"We want to go to the Stockmen's Security Bank," said the sheriff, as the coupe drew up to the curb. The driver nodded.
Pete leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. Owen glanced at him and shook his head. There was nothing vicious or brutal in that face. It was not the face of a killer.
Pete sat up suddenly. "I was forgittin' I was broke," and he turned to Owen.
"No. There's sixty-seven dollars and two-bits of yours over at the station, along with your gun and a bundle of range clothes."
"I forgot that."
"Feel better?"
"Fine—when I'm settin' still."
"Well, we're here. Go right in. I'll wait."
Pete entered the bank and inquired for the president, giving the attendant his name in lieu of the card for which he was asked. He was shown in almost immediately, and a man somewhat of The Spider's type assured him that he was the president and, as he spoke, handed Pete a slip of paper such as Pete had never before seen.
"You're Peter Annersley?" queried Hodges.
"Yes. What's this here?"
"It's more money than I'd want to carry with me on the street," said Hodges. "Have you anything that might identify you?"
"What's the idee?"
"Mr. Ewell had some money with us that he wished transferred to you, in case anything happened to him. I guess you know what happened." Then reflectively, "Jim was a queer one."
"You mean The Spider wanted me to have this?"
"Yes. That slip of paper represents just twenty-four thousand dollars in currency. If you'll just endorse it—"
"But it ain't my money!" said Pete.
"You're a fool if you don't take it, young man. From what I have heard you'll need it. It seems that Jim took a fancy to you. Said you had played square with him—about that last deposit, I suppose. You don't happen to have a letter with you, from him, I suppose, do you?"
"I got this,"—and Pete showed President Hodges The Spider's note, which Hodges read and returned. "That was like Jim. He wouldn't listen to me."
"And this was his money?" Pete was unable to realize the significance of it all.
"Yes. Now it's yours. You're lucky! Mighty lucky! Just endorse the draft—right here. I'll have it cashed for you."
"Write my name?"
"Yes, your full name, here."
"And I git twenty-four thousand dollars for this?"
"If you want to carry that much around with you. I'd advise you to deposit the draft and draw against it."
"If it's mine, I reckon I'd like to jest git it in my hands onct, anyhow. I'd like to see what that much money feels like."
Pete slowly wrote his name, thinking of The Spider and Pop Annersley as he did so. Hodges took the draft, pressed a button, and a clerk appeared, took the draft, and presently returned with the money in gold and bank-notes of large denomination.
When he had gone out, Hodges turned to Pete. "What are you going to do with it? It's none of my business—now. But Jim and I were friends—and if I can do anything—"
"I reckon I'll put it back in—to my name," said Pete. "I sure ain't scared to leave it with you—for The Spider he weren't."
Hodges smiled grimly, and pressed a button on his desk. "New account," he told the clerk.
Pete sighed heavily when the matter had been adjusted, the identification signature slips signed, and the bank-book made out in his name.
Hodges himself introduced Pete at the teller's window, thanked Pete officially for patronizing the bank, and shook hands with him. "Any time you need funds, just come in—or write to me," said Hodges. "Good-bye, and good luck."
Pete stumbled out of the bank and down the steps to the sidewalk. He was rich—worth twenty-four thousand dollars! But why had The Spider left this money to him? Surely The Spider had had some other friend—or some relative…?
"Step right in," said Sheriff Owen. "You look kind of white. Feeling shaky?"
"Some."
"We want to go to the General Hospital," said the sheriff.
Pete listened to the deliberate plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk of the white mare's large and capable feet as the cab whirred softly along the pavement. "I suppose you'll be takin' me over to Sanborn right soon," he said finally.
"Well, I expect I ought to get back to my family," said the sheriff.
"I didn't kill Sam Brent," asserted Pete.
"I never thought you did," said the sheriff, much to Pete's surprise.
"Then what's the idee of doggin' me around like I was a blame coyote?"
"Because you have been traveling in bad company, son. And some one in that said company killed Sam Brent."
"And I got to stand for it?"
"Looks that way. I been all kinds of a fool at different times, but I'm not fool enough to ask you who killed Sam Brent. But I advise you to tell the judge and jury when the time comes."
"That the only way I kin square myself?"
"I don't say that. But it will help."
"Then I don't say."
"Thought you wouldn't. It's a case of circumstantial evidence. Brent was found in that cactus forest near the station. The same night two men rode into Sanborn and left their horses at the livery-stable. These men took the train for El Paso, but jumped it at the crossing. Later they were trailed to a rooming-house on Aliso Street. One of them—and this is the queer part of it—got away after shooting his pardner. The rubber heels in this town say these two men quarreled about money—"
"That's about all they know. Ed and me never—"
"You don't mean Ed Brevoort, do you?"
"There's more 'n one Ed in this country."
"There sure is. Old E.H. Hodges—he's Ed; and there's Ed Smally on the force here, and Ed Cummings, the preacher over to Sanborn. Lots of Eds. See here, son. If you want to get out of a bad hole, the quickest way is for you to tell a straight story. Save us both time. Been visiting with you quite a spell."
"Reckon we're here," said Pete as the cab stopped.
"And I reckon you're glad of it. As I was saying, we been having quite a visit—getting acquainted. Now if you haven't done anything the law can hold you for, the more I know about what you have done the better it will be for you. Think that over. If you can prove you didn't kill Brent, then it's up to me to find out who did. Get a good sleep. I'll drift round sometime to-morrow."
Back in his room Pete lay trying to grasp the full significance of the little bank-book in his pocket. He wondered who would stop him if he were to walk out of the hospital that evening or the next morning, and leave town. He got up and strode nervously back and forth, fighting a recurrent temptation to make his escape.
He happened to glance in the mirror above the washstand. "That's the only fella that kin stop me," he told himself. And he thought of Ed Brevoort and wondered where Brevoort was, and if he were in need of money.
Dr. Andover, making his afternoon rounds, stepped in briskly, glanced at Pete's flushed face, and sitting beside him on the cot, took his pulse and temperature with that professional celerity that makes the busy physician. "A little temperature. Been out today?"
"For a couple of hours."
Andover nodded. "Well, young man, you get right into bed."
The surgeon closed the door. Pete undressed grumblingly.
"Now turn over. I want to look at your back. M-mm! Thought so. A little feverish. Did you walk much?"
"Nope! We took a rig. I was with the sheriff."
"I see! Excitement was a little too much for you. You'll have to go slow for a few days."
"I'm feelin' all right," asserted Pete.
"You think you are. How's your appetite?"
"I ain't hungry."
Andover nodded. "You'd better keep off your feet to-morrow."
"Shucks, Doc! I'm sick of this here place!"
Andover smiled. "Well, just between ourselves, so am I. I've been here eight years. By the way, how would you like to take a ride with me, next Thursday? I expect to motor out to Sanborn."
"Yes. New car. I'd like to try her out on a good straightaway—and there's a pretty fair road up on this end of the mesa."
"I'd sure like to go! Say, Doc, how much does one of them automobiles cost?"
"Oh, about three thousand, without extras."
"How fast kin you go?"
"Depends on the road. My car is guaranteed to do seventy-five on the level."
"Some stepper! You could git to Sanborn and back in a couple of hours."
"Not quite. I figure it about a four-hour trip. I'd be glad to have you along. Friend of mine tells me there's a thoroughbred saddle-horse there that is going to be sold at auction. I've been advertising for a horse for my daughter. You might look him over and tell me what you think of him."
"I reckon I know him already," said Pete.
"How's that?"
"'Cause they's no thoroughbred stock around Sanborn. If it's the one I'm thinkin' about, it was left there by a friend of mine."
"Oh—I see! I remember, now. Sanborn is where you—er—took the train for El Paso?"
"We left our hosses there—same as the paper said."
"H-mm! Well, I suppose the horse is to be sold for charges. Sheriff's sale, I understand."
"Oh, you're safe in buyin' him all right. And he sure is a good one."
"Well, I'll speak to the chief. I imagine he'll let you go with me."
Pete shook his head. "Nope. He wouldn't even if he had the say. But the sheriff of Sanborn County has kind of invited me to go over there for a spell. I guess he figured on leavin' here in a couple of days."
"He can't take you till I certify that you're able to stand the journey," said Andover brusquely.
"Well, he's comin' to-morrow. I'm dead sick of stayin' here. Can't you tell him I kin travel?"
"We'll see how you feel to-morrow. Hello! Here's Miss Gray. What, six o'clock! I had no idea… Yes, a little temperature, Miss Gray. Too much excitement. A little surface inflammation—nothing serious. A good night's rest and he'll be a new man. Good-night."
Pete was glad to see Doris. Her mere presence was restful. He sighed heavily, glanced up at her and smiled. "A little soup, Miss Gray. It's awful excitin'. Slight surface inflammation on them boiled beets. Nothin' serious—they ain't scorched. A good night's rest and the cook'll be a new man tomorrow. Doc Andover is sure all right—but I always feel like he was wearin' kid gloves and was afraid of gittin' 'em dirty, every time he comes in."
Doris was not altogether pleased by Pete's levity and her face showed it. She did not smile, but rearranged the things on the tray in a preoccupied manner, and asked him if there was anything else he wanted.
"Lemme see?" Pete frowned prodigiously. "Got salt and pepper and butter and sugar; but I reckon you forgot somethin' that I'm wantin' a whole lot."
"What is it?"
"You're forgittin' to smile."
"I read that letter from Mr. Bailey."
"I'm mighty glad you did, Miss Gray. I wanted you to know what was in that letter. You'd sure like Ma Bailey, and Jim and Andy. Andy was my pardner—when—afore I had that trouble with Steve Gary. No use tryin' to step round it now. I reckon you know all about it."
"And you will be going back to them—to your friends on the ranch?"
"Well—I aim to. I got to go over to Sanborn first."
"Sanborn? Do you mean—?"
"Jest what you're thinkin', Miss Gray. I seen a spell back how you was wonderin' that I could josh about my grub, and Doc Andover. Well, I got in bad, and I ain't blamin' nobody—and I ain't blamin' myself—and that's why I ain't hangin' my head about anything I done. And I ain't kickin' because I got started on the wrong foot. I'm figurin' how I kin git started on the other foot—and keep a-goin'."
"But why should you tell me about these things? I can't help you. And it seems terrible to think about them. If I were a man—like Dr. Andover—"
"I reckon you're right," said Pete. "I got no business loadin' you up with all my troubles. I'm goin' to quit it. Only you been kind o' like a pardner—and it sure was lonesome, layin' here and thinkin' about everything, and not sayin' a word to nobody. But I jest want you to know that I didn't kill Sam Brent—but I sure would 'a' got him—if somebody hadn't been a flash quicker than me, that night. Brent was after the money we was packin', and he meant business."
"You mean that—some one killed him in self-defense?"
"That's the idee. It was him or us."
"Then why don't you tell the police that?"
"I sure aim to. But what they want to know is who the fella was that got Brent."
"But the papers say that the other man escaped."
"Which is right."
"And you won't tell who he is?"
"Nope."
"But why not—if it means your own freedom?"
"Mebby because they wouldn't believe me anyhow."
"I don't think that is your real reason. Oh, I forgot to return your letter. I'll bring it next time."
"I'll be goin' Thursday. Doc Andover he's goin' over to Sanborn and he ast me to go along with him."
"You mean—to stay?"
"For a spell, anyhow. But I'm comin' back."
Doris glanced at her wrist watch and realized that it was long past the hour for the evening meal. "I'm going out to my sister's to-morrow, for the day. I may not see you before you leave,"
Pete sat up. "Shucks! Well, I ain't sayin' thanks for what you done for me, Miss Gray. 'Thanks' sounds plumb starvin' poor and rattlin', side of what I want to tell you. I'd be a'most willin' to git shot ag'in—"
"Don't say that!" exclaimed Doris.
"I would be shakin' hands with you," said Pete. "But this here is just 'Adios,' for I'm sure comin' back."
CHAPTER XLI
"A LAND FAMILIAR"
The following day Pete had a long talk with Sheriff Owen, a talk which resulted in the sheriff's accompanying Andover and Pete on their desert journey to Sanborn.
Incidentally Pete gave his word that he would not try to escape. It was significant, however, that the little sheriff expressed a preference for the back seat, even before Andover, who had invited him to make the journey, asked him if he cared to ride in front. The sheriff's choice was more a matter of habit than preference, for, alone upon the ample seat of the touring-car, he was shuttled ignominiously from side to side and bounced and jolted until, during a stop for water, he informed Andover that "he sure would have to pull leather to stay with the car."
The surgeon, a bit inclined to show off, did not hesitate to "step on her," when the going was at all good. And any one familiar with the road from El Paso to Sanborn is aware of just how good even the best going is. Any one unfamiliar with that road is to be congratulated.
Pete enjoyed the ride, as it brought him once more into the open country. The car whirred on and on. It seemed to him as though he were speeding from a nightmare of brick and stone and clamor into the wide and sun-swept spaces of a land familiar and yet strange.
They reached Sanborn about noon, having made about one hundred and fifty miles in something like four hours.
After a wash and a meal at the hotel, they strolled over to the livery-stable to inspect the horse that Andover thought of buying. A small crowd had collected at the stables, as the auction was advertised to take place that afternoon. The sheriff himself started the bidding on the thoroughbred, followed by the liveryman, who knew about what he could get for the horse in El Paso. Andover raised his bid, which was quickly raised in turn by the sheriff. Pete realized that Andover really wanted the horse and told him quietly to drop out when the bidding reached two hundred, shrewdly estimating that neither the liveryman nor the sheriff would go beyond that figure, as neither of them really wanted the horse save as a speculation. "Then, if you want him, raise twenty-five, and you get a mighty good horse for a hundred less than he's worth. I know him. He's no good workin' cattle—but he's one fine trail horse for straight goin'. And he'
s as gentle as your gran'-mother."
The bidding ran to one hundred and seventy-five, when there was a pause. The sheriff had dropped out. The liveryman, conferring with his partner, was about to bid when Andover jumped the price to two hundred and fifty.
"I'm through," said the liveryman.
"Sold to—name, please—sold to Doctor John Andover for two hundred and fifty dollars," said the auctioneer. Then, after a facetious dissertation on thoroughbreds as against cow-ponies, Blue Smoke was led out. Pete's face went red. Then he paled. He had not forgotten that Blue Smoke was to be sold, but he had taken it for granted that he would be allowed to reclaim him. Pete stepped over to the sheriff and was about to enter a protest—offer to pay the board-bill against Blue Smoke, when the bidding began with an offer of twenty-five dollars. This was quickly run up to seventy-five when Pete promptly bid one hundred, which was a fair auction price, although every man there knew that Blue Smoke was worth more.
"I'm bid one hundred twenty-five," cried the auctioneer, as a young, bow-legged cowboy raised Pete's bid.
"One-fifty," said Pete without hesitation.
The sheriff glanced at Pete, wondering if he would borrow the money from Andover to make good his bid. But Pete was watching the auctioneer's gavel—which happened to be a short piece of rubber garden-hose. "Third and last chance!" said the auctioneer. "Nobody want that pony as a present? All right—goin', I say! Goin', I say ag'in! Gone! B' Gosh! at one hundred an' fifty dollars, to that young gent over there that looks like he could ride him. What's the name?"
"Pete Annersley."
Several in the crowd turned and gazed curiously at Pete. But Pete's eyes were upon Blue Smoke—his horse—the horse that had carried him faithfully so many desert miles—a cow-pony that could "follow a mountain trail all day and finish, a-steppin' high."
"Much obliged for your advice about the thoroughbred," said Andover as he stepped close to Pete. "Is that the pony you used to ride?"
"He sure is. Say, Doc, I got the money to pay for him, but would you mind writin' out a check. I ain't wise to this bankin' business yet."
"Why—no. I'll do that. I—er—of course—I'm a little short myself. New car—and this horse for my daughter. But I think I can manage. You want to borrow a hundred and fifty?"
The Ridin Kid from Powder River Page 31