don’t move, Willyum, or I’ll be obliged to bore holes in your carcass.”
Quickly Pink shook out his lariat, and while poor Bill reached for the
moonlit sky the deputy sheriff roped him to the saddle. Bill said
nothing. In fact, he had nothing to say about it. That was the second
time in one evening that he had felt the muzzle of a six shooter.
“That’ll hold you,” grunted Pink. “Mebbe next time you won’t hit me over
the head—you amateur horsethief.”
Pink mounted, picked up the reins of Bill’s horse and headed for town.
“I think you are making a mistake,” said Bill timidly.
“Well, if I do, we’ll be even; you’ve already made yours.”
Hashknife, Sleepy, Thursday and Sid were in the shadow near the
hitch-rack when Pink rode in with his captive; they recognized both men
by the light from the War Paint windows.
“Good gosh, Pink caught him!” snorted Hashknife. “C’mon.”
They ran across the street, keeping out of the light from the saloon
windows. Pink dismounted at the short rack in front of the office, tied
both horses carefully and went to the office door. As far as he noticed,
the street was deserted. He opened the door and stepped inside the room.
He scratched a match and lighted the lamp, while Evans lifted up from
his cot, blinking at the light.
“Why don’tcha stay out all night?” grunted the sheriff. “By golly, your
girl shore costs me lots of sleep.”
“Thasso?” Pink grinned at him. “Does, eh? Come out here and see what
I’ve got for you.”
“What have you got?” asked Evans.
“Git up and take a look.”
Evans grumbled, grunted, but finally got out of bed, while Pink grinned
in anticipation of the sheriff’s surprise, as he walked over to the
door. But the door was stuck. He could tug it open about an inch, but it
would not come any farther.
“What’s the matter with this danged door, Dud?”
“Stuck?”
“You open it.”
Dud tried, but with no better success. Pink frowned. Something was
holding it from the other side. He turned, ran through the door that led
to the corridor, let himself out through the back door and circled the
building. Bill McGill and his horse were gone, and Pink’s own lariat
rope had been looped around the door-knob and tied off tightly to the
hitch-rack.
Pink swore bitterly as he unfastened the rope and opened the door. Dud
looked him over, squinted at the rope, then grinned.
“Did somebody play a joke on you, Romeo?”
“It may look like a joke to you, but it don’t to me. I had Bill McGill!”
“Yea-a-ah? Bill McGill? Where’d you capture him?”
“On the road between here and the SP ranch, ridin’ a SP horse and
saddle.”
“Pink—” severely—“you ain’t been smoking _marihuana_ weed, have you?”
“I tell you I had him.”
“Well, you ain’t got him now. You’re like a lot of fishermen I’ve
knowed. Better come to bed and sleep it off, Pink. That’s what love does
to you.”
“Aw, hell! Why do you suppose anybody fastened me in the office for?”
“For safe keepin’, I reckon. You jist ooze insanity.”
“You ain’t got a lick of sense, Dud.”
“I know it. Every time I look at you I realize it. If I had any, I’d
hire me a girl-proof deputy. C’mon to bed and forget your
hallucinations.”
CHAPTER XVIII — SMITH TURNS DETECTIVE
Comanche Beadle swung the stage team through the gate at the Diamond R
on his southern trip the next morning, and drew up near the kitchen door
of the ranch-house. He had some stuff to deliver. Scotty looked him over
sourly, and Comanche grinned to himself. He had heard about Scotty’s
turning a flip over a billiard cue. Scotty’s eyes were bloodshot, but he
was perfectly sober.
“Hello, Mulligan!” yelled Comanche to the Chinese cook, who came
shuffling out, skillet in hand.
“H’lo,” replied Mulligan.
“Got some stuff for you, you flat faced heathen.”
Comanche unroped some boxes from the boot and put them on the steps.
“Hyah, Comanche,” grunted Scotty.
“Howdy,” Comanche grunted back at him. Comanche was a tough old bull
whacker. He grinned at Scotty, spat copiously and said, “They tell me
you’re gittin’ good at pool, Scotty.”
“They do, eh?” Scotty said coldly.
“Yea-a-ah. They say you shore believe in signs.”
“What kinda signs?”
Comanche grinned widely.
“There’s a sign in the War Paint which says for pool players to keep
both feet on the floor. They tell me you—”
“I’ll make somebody laugh out of the other side of their mouth,” gritted
Scotty angrily.
“They ain’t laughin—they’re marvelin’.”
“Thasso?”
“Uh-huh.”
Comanche bit off another generous chew.
“You lived in Santa Dolores a long time ago, didn’t you, Scotty?”
“What if I did?”
“’Member a feller named—uh—” Comanche consulted a sheet of paper for a
moment—“a feller named Neilan, Nolan, Nelson or Neal, who used to be up
that-away about twenty years ago?”
Scotty shut one eye and squinted closely at Comanche.
“What’s the idea?”
“I jist thought mebbe you’d know him.”
“What about him?”
“Sheriff’s sendin’ a wire to the penitentiary, askin’ for information
about this feller. I jist thought mebbe you knowed somethin’ about him.”
Scotty hitched up his overalls and walked over to look at the boxes.
Comanche climbed back on his seat, picked up the lines and sat there,
looking at Scotty.
“You didn’t say,” reminded the old driver.
“Didn’t say what?”
“Whether you knew him.”
“Knew who?”
“Feller named Neilan, Nolan, Nelson or Neal.”
Scotty’s face turned red, puffed angrily and he seemed about to turn the
vials of his wrath on old Comanche. Then he took a deep breath.
“Comanche, if there was a taxidermist around here, I’d shoot you and
have you stuffed. I don’t know any Neilan, Nolan, Nelson or Neal. Git to
hell away from here before I haul you off that stage and rub your nose
in the dirt.”
“You and what other six cowpunchers? Rub my nose in the dirt! I’m sixty
years old, but I can whip you on a sheepskin. Gittin’ mad jist because I
wondered—”
“Wondered, eh? Can’tcha drive and wonder at the same time, or can’t you
do two things at once?”
“Giddap!” snorted Comanche. “I never seen a pool player yet that—” The
rest was lost in the rattle of the heavy stage as he turned swiftly to
the right, and headed back for the main road.
Scotty stood there, scowling after Comanche, his jaw set belligerently.
“Neilan, Nolan, Nelson or Neal, eh? That’s damn’ funny.”
“You no feel good t’day?” queried Mulligan.
Scotty gave the Chinese a blistering look and walked around to the front
porch, where he sat down on the steps and tore up several cigarette
papers before he succeeded in rolling one.
A few minutes later Buck Haskell rode in from Willow Wells and got off
his horse at the porch.
“Jack Erb is still alive,” he said. “Unconscious yet. As far as I can
find out, everybody believes Jack was bushed. If Hartley knows Reese
done the shootin’, he ain’t tellin’ nobody.”
Scotty spat dryly.
“That’s the hell of it! Hartley don’t tell _all_ he knows. That _hombre_
is dangerous, Buck. Look out for him.”
“I’m not worryin’ about him. Here’s a funny deal, and I got it straight.
Pink Lowry captured Bill McGill between town and the SP ranch last
night. He took the tenderfoot to jail, roped to the saddle, tied the
horse in front of the office and went in to tell Evans. And somebody
blocked the door on him, took McGill away and nobody knows where he went
nor who got him.”
“Bill McGill, eh? Well, I’ll be danged! So that blamed tenderfoot is
still around here.”
“Must be. And Pelliser fired Hartley and Stevens yesterday.”
Scotty laughed with evident amusement.
“They’re stayin’ at the hotel,” offered Buck. “I wonder why Pelliser
fired ’em.”
“I dunno. They told old man Noon that he was stealin’ his cows.”
“They did, eh?”
“Yeah. Well, if they ain’t got no job, mebbe they won’t stay long. If
they do stay, it won’t be long before me and that Hartley person locks
horns.”
“Don’t never tackle him with your fists.”
“Not me.”
“Lee says he’ll get him.”
“Yea-a-a-ah, he will! Lee’s as yaller as a sunflower. Reese said he’d
get him, too. And Reese is hightailin’ it for Cinnabar, lookin’ behind
himself at every straight piece of road. He’s scared, if you ask me.”
“I guess he is. How’s your shoulder?”
“Pretty sore. He thinks he pulled a slick one on me, and I’ll admit it
was; but it don’t end there. It’s a wonder he didn’t unjoint me.”
Buck laughed shortly.
“Any man who can think that fast—well, I hope him and his pardner pull
out of the Valley pretty soon.”
“They will—or they won’t never leave here,” declared Scotty. “They ain’t
got me scared.”
“Oh, I’m not scared, but I don’t want no truck with ’em if it can be
avoided.”