The loot of the Lazy A
“I’m glad yuh understand,” sighed Dude. “It’s thisaway, Jones. I ain’t
seen her since that night, and yuh see I can’t very well go out there
to the Lazy A. I wrote her a letter and posted it to her this mornin’.
I just found out that Miles Lane took the Lazy A mail out to the ranch
today.
“And Miles Lane,” Dude hesitated. “He’s dressin’ up to go out there. Yuh
see, I don’t trust him, and I’m wonderin’----”
“If he delivered the letter, eh?”
“Yuh might put it thataway, Jones. I know him pretty well.”
“All right,” grinned Cultus. “What can I do for yuh?”
“Will yuh hand her a note from me?”
“Yeah, I’ll do it. I ain’t seen her to speak to for a long time, but if
it’s possible, I’ll see that she gets it.”
Dude secured some paper and an envelope, and when Cultus rode back to
the Lazy A he carried the note to Mary. It was almost supper time, and
the boys were all at the ranch. Cultus went to the long wash-bench just
outside the kitchen door, and began washing, while Hop stood in the
kitchen door, dangling a ladle in his hand.
“Hop, do you happen to know a Chinaboy in Frisco, whose name is Wang
Lee?” asked Cultus.
Old Hop smiled widely. “Yessa--my clousin. He lun chop-suey lestlant.”
Cultus grinned and nodded his head. “That’s the feller, Hop. Wang Lee
good friend of mine.”
This was not true, because Cultus did not know Wang Lee, and only knew
of a popular chopsuey restaurant of that name. But old Hop beamed. “Wang
Lee velly lich--my clousin.”
“That’s fine,” Cultus mopped his face with a towel, as he moved in
closer to the Chinaman. “Wang Lee my friend, Hop. You, his cousin,
must be my friend. You sabe?”
“Yessa.”
“Good.” Cultus took the envelope from his pocket, caught it in a fold of
the towel and handed it to Hop.
“That note is for Miss Ault, Hop. Nobody must see.”
The old Celestial accepted the towel, slipped the envelope inside his
shirt and turned away without a word. It was evident that Mary received
the note, but her reply was to Cultus, which was given to Cultus by old
Hop, after they had finished supper. She wrote:
Am virtually a prisoner. Tell Mr. Wheeler I will see
him as soon as possible. Would like to talk with you,
but Breen says I am to talk with no one. If Hop will
carry notes, it will be of some help to us. They are
treating me all right.
The note was unsigned. The fact that she was a prisoner was no news
to Cultus, and he knew Dude Wheeler was right in suspecting that
Miles Lane had not delivered the letter to Mary. Cultus realized
that under the law, it would require nearly a year to probate the
will of Jud Ault, advertise for creditors, and to follow out all the
legal phases of the instrument, but he also knew, that, while hardly
ethical, it would be legal for an heir to sell out his or her
interests to anyone who was willing to take a chance on the legality
of the will in question.
And if Breen and Miles Lane intended doing such a thing, there was
nothing he could do to prevent it. Mary, without the advice or
assistance of anyone, would be obliged to sign the name of Mary Ault to
a bill of sale to the Lazy A. Of course he could notify the authorities
of fraud, possibly defeat the purpose of Breen and Lane; but only serve
to throw the will into courts indefinitely--or until it might be proved
that no Mary Ault existed.
Cultus decided that there was nothing for him to do, except to wait
until something happened that would give him a chance to puzzle out a
solution of the case. In the meantime he decided to keep working on
the cattle stealing end of the case. He had a talk with Idaho Breen
about the cattle that night, but the Lazy A foreman did not seem
interested. He tried to lead Breen into a discussion of Jack Keene,
husband of Faith Ault, but Idaho side-stepped the subject; so Cultus
dropped it and went to bed, after deciding to visit Welcome Creek the
next day.
* * * * *
Earlier that afternoon Shif’less Hill had ridden to Oreana City, and
gone to the depot. He had sent a rifle to a San Francisco gunmaker
for some repairs, and it was due back. He paid the express charges
and took the package outside, where he sat down on the edge of the
station platform and unwrapped the rifle. It had been encased in a
light wooden box and packed tightly with newspapers.
Shif’less tried the action, found it functioning perfectly, and began
putting the papers back in the long, narrow box, when his eyes happened
to get a flash of a pictured face on one of the wrinkled newspapers.
Quickly he spread it out, emitting a grunt of wonderment.
The unmistakable features of Jack Keene stared up at him, along with
the face of a pretty girl, beneath whose portrait was the name Janice
Lee. But the name beneath Keene’s picture was J. Loring. Connecting
the pen and ink scroll, which joined the two portraits, was an
artist’s conception of the gun battle between two men, and behind one
of them was a girl, dressed in a traveling suit.
The story told of a gun battle in a San Francisco café, in which J.
Loring, an attorney, and Speed Evans, alleged gangster and dope
peddler, had killed each other. Janice Lee had been struck twice and
had died twelve hours later, without regaining consciousness. It had
little to say about Loring, except that he was little known outside
the tenderloin.
Shif’less read it through twice, the rifle lying across his lap. There
was no question in his mind about this man being Jack Keene. He noted
the date of the paper, carefully tore out the article and put it in his
pocket.
Picking up the rifle and the box, he walked around the depot, threw
the box into a weed patch and went back to his horse. He rode back up
the street to Miles Lane’s office. It was getting late, but he found
Lane there.
“What’s on your mind, Shif’less?” asked Lane, when Shif’less placed
his rifle on the desk and drew out the clipping. The Oreana City
attorney took the clipping and stared at the picture of Jack Keene.
And as he read the story he seemed to sway slightly and his eyes
blinked painfully.
He lifted a hand and wiped the tears from his eyes; not tears of grief
or remorse, but tears like a man might get whose eyes had stared into a
bright light. For a long time he did not speak, although Shif’less knew
he had read the article.
“What do yuh know about that?” asked Shif’less softly.
“My God!” breathed Lane hoarsely. “Jack Keene dead!”
“Well, he’d prob’ly finish thataway,” said Shif’less.
Lane looked at Shif’less blankly. “What did you say?” he asked.
“I said he’d prob’ly finish thataway.”
“Oh--yes,” Lane looked at the clipping again. Shif’less had torn it
through, leaving the dateline at the top of the page. Lane looked at
this and glanced quickly at a calendar on the wall.
“We’ve got to keep Faith from finding it out, Miles,” said Shif’less
softly. “We can’t let her know.”
“Faith? Oh, yes. Yes, we must keep it quiet, Shif’less. You won’t tell
anyone, will you? I can trust you, can’t I?”
“Well, I’d be the last to tell her,” drawled Shif’less. “Heck! I
wouldn’t have her find it out--not now.”
“That’s fine!” Lane almost pawed for Shif’less’ hand. “We’ll keep it
dark, eh? Don’t let anybody know. If one person finds it out, they’ll
all know it.”
“I won’t tell,” Shif’less shook his head. “Nossir. Say, Miles, Jack
must ’a’ been pretty tough, eh? I wonder if that was his girl. Prob’ly
was. Faith still thinks he’s all right,” Shif’less looked wistfully out
through the window. “Still thinks he’s all right, Miles.”
“Yes, yes,” impatiently. “You never can figure a woman, Shif’less.”
“Nor anybody else,” softly. “Jack Keene took a different name and left
his wife----”
“I know how you feel, Shif’less. You love Faith Keene. No, don’t shake
your head. Maybe she thinks a lot of you. I’ll help you.”
“I don’t need no help, Miles. I asked her the other day why she didn’t
get a divorce from Jack, and she said he was still supportin’ her; and
that she couldn’t never marry anybody as long as Jack was alive. Now,
Jack’s dead--and we can’t tell her. Still, what difference does it
make? If she’d marry----”
“No, don’t tell her!” Lane grasped him by the arm. “Don’t do it,
Shif’less. Anyway, it isn’t for you to do. Don’t you see, she’d think
you--you were trying to hurry things? Don’t you see?”
“Yeah, I see,” Shif’less nodded slowly. “I reckon we better keep it
dark for a while. Well, I’m headin’ home. Miles. Hang onto that piece
of paper, won’t yuh?”
“Oh, I’ll keep it safe, Shif’less. Good night.”
Shif’less mounted his horse and rode out of town, carrying the rifle in
the crook of his right arm, while Miles Lane locked his front door and
flopped in his office chair, trying to gather his scattered senses. He
studied the clipping again. Janice Lee! That was the name on the note
of identification! It was evident that the girl out at the Lazy A was
not Janice Lee. But who was she? Miles Lane’s brain whirled. Did this
Association detective, Jones of Oklahoma, have anything to do with it,
he wondered. Where did this girl come from, and where did she get the
identification papers?
Jack Keene, alias J. Loring, was the man who wrote the note--and he
was dead. Lane wondered if this girl at the Lazy A had stolen the
papers at the time of the gun battle. And if she did, who was behind
her masquerade?
Lane drew a big bottle from a desk drawer and took a drink. He left the
bottle uncorked, and every few minutes he would lower the contents
perceptibly. He decided to go to the Lazy A ranch and show the clipping
to Idaho Breen, but the quart bottle was empty when he got his horse at
the livery stable--and Mr. Lane was very drunk.
In fact, he was so muddled from drink that he took the wrong road out
of Oreana City in the dark, and when he sobered to the extent that he
cared to realize anything he found that he was not on any road, had
no sense of direction--and nothing to drink. So he just rode on and
on, wondering dully if the moon would ever come up and show him some
familiar landscape.
After a while he saw the silhouette of an old building, which he
recognized as being the deserted stamp-mill and buildings of the
abandoned Suicide mine. It had not been worked for several years. Jim
Scott, the original owner, had sunk every cent he owned in it, failed
to make it pay, and hung himself in the shafthouse--thus giving it a
new name. Others had tried in vain to make it pay, and it was finally
abandoned.
Lane did not realize that the night was nearly over; so he was not going
to take any chances on getting lost. As long as he had the buildings of
the old mine as landmark, he knew it would not be difficult in daylight
to cut across the hills to the Lazy A.
He struck one of the old trails and rode up closer to the old
shaft-house, where he intended to dismount. A cold breeze was sweeping
across the hills, and Miles Lane, not dressed too warmly, needed
shelter.
Suddenly he saw the dull gleam of a light shining through a crack in
the old building, and almost at the same instant he realized that he
had ridden in beside a saddled horse. He was still a little dazed
from the liquor, but instinct told him that something was not just
right.
Turning his horse around he rode slowly back down the trail, turned
his horse into the shelter of a mesquite clump in a dry wash, and
dismounted. Curiosity prompted him to climb back up the trail again,
but this time he circled to the opposite side of the building. He
took plenty of time and was particular about making unnecessary
noises.
He came in against the wall of the building and worked his way around
to when a broken board gave him a fairly good view of the interior.
The machinery had been moved away, but there still remained the old