CHAPTER XIII
FOR MURDER
Dave whistled. The pony pricked up its ears, looked round, and camestraight to him. The young man laid his face against the soft, silkynose, fondled it, whispered endearments to his pet. He put the broncothrough its tricks for the benefit of the corral attendant.
"Well, I'll be doggoned," that youth commented. "The little pinto sure isa wonder. Acts like he knows you mighty well."
"Ought to. I trained him. Had him before Miller got him."
"Bet you hated to sell him."
"You _know_ it." Dave moved forward to his end, the intention to getpossession of the horse. He spoke in a voice easy and casual. "Saw Millera while ago. They're talkin' about sellin' the paint hawss, him andhis pardner Doble. I'm to saddle up and show what Chiquito can do."
"Say, that's a good notion. If I was a buyer I'd pay ten bucks more afteryou'd put him through that circus stuff."
"Which is Miller's saddle?" When it was pointed out to him, Dave examinedit and pretended to disapprove. "Too heavy. Lend me a lighter one, can'tyou?"
"Sure. Here's three or four. Help yourself."
The wrangler moved into the stable to attend to his work.
Dave cinched, swung to the saddle, and rode to the gate of the corral.Two men were coming in, and by the sound of their voices were quarreling.They stepped aside to let him pass, one on each side of the gate, sothat it was necessary to ride between them.
They recognized the pinto at the same moment Dave did them. On the heelsof that recognition came another.
Doble ripped out an oath and a shout of warning. "It's Sanders!"
A gun flashed as the pony jumped to a gallop. The silent night grew noisywith shots, voices, the clatter of hoofs. Twice Dave fired answers to thechallenges which leaped out of the darkness at him. He raced across thebridge spanning the Platte and for a moment drew up on the other side tolisten for sounds which might tell him whether he would be pursued. Onelast solitary revolver shot disturbed the stillness.
The rider grinned. "Think he'd know better than to shoot at me this far."
He broke his revolver, extracted the empty shells, and dropped them tothe street. Then he rode up the long hill toward Highlands, passedthrough that suburb of the city, and went along the dark and dusty roadto the shadows of the Rockies silhouetted in the night sky.
His flight had no definite objective except to put as much distancebetween himself and Denver as possible. He knew nothing about thegeography of Colorado, except that a large part of the Rocky Mountainsand a delectable city called Denver lived there. His train trip to it hadtold him that one of its neighbors was New Mexico, which was in turnadjacent to Arizona. Therefore he meant to get to New Mexico as quicklyas Chiquito could quite comfortably travel.
Unfortunately Dave was going west instead of south. Every step of thepony was carrying him nearer the roof of the continent, nearer the passesof the front range which lead, by divers valleys and higher mountainsbeyond, to the snowclad regions of eternal white.
Up in this altitude it was too cold to camp out without a fire andblankets.
"I reckon we'll keep goin', old pal," the young man told his horse. "I'venoticed roads mostly lead somewheres."
Day broke over valleys of swirling mist far below the rider. The sun roseand dried the moisture. Dave looked down on a town scattered up and downa gulch.
He met an ore team and asked the driver what town it was. The man lookedcuriously at him.
"Why, it's Idaho Springs," he said. "Where you come from?"
Dave eased himself in the saddle. "From the Southwest."
"You're quite a ways from home. I reckon your hills ain't so uncurrieddown there, are they?"
The cowpuncher looked over the mountains. He was among the summits, aglowin the amber light of day with the many blended colors of wild flowers."We got some down there, too, that don't fit a lady's boodwar. Say, if Ikeep movin' where'll this road take me?"
The man with the ore team gave information. It struck Dave that he hadrun into a blind alley.
"If you're after a job, I reckon you can find one at some of the mines.They're needin' hands," the teamster added.
Perhaps this was the best immediate solution of the problem. The punchernodded farewell and rode down into the town.
He left Chiquito at a livery barn, after having personally fed andwatered the pinto, and went himself to a hotel. Here he registered, notunder his own name, ate breakfast, and lay down for a few hours' sleep.When he awakened he wrote a note with the stub of a pencil to Bob Hart.It read:
Well, Bob, I done got Chiquito back though it sure looked like I wasn'tgoing to but you never can tell and as old Buck Byington says its a hellof a long road without no bend in it and which you can bet your boots theold alkali is right at that. Well I found the little pie-eater in DenverO K but so gaunt he wont hardly throw a shadow and what can you expectof scalawags like Miller and Doble who don't know how to treat a horse.Well I run Chiquito off right under their noses and we had a little gunplay and made my getaway and I reckon I will stay a spell and work here.Well good luck to all the boys till I see them again in the sweet by andby.
Dave
P.S. Get this money order cashed old-timer and pay the boys what Iborrowed when we hit the trail after Miller and Doble. I lit out tosudden to settle. Five to Steve and five to Buck. Well so long.
Dave
The puncher went to the post-office, got a money order, and mailed theletter, after which he returned to the hotel. He intended to eat dinnerand then look for work.
Three or four men were standing on the steps of the hotel talking withthe proprietor. Dave was quite close before the Boniface saw him.
"That's him," the hotel-keeper said in an excited whisper.
A brown-faced man without a coat turned quickly and looked at Sanders. Hewore a belt with cartridges and a revolver.
"What's your name?" he demanded.
Dave knew at once this man was an officer of the law. He knew, too, thefutility of trying to escape under the pseudonym he had written on theregister.
"Sanders--Dave Sanders."
"I want you."
"So? Who are you?"
"Sheriff of the county."
"Whadjawant me for?"
"Murder."
Dave gasped. His heart beat fast with a prescience of impending disaster."Murder," he repeated dully.
"You're charged with the murder of George Doble last night in Denver."
The boy stared at him with horror-stricken eyes. "Doble? My God, did Ikill him?" He clutched at a porch post to steady himself. The hills weresliding queerly up into the sky.
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