The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  They reached the spot where the team had stopped of its own accord in crossing a little, green meadow, and had gone to feeding. Lone pulled up and half turned in the saddle, looking at Swan questioningly.

  “Is that dog of yours any good at trailing?” he asked abruptly. “I’ve got a theory that somebody was in that wagon with Frank, and drove on a ways before he jumped out. I believe if you’d put that dog on the trail——”

  “If I put that dog on the trail he stays on the trail all day, maybe,” Swan averred with some pride. “By golly, he follows a coyote till he drops.”

  “Well, it’s a coyote we’re after now,” said Lone. “A sheep-killer that has made his last killin’. Right here’s where I rode up and caught the team, last night. We better take a look along here for tracks.”

  Swan stared at him curiously, but he did not speak, and the two went on more slowly, their glances roving here and there along the trail edge, looking for footprints. Once the dog Jack swung off the trail into the brush, and Swan followed him while Lone stopped and awaited the result. Swan came back presently, with Jack sulking at his heels.

  “Yack, he take up the trail of a coyote,” Swan explained, “but it’s got the four legs, and Yack, he don’t understand me when I don’t follow. He thinks I’m crazy this morning.”

  “I reckon the team came on toward home after the fellow jumped out,” Lone observed. “He’d plan that way, seems to me. I know I would.”

  “I guess that’s right. I don’t have experience in killing somebody,” Swan returned blandly, and Lone was too preoccupied to wonder at the unaccustomed sarcasm.

  A little farther along Swan swooped down upon a blue dotted handkerchief of the kind which men find so useful where laundries are but a name. Again Lone stopped and bent to examine it as Swan spread it out in his hands. A few tiny grains of sandstone rattled out, and in the centre was a small blood spot. Swan looked up straight into Lone’s dark, brooding eyes.

  “By golly, Lone, you would do that, too, if you kill somebody,” he began in a new tone,—the tone which Lorraine had heard indistinctly in the bunkhouse when Swan was talking to the doctor. “Do you think I’m a damn fool, just because I’m a Swede? You are smart—you think out every little thing. But you make a big mistake if you don’t think some one else may be using his brain, too. This handkerchief I have seen you pull from your pocket too many times. And it had a rock in it last night, and the blood shows that it was used to hit Frank behind the ear. You think it all out—but maybe I’ve been thinking too. Now you’re under arrest. Just stay on your horse—he can’t run faster than a bullet, and I don’t miss coyotes when I shoot them on the run.”

  “The hell you say!” Lone stared at him. “Where’s your authority, Swan?”

  Swan lifted the rifle to a comfortable, firing position, the muzzle pointing straight at Lone’s chest. With his left hand he turned back his coat and disclosed a badge pinned to the lining.

  “I’m a United States Marshal, that’s all; a government hunter,” he stated. “I’m hot on the trail of coyotes—all kinds. Throw that six-shooter over there in the brush, will you?”

  “I hate to get the barrel all sanded up,” Lone objected mildly. “You can pack it, can’t you?” He grinned a little as he handed out the gun, muzzle toward himself. “You’re playing safe, Swan, but if that dog of yours is any good, you’ll have a change of heart pretty quick. Isn’t that a man’s track, just beside that flat rock? Put the dog on, why don’t you?”

  “Yack is on already,” Swan pointed out. “Ride ahead of me, Lone.”

  With a shrug of his shoulders Lone obeyed, following the dog as it trotted through the brush on the trail of a man’s footprints which Swan had shown it. A man might have had some trouble in keeping to the trail, but Jack trotted easily along and never once seemed at fault. In a very few minutes he stopped in a rocky depression where a horse had been tied, and waited for Swan, wagging his tail and showing his teeth in a panting smile. The man he had trailed had mounted and ridden toward the ridge to the west. Swan examined the tracks, and Lone sat on his horse watching him.

  Jack picked up the trail where the horseman had walked away toward the road, and Swan followed him, motioning Lone to ride ahead.

  “You could tell me about this, I think, but I can find out for myself,” he observed, glancing at Lone briefly.

  “Sure, you can find out, if you use your eyes and do a little thinking,” Lone replied. “I hope you do lay the evidence on the right doorstep.”

  “I will,” Swan promised, looking ahead to where Jack was nosing his way through the sagebrush.

  They brought up at the edge of the road nearly a quarter of a mile nearer Echo than the place where Frank’s body had been found. They saw where the man had climbed into the wagon, and followed to where they had found Frank beside the road, lying just as he had pitched forward from the wagon seat.

  “I think,” said Swan quietly, “we will go now and find out where that horse went last night.”

  “A good idea,” Lone agreed. “Do you see how it was done, Swan? When he saw the team coming, away back toward Echo, he rode down into that wash and tied his horse. He was walking when Frank overtook him, I reckon—maybe claiming his horse had broke away from him. He had a rock in his handkerchief. Frank stopped and gave him a lift, and he used the rock first chance he got. Then I reckon he stuck the whisky bottle in Frank’s pocket and heaved him out. He dropped the handkerchief out of his hip pocket when he jumped out of the rig. It’s right simple, and if folks didn’t get to wondering about it, it’d be safe as any killing can be. As safe,” he added meaningly, “as dragging Fred Thurman, or unhooking Brit’s chain-lock before he started down the canyon with his load of posts.”

  Swan did not answer, but turned back to where the horse had been left tied and took up the trail from there. As before, the dog trotted along, Lone riding close behind him and Swan striding after. They did not really need the dog, for the hoofprints were easily followed for the greater part of the way.

  They had gone perhaps four miles when Lone turned, resting a hand on the cantle of his saddle while he looked back at Swan. “You see where he was headed for, don’t yuh, Swan?” he asked, his tone as friendly as though he was not under arrest as a murderer. “If he didn’t go to Whisper, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “You’re the man to know,” Swan retorted grimly. And then, because Lone’s horse had slowed in a long climb over a ridge, he came up even with a stirrup. “Lone, I hate to do it. I’d like you, if you don’t kill for a living. But for that I could shoot you quick as a coyote. You’re smart—but not smart enough. You gave yourself away when I showed you Fred’s saddle. After that I knew who was the Sawtooth killer that I came here to find.”

  “You thought you knew,” Lone corrected calmly.

  “You don’t have to lie,” Swan informed mm bluntly. “You don’t have to tell anything. I find out for myself if I make mistake.”

  “Go to it,” Lone advised him coldly. “It don’t make a darn bit of difference to me whether I ride in front of you or behind. I’m so glad you’re here on the job, Swan, that I’m plumb willing to be tied hand and foot if it’ll help you any.”

  “When a man’s too damn willing to be my prisoner,” Swan observed seriously, “he gets tied, all right. Put out your hands, Lone. You look good to me with bracelets on, when you talk so willing to go to jail for murder.”

  He had slipped the rifle butt to the ground, and before Lone quite realised what he was doing Swan had a short, wicked-looking automatic pistol in one hand and a pair of handcuffs in the other. Lone flushed, but there was nothing to do but hold out his hands.

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE SAWTOOTH SHOWS ITS HAND

  In her fictitious West Lorraine had long since come to look upon violence as a synonym for picturesqueness; murder and mystery were inevitably an accompaniment of chaps and spurs. But when a man she had cooked breakfast for, had talked with just a few hours ago, lay dead in
the bunk-house, she forgot that it was merely an expected incident of Western life. She lay in her bed shaking with nervous dread, and the shrill rasping of the crickets and tree-toads was unendurable.

  After the first shock had passed a deep, fighting rage filled her, made her long for day so that she might fight back somehow. Who was the Sawtooth Company, that they could sweep human beings from their path so ruthlessly and never be called to account? Not once did she doubt that this was the doing of the Sawtooth, another carefully planned “accident” calculated to rid the country of another man who in some fashion had become inimical to their interests.

  From Lone she had learned a good deal about the new irrigation project which lay very close to the Sawtooth’s heart. She could see how the Quirt ranch, with its water rights and its big, fertile meadows and its fences and silent disapprobation of the Sawtooth’s methods, might be looked upon as an obstacle which they would be glad to remove.

  That her father had been sent down that grade with a brake deliberately made useless was a horrible thought which she could not put from her mind. She had thought and thought until it seemed to her that she knew exactly how and why the killer’s plans had gone awry. She was certain that she and Swan had prevented him from climbing down into the canyon and making sure that her dad did not live to tell what mischance had overtaken him. He had probably been watching while she and Swan made that stretcher and carried her dad away out of his reach. He would not shoot her,—he would not dare. Nor would he dare come to the cabin and finish the job he had begun. But he had managed to kill Frank—poor old Frank, who would never grumble and argue over little things again.

  There was nothing picturesque, nothing adventurous about it. It was just straight, heart-breaking tragedy, that had its sordid side too. Her dad was a querulous sick man absorbed by his sufferings and not yet out of danger, if she read the doctor’s face aright. Jim and Sorry had taken orders all their life, and they would not be able to handle the ranch work alone; yet how else would it be done? There was Lone,—instinctively she turned her thoughts to him for comfort. Lone would stay and help, and somehow it would be managed.

  But to think that these things could be done without fear of retribution. Jim and Sorry, Swan and Lone had not attempted to hide their belief that the Sawtooth was responsible for Frank’s death, yet not one of them had hinted at the possibility of calling the sheriff, or placing the blame where it belonged. They seemed browbeaten into the belief that it would be useless to fight back. They seemed to look upon the doings of the Sawtooth as an act of Providence, like being struck by lightning or freezing to death, as men sometimes did in that country.

  To Lorraine that passive submission was the most intolerable part, the one thing she could not, would not endure. Had she lived all of her life on the Quirt, she probably would never have thought of fighting back and would have accepted conditions just as her dad seemed to accept them. But her mimic West had taught her that women sometimes dared where the men had hesitated. It never occurred to her that she should submit to the inevitable just because the men appeared to do so.

  Wherefore it was a new Lorraine who rose at daybreak and silently cooked breakfast for the men, learned from Jim that Sorry was not back from Echo, and that Swan and Lone had gone down to the place where Frank had been found. She poured Jim’s coffee and went on her tiptoes to see if her father still slept. She dreaded his awakening and the moment when she must tell him about Frank, and she had an unreasonable hope that the news might be kept from him until the doctor came again.

  Brit was awake, and the look in his eyes frightened Lorraine so that she stopped in the middle of the room, staring at him fascinated.

  “Well,” he said flatly, “who is it this time? Lone, or—Frank?”

  “Why—who is what?” Lorraine parried awkwardly. “I don’t—-”

  “Did they git Frank, las’ night?” Brit’s eyes seemed to bore into her soul, searching pitilessly for the truth. “Don’t lie to me, Raine—it ain’t going to help any. Was it Frank or Lone? They’s a dead man laid out on this ranch. Who is it?”

  “F-frank,” Lorraine stammered, backing away from him. “H-how did you know?”

  “How did it happen?” Brit’s eyes were terrible.

  Lorraine shuddered while she told him.

  “Rabbits in a trap,” Brit muttered, staring at the low ceiling. “Can’t prove nothing—couldn’t convict anybody if we could prove it. Bill Warfield’s got this county under his thumb. Rabbits in a trap. Raine, you better pack up and go home to your mother. There’s goin’ to be hell a-poppin’ if I live to git outa this bed.”

  Lorraine stooped over him, and her eyes were almost as terrible as were Brit’s. “Let it pop. We aren’t quitters, are we, dad? I’m going to stay with you.” Then she saw tears spilling over Brit’s eyelids and left the room hurriedly, fighting back a storm of weeping. She herself could not mourn for Frank with any sense of great personal loss, but it was different with her dad. He and Frank had lived together for so many years that his loyal heart ached with grief for that surly, faithful old partner of his.

  But Lorraine’s fighting blood was up, and she could not waste time in weeping. She drank a cup of coffee, went out and called Jim, and told him that she was going to take a ride, and that she wanted a decent horse.

  “You can take mine,” Jim offered. “He’s gentle and easy-gaited. I’ll go saddle up. When do you want to go?”

  “Right now, as soon as I’m ready. I’ll fix dad’s breakfast, and you can look after him until Lone and Swan come back. One of them will stay with him then. I may be gone for three or four hours. I’ll go crazy if I stay here any longer.”

  Jim eyed her while he bit off a chew of tobacco. “It’d be a good thing if you had some neighbour woman come in and stay with yuh,” he said slowly. “But there ain’t any I can think of that’d be much force. You take Snake and ride around close and forget things for awhile.” He hesitated, his hand moving slowly back to his pocket. “If yuh feel like you want a gun——”

  Lorraine laughed bitterly. “You don’t think any accident would happen to me, do you?”

  “Well, no—er I wouldn’t advise yuh to go ridin’,” Jim said thoughtfully. “This here gun’s kinda techy, anyway, unless you’re used to a quick trigger. Yuh might be safer without than with it.”

  By the time she was ready, Jim was tying his horse, Snake, to the corral. Lorraine walked slowly past the bunk-house with her face turned from it and her thoughts dwelling terrifiedly upon what lay within. Once she was past she began running, as if she were trying to outrun her thoughts, Jim watched her gravely, untied Snake and stood at his head while she mounted, then walked ahead of her to the gate and opened it for her.

  “Yore nerves are sure shot to hell,” he blurted sympathetically as she rode past him. “I guess you need a ride, all right. Snake’s plumb safe, so yuh got no call to worry about him. Take it easy, Raine, on the worrying. That’s about the worst thing you can do.”

  Lorraine gave him a grateful glance and a faint attempt at a smile, and rode up the trail she always took,—the trail where she had met Lone that day when he returned her purse, the trail that led to Fred Thurman’s ranch and to Sugar Spring and, if you took a certain turn at a certain place, to Granite Ridge and beyond.

  Up on the ridge nearest the house Al Woodruff shifted his position so that he could watch her go. He had been watching Lone and Swan and the dog, trailing certain tracks through the sagebrush down below, and when Lorraine rode away from the Quirt they were in the wagon road, fussing around the place where Frank had been found.

  “They can’t pin nothing on me,” Al tried to comfort himself. “If that damn girl would keep her mouth shut I could stand a trial, even. They ain’t got any evidence whatever, unless she saw me at Rock City that night.” He turned and looked again toward the two men down on the road and tilted his mouth down at the corners in a sour grin.

  “Go to it and be damned to you!” he muttered. �
��You haven’t got the dope, and you can’t git it, either. Trail that horse if you want to—I’d like to see yuh amuse yourselves that way!”

  He turned again to stare after Lorraine, meditating deeply. If she had only been a man, he would have known exactly how to still her tongue, but he had never before been called upon to deal with the problem of keeping a woman quiet. He saw that she was taking the trail toward Fred Thurman’s, and that she was riding swiftly, as if she had some errand in that direction, something urgent. Al was very adept at reading men’s moods and intentions from small details in their behaviour. He had seen Lorraine start on several leisurely, purposeless rides, and her changed manner held a significance which he did not attempt to belittle.

  He led his horse down the side of the ridge opposite the road and the house, mounted there and rode away after Lorraine, keeping parallel with the trail but never using it, as was his habit. He made no attempt to overtake her, and not once did Lorraine glimpse him or suspect that she was being followed. Al knew well the art of concealing his movements and his proximity from the inquisitive eyes of another man’s saddle horse, and Snake had no more suspicion than his rider that they were not altogether alone that morning.

  Lorraine sent him over the trail at a pace which Jim had long since reserved for emergencies. But Snake appeared perfectly able and willing to hold it and never stumbled or slowed unexpectedly as did Yellowjacket, wherefore Lorraine rode faster than she would have done had she known more about horses.