The loot of the Lazy A
The tall roan slowed down the moment they struck the grade, and Cultus,
half blinded by pain and weakness, swayed in the saddle, as he peered
over the edge of the grade, knowing that only a miracle could prevent
the running team from disaster.
The first curve showed nothing, except that wheels had torn deeply into
the outer edge of the grade. But at the next turn he found the left
front wheel of the buggy, which had torn off from the impact against the
rocky wall. Here was also plenty of evidence that something had gone off
the edge, as the grade was sloughed off.
Cultus dismounted and leaned against his horse, trying to overcome the
dizziness which caused his knees to sag. He tried to walk around the
horse toward the edge of the grade, but he staggered like a drunken man
and fell to his knees.
“Keep a-goin’, you quitter!” he muttered bitterly. “Are yuh goin’ to
let yore own body lay down on yuh?” He stopped talking to himself and
his eyes focused sharply on a spot in the brush on the left side of
the road.
Then he lurched to his feet, staggered off the road and tore his way
into the brush, where Mary Smith was half lying, half sitting in the
brush, her eyes open, a smear of blood across her face. When the rig
struck the rocky wall it had thrown her to the uphill side of the
grade, and into the tangle of brush.
Cultus went to his knees beside her, trying to disentangle her from the
brush while she looked at him dazedly. Summoning all of his strength he
lifted her from the brush and carried her back to the road, where he
went to his knees again.
“Mary Smith,” he said brokenly. “Mary Smith!”
Her eyes were open and she did not seem badly hurt, but she did not know
him.
“I--I wanted to answer your note,” she told him. “But they watched me
too closely. I wanted to see you again.”
She began crying softly, and Cultus pawed clumsily at her hair, trying
to soothe her.
“Yeah, I know,” he whispered. She thought she was talking to Dude
Wheeler. And Cultus knew.
“Where’s Idaho Breen?” he asked. Mary stared up at him. The question
stirred something in her mind.
“He jumped,” she said simply.
Cultus nodded. “I thought he did.”
Cultus managed to catch his horse. It was a difficult job for him to
get into the saddle with Mary Smith, but he did it. The tall roan went
slowly, while Cultus reeled in the saddle, his arms locked around Mary
Smith. Cultus forgot that he had been shot. It was a nightmare, he
thought. Someone was coming down the grade toward him, and he laughed
foolishly.
The man came up to him, shoving his horse in close. Now he was trying to
take Mary Smith away from him. Cultus tried to prevent this. The man was
talking to him imploring him to let him take the girl. Cultus wanted to
draw his gun on the man but didn’t dare let loose of Mary with his right
hand. It seemed to Cultus that he had lost his left hand.
The man’s voice seemed familiar, and Cultus tried to remember who he
was. It suddenly dawned upon him that this man was Dude Wheeler, and
he laughed aloud at the queer kinks of a nightmare.
“Let me have her, Jones,” begged Dude. “Man, you’re hurt!”
This statement seemed to drive the mists from Cultus’ brain. He could
see Dude Wheeler plainly now, feel the surge of Dude’s sorrel against
the roan.
“I want her, Jones,” said Dude.
“Aw-ri’,” Cultus nodded drunkenly.
“She wants you, I--I reckon.”
He released his hold on Mary and let Dude have her. He reeled in his
saddle and grasped the horn for support.
“Got me pullin’ leather,” he grimaced painfully.
“Who shot yuh, Jones?”
“Who?” Cultus didn’t seem to remember. “Oh, that was a long time ago.”
“I met Idaho Breen. He’s headin’ to town for help. The team ran away,
and he said Mary was at the bottom of the canyon.”
“Headin’ for town?” Cultus laughed weakly.
“But who shot you, Jones? You’ve been shot, ain’t yuh?”
“I s’pose I have. I don’t remember. Yeah, I do remember somethin’ about
it.”
He stared at Dude. “Yuh say Idaho Breen is headin’ for town? Was that
today, Dude?”
“Not ten minutes ago, Jones.”
“Well, that’s funny. It seems so long ago.”
“You’ve got to get a doctor, Jones. We’ll go to town, if yuh think you
can ride.”
Cultus laughed. “Why not?” He rubbed a hand across his eyes. “There’s
Mary Smith to think about,” he said slowly.
“Mary Smith?” said Dude. “Not Mary Ault?”
“Mary Elizabeth Smith. I’m Jones from Oklahoma. We’re both liars, Dude.
No, she ain’t a liar--I lied for both. But I’ve got to lie to clean up a
crooked game. They were lootin’ the Lazy A; stealin’ from a dead man and
a widder. We got to go to town today.”
Dude was staring at him, wondering what he meant. Mary looked up at
Dude, puzzled expression in her eyes.
“What was it?” she whispered. Dude looked down at her, his arms
tightening.
“It’s all right, Mary,” he said. “Don’t you worry.”
“I’m not worrying,” she said. “I--I knew you’d come.”
Cultus swayed weakly, spurred his horse past Dude, who swung around, and
they headed for Oreana City.
* * * * *
Miles Lane lost no time in getting back to Oreana City. He had no
idea what Idaho Breen might have done, but Lane was just wise enough
to absent himself to town, where he could have a good alibi.
He stabled his horse and headed for his office just as the three cowboys
from the Lazy A rode in. He waited for them at the Oreana hitch-rack,
and received a scowl from Pie Ide.
“You and yore derned evidence!” snorted Pie, as he turned from the rack.
“We couldn’t find a thing at the old mine.”
“Did you look in the shaft?”
“Two hundred feet down?” Pie hooked his thumbs over his belt and glared
at the attorney. “Every time I look at you, Lane, I wonder how much real
brains it takes to git admitted to the bar. If yo’re capable of bein’ an
attorney, any danged one of us punchers is capable of bein’ a supreme
court judge.”
“You can’t talk to me like that!” Lane fairly bristled.
Little Mex Leone shoved Pie Ide aside and faced Lane.
“What he jist said goes double for me,” said Mex. “I’m the smallest
one of the bunch, and I’m plumb willin’ to hear all the war-talk you
can bring up.”
Lane turned on his heel and walked away, while the three cowpunchers
guffawed loudly and went toward the Oreana, their spurs rasping
belligerently. Shif’less Hill had ridden into town ahead of the Lazy A
bunch, and they found him in the Oreana saloon.
A reckless spirit prompted Omaha Woods to call Shif’less aside, and
he did not mince matters when he told him of the report Miles Lane
had brought to Idaho Breen. Shif’less said nothing to affirm or deny
Lane’s report.
“Breen sent us down there to investigate,” said Omaha. “But we didn’t
find a thing. I’m jist tellin’ yuh this for yore own benefit, Shif’less;
not try in’ to start anythin’ with yuh.”
“Much obliged, Omaha,” drawled Shif’less. “That’s shore kind of yuh.”
Shif’less moved slowly from the saloon and went across the street to the
store, where he bought a bag of peanuts. Then he came out, crunching
them between his strong teeth, and went to Miles Lane’s office. The
attorney started slightly at sight of the big cowboy, but relaxed with a
forced smile.
“You don’t look very well,” said Shif’less. “Kinda chalky around the
gills.”
Lane swallowed heavily and shifted his position. “No. I’m all right.”
“Physically?”
“Why, yes, certainly. What did you mean, Shif’less?”
“Morally.” Shif’less crunched slowly on some peanuts. “You always
pretended to be my best friend, and so yuh sneaked out to the old
Suicide mine and tried to put the deadwood on me.”
“Why--uh--no, no! Shif’less, who told you that? I--I got lost last
night, and--listen, I--I----”
Lane stopped to swallow. He didn’t like the expression in the eyes of
the big cowboy.
“You’ve got the loop around yore feet,” said Shif’less. “You sent the
Lazy A gang out to get me, Miles Lane.”
“But they didn’t find anything. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I knew they wouldn’t
find--uh--listen, Shif’less; that was----”
“You was tryin’ to play a joke on me, eh?” Shif’less dusted his hands
on the knees of his chaps. “You thought it would be awful funny for me
to git hung. You’ve shore got a sense of humor.”
Lane was speechless, but his brain was working swiftly. He was in a
precarious position, and he knew it well.
“I runs across Jones, the detective,” said Shif’less. “He knowed that
Jack Keene was dead; so I told him about what I found in the paper, and
he went whalin’ back toward the Lazy A. He’s a queer sort of a jigger.
He saw you sneak away from the old mine this mornin’, Miles.”
“He knew about Jack Keene?”
“Shore did. Said he saw Jack git shot.”
“My God! Then that girl--” Lane stopped, realizing that he was talking
too much. His hand shook, as he reached into a desk drawer, getting to
his feet as he did so to mask the fact that he had taken a gun from the
desk.
“What about the girl?” asked Shif’less.
“None of your business!” rasped Lane, and he turned and walked to the
doorway, his mind in a whirl. He was afraid of Jones of Oklahoma, who
had seen Jack Keene killed. He wanted to see Idaho Breen. If Idaho
Breen was bringing that girl to Oreana City, he should be here by this
time, he thought. What could be keeping him? Had Jones reached the
Lazy A before Idaho and the girl were ready to leave, he wondered?
He saw Cleve Sears, the pudgy sheriff, coming up the street. Lane
swung away from the office and hurried down to meet the sheriff, while
Shif’less sauntered to the office door and saw them meet farther down
the street.
“Hyah, Miles,” puffed the sheriff. “How are yuh t’day?”
“Don’t look toward my office,” cautioned Lane. “Shif’less Hill is
watching us. I saw him butchering cattle at the old Suicide mine early
this morning--in the shafthouse. The boys from the Lazy A went there to
get him, but he had thrown all the evidence into the shaft. There must
be a way to recover it, Cleve; so you better arrest Shif’less and put
him in jail. But look out for him. He knows I saw him, and he probably
knows I’m telling you about it now.”
The sheriff nodded slowly. “Are yuh sure, Miles?”
“Sure? Why, I saw him. He wouldn’t be butchering his own cattle up there
in that old building. All we’ve got to do is to get the evidence out of
the shaft.”
“And it’s two hundred feet deep. But I’ll arrest him, if yuh say so,
Miles; and you can swear out the warrant later.”
“That’s all right, Cleve. I’ll do it.”
Lane crossed the street, headed for the livery stable, and Shif’less
walked swiftly across to the Oreana saloon. The sheriff hesitated for
several moments. He hated to arrest this big cowboy. He had known
Shif’less for years, and it was like arresting his brother. Shif’less
had disappeared in the saloon, when the sheriff started across the
street.
But Shif’less did not stop in the saloon. He surmised that Lane had told
the sheriff so he walked straight through the saloon, went out the rear
entrance and circled around to the livery stable, where he went inside.
The stableman had led out Lane’s saddle horse, and was assisting Lane in
saddling it. Neither of them heard Shif’less come in and Lane did not
see him until he turned his head and saw the big cowboy leaning against
the side of the stall, six feet away. Lane’s eyes hardened and his right
hand fumbled at his coat pocket.
“Yuh hadn’t ought to do that,” warned Shif’less. “Yuh know I seen yuh
put a gun in that pocket, and I’m superstitious.”
Lane dropped his hand and reached for the reins.
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” said Shif’less quietly. He turned to the
mystified stableman. “You can yank the hull off that critter and tie
him back to the hay-box. Mr. Lane ain’t goin’ ridin’--not yet.”