Three sevens A detective story
while, but his nature called for solitude, especially when he sensed
this danger that he could not understand.
Twice, now, he had found the print of a bloody hand on the sack of
moss he used as a pillow. There was blood on the latch of his door.
Then, one night, toward dawn, when he had just fallen asleep, he was
jabbed through with such ferocious pain that he jumped out of his cot
sure that he had been bitten by a snake. It wasn’t that he saw when
he turned on the light. It was more blood. There was blood everywhere.
There was nothing nervous about Sancho. He wasn’t even very
superstitious. Even so, had he been an ordinary man in other
respects, Sancho might have deserted his cabin then and gone to sleep
in the company barracks. But this was the one place that Sancho did
fear. To go to sleep in the presence of strangers, any one of whom
might be a deadly enemy, was almost impossible; the thought gave him
a shudder, anyway.
But the prodding of the blood and the pain in his cabin, and the lure
of partnership with a defenseless small man in a ten-thousand-dollar
job succeeded in getting Sancho--not so much like a snake now, as an
overfed bull alligator--from this swamp hole of his.
Later, when new tenants came to occupy Sancho’s deserted cabin and
the deserted cabin next door, on the edge of the bayou, they were to
speculate on a crude tunnel, half filled with water, that connected
the two shacks, and the electric-light wires that ran through this.
The tunnel came up in the corner of Sancho’s cabin right where his
floor cot had been. It was thus that the tunnel was found. The darky
making over the cot had got an electric shock.
But meantime, other things had happened to Sancho. He had watched one
night while Mr. Sanders brought the last satchel from the cabin on
the edge of the bayou. It was in the deep dark, before dawn. Then the
two of them had entered the pirogue, which Mr. Sanders silently rowed.
They went away across the dark waters that lay amid the cypress.
“I can kill him when I feel like it,” said Sancho to himself.
There was a touch of luxury, as fine as any Sancho had ever known,
in thus letting his victim work for him--the victim helping to rob
himself, helping in the murder of himself.
Sancho must have smiled in the dark. It was his sort of a joke.
CHAPTER XI
LIVE FREIGHT
But Craig had learned his lesson when he was fighting Bud Gaspell,
and he had reflected on it often since. The moment he had clinched
with Bud, he and Bud were on the same level--with the chances in
favor of Bud, for Bud would have been most willing to kill, while
Craig himself was loath. It was a lesson that abided with him when
he confronted the problem of taking Sancho Red in tow. A fight with
Sancho would have been like a fight with a snake or a ’gator, in very
truth, and all the chances, this time, on Sancho’s side.
And Craig didn’t want to die. Never had he taken such thought of
life, never so regarded it as a definite and limited trust, or
heritage, to be used to its utmost value.
He knew it--that he was as willing as any man to risk his life or
give it outright, should the time ever come when this would be
necessary. But to risk it uselessly----
He let his thought taper off, as he heard a splash of oars.
He was standing there in the pitch darkness on the edge of a narrow
cut a good mile from Pahkaville. The cut was so narrow that he could
have jumped across it had he cared to, or had he been able to see the
other bank. But the water in it was deep enough to float the pirogue.
He heard soft voices as the pirogue entered the cut.
“Are you sure you know the way?” That was Sancho.
“Sure!” That was Mr. Sanders.
“Why don’t you stick to the open water?”
“I’m afraid we’ll be followed.”
“They won’t find out what you done till to-morrow.”
“Maybe some of the company’s shoo-fly cops have got wise.”
“They’d ’a’ pinched you.”
“No, they’d have doped out a better plan.”
“What?”
“Laid for me out in the woods, so’s to shoot me and get the swag for
themselves.” There was a silence.
Craig wondered if that rudimentary brain of Sancho’s wasn’t occupied,
just a little bit, with the bloodstains on the wall, the shooting
pains that had disturbed his sleep.
He heard the sheep-herder’s brother speak again:
“I think they’ve been suspecting me, anyway.”
“You never told me so,” said Sancho softly.
“I was skeert you’d back out,” said the little man. “No one likes to
get a bullet through his chest.”
“Shut up!”
“It makes him spit blood.”
“Not so loud.”
“Like a brother of mine.”
“Where?”
“New Mexico.”
“Shut up--and pull.”
“I’m pullin’; but I can’t forget him as I found him in the rocks at
daybreak. Some one had flashed a light in his eyes----”
“Hah!”
Right then there was a flash of light in Sancho’s eyes. It struck him
and bathed him like a bath of cold fire. It held him as he groped
up with his hands in a blinded effort to shut the light out. At the
same time the little man who had been rowing the boat swung over
with an oar and brought it down, crashing on Sancho’s head. And that
settled Sancho for a while.
“I told you not to hit him so hard,” said Craig.
“I couldn’t help it,” said Mr. Sanders. “I was thinking about my
brother.”
“You may have killed him.”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be fine! God bless you!”
“Hold on,” said Craig. “I think he’s coming to. Now, bring his other
hand up behind him like this. Now his feet.”
They trussed up Sancho Red as Craig had once seen alligator hunters
truss up a big bull of a saurian they had taken alive--not only his
hands and his feet were tied, but half-hitches every few inches were
thrown over his arms and legs.
It was just as well. Sancho made some unreasoning efforts to free
himself, as soon as he had his consciousness back. He doubled his
great body and flopped about like a fish. He had the same sort of
life in him that all such animals have, low in the scale of creation.
Life, and the instinctive struggle for life was implanted in every
cell, not all concentrated in the brain, as happens when the top of
the ladder of creation is reached.
Once they were sure that the cords would hold, they let him flop.
They watched him curiously. Dispassionately they listened to his
blasphemies. It suited them that he should weaken himself.
They had brought him far beyond the last of the cypress slashings, to
a camp Craig himself had established. It was on a little knoll, or
hummock, right in the midst of the deep swamp--a place of mystery and
charm, full of slanting light and green shadows, perfumed with wild
orange, gay with bird song, and touched with the spectral passage of
silent butterflies.
Here Craig slept four hours, and let his spirit go out in his dreams
over the long, back trail to San Pedro, and the girl who was there.
Then he watched four hours while Mr. Sanders slept. It was going to
be watch-and-watch like that all the time that they were on the trail
with this wild animal captive of theirs. But they would tame him.
Sancho, however, was to display his enormous resistance. For almost
two whole days he even refused water--gurgling and cursing when they
poured water into his mouth. He would take no food. He would lie
quiet for hours, then they would see his great body writhing again.
Once, in that first forty-eight hours, Craig loosed Sancho’s bonds,
and Sancho almost escaped. So Craig drew the ropes tight again.
The pirogue brought the three of them out of the cypress country at
last. It was not more than a week later when a small man, cross-eyed,
appeared before the station agent of Bayou Crossing and told him a
story. He said that he had a mule of value that he wanted to take
back home, to San Pedro, some five or six hundred miles to the north;
and, to this end, he wanted to hire a box car.
“That’s easy,” said the station agent. “All you’ll need is the price.”
The little man was evidently well supplied with money. He ought to
have been. What money had been Sancho’s was now his, and he was using
it--for Sancho’s own good. The store had not been robbed.
“And I’ve got a friend who’s goin’ with me,” said the little man.
“We’re goin’ to travel and sleep in the car.”
There _was_ a mule. It was a mule that the little man had bought in a
neighboring parish. A fairly good mule, but it made the station agent
laugh a little when he saw it. Funny what exalted values the owners
of live stock put on their animals at times--almost as if the mule,
or the horse, or the cow, or whatever it happened to be--was a member
of the family. But, shucks! Hadn’t he seen fairly good men shot in a
dispute over the possession of a mere houn’ dog? He had.
He billed the car and the mule through to San Pedro. He didn’t see
that other bit of live stock that was put into the car that night.
The idea that there might have been some such thing never occurred
to the station agent at all--not until almost a week later, when a
couple of strange detectives who had been hanging around Pahkaville
showed up and asked him questions about a man who might have looked
like the famous bandit, Three Sevens.
On the strength of what the station agent told them, the detectives
began to use the telegraph.
It may have been that ex-warden Samuel Green of San Pedro came the
nearest of any one to solving the mystery that enveloped Three
Sevens. Once the big man with the beard had had a daughter of his
own. He no longer claimed her as his own, wasn’t sure, as a matter
of fact, whether she was still alive or not. But this he knew, that
there had been no change since Solomon’s day of the way of a man with
a maid.
A word here and a word there, and he had come to imagine, or see
with the eye of his mind--something of what had passed that day
when the new warden’s daughter and convict No. 3777 had been in the
prison practically alone. A word here and a word there, and he had
got a glimmering of the truth concerning the return of those other
convicts--George Washington, Solly Wells, and Bud Gaspell.
The warden, all by himself, through a mental process all his
own--never having read a book in his life--had found an adage of
his own to take the place of that famous phrase in French criminal
procedure: “_Cherchez la femme!_” Mr. Green’s version was: “There’s a
woman in it!”
To be quite frank about it--as the ex-warden was frank with
himself--he hoped for the worse. Wouldn’t a bit of scandal like that
be great? Wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t that blot out, as with a thick cloud,
his own ignominious wind-up at San Pedro?
Then, just a little too late, the ex-warden got a tip. It was a tip
given him by a railroad telegrapher at Banner Junction with whom
Green had conserved friendly relations.
The telegrapher showed him a telegram he had received, which told of
a certain box car that had been billed through to San Pedro.
The warden’s mind began to work--began to play, first of all,
around that pet theory of longing of his of some sort of scandalous
relationship existing between the present warden’s daughter and this
fugitive. Three Sevens was taking this means of coming back to see
the girl.
But there was something the matter with this theory, too. If the girl
was in love with the fellow, she would have run off and joined the
fugitive where they would have been safer. Girls were like that. He
knew. Didn’t he have his own daughter, Amy, to go by?
There was something else the ex-warden didn’t understand. He knew
Masters and he knew Sancho Red--knew them in certain aspects better
than any man did. And, there was no denying it; the two men weren’t
mates, never could be. Maybe they both were man-killers. That made