Three Trails to Triangle

by Robert J. Horton

  He kicked his chair back, but rose unsteadily, his eyes on Buck the while. He stood leaning on his left hand on the table, leering.

  Buck was on his feet in an instant. He stepped around and confronted Trawler as the man straightened.

  “Something tells me you’re not as drunk as you’re trying to make me believe,” Buck said crisply. “Since you started this, I aim to find out.”

  His right fist struck with the last word. The blow caught Trawler flush on the chin and sent him back against the table, which tipped, and the man sprawled on a chair, his eyes darting fire.

  Buck stepped back, expecting a rush. Even if the man were drunk, the blow had not been hard enough to sober him. Regardless of where Trawler had obtained his information, Buck was convinced now that the man was not connected with Lamby’s outfit, for he had evaded direct questions which no cowhand would have hesitated answering. His advice had merely been a threat.

  But Trawler didn’t rush. He was on his feet with amazing speed, sending the chair spinning out of the way. Buck tensed to leap in for a second blow as Trawler’s right hand moved like light and his gun roared and shook the little room. Buck thought the hot breath of the bullet fanned his cheek as he drove a left that glanced off Trawler’s head. The gun spoke twice again, and Buck flung himself to one side, his own hand flashing down to his weapon.

  Then Buck stood dumbfounded. It seemed to him that Trawler had turned a back-somersault through the open window. The room was empty, save for himself. Trawler was gone. There was the square of sunlight that had swallowed Trawler as if by magic. Buck leaped to the window and looked out. Trawler was not in sight. There were numerous openings in the narrow alley and he could have disappeared into any of these.

  Buck hurried out of the room and met the bartender who had come immediately upon hearing the shots.

  “Do you know that fellow who called himself Trawler?” Buck demanded.

  “No,” replied the bartender. “What was the shooting about?”

  “He did it,” Buck snapped. “Did you ever see him before? How long has he been drinking? Hurry up and tell me, and then keep still to the crowd.”

  “Never saw him before last night,” was the quick answer. “He’s been hittin’ it up all night and this morning. Nobody hurt?”

  “Just my feelings,” Buck said, and scowled. “He picked a fight and went out through the window. Tell this mob to forget it.”

  He pushed his way through the throng that was gathering, his glances searching the place for Screw-eye. But Screw-eye wasn’t in the place. With this knowledge, the thought flashed through Buck’s mind that Trawler might have drawn him away from Screw-eye to give the latter a chance to get away.

  He hurried out of the place and turned instinctively toward the livery on the run. He reached the barn just in time to see a figure swing into the saddle on a horse at the rear. It was a clumsy mount and the rider was of slight build. Buck placed him instantly. It was Screw-eye! Next moment there was a clatter of hoofs and horse and rider were gone.

  As Buck turned toward the livery office to ask a question he had a disconcerted feeling of frustration. In all probability, Trawler, too, was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was nearly an hour before Buck turned his steps back toward the hotel where he had left Davitt. He had learned nothing. The day man at the livery had no information to give him and Buck naturally had to exercise great caution in making inquiries. He felt satisfied, however, that there had been a connection between Screw-eye and Trawler, and he was equally certain that the pair had left town.

  He looked at the matter coolly, considering the fact that he had been shot at three times by Trawler. If it was true that the man had been indulging all night and morning, this would seem reasonable enough excuse for his faulty work with his pistol. On the other hand, Buck could not bring himself to believe that Trawler had been drunk, and he was not satisfied that he had pursued the proper course in accosting Screw-eye. But the fact that Trawler knew of Davitt’s interest in Lamby’s trouble was valuable news. So Buck thought, but he was nettled and dissatisfied with his morning’s work and had a suspicion that Davitt would not approve of it, which did not serve to soothe his feelings.

  To his surprise he found Davitt and Lamby in the lobby of the hotel standing near the door. Lamby smiled at him faintly while Davitt gave him a cold look. Buck’s spirits flared in resentment.

  “Just a minute, Buck,” Davitt said as the cowpuncher was about to pass them. “Lamby and I have been talking and it may be that … I may have to …” He paused with a frown as if groping for words.

  “Give up the business or go it alone, I suppose,” Buck supplied, looking straight at Lamby who returned his gaze mildly.

  “I didn’t say that exactly,” said Davitt curtly.

  “But that’s what you meant,” Buck retorted hotly. “It’s all right with me. I’ve got a question to ask Lamby, here, just the same.”

  He turned to the stockman. “Have you got a man working for you by the name of Trawler?” he demanded. “Tall, sandy-looking hand with a mean eye and a quick gun paw?”

  “Not that I know of,” drawled Lamby. “I’d be more apt to know him by a nickname. But I haven’t got any sandys working for me.”

  “Well, then, did you bring anybody from your outfit in with you?” Buck asked with a glare.

  “No,” replied Lamby with a puzzled frown. “Would it make very much difference if I had?”

  “It might make a lot of difference,” Buck snapped out. “Looks to me … but never mind. I know one thing, though … if I had a stock ranch and something was wrong, I’d have to have a mighty good reason before I called in outside help to settle the trouble. Payne wouldn’t do it.” With this shot Buck walked to the stairs.

  “Once a puncher, always a puncher, I reckon,” Lamby said in a plaintive voice.

  “Yes, I know,” said Davitt. “I was one myself once. I’ll see what can be done, Mister Lamby. So long.”

  Lamby went out with a frown on his face. In so many words he had been dismissed. He wasn’t used to it, and he didn’t like it.

  When Davitt entered their room a few minutes later he found Buck arranging his slicker pack. The cowpuncher threw him an angry glance. Davitt disregarded it, put his hat on the bureau, and flung himself on the bed where the book he had been reading that morning still lay, face down, its pages pressed against the blanket.

  Buck was making up his pack on the table and as he saw Davitt pick up the book and settle his head against the propped-up pillows he could stand it no longer.

  “So you think I’m excess baggage, do you?” he exploded.

  “I was pleased with the way you took the hint,” Davitt replied calmly, looking at him in approval. “Your talk impressed Lamby.”

  “I see, I see,” sputtered Buck. “Made your grandstand play good, I reckon. I’m likely to impress Lamby some more before I get through.” He turned to the work at hand.

  “I said something about temper being dangerous this morning but that didn’t seem to impress you, Buck,” Davitt said coolly. “What were you shooting those questions at Lamby for, and why was that gent down in the Green Bottle shooting at you?”

  Buck’s resentment and anger suddenly subsided. “I sort of walked into Screw-eye, and the gent you mention walked into me,” he said, taking out his tobacco and papers. “I asked Lamby if he had a man named Trawler working for him because that was the name the shooting gent gave me and his address. I reckon I found out something, at that.”

  Davitt put down his book as Buck lighted his smoke. “Don’t stop your packing,” he advised. “It’ll look better for you to ride out of town ahead of me. Go ahead and tell me what happened.”

  Buck took a few thoughtful puffs, staring at Davitt curiously. Then he shrugged his shoulders and went smoothly about his packing, describing the conversations
and what had taken place that morning after he had left the hotel.

  “If you want to ask me,” he concluded,” this is a flat cold deck and Mister Roy Lamby is holding the same.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Davitt frowned. “I’ve seen another party besides Lamby since you’ve been gone. He was Quigley, who is Matt Hull’s foreman. He’s another that knew we were going to get tangled up in this thing. If I didn’t feel sure that Sylvester Graham egged Lamby into calling us in, and let Hull in the deal, too, so we would be the goats if there were going to be any goats, I wouldn’t touch it. Do you know Quigley?”

  “No,” Buck answered shortly. “The Hull outfit never has mixed in town. He’s got all northern hands … a lot of ’em are Canadians and some are from the eastern part of the state. They’ve kept to themselves.”

  “He might feel he wanted a new crew, starting in the cattle game after being in sheep so long,” observed Davitt. “Quigley as much as confessed he wasn’t an old cowhand. Said Lamby would try to blame Hull because Hull had been a sheep man. Stalled me along trying to get information out of me, and then gave himself away by telling me people used worms for fishing so why shouldn’t I use worms as clues.” Davitt laughed outright.

  “That doesn’t sound funny to me,” Buck said, wrinkling his eyes. “Sounds as if he was sneering at us … at you, anyway.”

  “And that’s right where I figured he gave himself away,” said Davitt, sobering. “Don’t you see, Buck, that there’s more to this than just some cattle missing, although the cattle furnish reason enough?”

  Buck finished tying his pack. “It looks like an open and shut case to me,” growled Buck. “If this Quigley knew Lamby was going to call you in, then he must have got his information from Hull. Where did Hull learn about it? From Old Sylvester, of course. Didn’t the mortgage king have the two of ’em handy this morning? He’s interested in both parties because they both owe the bank money. He doesn’t want ’em fighting between themselves. If my gent, Trawler, didn’t get his information from Lamby, then he got it from Quigley. If old Screw-eye is in on it, too, why, the same goes for him. I wouldn’t be surprised if Quigley was trying to give you a bum steer in his awkward way.”

  “I thought of that, too,” Davitt said in a serious tone, “but this business is hot. Lamby has lost three hundred head, maybe more. They disappeared from three different herds and all were grazing on the Hull Ranch side. That’s the east side of Lamby’s Triangle range. Three hundred head of prime stock makes it real rustling.”

  Buck whistled softly. “Maybe Trawler did want to plug me for keeps, after all,” he said slowly.

  “I wouldn’t wonder,” Davitt said, nodding. “Lamby heard about the shooting down below just before he came up here. I guess he thought you were in a common jam. I let on I was going to split with you. I have a hunch that five hundred head would be closer to the Triangle’s actual losses, for you can bet that Graham wouldn’t have called on me unless he knew it was serious.”

  Buck dropped into a chair with a faint smile. “It takes teamwork somewhere for that many cows or steers to be blotted out. Whoever is behind this isn’t afraid of powder smoke, that’s a cinch.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if we smelled some before we’re through,” said Davitt earnestly. “You know, Buck, I’ve been thinking. You’re a good fellow, you’re solid down at the Payne Ranch, you’ve got a decent stake in the bank. This looks like straight range work. You don’t have to go in on this. I … well, I don’t know just how to put in so many words what I’ve got in my mind.”

  “No?” Buck raised his brows. “I thought you learned how to talk by reading books. Here, you’ve got something to say, and you’re stuck. I don’t aim to embroider my words any, but I’m usually able to think up some that mean what I think and string ’em out.” He nodded airily.

  Davitt smiled wryly. “There’s three trails to Triangle, Lamby told me,” he said, looking straight ahead over the foot of the bed at the wall. “One trail starts at the upper end of the main street and is a road that leads straight to the Lamby Ranch. The other starts at the end of the cross street, north of the bank. That’s a fair road, too, and goes along the boundary between the Triangle and the Hull Ranch. The other trail heads off northwest by way of Horseshoe Butte, and cuts into the rough country up there into a corner of Hull’s range where it first touches the Triangle.” He paused and glanced at the cowpuncher, who was listening with the patient air of a man who is hearing something he already knew.

  “After sundown,” Davitt continued, “I’m going to ride out on one of those trails. Suppose you think this matter over carefully, Buck, and then, if you decide you want to, meet me after dark. It’ll be up to you to guess which trail I’m going to take. If there should be anybody watching, I’d like to have ’em see you ride out for the south while it’s still broad day.”

  Buck looked at him squarely. “You’re giving me a chance to back out in a nice, respectable, easy way,” he drawled. “It’s sort of white of you, Mel, at that. You think this business is going to be red-hot. Why should I risk my hide? I’d quit this minute if I thought you’d say you would rather work by yourself. No? I thought so. Sure you don’t feel sore about my party this morning?”

  “I told you to use your own judgment as to rules when it was necessary,” frowned Davitt. “You stumbled into two outsiders in this mess.”

  Buck grinned. “Maybe they’re both on the inside,” he said, hefting his pack. “I’ll ride along and see if I can figure out the trail you’ll take. Don’t forget it’s hard riding round by Horseshoe Butte.”

  There was just a flicker of Mel Davitt’s lids. Then he swung out of the bed and took Buck’s hand.

  “If I never see you again, it’ll be soon enough!” he cried in a voice that anyone near might hear.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was later afternoon when Mel Davitt appeared on the street, neatly dressed in a double-breasted blue suit, his youthful and cheerful appearance at total variance with his reputation for being cool, calculating, and dangerous. His eyes sparkled as he nodded amicably to those who spoke to him whether they knew him or not. He was aware that Buck had eaten his dinner hurriedly and had left town immediately. Through the good offices of the hotel clerk and the liveryman he had ascertained that Lamby, Hull, and Quigley had also departed. He thus had the present field to himself.

  He sauntered down the street and half an hour before its closing time he stepped into the State Bank of Milton. He walked briskly back to the door of Sylvester Graham’s private office, rapped smartly, and entered upon the banker’s curt invitation.

  Graham showed surprise and glanced at his visitor’s attire with apparent disapproval. Davitt sat in a chair across the desk from Graham and put his hat on his knee. His smile was confident.

  “What’s the matter? Aren’t you going to look into the Lamby trouble?” asked the banker with a frown.

  “I promised Lamby I would and I believe I told you so,” Davitt said easily. “First of all, I believe the sheriff and the Cattlemen’s Association should be notified that I’m working on the case so there can be no interference.”

  “I’ll look after that,” Graham said crisply. “I explained this morning that you needn’t have any misgivings on that score.”

  “But you didn’t tell me how many cattle were missing.”

  “Didn’t Lamby tell you?” flared the banker.

  “He told me a hundred here in your office, but then later I learned from him that it probably was a lot more.”

  Graham’s eyes popped. “Did Lamby tell you that?” he demanded.

  “Lamby said the amount was more like three hundred. So when he jumps his original figure to three times as much, I feel that even the new figure is probably too low. This isn’t any petty little spite rustling deal, Mister Graham, and you knew that in the first place. Otherwise, why should you make sure I was a
sked to take a hand? You know I don’t bother with small stuff.”

  “I recommended you because I didn’t want any hullabaloo on the range,” Graham snapped at him. “That’s why I don’t want the sheriff’s office, or the association outfit mixed up in it. I really didn’t know it was quite so … ah … big.” A single gleam of worry showed in his eyes.

  “Well, you know now. The name of Lamby’s ranch fits this problem exactly. It’s a triangle with the usual three angles. One angle is the Lamby Ranch, another is the Hull Ranch, and the third is this office. Lamby has money borrowed on the missing stock, hasn’t he?”

  “That’s between Lamby and the bank,” Graham replied shortly.

  “And between the bank and me,” Davitt said with a sharp edge to his words. “You want this stock recovered, do you not? Every head of stock that’s lost puts that much more money loaned on his other cattle, doesn’t it? You don’t want any more stolen, do you?”

  “Lamby has ample security for any loans he has outstanding.”

  “Sure. But how about Hull? If he found he had a few hundred head more than he thought he had, he wouldn’t kick, would he? He does business with you, does he not?”

  “Great Scott! You don’t suspect Hull, do you?” Graham asked, startled.

  “Why not?” demanded Davitt. “He’s a sheep man at heart, isn’t he? There isn’t any love lost between him and Lamby, is there? It isn’t too much to think he might grab some of Lamby’s stock if he had it in for him, is it?”

  “I don’t believe it,” Graham said with a formidable frown. “Now I’ll tell you something. Lamby wanted your services to avoid any trouble with Hull. There’s been some feeling, I’ll admit, but I know Hull wouldn’t think of stealing any of Lamby’s stock. He couldn’t get away with any cattle because this bank will have a representative at his roundup.”

  “Ah. So he is into the bank pretty deep. You didn’t tell me as much, but I’ll consider it a confidence. It doesn’t look to me as though he could afford to steal stock and get rid of it on the sly. On the other hand, wouldn’t it be possible for Lamby to shove some cows on Hull’s range and claim they had been stolen?”