by B. M. Bower
“Me? I think there was another horse somewhere close to that outcropping, tied to a bush, maybe. I think the man you’re after changed horses there, just on a chance that somebody might trail him from the road. You put your dog on the trail of that one particular horse, and he showed yuh where it was feeding with the bunch. It looks to me like it was turned loose, back there, and come on alone. Your man went to Whisper; I’ll bank money on that. Anyway, your dog’ll know if he’s been there.”
Swan thought it over, his eyes moving here and there to every hint of movement between the skyline and himself. Suddenly he turned to Lone, his face flushing with honest shame.
“Loney, take a damn Swede and give him something he believes, and you could pull his teeth before you pull that notion from his thick head. You acted funny, that day Fred Thurman was killed, and you gave yourself away at the stable when I showed you that saddle. So I think you’re the killer, and I keep on thinking that, and I’ve been trying to catch you with evidence. I’m a Swede, all right! Square head. Built of wood two inches thick. Loney, you kick me good. You don’t have time to ride over here, get some other horse and ride back to the Quirt after Frank was killed. You got there before I did, last night. We know Frank was dead not much more than one hour when we get him to the bunk-house. Yack, he gives you a good alibi.”
“I sure am glad we took the time to trail that horse, then,” Lone remarked, while Swan was removing the handcuffs. “You’re all right, Swan. Nothing like sticking to an idea till you know it’s wrong. Now, let’s stick to mine for awhile. Let’s go on to Whisper. It ain’t far.”
They returned to the rocky hillside where the trail had been covered, and searched here and there for the tracks of another horse; found the trail and followed it easily enough to Whisper. Swan put Jack once more on the scent of the handkerchief, and if actions meant anything, Jack proved conclusively that he found the Whisper camp reeking with the scent.
But that was all,—since Al was at that moment trailing Lorraine toward the Sawtooth.
“We may as well eat,” Swan suggested. “We’ll get him, by golly, but we don’t have to starve ourselves.”
“He wouldn’t know we’re after him,” Lone agreed. “He’ll stick around so as not to raise suspicion. And he might come back, most any time. If he does, we’ll say I’m out with you after coyotes, and we stopped here for a meal. That’s good enough to satisfy him—till you get the drop on him. But I want to tell yuh, Swan, you can’t take Al Woodruff as easy as you took me. And you couldn’t have taken me so easy if I’d been the man you wanted. Al would kill you as easy as you kill coyotes. Give him a reason, and you won’t need to give him a chance along with it. He’ll find the chance himself.”
Because they thought it likely that Al would soon return, they did not hurry. They were hungry, and they cooked enough food for four men and ate it leisurely. Jim was at the ranch, Sorry had undoubtedly returned before now, and the coroner would probably not arrive before noon, at the earliest.
Swan wanted to take Al Woodruff back with him in irons. He wanted to confront the coroner with the evidence he had found and the testimony which Lone could give. There had been too many killings already, he asserted in his naïve way; the sooner Al Woodruff was locked up, the safer the country would be.
He discussed with Lone the possibility of making Al talk,—the chance of his implicating the Sawtooth. Lone did not hope for much and said so.
“If Al was a talker he wouldn’t be holding the job he’s got,” Lone argued. “Don’t get the wrong idea again, Swan. Yuh may pin this on to Al, but that won’t let the Sawtooth in. The Sawtooth’s too slick for that. They’d be more likely to make up a lynching party right in the outfit and hang Al as an example than they would try to shield him. He’s played a lone hand, Swan, right from the start, unless I’m badly mistaken. The Sawtooth’s paid him for playing it, that’s all.”
“Warfield, he’s the man I want,” Swan confided. “It’s for more than killing these men. It goes into politics, Loney, and it goes deep. He’s bad for the government. Getting Warfield for having men killed is getting Warfield without telling secrets of politics. Warfield, he’s a smart man, by golly. He knows some one is after him in politics, but he don’t know some one is after him at home. So the big Swede has got to be smart enough to get the evidence against him for killing.”
“Well, I wish yuh luck, Swan, but I can’t say you’re going at it right. Al won’t talk, I tell yuh.”
Swan did not believe that. He waited another hour and made a mental inventory of everything in camp while he waited. Then, chiefly because Lone’s impatience finally influenced him, he set out to see where Al had gone.
According to Jack, Al had gone to the corral. From there they put Jack on the freshest hoofprints leaving the place, and were led here and there in an apparently aimless journey to nowhere until, after Jack had been at fault in another rock patch, the trail took them straight away to the ridge overlooking the Quirt ranch. The two men looked at one another.
“That’s like Al,” Lone commented drily. “Coyotes are foolish, alongside him, and you’ll find it out. I’ll bet he’s been watching this place since daybreak.”
“Where he goes, Yack will follow,” Swan grinned cheerfully. “And I follow Yack. We’ll get him, Lone. That dog, he never quits till I say quit.”
“You better go down and get a horse, then,” Lone advised. “They’re all gentle. Al’s mounted, remember. He’s maybe gone over to the Sawtooth, and that’s farther than you can walk.”
“I can walk all day and all night, when I need to go like that. I can take short cuts that a horse can’t take. I think I shall go on my own legs.”
“Well, I’m going down to the house first. I know them two men riding down to the gate. I want to see what the boss and Hawkins have got to say about this last ‘accident.’ Better come on down, Swan. You might pick up something. They’re heading for the ranch, all right. Going to make a play at being neighborly, I reckon.”
“You bet I want to see Warfield,” Swan assented rather eagerly and called Jack, who had nosed around the spot where Al had waited so long and was now trotting along the ridge on the next lap of Al’s journey.
They reached the gate in time to meet Warfield and Hawkins face to face. Hawkins gave Lone a quick, questioning look and nodded carelessly to Swan. Warfield, having a delicate errand to perform and knowing how much depended upon first impressions, pulled up eagerly when he recognized Lone.
“Has the girl arrived safely, Lone?” he asked anxiously.
“What girl?” Lone looked at him noncommittally.
“Miss—ah—Hunter. Have you been away all the forenoon? The girl came to the ranch in such a condition that I was afraid she might do herself or some one else an injury. Has she been unbalanced for long?”
“If you mean Lorraine Hunter, she was all right last time I saw her, and that was last night.” Lone’s eyes narrowed a little as he watched the two. “You say she went to the Sawtooth?”
“She came pelting over there crazier than when you brought her in,” Hawkins broke in gruffly. “She ain’t safe going around alone like that.”
Senator Warfield glanced at him impatiently. “Is there any truth in her declaring that Frank Johnson is dead? She seemed to have had a shock of some kind. She was raving crazy, and in her rambling talk she said something about Frank Johnson having died last night.”
Lone glanced back as he led the way through the gate which Swan was holding open. “He didn’t die—he got killed last night,” he corrected.
“Killed! And how did that happen? It was impossible to get two coherent sentences out of the girl.” Senator Warfield rode through just behind Lone and reined close, lowering his voice. “No use in letting this get out,” he said confidentially. “It may be that the girl’s dementia is some curable nervous disorder, and you know what an injustice it would be if it became noised around that the girl is crazy. How much English does that Swede know?”
“Not any more than he needs to get along on,” Lone answered, instinctively on guard. “He’s all right—just a good-natured kinda cuss that wouldn’t harm anybody.”
He glanced uneasily at the house, hoping that Lorraine was safe inside, yet fearing that she would not be safe anywhere. Sane or insane, she was in danger if Senator Warfield considered her of sufficient importance to bring him out on horseback to the Quirt ranch. Lone knew how seldom the owner of the Sawtooth rode on horseback since he had high-powered cars to carry him in soft comfort.
“I’ll go see if she’s home,” Lone explained, and reined John Doe toward the house.
“I’ll go with you,” Senator Warfield offered suavely and kept alongside. “Frank Johnson was killed, you say? How did it happen?”
“Fell off his wagon and broke his neck,” Lone told him laconically. “Brit’s pretty sick yet; I don’t guess you’d better go inside. There’s been a lot of excitement already for the old man. He only sees folks he’s used to having around.”
With that he dismounted and went into the house, leaving Senator Warfield without an excuse for following. Swan and Hawkins came up and waited with him, and Jim opened the door of the bunk-house and looked out at them without showing enough interest to come forward and speak to them.
In a few minutes Lone returned, to find Senator Warfield trying to glean information from Swan, who seemed willing enough to give it if only he could find enough English words to form a complete sentence. Swan, then, had availed himself of Lone’s belittlement of him and was living down to it. But Lone gave him scant attention just then.
“She hasn’t come back. Brit’s worked himself up into a fever, and I didn’t dare tell him she wasn’t with me. I said she’s all tired out and sick and wanted to stay up by the spring awhile, where it’s cool. I said she was with me, and the sun was too much for her, and she sent him word that Jim would take care of him awhile longer. So you better move down this way, or he’ll hear us talking and want to know what’s up.”
“You’re sure she isn’t here?” Senator Warfield’s voice held suspicion.
“You can ask Jim, over here. He’s been on hand right along. And if you can’t take his word for it, you can go look in the shack—but in that case Brit’s liable to take a shot at yuh, Senator. He’s on the warpath right, and he’s got his gun right handy.”
“It is not necessary to search the cabin,” Senator Warfield answered stiffly. “Unless she is in a stupor we’d have heard her yelling long ago. The girl was a raving maniac when she appeared at the Sawtooth. It’s for her good that I’m thinking.”
Jim stepped out of the doorway and came slowly toward them, eyeing the two from the Sawtooth curiously while he chewed tobacco. His hands rested on his hips, his thumbs hooked inside his overalls; a gawky pose that fitted well his colorless personality,—and left his right hand close to his six-shooter.
“Cor’ner comin’?” he asked, nodding at the two who were almost strangers to him. “Sorry, he got back two hours ago, and he said the cor’ner would be right out. But he ain’t showed up yet.”
Senator Warfield said that he felt sure the coroner would be prompt and then questioned Jim artfully about “Miss Hunter.”
“Raine? She went fer a ride. I loaned her my horse, and she ain’t back yet. I told her to take a good long ride and settle her nerves. She acted kinda edgy.”
Senator Warfield and his foreman exchanged glances for which Lone could have killed them.
“You noticed, then, that she was not quite—herself?” Senator Warfield used his friendly, confidential tone on Jim.
“We-ell—yes, I did. I thought a ride would do her good, mebby. She’s been sticking here on the job purty close. And Frank getting killed kinda—upset her, I guess.”
“That’s it—that’s what I was saying. Disordered nerves, which rest and proper medical care will soon remedy.” He looked at Lone. “Her horse was worn out when she reached the ranch. Does she know this country well? She started this way, and she should have been here some time ago. We thought it best to ride after her, but there was some delay in getting started. Hawkins’ horse broke away and gave us some trouble catching him, so the girl had quite a start. But with her horse fagged as it was, we had no idea that we would fail to get even a sight of her. She may have wandered off on some other trail, in which case her life as well as her reason is in danger.”
Lone did not answer at once. It had occurred to him that Senator Warfield knew where Lorraine was at that minute, and that he might be showing this concern for the effect it would have on his hearers. He looked at him speculatively.
“Do you think we ought to get out and hunt for her?” he asked.
“I certainly think some one ought to. We can’t let her wander around the country in that condition. If she is not here, she is somewhere in the hills, and she should be found.”
“She sure ain’t here,” Jim asserted convincingly. “I been watching for the last two hours, expecting every minute she’d show up. I’d a been kinda oneasy, myself, but Snake’s dead gentle, and she’s a purty fair rider fer a girl.”
“Then we’ll have to find her. Lone, can you come and help?”
“The Swede and me’ll both help,” Lone volunteered. “Jim and Sorry can wait here for the coroner. We ought to find her without any trouble, much. Swan, I’ll get you that tobacco first and see if Brit needs anything.”
He started to the house, and Swan followed him aimlessly, his long strides bringing him close to Lone before they reached the door.
“What do you make of this new play?” Lone muttered cautiously when he saw Swan’s shadow move close to his own.
“By golly, it’s something funny about it. You stick with them, Loney, and find out. I’m taking Al’s trail with Yack. You fix it.” And he added whimsically, “Not so much tobacco, Lone. I don’t eat it or smoke it ever in my life.”
His voice was very Swedish, which was fortunate, because Senator Warfield appeared softly behind him and went into the house. Swan was startled, but he hadn’t much time to worry over the possibility of having been overheard. Brit’s voice rose in a furious denunciation of Bill Warfield, punctuated by two shots and followed almost immediately by the senator.
“My God, the whole family’s crazy!” Warfield exclaimed, when he had reached the safety of the open air. “You’re right, Lone. I thought I’d be neighborly enough to ask what I could do for him, and he tried to kill me!”
Lone merely grunted and gave Swan the tobacco.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I THINK AL WOODRUFF’S GOT HER”
There was no opportunity for further conference. Senator Warfield showed no especial interest in Swan, and the Swede was permitted without comment to take his dog and strike off up the ridge. Jim and Sorry were sent to look after Brit, who was still shouting vain threats against the Sawtooth, and the three men rode away together. Warfield did not suggest separating, though Lone expected him to do so, since one man on a trail was as good as three in a search of this kind.
He was still inclined to doubt the whole story. He did not believe that Lorraine had been to the Sawtooth, or that she had raved about anything. She had probably gone off by herself to cry and to worry over her troubles,—hurt, too, perhaps, because Lone had left the ranch that morning without a word with her first. He believed the story of her being insane had been carefully planned, and that Warfield had perhaps ridden over in the hope that they would find her alone; though with Frank dead on the ranch that would be unlikely. But to offset that, Lone’s reason told him that Warfield had probably not known that Frank was dead. That had been news to him—or had it? He tried to remember whether Warfield had mentioned it first and could not. Too many disturbing emotions had held him lately; Lone was beginning to feel the need of a long, quiet pondering over his problems. He did not feel sure of anything except the fact that the Quirt was like a drowning man struggling vainly against the whirlpool that is sucking him slowly under.
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One thing he knew, and that was his determination to stay with these two of the Sawtooth until he had some definite information; until he saw Lorraine or knew that she was safe from them. Like a weight pressing harder and harder until one is crushed beneath it, their talk of Lorraine’s insanity forced fear into his soul. They could do just what they had talked of doing. He himself had placed that weapon in their hands when he took her to the Sawtooth delirious and told of wilder words and actions. Hawkins and his wife would swear away her sanity if they were told to do it, and there were witnesses in plenty who had heard him call her crazy that first morning.
They could do it; they could have her committed to an asylum, or at least to a sanitarium. He did not underestimate the influence of Senator Warfield. And what could the Quirt do to prevent the outrage? Frank Johnson was dead; Brit was out of the fight for the time being; Jim and Sorry were the doggedly faithful sort who must have a leader before they can be counted upon to do much.
Swan,—Lone lifted his head and glanced toward the ridge when he thought of Swan. There, indeed, he might hope for help. But Swan was out here, away from reinforcements. He was trailing Al Woodruff, and when he found him,—that might be the end of Swan. If not, Warfield could hurry Lorraine away before Swan could act in the matter. A whimsical thought of Swan’s telepathic miracle crossed his mind and was dismissed as an unseemly bit of foolery in a matter so grave as Lorraine’s safety. And yet—the doctor had received a message that he was wanted at the Quirt, and he had arrived before his patient. There was no getting around that, however impossible it might be. No one could have foreseen Brit’s accident; no one save the man who had prepared it for him, and he would be the last person to call for help.
“We followed the girl’s horse-tracks almost to Thurman’s place and lost the trail there.” Warfield turned in the saddle to look at Lone riding behind him. “We made no particular effort to trace her from there, because we were sure she would come on home. I’m going back that far, and we’ll pick up the trail, unless we find her at the ranch. She may have hidden herself away. You can’t,” he added, “be sure of anything where a demented person is concerned. They never act according to logic or reason, and it is impossible to make any deductions as to their probable movements.”