Flaming Feud, page 7
"The jasper ain't in town," came back the sheriff, and there was something in his voice that brought quick inquiry to the rider's eyes.
"Wal, he pulled out yesterday, afore sundown," volunteered Weary. "Figgered on gathering up his do-funnies at Bitter Spring and dropping into Adobe."
Roth stood frowning at the fire-blackened cabin and abstractedly rolled a smoke. His pony pulled grass behind him.
"What's on your mind, sheriff," prompted Fiddlefoot. "Or did you ride out jest to say 'Howdy!' "
"Rock's dead!" said the sheriff laconically.
Both riders stiffened, staring at him with startled eyes. Fiddlefoot's post-hole digger thudded to the ground.
"The hell you say!" ejaculated the tall rider, with none of his usual lazy levity.
"Bushwhacked!" Roth scratched a match on a nearby post and touched it to his cigarette. "It so happened thet I hit town last night. Rock's saddled pony wandered back to the Boxed H two hours or so after sunup. Dave Winters set the crew searching. They found the body in the brush, by the ford, south of town. He got it close up—between the shoulder blades. The slug bored right through him. Then the coyote who cut him down dragged him into the brush."
"And you got the Limey tagged?"
"Wal," Roth sucked his smoke reflectively, "the jasper left here afore sundown, he never showed up in Adobe and he was hellbent for trouble when he pulled out yesterday, according to Frosty. What's the odds he ain't hightailing f'r the Border, right now?"
"Long odds," broke in Weary. Two heads turned quickly as his long arm stretched out and he indicated a dust plume far off across the heat-seared plain. "I gamble thet's his sign."
Roth stepped back beside his pony and pulled a battered, brassbound spyglass out of a saddlebag, leveled it across the animal's rump. He squinted through the eyepiece intently, snapped the glass shut. "Yore right, it's the Limey, but thet don't clear him. He's a poker shark and I gamble he can throw a good bluff."
Chapter 9
Three pairs of eyes followed the movements of the dust-powdered Englishman as he stepped down from his gelding by the cabin. Unaware of their silent scrutiny, or oblivious to it, he loosened the pony's cinches and looped its reins around a post. Then he sauntered towards the group standing by the half-built corral.
"Ain't you gonna water yore hawse?" inquired Weary.
"Later!" drawled the Dude, "When it cools off." But Fiddlefoot sensed a momentary hesitation in the reply and knew that the Englishman had forgotten. He had something on his mind and was under greater tension than his studied poise of unconcern would indicate. Was it the cold-blooded killing of Rock Hansen?
"A little late, isn't it, to take action against Hansen?" Creighton-Caldwell addressed the sheriff, with a quick glance at his badge. There was a tired cynicism in his hard eyes.
"What d'you know about Rock?" flung back Roth.
"They say in town that he was found dead."
"Bushwhacked!"
"I'm not particularly surprised," came back the Dude indifferently.
"Mebbe it warn't news—to you!" There was no mistaking the meaning behind the sheriff's brittle accents.
The Dude jerked to quick attention, met the lawman's level stare. "Just what do you mean?" he asked guardedly.
"Where were you at sunup?"
"At Bitter Spring."
"And yuh rode into Adobe—when?"
The Englishman shrugged, "Around mid-morning."
"And you never even saw Rock?" Roth's voice was caustic.
"Certainly I saw him," admitted the Dude coolly. "I was talking to him, quite early, practically at dawn."
Tension tightened among the men watching Creighton-Caldwell's smooth-shaven features. The sheriff eased closer. "And you had trouble?" he prompted.
"I accused him of theft and arson but he appeared quite unmoved. I told him I was instituting legal proceedings. He merely seemed amused, reminded me that King Colt wrote the law in Cochise County, and rode away."
"You rode with him, plugged him in the back, jest as you reached the ford," accused the sheriff flatly.
The Dude laughed. "As a matter of fact, I lazed around the spring for at least two hours after Hansen left. Don't try and pin this on me, Roth, I have never used a gun in my life."
The sheriff stepped forward, ran his hands over Creighton-Caldwell's loose tweeds, jerked one hand hastily away as the white rat squeaked at the pressure and popped out of a pocket. "If you downed Rock you would have ditched the gun, anyway," he murmured.
"I never carry a gun," came back the Dude with emphasis. "It is safer to be unarmed—unless one is an expert gunman."
"You were the last man to see Rock alive, and thet ain't a healthy spot to be on, mister," said Roth shortly.
"Was the killer blind?" retorted the Dude caustically.
"You tell me!" The sheriff turned to Fiddlefoot. "Mebbe you'll team up with me f'r awhile. We gotta get to the bottom of this."
Stirrup to stirrup, the pair jogged across the carpet of grama that rolled out before them until it was lost in the heat haze of the horizon. Fiddlefoot stole a sideways glance at his companion. Beneath the brim of his Stetson Roth's eyes were half closed and he rode slack in the saddle, as if drowsing. Only the movement of his lips as he chewed unconsciously upon the ends of his drooping mustache betrayed the activity of his mind. Unexpectedly, he spoke. "Frosty put me wise you were Small the Association man."
"Yep!" said Fiddlefoot noncommittally.
"The Limey didn't beef Rock!"
"I wouldn't think so," agreed Fiddlefoot. "Ef he had, he wouldn't admit he went on the prod at Bitter Spring."
"Unless," meditated the sheriff, "he's so doggoned slick he figgered we'd figger thataway." He struck off at a new angle, "How many redheads did Rock plant at the Spring?"
"They claim four," came back Fiddlefoot cautiously.
"I heard three. Would Red be the fourth?"
"Could be!"
"If so, he's got a blood debt tuh pay."
"Which makes him Rock's killer?"
"Mebbeso!" Roth's tone was noncommittal.
The sheriff's ideas, reflected Fiddlefoot, were in line with his.
"Then there's Nick," pondered Roth. "He hated Rock's guts and Frosty says Rock beat him up a few nights back. Thet gives us three jaspers who might have plugged the old moseyhorn." He expectorated in disgust. "Hell, the longer a feller chews it over the more tangled it gets. Wal," he added with satisfaction, "We got the gun!"
"Got the gun!" echoed Fiddlefoot, "Yet you searched the Limey!"
"Ef he'd packed one it would have cleared him." Roth dipped into a back pocket, came out with a stubby derringer, with a silver-plated grip. "Frosty dug it out of the brush—one spent shell!"
"That's Nick Dardon's gun!"
"Kin you swear to thet?" asked the sheriff sharply.
"Didn't Frosty put you wise?"
"Nope."
"Wal, Nick pulled that gun on Rock, the night he was beat up."
"Now we're going places!" Roth slid the weapon back into his pocket.
It was still early afternoon when the pair pushed through the batwings of The Longhorn. There was no one in the dim low-ceilinged room save Sam, the barkeep, polishing dusty glasses with bored thoroughness. When they inquired for Nick, he nodded towards a rear door.
Roth knuckled it loudly, twice, before it inched open and the saloon owner looked out. His hair was ruffled and his eyes heavy. It was evident that he had been sleeping.
"We want to talk to you, Nick!" Roth slid a boot between door and jamb.
Nick's sleepiness sloughed off, his shrewd eyes swivelled from one to the other. The door swung open. "Sure," he agreed genially. "Step in, sheriff." Fiddlefoot noted that his right hand was bandaged and there was no hideaway bulking beneath his coat.
They followed him into a large, lean-to room, built against the rear of the saloon. Two windows gave light on one side and a door, bolted, provided exit in the rear. Clean curtains hung over the windows, beneath which were set bureau and bed. On the further side of the room, a roll-top desk stood against the wall, small steel safe beside it. A carpet covered the floor and several comfortable leather rockers were placed around. Clothes hung from pegs in a corner, covered with a white dust sheet. The whole produced an effect of neatness and comfort that surprised Fiddlefoot, it gave a new sidelight to Nick's character.
Nick indicated a couple of rockers with his bandaged hand. His alert eyes flicked from one to the other as he bit off the tip of a cigar and dropped into the deep seat.
"Rock was murdered, this a.m.!" began Roth. "What do you know about it, Nick?"
The saloon man set a match to his smoke with steady fingers. He drew slowly, flashed his professional smile, "No more than anyone else. They say he was found near the ford."
"Yep—shot through the back."
"Too bad!" murmured Nick.
"You don't think so!" drawled Fiddlefoot. Suddenly black and defensive, Nick's small eyes focused the blocky rider, "Why wouldn't I think so?"
The rider nodded at his bandaged hand. "I was around when Rock—called."
"You think I would kill a man—for that?"
"For less!" said Fiddlefoot softly.
Nick showed no offense. Indeed, his rolypoly body shook with amusement. "You don't know the saloon business. Trouble—fights, drunks, quarrels—it's all in the day's work. I try to keep an orderly house, but—" he raised his shoulders—"a saloon ain't a church. This," he held up his bandaged hand, "is nothing."
"Your hideaway?" Roth suddenly flashed the silver-mounted derringer. Fiddlefoot searched the plump man's rosy face for a give-away change of expression, but saw none.
"Sure!" admitted Nick promptly.
"It was found near Rock's body—one spent shell, the slug beefed him!"
A silence in which the ticking of Roth's watch, in a pocket of his vest, came distinct to Fiddlefoot's ears, held the room. The two sat still as statues, watching Nick, the stub-barrelled gun in the palm of the sheriff's fleshy hand.
The saloon man continued to draw deliberately upon his cigar, eying the gun. Then he looked at Fiddlefoot, "You saw Rock grab me?"
"Sure!"
"Where did the gun go?"
"Dropped to the floor."
"Did I pick it up?"
Fiddlefoot smiled faintly, "Not in the shape you were in."
"Cut the palaver," snapped Roth, "Who did get the gun?"
The blocky rider's brow furrowed as he thought back. In the excitement, it seemed that everyone had overlooked the derringer. He remembered seeing it on the floor, among spent matches and cigarette butts. That was all.
"The gent who picked it up," declared Nick calmly, "shot Rock and tried to pin it onto me."
"Thet ain't good enough!" rasped Roth.
Nick smiled. "Would I—would you—leave a gun everyone could identify beside a man you murdered? Hell, gents, at least give me credit for a little horse sense!"
Roth grunted beneath his breath, jerked out of his chair. "I guess we'll drift. We'll hold yore short gun, Nick!"
"You can have it as a gift, if you find the man who used it," smiled the saloon man.
Outside the saloon, the sheriff smiled ruefully at Fiddlefoot, "His alibi seemed reasonable."
"Sounded good to me. Plenty more fellers could have got thet gun."
"Who f'instance?" Roth's head came round.
The blocky rider smiled wryly, "Half a dozen townsmen, Dave Winters, a coupla tough hombres I never lamped afore. Hell, most anyone!"
They strode down the plankwalk, each busy with his thoughts. An idea flashed into Fiddlefoot's mind, "Weary been around long?"
"I wouldn't know, ask Frosty."
In the office the deputy promptly supplied the information. "Three-four months."
"Where did he hail from?" asked Fiddlefoot.
Frosty snorted, "Whar does any stranger hail from? It ain't perlite to ask, unless his map's on a dodger."
"He ever hold down a job?"
Amusement flickered around the deputy's lips. "Not that I ever heard of."
"He ain't as sleepy as he looks, he reads sign like an Indian."
"Mebbe he was raised with Injuns." Frosty eyed the blocky rider, "What's fazin' yuh now?"
"Nothin'!" averred Fiddlefoot hastily, but he couldn't forget that Weary had left camp at sunup and returned around noon, which gave him time to ride to the ford and back—with plenty to spare.
Chapter 10
Sheriff Roth had left the office. Frosty glanced at a yellow telegraph flimsy lying on the table, crushed it into a ball and fired it into a corner with an irritability that indicated his state of mind.
"You gathering a posse to pick up Red?" inquired Fiddlefoot. There seemed little else they could do.
"I'm gathering nothing," snapped Frosty. "Jim Roth's in charge. He sent f'r Charlie Ketcham, a 'breed tracker. Guess he figgers Charlie u'll pick up something. The wire sez he'll be in on the rattler around sundown."
"Rock's death kinda stirred things up."
"Yep, he's a big buffalo. The cowmen are liable tuh slap Jim down next election ef he don't give 'em a hanging."
A ghost that would not be downed, the warrant, haunted Fiddlefoot's mind. The sheriff might have recognized him from the reward dodger? Not a chance in a hundred, commonsense answered. Dozens of dodgers flowed into a sheriff's office, and his picture had been circulated four, almost five years back.
At sundown he legged down to the depot to meet the train with Frosty. Ketcham proved to be a coppery-featured fellow, with high cheekbones and the dark unfathomable eyes of the Indian.
Greasy black hair lay lank over his ears and a long eagle feather was stuck in the hatband of his stained felt hat. He wore black corduroys and a red shirt, with beaded sleeve bands above the elbows. "You ketch killer?" he inquired, in a deep gutteral voice, when he stepped out of the day coach.
"Nope, but we got leads. Jim sez he'll put yuh straight." The deputy turned, "Meet Jack Small of the Cattlemen's Protective! Charlie," added Frosty, with evident admiration, "kin track a black cat through hell."
The three plodded through the gathering darkness, stumbling over the potholes of the unpaved road that led up to Main Street.
Roth was sitting in the gloom of the office. Frosty set a match to the wick of the oil lamp that was bracketed over his desk, brought out a bottle of bourbon and settled down in his seat.
Roth tilted the bottle. "Jest what the doctor ordered!" he pronounced, with approval. He passed the bottle to Ketcham. "Wal!" The easy familiarity faded out of his voice. "Rock's been dead these twelve hours and we got nothing to show f'r it. Here's the lowdown, Charlie!" Fiddlefoot rolled a smoke, puffed upon it silently while the sheriff told of Nick's silver-plated derringer, his talk with the Englishman, the saloon keeper's alibi, his theory of the blood feud. "Rock sure stepped on plenty toes," he concluded. "Seems as though it's a kind of toss-up between the Limey and this Red hombre."
"Yore forgetting the gun!" pointed out Frosty.
"A plant, ef ever I saw one. I know Nick. That dago would knife his own mother, but he's too damned slick to leave evidence around."
"Looks bad f'r the Limey!" agreed the deputy.
"How could he have got his paws on Nick's hideaway?" objected Fiddlefoot.
"How could Red?" shot back the sheriff.
Fiddlefoot shrugged, "There was plenty fellers in the saloon, maybe Red had one or two men around."
Roth crushed the remains of his smoke beneath a boot heel and lifted off his chair. "What we think don't help, we need facts. Come sunup, you take Charlie down tuh the ford, Frosty, and have him look over the spot. Mebbe you missed something." He stepped out into the night, the 'breed behind him, silent as a shadow.
South of town, Main Street slimmed into a wagon road, a deep-rutted trail that curved across a mesquite flat, roughly paralleling the loops of the willow-bordered river. The growing light of awakening day filtered across the sky when four riders jogged over the ruts.
The trail forked, one set of ruts weaving southward, the other winding down to the river. Frosty, in the lead, swung off towards the willows. Here the cutbanks of Lost River sloped down and there was a gap in the chaparral growing thick along the stream. The ponies splashed, hock deep, across a sandy ford. Beyond, Frosty indicated thick brush that rose shoulder high. "The Boxed H boys found the body in thar!" he volunteered. His arm dropped, and he indicated the clutter of fresh hoof marks on the soft sand at the brink of the ford. "Afore the sign was botched, it was plain Rock dropped out of the saddle at the water's edge." He indicated the passage of the grisly burden, plain marked by flattened grass and broken twigs to the three watchers' trail-seasoned eyes.
"I picked up the gun over thar." His bony forefinger swerved to the left. He swung around and eyed the sheriff with faint challenge. "Now you kin set your bloodhound tuh work, I gotta git back for the inquest."
"I'd say the sign was rubbed out," observed Fiddlefoot, eying the mess of tracks. "Plenty hombres been using this ford."
Frosty smiled slightly, "Mebbe not!" he came back enigmatically.
"Leave it to Charlie!" cut in Roth crisply. "So-long, gents!"
Frosty jingled back to his pony.
"Want I should stick around?" inquired Fiddlefoot.
"Nope!" said the sheriff shortly, and there was something in his tone that set the nerves in the rider's stomach writhing.
He was getting as techy as a tomcat, he told himself savagely, as he dogged the deputy. What could Roth have against him? Again, thought of the warrant floated across his mind like a black cloud. Soberly, he swung into the saddle and trailed the deputy across the ford. In the rays of the rising sun, spray cascaded like showers of sparkling diamonds. The warming beams touched his cheeks, but he was cold inside.
Hollow-cheeked Doc Thurber served as Adobe's medico, undertaker and deputy coroner. A dozen years before, he had drifted into the desert country to die, but doctors were scarce in Arizona territory and he had never found time to get around to it.
