"You were looking for Mr. Annersley?" she asked.
"Yes, mam. We got a little business—"
"He's out on the veranda, playing puzzle picture with a little girl patient."
"Well, we got a puzzle picture for him—" began one of the men, but Doris, her eyes flashing, interrupted him.
"Dr. Andover left word that he does not want Mr. Annersley to see visitors without his permission."
"Reckon we can see him, miss. I had a talk with Doc Andover."
"Then let me call Mr. Annersley, please. There are so many—patients out there."
"All right, miss."
Doris took Pete's place as she told him. Little Ruth entered a demurrer, although she liked Doris. "Pete knew all about forces and cows. He must come wight back . . ."
"What a beautiful bossy!" said Doris as Ruth rearranged the slightly disjointed cow.
"Dat a cow," said Ruth positively. "Pete says dat a cow!"
"And what a wonderful pony!"
"Dat a force, Miss Dowis. Pete say dat a force."
It was evident to Doris that Pete was an authority, not without honor in his own country, and an authority not to be questioned, for Ruth gravely informed Doris that Pete could "wide" and "wope" and knew everything about "forces" and "cows."
Meanwhile Pete, seated on the edge of his cot, was telling the plain-clothes men that he was willing to go with them whenever they were ready, stipulating, however, that he wanted to visit the Stockmen's Security and Savings Bank first, and as soon as possible. Incidentally he stubbornly refused to admit that he had anything to do with the killing of Brent, whom the sheriff of Sanborn had finally identified as the aforetime foreman of the Olla.
"There's nothing personal about this, young fella," said one of the men as Pete's dark eyes blinked somberly. "It's our business, that's all."
"And it's a dam' crawlin' business," asserted Pete. "You couldn't even let The Spider cross over peaceful."
"I reckon he earned all he got," said one of the men.
"Mebby. But it took three fast guns to git him—and he put them out of business first. I'd 'a' liked to seen some of you rubber-heeled heifers tryin' to put the irons on him."
"That kind of talk won't do you no good when you're on the stand, young fella. It ain't likely that Sam Brent was your first job. Your record reads pretty strong for a kid."
"Meanin' Gary? Well, about Gary"—Pete fumbled in his shirt. "I got a letter here" . . . He studied the closely written sheet for a few seconds, then his face cleared. "Jest run your eye over that. It's from Jim Bailey, who used to be my fo'man on the Concho."
The officers read the letter, one gazing over the other's shoulder, "Who's this Jim Bailey, anyhow?"
"He's a white man—fo'man of the Concho, and my boss, onct."
"Well, you're lucky if what he says is so. But that don't square you with the other deal."
"There's only one man that could do that," said Pete. "And I reckon he ain't ridin' where you could git him."
"That's all right, Annersley. But even if you didn't get Brent, you were on that job. You were running with a tough bunch."
"Who's got my gun?" queried Pete abruptly.
"It's over to the station with the rest of your stuff."
"Well, it wa'n't a forty-five that put Brent out of business. My gun is."
"You can tell that to the sheriff of Sanborn County. And you'll have a hard time proving that you never packed any other gun."
"You say it's the sheriff of Sanborn County that'll be wantin' to know?"
"Yes. We're holding you for him."
"That's different. I reckon I kin talk to him."
"Well, you'll get a chance. He's in town—-waiting to take you over to Sanborn."
"I sure would like to have a talk with him," said Pete. "Would you mind tellin' him that?"
"Why—no. We'll tell him."
"'Cause I aim to take a little walk this afternoon," asserted Pete, "and mebby he'd kind o' like to keep me comp'ny."
"You'll have company—if you take a walk," said one of the detectives significantly.
CHAPTER XL
THE MAN DOWNSTAIRS
Pete did not return to the veranda to finish his puzzle game with little Ruth. He smiled rather grimly as he realized that he had a puzzle game of his own to solve. He lay on the cot and his eyes closed as he reviewed the vivid events in his life, from the beginning of the trail, at Concho, to its end, here in El Paso. It seemed to spread out before him like a great map: the desert and its towns, the hills and mesas, trails and highways over which men scurried like black and red ants, commingling, separating, hastening off at queer tangents, meeting in combat, disappearing in crevices, reappearing and setting off again in haste, searching for food, bearing strange burdens, scrambling blindly over obstacles—collectively without seeming purpose—yet individually bent upon some quest, impetuous and headstrong in their strange activities. "And gittin' nowhere," soliloquized Pete, "except in trouble."
He thought of the letter from Bailey, and, sitting up, re-read it slowly. So Steve Gary had survived, only to meet the inevitable end of his kind. Well, Gary was always hunting trouble… Roth, the storekeeper at Concho, ought to have the number of that gun which Pete packed. If the sheriff of Sanborn was an old-timer he would know that a man who packed a gun for business reasons did not go round the country experimenting with different makes and calibers. Only the "showcase" boys in the towns swapped guns. Ed Brevoort had always used a Luger. Pete wondered if there had been any evidence of the caliber of the bullet which had killed Brent. If the sheriff were an old-timer such evidence would not be overlooked.
Pete got up and wandered out to the veranda. The place was deserted. He suddenly realized that those who were able had gone to their noon meal. He had forgotten about that. He walked back to his room and sat on the edge of his cot. He was lonesome and dispirited. He was not hungry, but he felt decidedly empty. This was the first time that Doris had allowed him to miss a meal, and it was her fault! She might have called him. But what did she care? In raw justice to her—why should she care?
Pete's brooding eyes brightened as Doris came in with a tray. She had thought that he had rather have his dinner there. "I noticed that you did not come down with the others," she said.
Pete was angry with himself. Adam-like he said he wasn't hungry anyhow.
"Then I'll take it back," said Doris sweetly,
Adam-like, Pete decided that he was hungry. "Miss Gray," he blurted, "I—I'm a doggone short-horn! I'm goin' to eat. I sure want to square myself."
"For what?"
Doris was gazing at him with a serene directness that made him feel that his clothing was several sizes too large for him. He realized that generalities would hardly serve his turn just then.
"I was settin' here feelin' sore at the whole doggone outfit," he explained. "Sore at you—and everybody."
"Well?" said Doris unsmilingly.
"I'm askin' you to forgit that I was sore at you." Pete was not ordinarily of an apologetic turn, and he felt that he pretty thoroughly squared himself.
"It really doesn't matter," said Doris, as she placed his tray on the table and turned to go.
"I reckon you're right." And his dark eyes grew moody again.
"There's a man in the reception-room waiting to see you," said Doris. "I told him you were having your dinner."
"Another one, eh? Oh, I was forgittin'. I got a letter from Jim Bailey"—Pete fumbled in his shirt—"and I thought mebby—"
"I hope it's good news."
"It sure is! Would you mind readin' it—to yourself—sometime?"
"I—think I'd rather not," said Doris hesitatingly.
Pete's face showed so plainly that he was hurt that Doris regretted her refusal to read the letter. To make matters worse—for himself—Pete asked that exceedingly irritating and youthful question, "Why?" which elicits that distinctly unsatisfactory feminine answer, "Because." That lively team "Why" and "Because" have ru
n away with more chariots of romance, upset more matrimonial bandwagons, and spilled more beans than all the other questions and answers men and women have uttered since that immemorial hour when Adam made the mistake of asking Eve why she insisted upon his eating an apple right after breakfast.
Doris was not indifferent to his request that she read the letter, but she was unwilling to let Pete know it, and a little fearful that he might interpret her interest for just what it was—the evidence of a greater solicitude for his welfare than she cared to have him know.
Pete, like most lusty sons of saddle-leather, shied at even the shadow of sentiment—in this instance shying at his own shadow. He rode wide of the issue, turning from the pleasant vista of who knows what imaginings, to face the imperative challenge of immediate necessity, which was, first, to eat something, and then to meet the man who waited for him downstairs who, Pete surmised, was the sheriff of Sanborn County.
"If you don't mind tellin' him I'll come down as soon as I eat," said Pete as he pulled up a chair.
Doris nodded and turned to leave. Pete glanced up. She had not gone. "Your letter,"—and Doris proffered the letter which he had left on the cot. Pete was about to take it when he glanced up at her. She was smiling at him. "You don't know how funny you look when you frown and act—like—like a spoiled child," she laughed. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"
"I—I reckon I am," said Pete, grinning boyishly.
"Ashamed of yourself?"
"Nope! A spoiled kid, like you said. And I ain't forgittin' who spoiled me."
The letter, the man downstairs and all that his presence implied, past and future possibilities, were forgotten in the brief glance that Doris gave him as she turned in the doorway. And glory-be, she had taken the letter with her! Pete gazed about the room to make sure that he was not dreaming. No, the letter had disappeared—and but a moment ago Doris had had it. And she still had it. "Well, she'll know I got one or two friends, anyhow," reflected Pete as he ate his dinner. "When she sees how Jim talks—and what he said Ma Bailey has to say to me—mebby she'll—mebby—Doggone it! Most like she'll just hand it back and smile and say she's mighty glad—and—but that ain't no sign that I'm the only guy that ever got shot up, and fixed up, and turned loose by a sure-enough angel… Nope! She ain't a angel—she's real folks, like Ma Bailey and Andy and Jim. If I ain't darned careful I'm like to find I done rid my hoss into a gopher-hole and got throwed bad."
Meanwhile "the man downstairs" was doing some thinking himself. That morning he had visited police headquarters and inspected Pete's gun and belongings—noting especially the hand-carved holster and the heavy-caliber gun, the factory number of which he jotted down in his notebook. Incidentally he had borrowed a Luger automatic from the miscellaneous collection of weapons taken from criminals, assured himself that it was not loaded, and slipped it into his coat-pocket. Later he had talked with the officials, visited the Mexican lodging-house, where he had obtained a description of the man who had occupied the room with Pete, and stopping at a restaurant for coffee and doughnuts, had finally arrived at the hospital prepared to hear what young Annersley had to say for himself.
Sheriff Jim Owen, unofficially designated as "Sunny Jim" because of an amiable disposition, which in no way affected his official responsibilities, was a dyed-in-the-wool, hair-cinched, range-branded, double-fisted official, who scorned nickel-plated firearms, hard-boiled hats, fancy drinks, and smiled his contempt for the rubber-heeled methods of the city police. Sheriff Owen had no rubber-heeled tendencies. He was frankness itself, both in peace and in war. It was once said of him, by a lank humorist of Sanborn, that Jim Owen never wasted any time palaverin' when he was flirtin' with death. That he just met you with a gun in one hand and a smile in the other, and you could take your choice—or both, if you was wishful.
The sheriff was thinking, his hands crossed upon his rotund stomach and his bowed legs as near crossed as they could ever be without an operation. He was pretty well satisfied that the man upstairs, who that pretty little nurse had said would be down in a few minutes, had not killed Sam Brent. He had a few pertinent reasons for this conclusion. First, Brent had been killed by a thirty-caliber, soft-nosed bullet, which the sheriff had in his vest-pocket. Then, from what he had been told, he judged that the man who actually killed Brent would not have remained in plain sight in the lodging-house window while his companion made his get-away. This act alone seemed to indicate that of the two the man who had escaped was in the greater danger if apprehended, and that young Annersley had generously offered to cover his retreat so far as possible. Then, from the lodging-house keeper's description of the other man, Jim Owen concluded that he was either Ed Brevoort or Slim Harper, both of whom were known to have been riding for the Olla. And the sheriff knew something of Brevoort's record.
Incidentally Sheriff Owen also looked up Pete's record. He determined to get Pete's story and compare it with what the newspapers said and see how close this combined evidence came to his own theory of the killing of Brent. He was mentally piecing together possibilities and probabilities, and the exact evidence he had, when Pete walked into the reception-room.
"Have a chair," said Sheriff Owen. "I got one."
"I'm Pete Annersley," said Pete. "Did you want to see me?"
"Thought I'd call and introduce myself. I'm Jim Owen to my friends. I'm sheriff of Sanborn County to others."
"All right, Mr. Owen," said Pete, smiling in spite of himself.
"That's the idea—only make it Jim. Did you ever use one of these?" And suddenly Sheriff Owen had a Luger automatic in his hand. Pete wondered that a man as fat as the little sheriff could pull a gun so quickly.
"Why—no. I ain't got no use for one of them doggone stutterin' smoke-wagons."
"Here, too," said Owen, slipping the Luger back into his pocket. "Never shot one of 'em in my life. Ever try one?"
"I—" Pete caught himself on the verge of saying that he had tried Ed Brevoort's Luger once. He realized in a flash how close the sheriff had come to trapping him. "I never took to them automatics," he asserted lamely.
Pete had dodged the question. On the face of it this looked as though Pete might have been trying to shield himself by disclaiming any knowledge of that kind of weapon. But Owen knew the type of man he was talking to—knew that he would shield a companion even more quickly than he would shield himself.
"Sam Brent was killed by a bullet from a Luger," stated Owen.
Pete's face expressed just the faintest shade of relief, but he said nothing.
"I got the bullet here in my pocket. Want to see it?" And before Pete could reply, the sheriff fished out the flattened and twisted bullet and handed it to Pete, who turned it over and over, gazing at it curiously.
"Spreads out most as big as a forty-five," said Pete, handing it back.
"Yes—but it acts different. Travels faster—and takes more along with it. Lot of 'em used in Texas and across the line. Ever have words with Sam Brent?"
"No. Got along with him all right."
"Did he pay your wages reg'lar?"
"Yes."
"Ever have any trouble with a man named Steve Gary?"
"Yes, but he's—"
"I know. Used to know the man that got him. Wizard with a gun. Meaner than dirt—"
"Hold on!" said Pete. "He was my friend."
"—to most folks," continued the rotund sheriff. "But I've heard said he'd do anything for a man he liked. Trouble with him was he didn't like anybody."
"Mebby he didn't," said Pete indifferently.
"Because he couldn't trust anybody. Ever eat ice-cream?"
"Who—me?"
The sheriff smiled and nodded.
"Nope. Ma Bailey made some onct, but—"
"Let's go out and get some. It's cooling and refreshing and it's—ice-cream. Got a hat?"
"Up in my room."
"Go get it. I'll wait."
"You mean?"—and Pete hesitated.
"I don't mean anything. Heard
you was going for a walk this afternoon. Thought I'd come along. Want to get acquainted. Lonesome. Nobody to talk to. Get your hat."
"Suppose I was to make a break—when we git outside?" said Pete.
Sheriff Owen smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "That little nurse, the one with the gray eyes—that said you were having dinner—is she your reg'lar nurse?"
Pete nodded.
"Well, you won't," said the sheriff.
"How's that?" queried Pete.
"I talked with her. Sensible girl. Break her all up if her patient was to make a break:—because"—and the sheriff's eyes ceased to twinkle, although he still smiled—"because I'd have to break you all up. Hate to do it. Hate to make her feel bad."
"Oh, shucks," said Pete.
"You're right—shucks. That's what you'd look like. I pack a forty-five—same as you. We can buy a hat—"
"I'll get it." And Pete left the room.
He could not quite understand Sheriff Owen. In fact Pete did not come half so close to understanding him as the sheriff came to understanding Pete. But Pete understood one thing—and that was that Jim Owen was not an easy proposition to fool with.
"Now where do we head for?" said Owen as they stood at the foot of the hospital steps.
"I was goin' to the bank—the Stockmen's Security."
"Good bank. You couldn't do better. Know old E.H. myself. Used to know him better—before he got rich. No—this way. Short cut. You got to get acquainted with your legs again, eh? Had a close call. A little shaky?"
"I reckon I kin make it."
"Call a cab if you say the word."
"I—I figured I could walk," said Pete, biting his lips. But a few more steps convinced him that the sheriff was taking no risk whatever in allowing him his liberty.
"Like to see old E.H. myself," stated the sheriff. "Never rode in a cab in my life. Let's try one."
And the sprightly sheriff of Sanborn County straightway hailed a languorous cabby who sat dozing on the "high seat" of a coupe to which was attached the most voluptuous-looking white horse that Pete had ever seen. Evidently the "hospital stand" was a prosperous center.
The Ridin Kid from Powder River Page 30