Paul struck the man's bristly face. "Who sent you out to kill me?" Paul demanded.
Larson was making sounds like an angry bear. He half rose from the pillow in defense.
"I don't know what you're talkin' about."
Paul struck him again, harder. He had to get the answer now, before Larson could report to the man who had hired him.
"Come on; talk. I'll knock your teeth down your throat."
"Let me go!" Larson snarled.
Paul, not wanting to attract the men from downstairs, drew his knife and held the point at Larson's short, thick throat.
"Come on; tell me who sent you. Was it Finch? Was it Stebbins or Miles? Talk!"
"Let me go!"
"I'll fix it so you'll never talk again," Paul threatened, putting pressure on the knife.
Big-head moved with the agility of a cat. He drew up his leg and stiff-legged his boot into Paul's stomach. The attack was so unexpected it sent Paul gasping and groaning across the floor. He fell, striking his head against the sharp, hard corner of the commode. The candle was snuffed out, but it was a deeper darkness that swallowed Paul…
When he came to, he lay a moment stunned. Vaguely, he remembered what had happened. He had come in so big, so brave, and he had made a fool of himself. His head buzzing with pain, he rose and approached the bed. It was empty. As his head cleared, he listened to the sounds downstairs and out in the corridor. It was apparent that his scuffle with Big-head had not attracted attention. Or had it been purposely ignored? He rubbed his head gingerly and, climbing through the window, leaned against the wall of the house on the balcony.
His eyes fingered the darkness below and found no one. He saw the dim shapes of brush and juniper etched against the blackness of the distance, but nothing moved. As he stood there, his head cleared and his body relaxed. He went quietly to the railing of the balcony and crawled over. Wrapping a leg about a post, he slid noiselessly down to the ground. He did not want to face the men in the saloon just then. It would only mean more futile argument. Big-head had shot at him, of that he was sure, but he had yet to prove who was the man behind Big-head.
Warily he walked to the barn in back of the Lone Chance. The saddled horse was gone. Big-head had ridden off.
Paul shook his head and rubbed a hand across his eyes. The pain was subsiding. He had to get home. Norah would be worried. He decided against taking one of Addie's horses without inquiring, and he did not want to meet Addie just then. He wanted to get home, to tell Norah that everything was all right. He started out down the night-dark trail on foot.
He heard horses some distance away. Having escaped once with his life, he did not intend to take another chance. Turning into the brush, he concealed himself and waited. He had not long to wait, his eyes sharp and searching, until he saw a lone rider leading another horse.
"Hello, the trail!" he called.
The rider pulled up so sharply the following horse had to dodge the leader's tail.
"Paul—Paul, are you all right?" Norah asked.
Paul laughed softly. "What happened to you?"
"You're dressed up fit to scare a Ute brave." Paul chuckled.
"Oh, I guess I do look funny. Uriah made me take his coat, so I wouldn't be cold. I brought you a horse."
"Thanks, Norah," he said, mounting the spare horse and accepting his hat.
For a moment they rode in silence back toward the ranch, and the stars were a million eyes watching them softly. Paul sucked in the sweet, clean air and felt the weariness of his bones.
"What happened, Paul?" Norah inquired when he remained silent.
"Oh, I chased him through the brush and lost him. He was heading for Addie's. I found him there in an upstairs room. It was Big-head Larson; I'm sure it was him. I tried to scare him into admitting it and telling me who paid him to do it, but he was too fast for me. Slammed a foot into my stomach and knocked me down. I went out like a light. When I came to, he was gone."
A note of fear came into Norah's voice. "Then— you're still in danger?"
"Reckon I am."
"Do you think Alonzo paid that man?"
"I wouldn't know."
"How bad was the crime you say he committed?"
"It wasn't the crime; it was trying to put the blame on me that sent me after him. Money can be repaid, it can be earned, but a man's reputation is something else. Remember the things Finch told you about me?"
"I think they were lies, Paul. Forget them."
Paul felt hard and cold inside. He had been a fool to think he could have this girl, could win her love and respect. There could be no evasions now. He had to stand up and once again face shame and misery for crimes of which he was innocent. Desperately he searched for some means of defense, some way to soften the blow.
"Norah," he asked slowly, knowing she had expected a swift, heated denial, "do you believe that a man's blood is the whole man?"
"What do you mean?" she asked, puzzled.
Paul was sensitive to the surprise in her tone. He could not give her the heated denial she had expected, but he had to make her understand.
"Well," he temporized, "do you believe that the sins of the brothers are visited—"
"If you're quoting scripture, Paul, that reads, 'The sins of the father.' "
"It's the same thing," he said. "In other words, do you believe a curse is inherited by all members of a family?"
She was trying to comprehend; even in the darkness he could tell that. Only the soft pad of the horses' hooves on the dusty trail broke the stillness.
"You mean do I think that one rotten apple spoils the barrel?" she asked finally.
"Yes, something like that."
"Well, not if the rotten apple is thrown out. But you're building up defenses against things I haven't accused you of," she added quickly.
Paul wet his lips, which were very dry. His throat was dry, too. Even his mind was dry, brittle dry. How could he explain things so this innocent, protected girl would understand?
"I'm going to tell you some things you won't like to hear, Norah. I want you to reserve judgment. In a way, Alonzo Finch was right, except that he failed to name himself as the villain of the piece. Finch, from the best family in town, bullied my brothers into stealing, even though he was younger than they were. None of them had to steal. Some perverse devil in their brain wouldn't let them be. They started stealing candy, and ended up stealing money from the bank. Once they rustled cattle from a big trail herd going up to Kansas, and they would have been lynched if my mother had not interceded and offered twice as many cattle as had been stolen. When Seigleman in the bank was killed, Finch helped stir up the mob that lynched by brother, Pete. Larry got out of town. But Finch wasn't through with us. He framed me for the robbery of a shipment of money by luring me to the place where the crime had been committed and planting some of the money at my home. They couldn't get enough evidence to convict me, but I was convicted in the eyes of our friends and neighbors. That's why I've hunted Alonzo Finch to this place; that's why I've got to take him back and make him confess."
"Alonzo said you would tell me all this, just as you have," she said in a small voice.
"He was banking on my honesty. He knew I wouldn't lie to you. I tell you, Norah, I myself am innocent of crime."
If only he had not fallen in love with her, he could have avoided the necessity of telling her anything.
"Do you believe me, Norah?" he pleaded, thankful for the darkness that hid the anguish in his eyes.
"I want to believe you're good, Paul," she said in the same small voice.
The doubt was there. Why shouldn't it be? Truth was something that had to be proven by facts, or accepted by a great love.
"Look, Norah," he said, "nobody's perfect, but I am not a criminal."
They were riding into the ranch yard, and still Norah did not speak. Hoping not to arouse Helen and Uriah, they went around to the kitchen door. There was a lamp burning in the kitchen, and it cast a faint yellow glow throug
h the door glass. Paul looked down into her face, and saw the struggle there. Suddenly she threw her arms about him and sobbed against his chest.
"I love you, Paul," she breathed.
"But you can't quite believe me," he said bitterly. "I'm not asking you to. I'm not accepting your love until I can clear the slate, until I can prove that I have done no wrong."
In spite of his resolution, he held her, but he did not take her lips. Finally she lifted her face and stood away from him.
"You must be hungry," she said. "Come into the kitchen, and I'll get you some food."
Major Hornaby sat in the small office at one end of his quarters and re-read the note that had been slipped under the door. It would be difficult to say who had written the note without going to considerable trouble. This he did not propose to do. It was sufficient that he had the note.
There was a commotion outside, and he looked through the small window to see the morning patrol marching down the company street. Two men were carrying a stretcher on which lay the body of a man. McCune entered the office. His serious expression disturbed Hornaby.
Saluting, McCune said, "Sergeant McCune reporting, sir. The body of a man was found in the brush not five miles from the post."
Major Hornaby's back stiffened. "Who found him?"
"The morning patrol under Lieutenant Skaggs, sir."
"And how was he killed?"
"Arrow. Nice quiet job," McCune answered. "Straight into his heart from the back. I examined him."
"Since when are you doing the doctor's work for him, Mr. McCune? Take the body to the infirmary, have the doctor examine it, and then have him report to me."
"Yes, sir," McCune said.
Before long Dr. Cranny came in, his bloated face twitching. From the multiple folds that swaddled them, his eyes shone like fugitive mice.
"Well, Captain, what did you find?" Major Hornaby asked.
"The deceased had a hole in his back; his heart was pierced," the doctor reported.
It was a report the rawest recruit could have given. Cranny was either getting drunk again, or just sobering up from the last time. There was liquor in the medical stores. He exuded it.
"How long has he been dead?"
Cranny straightened his shoulders, and his face stopped twitching. For a moment professional pride, the almost forgotten will to be a man, shone in his eyes.
"I would say seven to eight hours, Major," the doctor said.
"Have you the arrow that killed him?"
"I have an arrow."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean I have the arrow that was in the wound. It didn't kill him."
"So what did kill him?"
"He was killed with a knife. The arrow was thrust into the wound to make it look like an Indian had done it."
Hornaby whistled softly and drummed on his desk.
"Is there anything else you can tell me?"
"He showed signs of having been struck in the face, and there was a small cut on his throat."
"Have you examined the Indians in the guardhouse?" Hornaby inquired.
Cranny's face began to contort again. It was as though it were infested with invisible fleas.
"Why should I examine the filthy beggars? I can give you a report on them right now. Lice, dirt, bad diet. The biggest curse they carry is the white man. They're pushed and starved and robbed," Cranny said bitterly.
"All right, all right, Doctor. That'll be all. Tell McCune I want to see him."
For another brief interval, Cranny drummed up a few shreds of dignity.
"I'm not your striker, Major," he said.
Hornaby sighed. "Oh, go on; get out." He pounded his desk for his striker and sent him after McCune.
McCune entered, and because there was no one else about, he didn't pretend to salute. He pushed his hat to the back of his balding head and spat accurately into the polished brass cuspidor.
"Well, Major," McCune said, "you've got a murder to solve. Happy?"
"Do you think I should ignore it?"
"No. But it's going to be hard to find the hombre who did it."
"We'll decide on that after we've made a try, Sergeant. Was there any kind of positive evidence near where the body was found?"
"I wasn't there," McCune said. "Lieutenant Skaggs was in charge of the patrol. I just picked them up when they reached the post."
"Then why didn't Skaggs report the murder?"
"That, Major, you will have to ask Skaggs."
"Did you talk with him?"
"Yes, I did."
"Come on; don't make me drag it out of you. What did he say?"
"He said they found the man lying as though he had fallen from a horse. There were only the tracks of one horse. Skaggs followed the tracks some distance, and they merged with the tracks of two other horses. Farther on, the tracks of the horses diverged, two of them going toward the Lone Chance, the other toward the village."
"What do you make out of that story?"
"Why, I haven't tried to make anything out of it. It's your baby."
"Look, Mac, why don't you grow up? Your resentment of my authority is a bit childish. After all, it wasn't my fault you didn't get that commission."
"Major, I know you failed to recommend me, and I know why. You wouldn't get to first base without me. I've been pulling chestnuts for you for years."
"I don't care to discuss that now, Mac," Hornaby said evasively. "I want you to go out and release the Utes who were brought in drunk last night. I think they're sober enough to go home now."
"Release them? Why, they may be the murderers!" McCune said.
"The doctor said the man has been dead for eight hours. That means he was killed about midnight. The Utes were brought in not later than ten last night. They were already crazy drunk, whooping and hollering."
"You can't take Doc's word for it," McCune countered. "Suppose these Indians went out to meet the man, and he had hooch? Suppose they put an arrow in his back, then took the whiskey?"
"That's too many supposes for a night as dark as last night, Sergeant," Hornaby said. "Suppose you do as you're ordered and leave this to me. You told me it was my baby," Hornaby said.
"Some babies are born with teeth, Major. Be careful this one doesn't bite you."
"Release the Indians."
"So you're not going to question them?"
"What could they know about it? They were drunk."
"They might know a lot about it. You want to solve the case, don't you? Don't tell me that by some magic insight you've already discovered the murderer?"
"McCune," Hornaby snapped, "get out of here. When I want any more of your opinions, I'll ask for them."
McCune's impertinence always left Major Hornaby with a feeling of guilt and discontent.
His striker came in with a peculiar look on his face, a look that Hornaby resented. The young trooper made him feel guilty of some foul deed.
"What is it, Mr. Wagner?" Hornaby asked impatiently.
"There's a girl outside who wants to see you?"
"A girl?"
"Yes, sir. One of Addie's girls. Gladys."
"What does she want?"
"She won't say, sir," Wagner said. "She wants to see you personally."
"All right, Wagner. Get that look off your face. I didn't send for her. Let her come in."
Unconsciously, Hornaby straightened his tunic and ran his slim hand over his hair. When he went to Addie's, he went to see Addie. She was a woman a man could talk to without having to revert to banal vulgarities. He remembered Gladys, a nice-looking girl, but one with a chip on her shoulder. Then the door opened and Gladys Came in. In her hand she carried very carefully some object wrapped loosely in a cloth.
Chapter 6
As Paul rode the load of leafy, sweet-smelling alfalfa toward the post, his mind was everywhere but on the road. He tried to straighten out the events of the night before and fit them into some kind of chronological order. When he had left Norah, glum and silen
t in the kitchen, he had found Eglund already asleep in the bunkhouse. This morning when he had gone into the kitchen for breakfast, Eglund had already eaten and left.
It was doubtful that Eglund had been the prowler at the ranch, but Eglund might know who the prowler was. There was even a chance that Sodek might know.
The horses were turning toward the stockade, and Paul frowned as he noticed the increase in activity. Troopers were talking in groups; others were going sullenly about their jobs. As the wagon lumbered through the gate, Paul greeted the sentry and warped the team into the hay yard. While he waited for MeCune to check him in, he saw a freighter unloading some miscellaneous supplies. Two sentries, fully armed, flanked the wagon. Paul tried to puzzle this out as he watched two other men examining everything being unloaded from the big freight wagon.
When McCune came over with the stub of a cigar in his mouth and his hat shading his eyes, Paul asked, "What's all this about, Sergeant? New regulations?"
"Major Hornaby's orders, Scott. It won't delay you very much longer," McCune said with more of a military bearing than he had previously assumed.
"What does he have—visions?" Paul grinned. "Shall I back up to the stack so the load can be pulled off?"
"No; pull up alongside this morning. We're unloading by hand," McCune answered.
Paul's curiosity was aroused.
"What are you looking for?" he asked.
"Booze. The major took one of his sneak walks at sunup and found the sentry on Post One asleep drunk. He had men search the camp to find where the booze was coming from. One of the three bottles they found was in his quarters. Some joker managed to take the bottle out of my hut and plant it on the major. Nobody would confess, and that made Hornaby madder than ever. He says he's going to find the bootleggers and crack down on them."
Paul laughed shortly. "You're going to be wasting a lot of energy searching my load. I pitched that hay on myself."
McCune shrugged. "That may be true, but my men need the exercise."
The freight wagon, its end-gate banging and the chains dragging on the ground, lumbered away, and the two armed men approached as Paul drove the team alongside the stack. Two. scowling troopers with pitchforks climbed the load and began methodically to fork the hay onto the stack.
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