by Jerry eBooks
“Did you? Wal, I ain’t, though I come nigh to it. An’ what was you two a-fightin’ about? Privilege of bein’ pall bearers? Hank,” he said to the gangling youth, “you go in the kitchen an’ git me the lamp on the windysill. Don’t you try to light it.”
“I wan’ my gun. Gimme back my gun.”
“I’ll tan yore hide some more if you don’t do as I tell you.” The lad left and came back with the lamp which Titus lit, surveying the room with a face that crinkled in disapproval and eyes that held a sardonic twinkle.
“Run up a fine bill of damages ag’en yoreselves, didn’t you?” he went on. “When I left here there was one lamp smashed and one windy pane. Now looky thet windy, aside from breakin’ and enterin’. Mebbe you’ll explain how you happened to be breakin’ the law, Sheriff Stetson?”
“I came up to see you on—on a matter of business,” said Stetson with some hesitation. “Knew you was li’ble to be up late. Heard a shot as I topped the rise. Heard a hawss nicker. Saw the light was out. The moon came up an’ I saw Pringle here with his’ gun in his hand. I struck him up and found they was a cartridge fired recent. I knew he’d had some trouble with you. His fingers was all bloody. I didn’t ‘low he’d shoot no one in cold blood, but it looked bad.”
Titus had broken into cackling laughter. “It sure looked bad. ‘Specially the blood,” he said. “How about you, Pringle?”
Jimmy told his tale, Titus Williams listening with his leathery old face puckered up, his eyes now suspicious, now ironical.
“I reckon you’re tellin’ the truth,” he pronounced finally, “but yore tryin’ to rescue me ain’t goin’ to make enny difference about thet note of yore’s, Pringle. When it’s due I expect my money—or the security.”
“I ain’t tryin’ to save even yore life at a bargain,” answered Jimmy. “You’ll get yore sixteen ounces of manflesh, Shylock. Ten cents ‘ud cover yore personal value to me, but I don’t aim to see even a dawg killed ‘thout a show, if some folks do think I’m inclined thet way.” He looked resentfully at Stetson.
“I had to do my duty as I saw it,” said Buck. “You’d have done it yorese’f, Jimmy, if it had been the other way around.”
That was true enough, Pringle reflected. And the “Jimmy” softened him. But Titus cackled and broke in.
“Do yore dooty even to a rival, eh?” he inquired. “Both after the same office and Stetson won. Who’s goin’ to win the girl? Both over to the dance ternight, wasn’t ye? How’d you happen to leave so early. She give both of ye the slip?” He laughed maliciously as he met their angry glances.
“Seein’ I’m sheriff,” said Stetson, “s’pose you tell me jest what did happen. Thet’s my duty, too, Titus.”
“Glad to—glad to. Part my own fault, in a way. This lunkhead”—he indicated Henry Hensen, shuffling one foot against the other—“came to me yestiddy an’ tells me he’s seen a coyote hangin’ around my barns. As if I hadn’t heard the mangy brute. ‘If I kill it,’ he ses, ‘will you give me the bounty on it so’s I won’t have to collect it to the county seat.’ ‘If you kill it,’ I ses, ‘sure I will.’ Knowin’ he had no gun.
“What does the young fool do but swipe his father’s an’ go coyote huntin’—”
“I saw him, too,” said young Hansen. “Downhill, goin’ to the barns. I saw him, I tell ye. An’ I drew down on him. He starts to run an’ I follers him with the bead. I held ahead, I did, an’ I fired—”
“Plumb through my windy,” said Titus composedly. “Where I was rulin’ up my profit an’ loss account. Rulin’ it in red ink. The bullet goes whang through the burner of the lamp. If it had hit the container it w’ud have blowed up. The bullet might have deflected some but it didn’t miss me by an inch. Went by me like a bee after it knocked over the lamp an’ the bottle of red ink. That’s what you’ve got on yore hand, Pringle. Red ink an’ the ile thet flowed out of the busted burner.” He stopped to cackle again as Jimmy turned all colors of the rainbow. In the excitement and the rush he had not noticed that the stain on his hand had sunk into the skin.
“I guessed what it was, right off,” went on Titus. “I jumps for the door and there is Hank here on the skyline. I went after him, hotfoot.
“Usual I ain’t over an’ above spry, but I don’t allow no one takin’ potshots at me in mistake for a coyote. Hank tangles up in the brush. He runs cooky-footed when he’s excited, ennyhow. I drops on top of him, wallops him where he’s tenderest an’ took away his gun.”
“It ain’t my gun,” wailed Hank. “It’s paw’s. If he finds I’ve took it, he’ll skin me alive an’ he’ll raise hell with you, too,” he added defiantly.
“Will he? I’ll sue him for permittin’ his firearms to come within reach of an irresponsible minor child, if he does. You fire thet gun off ag’en within a mile of me an’ I’ll take it away sure.”
“I wanted the bounty.”
“Bounty enough the sheriff ain’t arrestin’ you an’ hangin’ you. Now take yore gun an’ git.’ The boy sprang out into the night.
“Now, who’s goin’ to pay fo’ my windy? You’ve spilled the table an’ lamed a chair besides.”
“We’ll settle that,” said Stetson. “I’ll hand it to you, Williams, you’ve got nerve. I doubt if I’d take it coolly as that.”
“Can’t no one hurt me on my lucky day,” chuckled Titus. “The thirteenth. Born on that day. Mos’ folks thinks it unlucky. I don’t. It’s the fourteenth now,” he said, looking at the clock on a shelf. “Twenty after twelve.” He walked over to the pad to tear off the sheet.
“Looky here,” he said. “Say this ain’t a lucky day!” He pointed to the score of the bullet where it had ploughed through the fat curve of the upper half of the 3, penetrating the thick pad, lodging in the wall. “Buzzed by me like a bee,” he cried, then, with a change of voice, “You said you had some business with me, Sheriff. Will it keep? Till termorrer? I’m a bit tired after my run.”
“It will keep,” answered Stetson. “Then you can come see me about it an’ bring over the money for the windy at the same time. Good-night to both of ye. And many thanks,” he added sarcastically. “Don’t forgit the date, Pringle. Jest ten days more to when yore note comes due.”
He went to the door, holding it open for them as they went out. Then he closed it behind them. For a moment they stood silent.
“You’ve got an apology comin’ to you, Jimmy,” said Buck.
“I told you I’d do the same thing in yore place. I’ll call it squar’ if you’ll keep quiet about the red ink.”
“I thought it was blood myself, Jimmy.” He held out his hand and Pringle, moved by the same impulse, gripped it.
“He’s sure a nervy cuss,” he said. “Ridin’ a spell with me?”
“Sure.”
They mounted. Both had the dance in mind, both fought shy of the subject in their new reconciliation. Somehow the girl didn’t seem to matter so much. Jimmy realized that Buck must have left the dance soon after he did.
“About thet note, Jimmy? You can’t meet it?”
“The inspection was put off again. Before they pass the steers and the check gets through he’ll have time to foreclose. I figgered I might borrer if I got a line from the inspection outfit, but they may shunt the date ag’en.”
“Uh-huh. Jimmy, you’ve had tough luck. You need me for a mascot. I’ve done well an’ I’ve got a good offer fo’ the Lazy Y. Cash. Can close it termorrer if I want. I don’t want you to think I was hornin’ in, Jimmy, but I rode over here ternight to see if I cudn’t fix it up fo’ you with Williams. Then I was goin’ to see you about goin’ in tergether on the U—U. I expected to talk with you at the dance, but you sasshayed off befo’ I had a chance.”
Jimmy reined up dumbfounded. “You want—I—what about Helen?” he blurted out.
“Helen. She’s nothin’ to me, Jimmy. I heard you an’ her weren’t over thick ternight. I’m figgerin’ she’s been jollyin’ both of us along as a gal will.”
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bsp; “She shook me like a dawg shakes water soon as you showed,” said Jimmy, a little cloudily.
“She shed me like a snake sheds an old skin soon’s as Pete Raymond showed,” said Buck. “All she wanted ter know was where he was an’ had I seen him.”
“I’ll be hornswoggled! Buck, I—listen!” They had reached the edge of the mesa. Up from the plains came a confused sound of shouting. They could make out a bunch of horsemen riding fast.
“Sounds like a shivaree crowd, or a lynchin’,” said Buck. “Too happy fo’ lynchin’ I fancy. Let’s ride down.” They set their ponies to the lope, cutting through the sage to meet the bunch. A man streaked out to meet them.
“What’s the idee?” asked Buck. The rider was rocking in his saddle with laughter.
“We’re helpin’ old man Faulkner find his daughter and Pete Raymond,” he managed to say at last. “He come home unexpected an’ found a note that said she was goin’ to ‘lope with Pete. He comes hotfoot to the dance, twenty minnits after they’d gone in Pete’s car. Of course we helped him—like hell we did! We’re helpin’ him now. Pete an’ Helen’s ha’f to Phoenix by now. Someone made a mistake an’ thought they lit out thisaway. Faulkner’s steamin’. He’s got a shotgun. Want to come along? We aim to stay with him till daylight.”
“Jimmy here an’ me’s got a date,” said Buck. “Over to the U—U. But you might tell Faulkner we saw a couple chasin’ erlong by Titus Williams’ a while back. Might have bin them—or it might have been Jimmy an’ me. Use yore judgment.”
“Sure will. Ye-yippee! Trail’s hot, boys.” And he galloped back to the crowd.
The reunited partners rode on in silence together, jogging happily along. Presently Buck Stetson started to sing a cowboy chant.
Some love to roll in riches,
Some love to lie abed;
Some spend their time in drinkin’
Or waitin’ to be fed.
Give me life in the open
Upon the broad prairee;
To live an’ die a cowboy,
Light-hearted, gay an free.
Yippity-yi-yippity-yee!
With my yip-yip-yip-yippity yee! Yip! Yip!
Jimmy joined in the refrain, and it was he who sang the next verse.
I wouldn’t trade my callin’
To be a millyunaire;
To find a gold mine full of gold,
Or wed a maiden fair.
A six-gun in my holster,
A lassoo at my side,
My saddle fo’ a bolster
My cattle-hawss fo’ bride.
Yippity-yi-yippity-yee!
With my yip-yip-yip-yippity yee! Yip! Yip!
“Buck,” he said presently, “I reckon Tight Wad Williams was right. The thirteenth is a luck day.”
“Lucky night,” amended Buck, “fo’ him, fo’ you an’ me, Jimmy, an’ fo’ Pete an’ Helen.”
“Here’s hopin’,” said Jimmy. “The world’s full of gals fo’ them that want ’em. Meantime, here’s the U—U.”
ONE HUNCH TO HELL
Richard A. Virgil
The newspapers called it a monkey farm. But Detective Orville Orr found it to be an alibi for the Grim Reaper—with himself a target for the Devil’s marksman.
The sign on the frosted glass of the corridor door was painted in small, black letters. It bore the following inscription:
ORR & ORR DETECTIVE AGENCY
Scientific Criminal Investigators
Inside the small office, Catherine was saying, “I’m afraid for him. I don’t know why, but—I just feel something might happen.”
Orville Orr grinned at his wife across the wide expanse of His desk. “Nonsense,” he admonished. “Nelson knows how to take care of himself. If anything were wrong, he’d have called us.”
The blond, petite Catherine wasn’t convinced. She bit her underlip, went around the desk and sat on Orr’s lap.
“You don’t understand,” she argued. “He’s already found this formula; he discovered it this past month. It’s proved successful in all the monkey experiments. It’s certain it’ll prove successful on humans.”
Orr—hard-hitting, dark-haired and wiry—gazed at her patiently. She was referring to one of their best friends. But Orr already knew Dr. Nelson had discovered a specific therapy for the treating of cholera.
“Please!” Catherine begged. “At least call him. Something must have happened or he wouldn’t have broken that luncheon appointment.”
Orr scowled but reached for the phone and got an out-of-town number. The scowl disappeared from his face as an excited voice came over the wire. Catherine stared at him.
“Your hunch was right.” Orr swore. “Culler just found Dr. Nelson dead in his room. Thinks a monkey bit him and that he died of cholera.” He added tensely: “We’re going out there.”
Dr. Nelson’s residence—the papers called it a monkey farm—was outside the city limits. It was a comfortable, two-story stone structure. Behind it was a wire-covered, tropical-like garden where the monkeys were kept.
Orville Orr parked his coupé behind a large sedan, and he and Catherine got out. A bony, red-faced youth ran out of the house to meet them. He was Vic Culler, Dr. Nelson’s handy man.
“It is cholera!” he cried. “Dr. Torgerson says it is.”
He led the two newcomers into the house.
In the front room were two grave-faced men. One was Dr. Torgerson—a small, fussy, pot-bellied individual—who had been working on the cholera experiments with Nelson. The second man—husky, blond-haired and clad in a leather jacket and corduroy trousers—was Dennis Spight. He was Torgerson’s assistant.
“No doubt about it,” Torgerson revealed fussily. “It’s cholera—the disease we were fighting.”
Orr quickly gathered the main facts. Vic Culler had got the day off. He’d come in about twenty minutes ago and had found Dr. Nelson dead in his bedroom. Two large monkeys were in there. There had been a struggle inside; Nelson had undoubtedly been attacked by them.
“They jumped me, too,” Culler added. “I had to kill both.”
“Culler phoned us and then you-called,” Dennis Spight offered nervously.
Orr and Catherine exchanged glances. She asked Vic Culler: “When did you see Dr. Nelson last—alive?”
The youth swallowed. “I—it was yesterday noon, when I fed the monkeys.” Orr asked Torgerson: “Can we go see the body?”
The doctor looked at his watch. “If you want; but just for a moment,” he replied uneasily. “I’m having the room disinfected. Too much risk of an epidemic starting.”
He led the way up the stairs, turned right. There was a door at the left in the hallway. Torgerson said:
“The room’s got a strong gas, so take a long breath before you look inside.” He threw the door open.
Orr drew back horrified at sight of the dead man. Catherine, behind him, gasped.
Nelson—a middle-aged, bald-headed man—lay curled up on the bed, fully dressed. His lips were blackish-blue, his face ghastly pale.
The room itself showed signs of a struggle, as had been said. The two monkeys—large, black-faced specimens—were sprawled out dead before the bed. Culler had shot both.
Torgerson closed the door, and they started down the stairway. Several men were coming in through the front door: the county coroner, the sheriff and several others.
Orr and Catherine spoke to them briefly and went outside. They got into their small coupé to wait. They knew there’d be little to be learned in the house just now. As Torgerson had said, they were running the risk of contracting the fatal and very infectious disease.
Orr gazed grimly at his wife. “You don’t by any chance think it’s—murder, Catherine?”
“I wish I could be sure. If it is murder, it’s so clever that we’ll probably never prove it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Catherine said tensely. “You know Dr. Nelson was to get a hundred and twenty thousand dollars from a foreign g
overnment if he discovered a worthy therapy for cholera. It’s a problem on which a number of prominent doctors all over the world have been working.”
Orr’s lips thinned. “There’s a motive in that all right. Nelson was working with Torgerson. Torgerson was to get forty per cent if they succeeded.”
Before them now, Dr. Torgerson and Spight were coming toward their sedan. Orr honked, calling the potbellied doctor. He asked him:
“Now that Nelson’s dead, what becomes of the formula?”
“I don’t know,” Torgerson said worriedly. “Nelson hid it somewhere, but I don’t know where. Naturally I’m interested; I’m to get money out of it. I worked with Nelson for the past two years on the thing.”
“What about Mr. Spight?” Catherine asked softly.
“He’ll get ten per cent of what I get,” the doctor said, slightly annoyed. “He’s just been with me five months, but I promised him that.”
He glanced toward Spight, then joined him. Both got in their car and drove off.
“Now about this Vic Culler?” Orr murmured!
“He looks innocent enough,” Catherine ventured. “But of course—”
She hesitated. The skinny county coroner was coming toward them. He whined out troubledly:
“We gotta be careful of this cholera disease.”
“How do you think Dr. Nelson contracted the disease?” Catherine inquired.
“From them monkeys, lady. Got bitten by ’em. The two thet were in his room were the two thet had the germs.”
Orr frowned. “How’d the monkeys ever get up into his room?”
“Oh, that’s possible. Thet Culler kid says he sometimes had ’em around his lab downstairs. They jest went on up the stairs. Monkeys are smart little creatures.”
Orr nodded. The explanation was possible, but he still wasn’t satisfied. After the coroner and his men left, taking the body, he asked Catherine:
“How long does it take for a person to die of cholera?”
“From what I remember,” she said, “it might be a few hours—or days.”
He stared fixedly toward his dead friend’s house, eyes troubled and thoughtful. If it just wasn’t for the formula part now, he would have agreed with the others. He would have let the case pass on as a terrible accident, due to Nelson’s carelessness.