Twisted Trails

by Orlando Rigoni

  Indifferent to the hay pitchers, Paul climbed to the ground and spoke to McCune.

  "Hey, Sergeant, you or your men didn't see Big-head Larson riding this way right after dark last night, did you?"

  McCune answered very carefully, "No, I didn't see him riding around here. Why do you ask?"

  "I had some trouble with him last night, and he got away from me."

  From behind Paul came Hornaby's clipped voice.

  "What sort of trouble did you have with him, Mr. Scott?" the major inquired.

  "He tried to kill me," Paul said bluntly.

  "With a rifle?"

  Hornaby had come around and was looking Paul straight in the eye now. The major's face wore a mocking expression.

  "Yes, with a rifle," Paul admitted.

  "And he missed you?"

  "That's apparent, isn't it?" Paul couldn't keep the scorn out of his voice.

  "Have you ever seen Big-head Larson shoot a rifle?"

  "Yes, but I happened to move, and he missed me."

  Just then there was the distinct clink of metal against glass. Hornaby smiled without humor. "All right, men. Pull the hay apart and take it out."

  Paul felt a hot flush warm him. Hornaby had never liked him, and he had never cared much for the major. Now Hornaby's manner was both insulting and triumphant. Unable to believe his eyes, Paul saw the two men on the load fish four bottles of whiskey from the hay.

  "What do you say to that, Mr. Scott?" Hornaby asked with pure malice in his eyes.

  Paul could find no immediate answer, because the whole frame-up was so preposterous. He had the feeling of a man in a nightmare. Again he thought of Alonzo Finch and of the man who had been prowling about the barn the night before.

  "What do you make of it, Major?" Paul countered lamely.

  "It's obvious," Hornaby snapped. "Don't tell me you didn't know the whiskey was there. This isn't the first whiskey you've brought in, I'm sure of that."

  "Frankly," Paul said, calming down, "I didn't know it was there."

  "I overheard you say you loaded the hay yourself."

  "That's right. But the bottles could have been shoved under the hay with a forked stick after it was loaded."

  "1 can't quite accept that. I'm looking for a whiskey smuggler. I catch you with the goods. Why should I look further?"

  "Because, confound you," Paul gritted, "I'm no smuggler. This is a frame-up, and you're in on the frame."

  "That I must deny," Hornaby said shortly.

  "Then how did you know the booze was there?"

  "I was in receipt of certain information, and I acted upon it. The information has proved correct. I must place you under arrest, Mr. Scott."

  "Major," Paul said quietly, "it's obvious why you're out here in command of this rag-tag outfit. You've got no judgment. I'm afraid you'll find there is no law against whiskey in this territory. The rules you make for your men do not apply to civilians."

  "Smuggling to the Indians is against the law. Sergeant," he turned to McCune, "place this man under arrest."

  McCune said, "How about confining him to my quarters, sir? The guardhouse is probably crawling with vermin from those graves we had there last night."

  Hornaby's mouth was tight and pinched. "Take him to my office. We'll continue the investigation there. And don't discuss the matter with the prisoner, understand?"

  McCune shrugged. "Yes, sir." Aside he said, "I got to give you credit, Major. You sure do make it hard on yourself."

  As they walked through the dust to the major's office, located at the front of his quarters and connected directly with them, Paul felt foolish. He realized that the major had to do something to uphold discipline on the post, but jailing a civilian for selling whiskey was making a mountain out of a molehill. Hornaby appeared too intelligent to go to all that trouble for such an offense. His proper action would have been to forbid Paul admission to the post, or refuse to buy more fodder from Uriah. A little worry stirred lazily in Paul's mind.

  "McCune, what do you make of all this?" Paul asked.

  McCune broke the ash off his cigar and began to chew the short butt. "Just take it easy. Give him rope —give him rope. I think I know what's on his mind. Let's see what he does with it."

  They turned from the bright sunshine into the dim office, and the smell of dust, leather and horses came in with them. The major took his seat behind the rough pine table that served as a desk. On the unpainted board wall that divided the office from Hornaby's quarters hung a crude map of the valley. The army post was marked with a circle, and new pencil marks surrounded it to end in a heavy cross. Once in the office, Paul felt his uneasiness increase. There was more there than met the eye.

  "You may sit down if you wish, Mr. Scott," Hornaby said.

  "Thanks; I'll stand. This business can't take more than a few minutes."

  "I am afraid it's going to take much longer."

  "What do you mean?"

  There was a bright, eager look in the major's eyes.

  "How long have you been smuggling whiskey to the camp?"

  "I told you I haven't smuggled any whiskey to the camp."

  "How much whiskey have you smuggled to the Indians?"

  "None. None. None."

  "We had three drunken braves in here last night. Somebody sold them whiskey, or else they stole it. Addie wouldn't sell them any. If they had stolen it from her, I would have heard of it."

  Paul asked, his eyes puckered in a frown, "Who told you that whiskey was in my load of hay?"

  "I received a note."

  "From whom? Come on; name names."

  "It was unsigned, but it proved to be accurate," Hornaby said.

  Paul hesitated. Nobody would be allowed to enter the post during the night, but somebody must have bribed the sentry to pass a note along. The men of the post were interested in finding the bootlegger in order to end their confinement to the post. Stebbins and Miles hated his guts. But none of it made sense. There was nothing here to prove how the Indians got their whiskey, and Paul himself had broken no law.

  "Look, Major," Paul said patiently, "this is getting you nowhere. You have no proof that I supplied the Indians with liquor. As far as the liquor in the hay goes, I broke your rules, but I didn't break any law. You've got nothing to hold me for."

  The eager light in Hornaby's eyes sharpened. "Maybe not, Mr. Scott. Would you mind coming with me for a moment? I've got something to show you."

  More to satisfy his growing curiosity than to humor the major, Paul consented. He followed Hornaby down the row of huts to the infirmary, and entered the low, evil-smelling room. Inside, he stood for a moment, unable to believe what he saw. There was the body of Big-head Larson, his face still slightly bruised from the cuffing Paul had given him, and a small blossom of blood at his throat. For a moment a dreadful feeling came over Paul. Big-head was dead—had been dead, apparently, for hours. Paul recalled how he had held his knife at Big-head's throat the night before. Then he suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to find his knife and take it with him when he had crawled out of Big-head's room.

  Paul knew the color had drained from his face, but he looked Hornaby defiantly in the eye.

  "Where did you find him? What happened to him?" he asked.

  "Now," Hornaby said smoothly, "shall we go back to my office and continue the investigation?"

  Back in Hornaby's office, Paul repeated his questions.

  "He was found out in the brush this morning. Right here." The major rose and pointed to the cross on the map. "There was an arrow sticking in his back," Hornaby told him.

  "Well, why hold me? I'm no Indian," Paul said.

  "But he wasn't killed with an arrow," Hornaby went on with a sly grin. "He was killed with a knife which had been twisted to enlarge the wound, and the arrow had been stuck into the wound after Big-head was dead."

  "And you're accusing me of that?" Paul demanded.

  "I'm not accusing anybody yet," Hornaby said. "There are some things, how
ever, that I'd like you to explain."

  With that Hornaby rose, went to the door opening into his quarters, and said, "All right; you can come out now."

  He stood politely aside, and Gladys entered the room, her eyes shrewd and her lips tight. The smell of cheap perfume preceded her like a banner.

  When Norah awoke, she lay savoring the strange, new feeling of having entered a different, mysterious existence. She recalled, with a small guilty smile, how late she and Paul had remained in the kitchen the night before. With the lamp turned low, they had sat there making small talk as though by mutual agreement they avoided what they most wanted to say.

  Suddenly she remembered Uriah had brought home a letter for Paul and had given it to her. How could she have forgotten it?

  She found her jacket where Uriah had placed it, across the back of a chair. Quickly she searched the pocket and then stopped, puzzled. The letter was gone! Her mind leaped to her mother, who wanted to interest her in Alonzo. But she doubted her mother would open anybody's mail. It was more probable that she had lost the letter the night before when she was helping Uriah chase the interloper in the barnyard. She must go look for it at once.

  But the letter was not to be found. Norah retraced her steps about the yard, looked through the loose hay near the stack, even went inside the barn, though she did not remember entering the barn the night before. What was she to do? The letter might have had an important bearing on Paul's mission there, and now it was gone. How could she tell him?

  She went into the bunkhouse, hoping the letter might be there, but she did not see it on the table or on the shelf over the bunks. Aaron appeared to be sleeping, his breath a wheezy sound. The remains of the breakfast the Indian girl had brought him lay on a tray near his bunk. Unconsciously, Norah's hand smoothed Paul's bunk as she stood there thinking. Then something caught her eye under the head of Eglund's bunk. It glowed dully in the meager light from the window.

  She picked up the gold piece, turning it over. How had it come there? She saw the disarrayed straw under the edge of the blanket. Slipping her hand into the straw, she drew out four more gold pieces. Uriah never paid Egg in gold pieces; in fact, after Egg's board and tobacco were paid for, there was usually only a handful of silver left. Egg was being paid for something beside his regular job. Maybe it hadn't been Big-head who had fired the bullet the night before. Big-head might have been only a decoy.

  Tossing the gold in full view on top of the blanket, she picked up the breakfast tray and went out. Let Eglund worry for a while. It might be easier to get him to talk. It was hard to visualize Eglund as a bushwhacker. The money might be gambling winnings.

  Back in the kitchen, her mother was waiting for her; breakfast was ready on the table.

  Norah had finished eating when the bang and clatter of the hayrack came from the yard. Paul was returning. She felt a quickening of her pulse. Would there still exist between them the intimacy of feeling she had experienced last night? She thought of the letter, and the thought put a damper on her spirits. How could she tell him that the letter had been lost? Of course he would suggest a further search for it, but where?

  Quickly she got up and hurried outside, conscious of her mother's calculating eyes upon her. She ran from the porch toward the stack yard, her eagerness increasing with every step. She felt the warm color in her face, and tried to smooth it away with her hand. But what difference did it make? She had already confessed her love to him. What more was there to say or do?

  A man came around the hayrack, but it wasn't Paul. It was a trooper from the post. Norah felt a chill hand grip her heart.

  "Where's Mr. Scott?" she asked in a stilted voice.

  "I reckon, ma'am, he's bein' detained by the major."

  "He's not hurt—he's all right?"

  "So far he's all right," the trooper said.

  "What do you mean by that? What happened? Come on; tell me," Norah said quickly.

  "I ain't got much to tell, ma'am. Major Hornaby found whiskey in the load of hay. A man was killed in the brush last night. I reckon the major's lookin' for somebody to pin the murder on."

  "Not Paul!"

  "The sergeant told me to drive this here team back, ma'am. I got my horse tied on the other side of the wagon. Good day to you, ma'am."

  Norah didn't wait to reply to the man. She rushed into the barn to get her horse. Her hands fumbled with the bridle; then the smooth, inquiring voice of Alonzo Finch was at her shoulder.

  "Are you going some place?"

  "A man has been murdered near the post, and Major Hornaby's holding Paul."

  "Well, now, just a minute," Alonzo said. "I came here for lunch at the invitation of your mother, who thought it would be nice for us all to go buggy riding."

  "My mother will entertain you, Alonzo. I've got to go to Paul."

  "Naturally," he agreed, taking the bridle from her and slipping it over the horse's head. "I think Helen will excuse me. I had better go along with you."

  "I'd rather go alone," Norah said.

  Alonzo swung her saddle to the horse's back and reached for the cinch. "Oh, no, my dear. I might be of help to you," Finch said.

  Paul stared at Gladys as she emerged from Hornaby's quarters and recognized her as the girl he had seen at the door of her room the night before.

  "All right, Miss Gladys," the major said, "you sit right over there."

  Dr. Cranny came in, a little steadier than usual. His small eyes were bright and furtive, but his voice had a new, deep quality in it.

  "You'll want me in on this, Major, I presume?" he asked, sitting in a corner.

  Paul looked about him and felt as though the walls were moving in to crush him.

  Hornaby said, "You might as well sit down, Scott. This may take some time."

  Paul said impatiently, "It's taken too much time already. If you expect to prove anything against me, you're wasting your time. I can account for my actions last night."

  "All right, Mr. Scott, account for your time," Hornaby said. "Tell us just what you did last night."

  "I was shot at last night in the orchard at the Young house. I happened to move just when the shot was fired, or I would be dead. I cut out after the bushwhacker, but he got away. I figured he went to Addie's. I found Big-head in bed with his clothes on and still damp from perspiration. I tried to make him confess who had hired him to kill me, but he refused, and I struck him. Then he got a foot free of the covers and rammed it into my stomach. I fell back against the commode and got knocked out. When I came to, Big-head was gone," Paul said simply.

  "That's all that happened?" Hornaby asked.

  "I reckon so."

  "Did you cover that booze with hay before or after you were shot at?" Hornaby asked quickly.

  "I didn't cover any booze with hay, and I didn't kill Larson."

  There was a disturbance, and Stebbins and Miles crowded into the small room.

  Hornaby turned from Paul and addressed Gladys. "Miss Gladys, will you tell us just why you came to see me this morning?"

  "Well, I heard at the Lone Chance that Big-head had been killed, and I thought I might help find out who killed him."

  "At what time did you hear the news?"

  "I don't get up early as a rule, but I was restless because of something that happened last night. I guess I heard it about eight o'clock," Gladys said with the air of one trying to be very precise.

  "Who brought the news?"

  "Eglund, the guy who works for Uriah Young."

  "When you heard that Big-head was dead, you became suspicious of something that happened last night, and decided to come here and tell me?" Hornaby asked.

  "That's right."

  "Tell us what it was that disturbed you last night."

  "Well, I don't want to get anybody in bad trouble," she looked at Paul, "but Mr. Scott came to my room last night."

  "I stopped at your door," Paul corrected her.

  She cast him a venomous look. "He asked me if I'd heard a man come up the st
airs just before that. I told him no. Later I heard a noise and looked out into the hall. Big-head's room is at the end of the hall, and the noise was coming from there. There was quite a loud thump, and right after, Big-head went past my door in a hurry, and I saw some blood dripping off his face or neck. Mr. Scott never came by, so later I went to Big-head's room and lit the candle there. Nobody was there. I found a bloody knife on the floor, and that was all."

  Paul cursed himself for having left the knife behind. He watched the major and saw him reach across the table and very dramatically uncover the long-bladed stock knife.

  "Mr. Scott, have you ever seen this knife before?" Hornaby asked pompously.

  "Of course I have. It's my knife."

  "And how did it get into Larson's room? How did it come to be left there, opened and bloody?"

  "To try to scare Larson into talking, I held my knife at his throat, but I didn't stab him. When he kicked me in the stomach, the knife might have stuck him slightly in the throat. You saw the wound; it wasn't enough to kill him."

  Hornaby turned as though to disregard that statement. He said, "Mr. Stebbins, you and Mr. Miles were with the patrol that found the body. Can you tell us about it?"

  Stebbins licked his lips and looked at Miles. He rose awkwardly, and his long pendulous jaw moved for a moment before he spoke.

  "We found the dead man, sir, just like the lieutenant told McCune. There was an arrow in his back, but even the lieutenant could see—"

  "What do you mean 'even' the lieutenant, Mr. Stebbins?" Hornaby inquired.

  Stebbins' long face flushed.

  "I mean Lieutenant Skaggs saw right away the arrow didn't kill him. It was stickin' in his back all right, but the hole looked like it had been made with a knife and then the arrow punched in later to make it look like Indians done the job."

  Paul turned on Stebbins and said, "If you intend to lie, Stebbins, then lie, but don't spout all this second-hand garbage that's been put in your mind."

  Hornaby snapped, "I'll run this investigation, Mr. Scott."

  "Look, Major," Paul retorted, "I'm not going to sit here and be pushed around. This isn't a court of law, and nobody's under oath. You're going about this like a man who'd like to see a lynching. You know Miles and Stebbins hate my guts. What authority on the character of wounds are they?"