The man who had stayed to watch Yeager and his riders finished one cigar and lit another. He held to a somber silence, smoking moodily, a vigilant eye on his prisoners. Two or three times he looked at his watch impatiently. It must have been close to midnight when he rose as if to go.
"I'm going back into the bushes," he announced. "If any of you fellas make a move to free yourself inside of half an hour I'll guarantee you die of lead poisoning sudden."
They heard him moving away in the mesquite.
Shorty swore softly. "What d' you know about this? Me, I've had buck-ague for most three hours expecting that doggoned holdup to blow the roof of my head off. I don't sabe his game, unless he's on the rustle."
"Hell! He's runnin' these cows into Sonora. It don't take any wiz to guess that," answered Orman.
Steve was already busy trying to free himself. He gave no credit to the man's assertion that they would be watched from the bushes. The leader of the rustlers was already half a mile away, lengthening the distance between them at every stride of his galloping horse. The range-rider knew that their horses had probably been driven away, but he knew, too, that if Four Bits was within hearing of his whistle he could be depended upon to answer.
The cowpuncher had offered no resistance to being tied except a passive one. He had kept his chest expanded as much as possible when the ropes had been tightened and he had braced the muscles of his arm against the pressure of the folds. Ten minutes of steady work released one arm. The rest was a matter of a few moments. With his knife he slashed the ropes that bound Shorty and Orman.
Already his whistle had brought an answer from Four Bits. Five minutes later Steve was astride the barebacked horse galloping across country toward Los Robles. His friends he had left to follow on foot as best they could. He had a very particular reason why he wanted to reach the hotel as soon as possible. A suspicion had bitten into his mind. He wanted to verify or dismiss it.
An hour later Four Bits pounded down the main street of Los Robles. Almost simultaneously Yeager brought the horse slithering to a halt and with one lithe swing of his body landed on the ground in front of the hotel porch. He ran up the steps and into the lobby. Behind his cage the night clerk was drowsing.
"Anybody come into the hotel the last thirty minutes?" Yeager asked sharply.
The clerk thought. "No, I reckon not. There was Mr. Simmons—but that was most an hour since."
"Nobody else?"
"No. Why?"
The range-rider turned to the stairs, took them three at a time, and followed the corridor to Room 217. He hammered on the door with his fist.
A sleepy voice wanted to know who was there.
"It's Steve Yeager, Mr. Threewit. I wanta see you."
"You've got all to-morrow to see me in, haven't you?"
"My business won't wait."
Grumbling, the producing director got up. Presently he opened the door and stood revealed in a dressing-gown over his pajamas.
"What do you want, my anxious friend?"
"We've been held up."
"Held up!" A slow grin spread over Threewit's fat good-natured face. "Well, I'll bet Mr. Holdup didn't get a mint off you lads."
"He didn't bother with us. It was the cattle he wanted. They've driven them across the line. At least, I reckon so."
Threewit woke up instantly. "That's different. Unload your story, Yeager."
The extra told it in six sentences.
"Of course you didn't know any of the holdups. They were masked, you say?"
"Yep." Steve's cool, steady eyes held those of the director. "But I've got a fool notion just the same that I do know one of them. Come with me to Harrison's room."
"But—"
"I'll do all the talking. Come along."
"Now, see here, Yeager. Just because you and Harrison are at outs—"
"Have I made any charges against him? Maybe I want to ask his advice. Maybe he could help us straighten out this thing. Got to pull together, haven't we?" A cynical light in the eyes of the young man contradicted his words.
Reluctantly the director followed the extra to the room of the heavy on the third floor. Yeager knocked. He rapped again, and a third time.
Drowsily a voice demanded what was wanted. Presently the door was flung open and Harrison stood blinking in the doorway, heavy-eyed and slumberous.
"What's the row?" he growled, scowling at Yeager.
"We were held up on the way from Yarnell's by rustlers. They drove the cattle away and left us tied up."
"That any reason why you should wake me in the middle of the night? I ain't got your cattle under the bed." The heavy jaw of the prizefighter stood out saliently. Unconsciously his figure had drooped to the crouch of defense. His small black eyes were wary and defiant.
The cowpuncher laughed, lightly and easily. "I'm only a kid. Mr. Threewit comes from the East and don't know anything about this rustling game. We thought of you right away."
"What do you mean you thought of me?"
Yeager's eyes were innocent and steady. "Why, o' course we came to you for advice—to ask you what we'd better do."
"Oh! That's it, eh?" Was there the faintest flitter of relief on the lowering face? Steve could not be sure. "Well, I'll dress and join you downstairs, Mr. Threewit. With you in a minute."
"We got no time to lose. Mind if we talk here, Harrison?" Without waiting for permission the extra pushed into the room and began his story. "Must 'a' been about six miles back that we threw off the trail and camped. I figured on getting in early in the forenoon. Well, I was night-herding when I got orders to punch a hole in the atmosphere with my fists. I didn't do a thing but reach for the sky. A big masked guy come out from the mesquite and helped himself to my gun. Then he tied me up."
"Would you know him again if you saw him?" interrupted the prizefighter harshly.
The gaze of Yeager met his blandly. There was the least possible pause, and with it a certain tension. The younger man smiled. "Why, how could I, seeing he was masked? He was a big sulky brute. I've a notion I'd know his voice again if I heard it, though."
"Think so?" In Harrison's voice was a jeer, derision in the half-shuttered eyes that watched the other man vigilantly.
"His hair was about the same color as yours," added Steve in a matter-of-fact voice.
The underhung jaw of the prizefighter shot out. "Meaning anything particular?"
"Why, no," replied Steve in amiable surprise. "What could I mean?"
"How do I know what every buzzard-head's got in his cocoanut?"
Steve continued his story, giving fuller details. His casual glances wandered about the room. They found no mask, no Mexican serape, no black felt hat. Since he had not expected to see these in plain view he was not disappointed. A belt with a scabbarded revolver lay on the table. The extra wondered whether it was the same weapon that had been pressed against the back of his neck a few hours earlier. The boots lying half under the bed were white with the dust of travel, but this was nothing unusual.
"You can have my advice gratis if you want it." Harrison addressed himself pointedly to Threewit. "Send back to old man Yarnell's and you'll find the cattle straying in about day after to-morrow."
"But, if rustlers took them—"
The big man laughed unpleasantly. "Forget it, Mr. Threewit. A fairy tale to explain how-come your faithful cowboys to drap asleep and let the bunch stray. I reckon a little too much redeye in camp is the c'rect explanation."
Yeager smiled, saying nothing.
"And now I'm going to beat it for the hay again, Mr. Threewit. If you recollect, I told you some one was going to blow up pretty soon. Good-night."
As they walked back down the corridor Steve asked one question of the director. "Did it strike you he was a leetle too sleepy at first and just a leetle too quick to get that chip on his shoulder?"
"No, it didn't," snapped Threewit. Nobody likes to be dragged out of bed at two a.m., to hear bad news, and the director was merely human. "It
makes me tired the way you two fellows shoot off about each other."
"He's a pretty slick proposition," Yeager went on, unmoved. "He hit the high spots back to town so as to have his alibi ready—didn't leave any evidence floating around loose in his room. He must have come up the back way so as to slip in without being noticed by the night clerk. At that he couldn't have reached here more than a few minutes before me."
"Quite a Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?"
"Bet you a week's salary that if we go out to the stables we find one of the horses still wet with sweat from a long run."
"Go you once," retorted Threewit promptly. "Wait just a jiffy till I get more clothes on."
Steve's prediction was verified. White Stockings, one of the fastest mounts in the remuda of the company, had been brought in from a long hard run within the past half-hour. Its flanks were stained with sweat and the marks of the saddle chafed its still moist back.
"You win," admitted Threewit. "But that doesn't prove Harrison was on its back."
"No. Say, what about giving me a week off, Mr. Threewit?"
"What for?"
"I've just taken a notion to travel some. Mebbe I might run acrost those cattle that strayed back to Yarnell's whilst I was sleeping."
The director looked at him sharply. "All right. Go to it, son."
* * *
CHAPTER VI
PLUCKING A PIGEON
Steve slept almost around the clock. He lost breakfast, but was there promptly for luncheon with the appetite of a harvest hand. During the two days' drive he had missed the good home cooking of Mrs. Seymour and he intended to make up for it.
Orman and Shorty had reached town some time about daylight and had spread the story of the holdup, so that the dining-room was humming with excitement. A dozen questions were flung at Steve before he had well taken his seat. He threw up his hands in surrender.
Before he had finished telling his edited story, Shorty drifted in and divided the interest. The little extra promptly took the stage away from Yeager, whereupon Daisy Ellington absorbed the attention of Steve. She asked a sharp question or two which he answered blandly. It was not his intention to communicate any suspicions he happened to have.
They were waiting for the dessert. Daisy put her lean, pretty elbows on the table and her chin in her little doubled fists. A provocative audacity was in the tilted smile she flashed at him.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Breeze on, Steve. You're doin' fine. Next scene."
"That's all."
"Say, do I look like I was born yesterday? See any green in my eye, Cactus Center?"
He grinned. "You're sure wise, compadre. But the rest is mostly suspicions."
"I'm listening," she nodded.
"You're such a Sherlock Holmes I'd hate to go out with the boys if I was married to you."
"I'm your friend and wouldn't wish any such bad luck on you," she countered gayly. Then, in a lower voice, with a sudden gravity: "Is it Harrison, Steve?"
Amazement sparkled for a moment in his eyes. "With your imagination, Daisy,—" he was beginning when she cut him short.
"You gotta tell me what's on your chest, you transparent kid."
He knew she could keep a secret like a well. Looking round guardedly, his voice fell to a whisper. "If I'd reached town ten minutes earlier I'd 'a' beat him in and showed him up. Threewit won't hear to it, of course, but the man that held me up was Chad Harrison. Take it or leave it. Just the same it's a fact."
Daisy nodded rapidly several times. "I take it, Steve. Always did know there was something shady about the big stiff. And I'll tell you something else you don't know. It's through that wild young colt brother of hers that he's got a strangle hold on Ruth."
Yeager set his lips to a noiseless whistle. "You mean—?"
She flung his question aside with an impatient wave of her hand. "I can't tell you what I mean. I've got no evidence. But it's true. She's ridiculously fond of that young scamp Phil. Somehow—in some way—Harrison has got the whip hand over him."
His eyes fell on the slender girl waiting on the table at the other end of the room. Her look met his. It almost seemed as if she knew they had been talking about her, for the milky cheek took on a shell-pink tinge. The long lashes fluttered down and she busied herself at once about her work.
"If she was my sister—"
Daisy did not need a completed sentence to understand his meaning. "Can you beat it?" she asked with a shrug. "Any gink that knows enough to come in out of the rain could tell that Chad Harrison is a bad egg. Give him the once over and you can see that."
After Ruth had arranged the tables for dinner she stole out to the porch for a breath of fresh air. Already the approach of an Arizona summer was beginning to make itself felt during the middle of the day. Yeager sat beneath the wild cucumber vines pleating a horsehair hatband for Daisy Ellington.
Ruth liked this brown, lithe cowpuncher, all sinew and bone and muscle. His smile was so warm and friendly, his manner so boyish and yet so competent. To look into his kind, steady eyes was to know that he could be trusted.
She moved in his direction shyly, a touch of pink blooming in her soft cheeks. Ruth was charmingly unsure of herself. It was always easy to disturb her composure. Even a casual encounter with the slim, brown-faced range-rider was an adventure for her. Now her pansy eyes deepened in color with excitement, with the tremulous fear of what she was to learn.
"Mr. Yeager, I—wanted to ask you about—about the holdup."
"What about it, Miss Ruth?"
"Did you—know any of them?"
"How could I? They were masked." His eyes had taken on a film of wariness that blotted out for the moment their kindness.
"I didn't know—I thought, perhaps,—" She tried a new start. "Did you say that three of them were Mexicans?"
"Two of them," he corrected.
There was the least quiver of her lip. "The others were—both big men, didn't you say?"
"I didn't say."
A footstep sounded on the crisp gravel walk. Steve looked up, in time to catch the flash of warning menace Harrison sent toward the girl.
"Mr. Yeager has been having a pipe-dream, Ruth. Don't wake him up," jeered the heavy.
Ruth fled unobtrusively and left the men alone.
"Hear you're going on a vacation," said Harrison gruffly.
"You've heard correct." Yeager pleated his hatband with steady fingers. His voice was even and placid.
Harrison looked him over with indolent insolence. "Some folks find this climate don't agree with them. Some folks find it better to drift out, casual-like, y' understand?"
"Yes?"
"I'm tellin' it to you straight."
"That you're going to leave? The Lunar Company will miss you," suggested the range-rider politely.
"Think you're darned clever, don't you? It's you that's leaving the company, Mr. Yeager."
"For a week."
"For good."
"Hadn't heard of it. News to me," answered Steve lightly.
"I'm givin' you the tip. See?"
"Oncet I knew a fellow who lived to be 'most ninety minding his own business," observed the cowpuncher to the world in general as he held up and examined his work.
"It ain't considered safe to get gay with me. I'm liable to lam your head off," threatened the big man sullenly.
"And then again you're liable not to. I'm not freightin' with your outfit, Mr. Harrison. Kindly lay off of me and you'll find we get along fine."
Steve rose and passed on his way to the street. Harrison was in two minds whether to force an issue again with him, but something in the contour of that close-gripped jaw, in the gleam of the steady eyes, was more potent than the dull rage surging in him. He let the opportunity pass.
Four Bits carried Yeager away from Los Robles at a road gait. Horse and rider were taking the border trail. It led them through a desolate country of desert where the flat-leafed prickly pear and the occasional
pudgy creosote were the chief forms of vegetable life. Now and again a swift might be seen basking on a rock or a Gila monster motionless on the hillside. The ominous buzz of a rattler more than once made the pony sidestep. Mesa and flat and wash succeeded each other monotonously.
It was after sunset when they drew up at a feed corral in Arixico. Steve looked after his horse and sauntered down the little adobe street to a Chinese restaurant which ostentatiously announced itself as the "New York Cafe." This side of the business street was in the territory of Uncle Sam, the other half floated the Mexican flag. After he had eaten, the young man drifted across to one of the gambling-houses that invited the patronage of Americans and natives alike.
He found within the heterogeneous gathering usually to be observed in such a place. Vaqueros brushed shoulders with Chinese laundrymen, cowpunchers with soldiers, peons with cattlemen from Arizona and Texas. Here were miners and soldiers of fortune and plain tramps. More than one of the shining-eyed gamblers had a price upon his head. Several were outlaws. A score or more had taken part in the rapine and the pillage of the guerrilla warfare that has of late years been the curse of the country. It would have been hard in a day's travel to find an assembly where human life was held at less value.
Among these lawless, turbulent siftings of the continent Yeager was very much at home. He merged inconspicuously into the picture, a quiet, brown-faced man with cool, alert eyes. Nobody paid the least attention to him. He might be a horse-thief or an honest cowpuncher. It was a matter of supreme indifference to those present. Experience in that outdoor frontier school which always keeps open session had taught them that a man lived longer here when he minded his own business.
Steve stood close to the bar. A prospector leaned against it and talked to an acquaintance while they drank their beer.
"This here's how I figure it," he was saying. "I had a little dough when I begun digging gopher holes in these here hills. Not much—say fifteen hundred, mebbe. I sure ain't got it now. Lost it in a hole in the ground. Well; I reckon I'll go on looking for it where I lost it."
Steve Yeager Page 4