The trail of deception
safely ensconced in the kitchen. Sitting on a corral fence near the
stable were Jim Bailey and Cactus Spears. Jim was examining an old Colt
.41, with a sicklebill handle, and Cactus was patiently explaining the
deal.
“It’ll cost yuh twenty dollars, but I’m willin’ to wait for my money,
until yuh--until the court passes judgment on yuh, if yuh live that
long. Anyway, I’d get the gun back--I hope.”
“What do you mean--if I live that long, Cactus?”
“The way you’ve been handlin’ that hog-leg would indicate a awful sudden
de-mise for you--or somebody.”
“I can learn, can’t I?” asked Jim.
“Do you know what a moot is?” asked Cactus soberly.
“A moot? No, I don’t believe I do, Cactus.”
“Well, this is a moot question. You’ve got a long ways t’ go, before
you ain’t a menace to yourself. After that, yo’re a menace to everybody
else.”
“I want to learn how to handle a gun,” sighed Jim. “I feel it is
necessary, Cactus.”
“All right, we’ll try her again. You don’t shoot with both hands. If
that was the right way, they’d put two handles on it. That there thing
is the hammer. That point on the face of it is supposed to puncture the
cap on the shell, not yore left thumbnail, as heretofore demonstrated.
“That doo-jingus under there is the trigger. Yuh don’t _yank_ it. Now,
let’s get together on it. Go ahead and cock it. He-e-ey! Don’t point it
at my knee! That’s better. Now it’s cocked. Grip it in yore right hand.
That’s right. Now, yuh place the first finger of yore right hand around
the trigger and--”
_Wham!_ Part of Cactus’ left heel disappeared, the gun bucked out of
Jim’s hand and fell behind him and Cactus Spears swiftly bow-legged
his way toward the house and safety!
“Come back here and show me something!” called Jim, but Cactus merely
flinched and kept on going into the kitchen.
“I hope yo’re satisfied!” barked Tellurium. “Git away from that
door--it’s thin wood!”
“Look at m’ boot-heel!” complained Cactus.
“Too bad it wasn’t yore head,” said Tellurium. “Bringin’ a gun out to
that kid! He can’t shoot.”
Jim Bailey came up and peered through the window at them.
“Git away from there, you--you menace!” howled Archibald, grabbing at
the curtain.
“I can’t shoot any more--this gun is empty,” called Jim.
“Good!” breathed Cactus. “He shot twice accidently and three times
unconsciously. One thing--he ain’t scared of the gun.”
“I suppose yuh call that a virtue!” snorted Tellurium. “I was out there,
cuttin’ wood, and that first bullet hit the axe.”
“I done told him to select a simple target for his first shot,” sighed
Cactus.
“Yuh mean--he was really shootin’ _at_ Tellurium?” gasped Archibald.
“That’s enough out of you!” snorted Tellurium. “You was scared so bad
yuh ate two yeast-cakes, thinkin’ they was crackers!”
“I thought they tasted kinda fuzzy. They won’t hurt me, will they?”
“Keep out of the sun,” advised Tellurium. “If they ever get heated up
and start to raise--you better tie yore feet down.”
* * * * *
Jim walked around and sat down on the porch, placing the gun beside him.
Mary came out, and he smiled at her.
“Lesson over, Jim?” she asked.
“I ran out of ammunition--and instructors,” he replied. “I am not what
you would call an apt pupil, Mary.”
“You will learn,” she said encouragingly.
“I doubt it. I never do anything well. In fact, all I know is how to
keep a set of books and not too well, at that. Out here, all that seems
so far away and hazy, like something you dream and try to remember.”
“Don’t you love it out here?” she asked.
“Love?” Jim smiled slowly. “No, I can’t say I do. I don’t fit in,
Mary. You see, at first I thought most everybody out here was rather
dumb. When I try to do the things that they do, I know I am the dumb
one.”
“You’ll learn, Jim,” she said quietly. “After you have owned the Lazy
H for a while, you wouldn’t trade one little dogie for a whole city.
You’ll never want to go back there.”
Jim shook his head slowly. “I don’t understand you, Mary. You will be
the only one really to suffer, and still you don’t resent me. Everybody
else resents me.”
“Why should I?” she asked. “It isn’t my ranch.”
“But don’t you resent the fact that--that Clint Haverty did not leave
you anything?”
“No, Jim, it is not resentment. It hurt a little--at first.”
“You’re a mighty sweet girl,” said Jim slowly, but he did not look
at her as he said it. “I think you are the sweetest girl I have ever
known. I’ve always been afraid of girls--but I’m not afraid of you.”
There was a chuckle in Mary’s voice as she said:
“You’re not trying to make love to me, are you, Jim?”
“No,” replied Jim, getting to his feet. “I--I couldn’t do that. I guess
I just wanted you to know that I appreciate you. I don’t know anything
about love--except that it should be honest.”
Then he walked off the porch and went down to the stable. Tellurium came
out cautiously and squinted at his back.
“He didn’t find no more shells, did he, Mary?” asked the cook.
“I don’t think so, Tellurium; there’s his gun on the porch.”
“He ain’t such a bad feller, Mary,” remarked the cook. “I don’t
reckon he’d hurt anybody intentionally, but, man, what he’d do to yuh
accidently! I’d better put that gun away before he finds some more
shells. He’s got more, ’cause Cactus gave him almost a full box.”
“I’m sure Jim will be careful next time, Tellurium.”
“He will, huh? Listen, my dear, if he was jist six times more careful
next time, there wouldn’t be enough of us left to go to the polls next
election. What he needs is a pea-shooter with a busted spring.”
Archibald found a quart of hard liquor hidden in the oat-box at the
stable that afternoon. Some one of the cowpokes had cached it there,
but Archibald wasn’t choosey. He took his liquor where he found it.
Then he notified Tellurium and they went down to the stable and sat
on the oat-box. They didn’t need anything for a chaser. After a few
drinks Tellurium said thoughtfully:
“Archie, I’ve been doin’ some thinkin’ f’r myself.”
“Gettin’ yore brain all wrinkled, huh?” remarked Archie, who was not
interested in Tellurium’s conclusions. “Hit her again, she’s still
a-standin’ up.”
* * * * *
They had another drink.
“Yuh know, Archie,” Tellurium said, “I’ve been cogitatin’ to myself.
Why didn’t Clint leave somethin’ to Mary? Don’t answer that--you’ll
only confuse me. He loved her like a daughter, and you know it.”
“What’r yuh tryin’ t’ do--make me cry?”
“I’m tryin’ to make yuh understand, Archie. There’s been crooked work
done. What’d Clint care about this young gallinipper? Why, he never
seen Jim Meade in his life. Archie,” Tellurium lowered his voice to a
stage-whisper, “there’s dirty work at the crossroads.”
“Which one?” asked Archibald.
“Yo’re a big help,” sighed Tellurium. “What I mean is this; that will
ain’t right. Clint Haverty never intended it thataway.”
“There’s three, four big swallers left for each of us,” said Archibald,
“and we don’t want the owner of that bottle to find us. We’ll hide the
empty in the oats.”
“Archibald,” said Tellurium severely, “how good are you as a holdup
man?”
Archibald stared owl-eyed at Tellurium.
“Yo’re tryin’ to dig into m’ past, huh?” he grunted. “Yo’re a-gettin’ me
drunk, so yuh can put some deadwood on me, huh?”
“Archie, yo’re the past-master of the Loco Lodge!”
“All right--heap me with honors, but yuh can’t slicker me. Let sleepin’
dogs lie--that’s my motter. Well, who do yuh want to rob?”
Tellurium whispered quietly, and Archibald nodded dumbly. It was a crazy
scheme, but it appealed to Archibald.
“We go to town right after supper,” said Tellurium, “and don’t forget to
put a big handkerchief in your pocket, Archie.”
“I’ll be there with bells on,” declared Archibald.
“You can leave the bells here--this ain’t no shivaree.”
Ed McLean was more than a little worried over the way things were going.
That punch in the nose indicated that Jim Bailey had a mind of his own
and might make trouble. And there was that hard-eyed, cold-jawed Skeeter
Smith, who knew too much. McLean had no idea of giving Skeeter Smith any
part of the Lazy H. If things came to a bitter showdown, he’d swear that
Jim Bailey had fooled him; that McLean had accepted him at face value.
Bailey had no proof otherwise. Bob Hawley, the detective, was dead, and
he had McLean’s only contact to secure the right man.
McLean sat at his desk that night, thinking things over. Personally,
he felt secure, but he wanted more than personal security--he wanted
ownership of the Lazy H. He had schemed long and hard to put over this
deal. He looked at his old safe, half in the shadows from the lamp on
his desk, wondering if there could be any scrap of paper in that safe
that would, or could, incriminate him, in case of an investigation. He
felt sure that everything dangerous had been removed, but as he looked
at the safe, he felt a desire to sift things again and be sure.
He went over to the safe and twisted the dial carefully, swung the
heavy door open and began taking out the papers, placing them on his
desk. A sudden draught caused a paper to flutter off the desk, and a
chill breeze struck the back of his neck.
* * * * *
Slowly he turned his head, realizing that someone had opened the rear
door. Two masked men were standing there, one of them covering him with
a six-shooter. The man growled behind his mask:
“Don’t move! Keep yore hands in sight.”
The other man stepped over to the desk, grasped a handful of the papers
and started to put them in his pocket. In fact, he had some of them in
his coat pocket, when a voice behind him said:
“Drop the papers!”
His hand came away from his pocket, dragging papers out, and he dropped
them on the pile of papers atop the desk.
“Back over by the door,” growled the voice again, and the first two
masked men obeyed. One of them whispered:
“My gosh--another set!”
He was right, there were two more masked men behind them. McLean,
white-faced, watched one of the second pair sweep up the papers and
dump them into a sack.
“Is the safe empty?” asked the holdup man.
“Yes,” whispered McLean huskily.
Swiftly the two men backed away, and went outside. The first two were
watching McLean narrowly. They too backed out, leaving the frightened
attorney still on his knees beside the safe.
Slowly he got to his feet, walked to the rear door and looked out into
the night. There was nobody in sight. He locked the door and went back
to his desk, where he sat down heavily, staring at his empty safe. Every
paper was gone. Suddenly he said aloud:
“What am I worried about, anyway? There was not an incriminating paper
in the safe. This is a job for the sheriff.”
He put on his hat, locked the door and went down to the sheriff’s
office. Cactus Spears was there, but McLean didn’t want to talk with
the deputy. He found the sheriff at the Antelope Saloon, ensconced in
a draw-poker game. Also in the game was Skeeter Smith. McLean waited
until the sheriff dropped out of a pot. “Mace, can I have a word with
you?” he asked.
The sheriff followed him outside, where McLean told him what happened in
the office.
“Two different sets?” the sheriff said. “Ed, that sounds like you must
have dreamed it. Why on earth would those four men want your papers?”
The lawyer shook his head. “Sheriff, I wish I knew,” he said.
“Couldn’t you identify any of the four?”
“No, I couldn’t, damn ’em! Things like that confuse you.”
“Well, I don’t know of anythin’ we can do about it, Ed. They’re
gone--and so are yore papers. Maybe they’ll send ’em back to you.”
“I suppose I’ll have to wait and see,” sighed McLean.