Who Wants to Live Forever?

by William MacLeod Raine

  'Please get out of the middle of the road and let me pass,' she said, her voice a sharp imperative.

  'I'll move when I get ready,' Frawley answered. 'I haven't seen my little boss alone since she fired me. It will be nice to chin over old times.'

  'I have nothing to say to you, sir,' the young woman told him stiffly, a touch of arrogance in tone and manner.

  In spite of her fine-lined grace and vivid good looks, this girl reminded Tick Black of her father. Her mouth and chin were firm, and from the dark lovely eyes an indomitable resolution flashed.

  'Don't get hoity-toity with me, you little devil,' her former foreman cried. 'I've got plenty to say to you.'

  'Now — now, Jim, go slow,' cautioned Black. 'You're talking to a young lady, not to those killers Stevens and Wall.'

  'I know who I'm talking to — an obstinate bossy shrew who thinks she can run this whole valley. I aim to show her about that.'

  He flung open the car door, intending to drag her from the seat. His hand stopped halfway toward her, for she was holding quite steadily, pointed at his big bulging stomach, a small but businesslike revolver. The dark blood poured into his swollen face. The thought was in his mind to brush aside the gun and drag her out, so heady was his rage.

  She read his urge and forestalled it. 'Don't!' she ordered, a low and deadly warning in the word.

  The anger did not drain out of his face, but there was a whisper of doubt that reached his eyes. She was just vixen enough to shoot him, he thought. He was not drunk enough to risk that. Better talk her out of it before he went any further.

  'You wouldn't dare shoot,' he blustered.

  Dale did not answer that challenge in words. She let the hard cold glitter in her eyes deny it.

  Black caught the arm of the infuriated man and tried to pull him back. 'Let's get outa here, Jim,' he begged. 'You're drunk.'

  'Lemme go!' Frawley cried. 'I'm gonna show this wench she can't run over me.'

  He tore away from Black's tight grip, and in doing so threw himself back toward the car. Dale had lowered the gun, thinking the danger of attack past, but as his huge body plunged forward, due to his effort to free himself, her finger tightened on the trigger. The gun was discharged. Frawley fell back a step or two, amazement stamped on his bloated face. A hand caught at his thigh.

  'My God, the little devil has shot me!' he cried.

  A car had rumbled over the bridge and stopped. From it a man descended and ran toward the group. He was Tom Wall. He pushed past the men to join Miss Lovell.

  'I've shot him!' Dale cried, white to the lips. 'I thought—' She stopped, appalled at what she had done.

  'Think nothing of it,' Tom told her coolly. 'He asked for it, didn't he?' Already his quick eyes had read the situation. The car stopped in the middle of the road, the glimpse of the actual shooting he had seen, told him the story. Frawley had been charging toward her when she fired. That would be enough for any court, if the affair ever came to a trial.

  Like many men who have never been ill, the big ruffian was very much frightened.

  'I'm bleeding to death!' he cried. 'Get me to a doctor.'

  'Let's take a look at your wound,' Wall said, and to the girl added a word, 'Wait here, Miss Lovell.'

  The two men supported Frawley to the car he had been driving. They put him in the back seat and examined the wound, which looked to Tom not a serious one.

  'Just ripped a slice of flesh off,' he said. 'Hold a handkerchief over it and get to town. A doc will fix you up in two shakes of a cow's tail.'

  'We don't want to compromise Miss Lovell,' Black suggested. 'Better give it out that Jim shot himself by accident.'

  Tom looked at the thin-lipped mouth in the foxlike face of the old man. 'You're mighty particular to shield Miss Lovell, aren't you, Tick?' he said, with dry irony.

  'We wouldn't want a story to get out that she is going around shooting folks she don't like.'

  'That is not quite the story people would tell,' Tom answered. 'I saw the shooting. If Frawley had been killed, nobody except himself would have been to blame. But I'll see how Miss Lovell feels.'

  He rejoined Dale.

  'Is it very bad?' she asked anxiously.

  'Just a scratch, though he is making an awful fuss about it. Black suggests we give out a story that he shot himself. How about that? It might save some talk, though, of course, nobody would blame you.'

  'If they want to tell that story, we need not deny it,' Dale replied. 'I'm so glad it isn't bad. I don't know how I came to do it. It sort of — happened — when he was jumping at me.'

  'Don't ever make any apologies, Miss Lovell. He got what was coming to him. Just stand pat and say nothing. Let them think you knew what you were doing.'

  'You mean — that I shot him on purpose?'

  'Yes. When you covered him with the gun, you meant to shoot if he kept coming. Maybe you got a little goosey and shot when it wasn't necessary. We don't have to admit you got excited. So far we've had the breaks and come out on top in every tussle. That throws a jolt into them. Let 'em think we're too cold-blooded and smart for their game.'

  'Tell them whatever you like. You are sure the wound isn't serious?'

  'He'll be all right in a week.' Tom sauntered back to the enemy. He reported that Miss Lovell felt this ought to be taken to the sheriff, but, in view of the fact that Frawley had already been punished enough, she had decided to let it go pending good behavior on his part.

  Frawley cut in, his voice angry and frightened. 'Don't stand jawing here, Tick. Get me to Doc Hinman, damn it.'

  Black turned his car and headed for town.

  Dale explained that she had been going to Big Bridge because she had heard from Helen that Fenwick was there making trouble. She did not like to do much telephoning because of listeners.

  'All quiet on the Soledad,' Tom assured her. 'Brick did have an idea, but it fizzled out. Right now he is enjoying a little well-earned rest as the guest of Sheriff Elbert.'

  'You mean he is in jail!' she said.

  'Correct.' Wall gave her an account of the adventures of the previous night, and of the meeting at the restaurant an hour or two ago. 'Hal was on his way to Casa Rita when I last saw him,' he concluded.

  There did not seem to be any point in continuing the trip to town, Dale thought, since she now had all the information she wanted. Wall drove behind her back to the Seven Up and Down. From there he got in touch with the M K ranch. Since everything was going well there, he decided to accept Dale's invitation to stay at the bunkhouse with her men for a few days. There might be repercussions from the Frawley shooting, and it would be just as well to be on hand.

  Later in the day he telephoned Doctor Hinman and asked him as to Frawley's condition. 'I hear he shot himself,' Tom mentioned. 'Anything serious?'

  Doctor Hinman thought not. The wound was a flesh one. Fortunately, no arteries had been in the path of the bullet.

  It was always surprising to him, though by this time he ought to know better than to be astonished, how many men used to weapons accidentally shot themselves. Some day they would give up this fool custom of monkeying with pistols, the doctor fumed.

  CHAPTER 24

  Arnold Gets a Lesson on Brand-Burning

  WHAT RANDOLPH ARNOLD had to tell Hal was nothing more definite than a suspicion. He had been at Phoenix trying to dig up some evidence and had fallen into talk with an oldtime cattleman named Jackson Selkirk in the lobby of the Adams Hotel. Arnold had been interested in his salty reminiscences and they had eaten dinner together. In his tales of the old days, Selkirk had naturally some stories to tell about rustling. Answering a question of the Easterner, he had sketched on the back of an old envelope examples of well-known brands that had been doctored to make quite different ones.

  For instance, Goodnight's J A had become, by the touch of a running iron, D A. The addition of two strokes and a letter transformed the 3 C to B 0 B. Selkirk's own brand, the S Bar, which on the flank of a cow was S, had been ch
anged to the Box S, burned into the hide

  'There's still a good deal of cattle-stealing, I'm told,' Arnold had ventured. 'Or is this exaggerated?'

  'I dunno. I quit running cattle years ago. Now that the stock is under fence, the rustling is different. They do it with trucks. Cut the wires, load up the stuff, and run it fast clear out of the district.'

  'They don't have to change the brands then now?'

  'I wouldn't know about that. If they were going to beef the critters right away, they might not, but if they were going to feed the stuff, they probably would.' Selkirk cut himself a chew of tobacco and put it in his mouth. 'Funny thing. I was thinking about that the other day when I was down at Casa Rita. I moseyed round to the Gibson Packing Company, and I saw in the pens some good-looking steers branded . The mind of an old codger like me always runs back to the old days, so I got to figurin' that a thief could have made that Circle X by touching up the brand of the Seven Up and Down which looks just like a capital Z. 'Course I don't mean that was done. I was just letting my mind play tricks.'

  Arnold repeated this conversation to Hal Stevens. 'So I ran over here to see what I could find out. There are no cattle in the pens now with that brand on them. But there is a big warehouse where they keep the hides before they send them to the tannery. Looking at those hides wouldn't tell me anything, but it might give you information I couldn't see.'

  'It might,' Hal agreed. 'If there are any Circle X hides there, I could probably tell if the brands had been altered recently. The fellow who changes the brand is up against a difficulty. To make it look the same on the surface, he has to burn the hair off the new part of the brand and touch the hide itself quite lightly. Otherwise the more recent burn will look angry. While the animal is on the hoof, that is fine for the thief, but after the steer has been slaughtered, an examination of the hide could show the added scars were different from the original one.'

  'We would have to get into the Gibson warehouse to check up on this,' Arnold said.

  'Yes. If the manager of the company isn't in on the steal, all we would have to do would be to ask his permission. If he is sharing in the profits of the rustling, we'd have to get in without his knowledge.'

  'Assuming that some of the hides were taken from Seven Up and Down steers.'

  'First, we ought to find out who owns this Circle X brand. It may be a legitimate outfit nowhere near the Soledad Valley. In that case we can find out from the owner if he recently sold a bunch to the Gibson packers.'

  'How can you locate the owner?' Arnold asked.

  'All brands have to be recorded at the State House. I'll phone to Phoenix and find who claims this one.'

  Within the hour they knew that the Circle X had been recorded by Edward Mullins of the Rabbit Ear Gorge range. Hal chuckled. Some more of Tick Black's smooth work. The brand was in the name of a stooge. He would reap the profits, and if by unlucky chance there was trouble, he would slide out and let Mullins take the punishment.

  They were still in the dark as to the Gibson Company's share, if any, in the theft. It might be an entirely innocent buyer. The manager and principal owner of the packing house was Jubal L. Gibson. There had been litigation between him and the widow of his brother, also one of the owners of the company. She was suing him on the ground that he had defrauded her. Hal did not know the right of the case. He had met Jubal L. only once and had not liked him. The head of the packing house was a plump, soft-handed man with a superficial heartiness that failed to give warmth to his cold eyes. But the lack of an engaging personality was not prima facie evidence of a conspiracy to rob ranchers of their stock.

  Hal went to the leading banker in Casa Rita for information. James Hunter had been an Arizona ranger in his youth. From that he had drifted into mining and had made a small fortune in copper. Since Hal had been a small boy, he had known Hunter as a blunt, upright citizen, a wise man with a kindly sense of tolerance.

  He greeted Hal and his friend warmly, took them into his private office, and offered cigars.

  'No see you for a long time, son,' he told Stevens. A smile lit his face. 'The last time I was fronting for you to keep you out of jail.'

  'I raised a lot of hell when I was a kid,' Hal admitted. 'You'll be glad to know I'm a responsible citizen now.'

  'Then I won't have to go bail for you this time?'

  'It may come to that,' Hal said blithely. 'Ranny and I are probably going in for burglary.'

  The banker glanced at Arnold. 'As a career?' he asked.

  Hal shook his head. 'No. Arnold is a Government bureaucrat. We'll try it only once, if at all. But first we would like your advice.'

  'My advice is — don't.'

  'You can't give it wisely without knowing the circumstances. The reasons—'

  'I know,' interrupted Hunter. 'A starving wife and seven children at home.' He put a silver half-dollar on the table and pushed it toward Hal. 'Take that and buy them some oatmeal.'

  The cattleman threw up his hands. 'All right. If you won't become an accomplice in crime, will you give me some perfectly lawful information?'

  'No promises.' Hunter looked at him suspiciously. 'What do you want to know?'

  'If you were going into a business enterprise, would you pick Jubal L. Gibson as a partner?'

  That question wiped the smile from the banker's face. When he spoke, after a few moments of consideration, it was to say, 'I would accept Mr. Gibson's check with no misgivings.'

  'Not what I asked you, Mr. Hunter.' Hal grinned at Arnold. 'I think it's time to take Wall Street into our confidence.'

  'Go slow, boy, if this is going to be as bad as it sounds,' the banker warned.

  Hal told briefly the whole story, coming back in the end to the question of Gibson's integrity.

  Hunter blew some fat smoke wreaths before he said anything. 'Mr. Gibson puts a high value on a dollar,' was his comment. 'Maybe too high a value.' He presently continued, cautiously: 'There have been some ugly stories told about him. I have never seen any of them entirely confirmed. He takes considerable interest in public affairs. On the whole, he is an influential citizen.'

  'But you wouldn't trust him any farther than you could throw a bull by the tail,' Hal said bluntly.

  The banker opened up. 'That's my position exactly,' he replied. 'Jubal L. is at heart a scoundrel.'

  'You think he might be in a deal with Black?'

  'Not unless he felt it was quite safe. For instance, I think he might be satisfied in his mind that some of the stock coming in from Black was stolen, but he would be sure to go through the proper formalities to protect himself.'

  'The point is, we wouldn't get anywhere if we went to him and asked permission to look the hides over,' Hal said.

  'Not if he is in with these thieves. You would only be warning him to get rid of the evidence.'

  'That's what we are afraid of,' Arnold agreed.

  'So we'll hold everything and tell you nothing more, Mr. Hunter,' Hal contributed. 'We wouldn't want a leading citizen in jail with us as an accessory before the fact.'

  They rose to leave. Hunter had one last word of advice. 'I don't know what you boys mean to do, but I suggest you be very careful. If what you suspect is true, these criminals are not going to stop at murder to save themselves.'

  Hal nodded lightly. 'Important and true.'

  As they walked back to the hotel where they were stopping, Hal caught sight of Cash Polk dodging into a cigar shop. When they reached it, they dropped in, too.

  Cash said, with bright excitement, 'Think of you boys being here! I came up on a little business. Starting home pretty soon. You staying long?'

  Hal was not sure how long they would stay, but he said it certainly was nice to meet old friends by chance, though he would not give Cash the name of the hotel where they were staying because it was expensive to buy new doors when the boys from home called.

  CHAPTER 25

  Shep Rogers Makes Ten Dollars

  TICK BLACK was not himself with the party tha
t drove to Fair Play for the jail break. He liked to spin the web of his schemes, but he preferred to stay back at the ranch while others executed them. This had several advantages. He avoided the immediate personal danger. In case the plan failed, he could lay the blame on his subordinates. And if there should be trouble with the law, he could be shocked and distressed about what his wild young friends had done.

  Since Cash Polk was at Casa Rita watching Arnold, Frawley at the ranch sulkily nursing a wound practically healed, and Brick Fenwick fretting in a cell, Black selected a young man named Bill Nuney to head the rescuers. Nuney was a lank, happy-go-lucky young fellow who had gone bad because in following the line of least resistance it had chanced to take him down the wrong turn. Without an ounce of wickedness in him, the weak strain might in the end bring him to the same destination as much worse men.

  He drew up in a quiet street just outside of the better-lighted part of town. With him were Mullins and a Mexican named Carlos Vallejo. He told them to wait in the car until he returned.

  Bill wanted to see a man who spent most of his evenings at Hank's Pool Hall, but he did not care to be observed talking with the man, nor to be identified by anybody as having been here on this particular night. Taking advantage of the darkness, he slipped down a back road to the alley beside the pool hall. Here he waited for ten minutes, on the lookout for a suitable messenger.

  A barefoot negro boy passed the mouth of the alley, and Nuney hailed him. 'Want to make half a dollar, kid?' he asked.

  The boy did. Nuney gave him careful instructions. He was to go into the pool hall and draw Shep Rogers aside, to tell him that a man in the alley had five dollars to give him to do a little job that would not take over an hour. Bill paid the boy and said that, after he had delivered the message, he could go on his way.

  A few minutes later, a man came to the alley entrance and peered into the darkness. 'Someone want to see Shep Rogers?' he asked.

  Bill drew Rogers a bit deeper into the alley. 'You don't know me,' he said. 'But that doesn't matter. Here is your five.'