As Phelps slumped against the table, Buck tore the gun from his unresisting grasp.
“Not bad for a cow waddy,” came a cheerful, drawling voice.
Buck spun on his heel to see the tall form of Davitt in the doorway.
Chapter Seventeen
Mel Davitt stepped inside the cabin and glanced quickly about, his gaze fixing finally on the motionless figure of Phelps. He felt the man’s pulse, raised his face, and lifted his upper lids to look at his eyes.
“Put some cold water on his head and wash that wound,” he told Buck, indicating a pail of water on the floor by the stove and handing him a clean handkerchief he drew from a pocket. “I’ll bandage him up. He’ll be lucky if he comes out of this with no more than a headache.”
He picked up the branding iron that Buck had dropped. Then he whistled softly as he looked at the brand end. “This is the Triangle brand!” he exclaimed, wrinkles showing on his brow.
Buck stared. He hadn’t had an opportunity to note the brand in the fast action which had taken place. He had suspected that both Phelps and Trawler were connected with the rustling but what would a man who was rustling Triangle cattle want with a Triangle brand? He would be more likely to carry a running iron.
“Tell me what happened,” Davitt said crisply as Buck began to lave Phelps’ head with cold water. Davitt had taken a small, paperbound book from his inside coat pocket and was looking in it with an eager look in his eyes.
While Buck washed the wound in Phelps’s head, he told Davitt briefly what had occurred, finishing with the swift departure of Trawler and the dropping of Phelps.
“I thought Screw-eye, or Phelps, was making believe he was crazy, but I dunno,” he concluded, wagging his head. “I’d be willing to bet my chances in the next world that he intended to kill me, and he wasn’t going to wait very long before doing it either.”
Phelps’ muscles began to jerk, and his lips twitched as Davitt bandaged his head. They then put the wounded man on the bunk. When Buck looked at Davitt again he was surprised to see him smiling.
“Trawler’s liable to come romping back here,” Buck reminded him.
“Oh, no, he isn’t,” Davitt said confidently. “He’ll be gone all night on an errand and maybe we’ll catch a glimpse of him in the morning. I saw him ride on up the trail, and I saw him light some matches to make sure nobody was riding ahead of him. I saw the flashes of your gun and came up roundabout. After I saw Trawler leave, the shots brought me to the cabin lickety-split. I’d already spotted the light from the window. Hope Trawler didn’t think he could lose an old trailer like me by just turning around a big rock.” He chuckled gaily and inspected the coffee pot on the stove.
“I’ll have a cup of this while our crazy hermit is kicking out of it,” he said. “I got a good view of Trawler’s face when he lighted his matches. If I ever saw a born-to-order killer’s eyes, he’s got ’em.” His own eyes sparkled with satisfaction, to Buck’s astonishment, and then he pointed to the branding iron on the table. “Make anything out of that?” he asked, as he got a cup from the table for his coffee.
“Sure,” replied Buck. “It’s one of Lamby’s irons. Maybe we’d find one of his checkbooks and his Sunday watch if we pried around this litter. If this isn’t a crazy man’s shack, I’ll marry and settle down in it.”
Davitt laughed. “Luck threw us together, Buck, and it has both hands tight around our necks,” he said genially. “This crazy hermit of yours, now … take him. You found him fishing after dark. That sounds crazy enough, unless he really wanted to catch some fish. The big ones feed at night, they say. And he was using bait, you say. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Means he wasn’t sporting enough to use flies, or couldn’t throw ’em properly,” returned Buck scornfully. “I still think he was there keeping a lookout.”
“That isn’t impossible. But he was fishing, just the same. What was he using for bait?” Davitt put the question sharply.
Buck sat down gingerly on the edge of the bunk beside the injured hermit. “I suppose he was using worms,” he said languidly, “but for all I know he might have been using chewing tobacco. I can dive into the river and get the hook.” He started to roll a smoke.
“Quigley gave me more credit for being halfway smart than I thought he did,” Davitt observed soberly. “He told me Lamby might have it in for Hull and suspect him because Hull was once in sheep. I’ve looked in the book and have found that Hull once had a cattle brand that was a star on the side. He sold it to an outfit up north. But more about that later. He was telling me something right along and I’m just beginning to get the gist of it. It’s like putting one of those picture puzzles together. Listen, Buck.”
He dropped into a chair, drank some of the coffee, and leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Remember what he told me last? He said people used worms for fishing, so why not use worms as clues. And worms are bait. Now do you begin to suspect what I’m starting to commence to hint about? Worms, clue, bait … and Phelps.”
“Meaning you’re going to bait a hook with Phelps and catch the rustlers,” snorted Buck. “Mel, old boy, guzzle some more of that chicory and take a deep breath. It works better thataway.”
“I hope I don’t have to write this down and draw a diagram,” Davitt said in feigned disgust. “For some reason, and I begin to suspect what it was, Quigley, as Hull’s foreman, didn’t want to tell me in so many words what he suspicioned or knew. But he told me I wouldn’t think that crack about worms being clues was a joke when I thought it over hard. Here we find this Phelps fishing as an excuse for keeping a watch on the Horseshoe trail. He’s fishing with bait … worms, you can bet. Quigley knew I’d scout around, for he as much as said so. He thought I might run across this half-wit on his fishing lookout. Then I’d remember what he said about people fishing with worms and my using worms for a clue. In other words, finding Phelps fishing and watching was a clue to the rustlers. He left it to me to guess it or figure it out. Listen, my buckaroo, Quigley is a clever man.”
“Then you mean he meant for you to hook Phelps up with the rustlers if you were bright enough to figure out that remark?” Buck asked, his eyes brightening. “Then Quigley must know himself that Phelps is mixed up in it.”
“Exactly,” Davitt confirmed. “And something prevented him saying so. Since Trawler is traveling with Phelps, or using him, Quigley must know he’s mixed up in it, too. But for some reason best known to himself, Quigley couldn’t see his way clear to put me on the track.”
Buck tapped his left palm with his right forefinger. “Quigley knew we’d go snooping around. He knew Phelps was a lookout, keeping an eye on this trail up here, and that he sat there fishing as a blind. So he gave you that tip. He expected we’d run across Phelps and sneak up on him. I see it now. What’s more, if this trail has to be watched, then it leads to where the rustlers are operating and probably to where the cattle are cached. Now that we know this much, maybe we can get Quigley to tell us more. Or maybe we can make Phelps talk.”
“Those are both good possibilities,” Davitt agreed. “I can almost see your brain expanding right in front of my eyes, bucko. Just to test it, I’m going to show you something else,”
He brought forth a pencil and drew two triangles on the back of an envelope he took from a pocket. “See those?” he asked.
Buck leaned over Davitt’s shoulder, looked at the two figures. “What you going to do?” he asked. “Is it a trick?”
“Yes, I think it’s a trick,” said Davitt. “Suppose we twist one of those triangles a half turn and superimpose it on the other … here’s what we get.”
He drew the figure:
“Do you see what that would make, Buck?” he said with great satisfaction. “It would make a star radiating six points. Now if the cattle thieves who’re stealing Triangle stock should be slapping on another triangle over the original b
rand, they’ve got a star, haven’t they? And that star would mix pretty well with other cattle that had been marked with a star in the first place, wouldn’t it? And Hull once had a star brand and sold it. So now what?”
“Whoever bought the star brand is stealing Lamby’s stock and making the Triangle brand into a star and mixing the stolen beeves with his own herd,” replied Buck promptly. “Do I go to the head of the class or do we have to find who owns that star brand?”
“Both!” sang Davitt. “Buck, this game isn’t so hard once a fellow gets a start. It looks as if you’d tripped and stumbled headlong into the solution of the puzzle. The point, as I now see it, is whether or not the hombre who calls himself Trawler is the man who bought Hull’s old Star brand. And maybe his nibs Quigley can tell us.”
They looked at each other soberly.
“Fifteen two, and two … are four!”
Both men started and looked at the figure on the bunk.
Phelps was moving his arms and legs restlessly. He was muttering, “Two for the pair, and one … for the go.” Phelps’s eyes opened glassily and closed.
Davitt and Buck stepped quickly to the bunk.
“He’s happy,” Buck said, frowning. “He’s playing cribbage.”
“He’s a sick man and he’s going to be that way for a spell,” Davitt said after he had tried to rouse Phelps in vain. “We’ve got to get him out of here and take him to the nearest place. I reckon that would be the Hull Ranch. Do you know the way?”
Buck’s eyes lighted with keen comprehension. “It’ll give us a good excuse for our visit to Quigley,” he said. “Sure I know the way. It turns off from the Horseshoe trail to the left across the badlands. We might …” He frowned and hesitated. “We might meet up with somebody,” he finished.
“We’ve got to take that chance,” Davitt said curtly. “I’ve a hunch that Trawler is on his way ahead of us. I can carry this fellow in front of me in the saddle and you can lead the way. My horse is out in the brush. I’ll get him, and we’ll start.”
“I wish the moon would come up,” said Buck. “I’d like to spot a cow with a star brand on it. They’d have to work those lines over a little in the brand where they cross, but I reckon it could be done. Something tells me that this thing works out too easy.”
“That’s where the trouble is liable to come in,” Davitt snapped as he went out.
While Davitt was gone Buck examined the branding iron. There was every indication that it had been recently used. Perhaps this very cabin was used as the headquarters of the rustlers, although such could hardly be the case if there was a regular band. But since the thefts, as Buck understood, had extended over a long period, since early spring, in fact, it would be possible for three men, or four at most, to do the brand working. Buck searched the debris on the floor and found another iron, one which was broken. This seemed to cement the evidence that Phelps had helped with the branding and had been in charge of the irons.
When Davitt returned, Buck showed him the broken iron. Phelps was no better and Buck went out and got his horse. The animal had not even been unsaddled. Trawler had probably expected Phelps to take care of the horse. Buck became more and more impressed with what appeared to be extraordinary confidence on the part of Trawler. It might even prove to be a fact that he was working on the case after all.
But Buck respected Davitt’s experience and the latter apparently didn’t harbor any such idea.
* * * * *
A misty, cold dawn was in the east when Davitt, holding the now delirious Phelps in the saddle in front of him, and Buck rode up to a cow camp on the Hull range near a great herd of cattle.
To the surprise of both of them, and to Davitt’s satisfaction particularly, it was Quigley, the Hull foreman, who rode out to meet them.
“Let me lead the talking,” Davitt said sharply to Buck before Quigley drew up.
“By the looks of that bird’s face, there’ll be plenty of it,” Buck shot back with a grimace.
“What’s the matter? Is somebody hurt?” Quigley addressed his questions to Davitt after favoring Buck with a single sharp glance.
“This fellow was fishing last night and fell in,” Davitt said, looking the foreman straight in the eye. “Fishing with worms for bait, so I took your tip and used ’em as clues, Quigley … the worms and Phelps here, I mean. What you told me wasn’t a joke after all.”
Quigley was biting his upper lip, keeping his gaze locked with Davitt’s. “Is he dead, or badly hurt, or what? Why did you bring him here?” He looked significantly at Buck.
“That’s my partner, Buck Granger,” Davitt said cheerfully, waving his free hand at the cowpuncher. “We’re taking this fellow to the nearest habitation. That’ll be Hull’s ranch, I expect. Here, Buck, you take this squirming bundle a while, will you?”
The transfer of Phelps, who was muttering and talking in senseless jargon by turns in the throes of his delirium, was quickly made. Quigley signaled to a cowpuncher, evidently the night hawk who had been in charge of the horses, and the man galloped up to them.
“Ride in with this fellow,” the foreman ordered. “He’s got a sick man. Put him up in camp till I get there.” He nodded to Buck.
When Buck had left with the other rider Quigley looked sharply at Davitt. “You might as well get off what’s on your mind,” he said.
“Sure,” said Davitt amicably. “Just a question. Quigley, who did Hull sell his Star brand to? Think hard. I reckon you were with him at the time.”
“Certainly I was with him at the time,” Quigley answered crisply. “He had no use for the brand then. He sold what cattle were left and the brand with ’em. That was before he went into cattle strong.”
“That’s right,” Davitt drawled. “He really had no use for it. And now he’s got an original brand of his own, of course. Who did you say he sold the Star brand to, Quigley?”
“He sold it to Lamby,” Quigley replied with a faint smile showing on his lips as Davitt straightened in the saddle.
Chapter Eighteen
Mel Davitt looked coldly at Quigley until the smile faded from the foreman’s lips and a frown came over his face.
“I suppose you’re wondering about that,” said Quigley. “When Hull sold the brand and the cattle that went with it, he thought he was through with cattle. I reckon that’s why Lamby bought him out at his own price. Hull was in sheep pretty heavy and Lamby knew the sheep would have to go as the range got cut down. When Hull went back into cattle, Lamby didn’t like it none.”
“I suppose not,” said Davitt. “Did Lamby use the brand?”
“He used it up to this year,” returned Quigley. “Fact is, we’ve found Star cattle right on our range. He claimed it was mostly Star cattle had been stole. He hinted that he didn’t want to go through our herds. That’s when I ordered him off our range and Hull backed me up.”
Davitt hadn’t taken his eyes from Quigley’s and he saw beyond the question of a doubt that the man was speaking the truth. He saw, too, that Quigley was incensed. On the face of it, to one less experienced, it would appear that Lamby was planting cattle on Hull’s range to enable him later to claim that they had been stolen by Hull or his men. Remembering the look in Lamby’s eye when he had talked to him, Davitt felt convinced that the stockman was above such tactics.
It was Davitt’s turn to frown, but he did so because he was puzzled. “You knew this crazy Phelps party was watching the Horseshoe trail,” he accused, “why couldn’t you tell me so in as many words?”
“Because I wasn’t dead sure of any such thing,” Quigley answered. “I’m not going to shoot off my mouth unless I know what I’m talking about. I don’t even know how you got him and I’m not asking. But there’s one thing I do know and I’m going to tell you what it is and then you can go to blazes.”
The foreman’s eyes flashed, and his face grew stern. “I could have
gone out myself with a bunch of men and probably washed this thing up, but Hull wouldn’t let me. He’s only been in cattle big for three years and I guess he’s too timid, although you needn’t say I said so. But I’m here to tell you and to back it up any way you say that nobody on this ranch has stolen any of Lamby’s cattle, nor bothered a head of stock with any of his half-dozen brands on ’em. There’s stock of his mixed with ours right now and he’ll keep right on his side of the range till the fall roundup, and then his reps can cut out his stock. And you’re not going to do any inspecting of our herds, neither. Not so as I can notice it, you’re not.”
“You talk to me like a man that’s trying to cover up a lot he knows with loud talk in another direction,” Davitt said calmly.
“And you talk to me like a jackass who doesn’t know where he’s at!” Quigley retorted hotly, losing his temper. “Why, there’s stock of Lamby’s right down in the corner by the butte right now and how’d they get there? If you’re so smart, answer that.”
“From the way you’re trying to cover up, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if you’d put ’em there,” said Davitt coldly. “Don’t make any false motions toward your gun, Quigley! I came here to talk to you, not to shoot you.”
Quigley’s face was puffed and red with anger. “I know your style,” he managed to get out. “You stand behind your rep as a gunman. Well, you won’t make any false showing by plugging me. I’ll throw my gun away, call you a liar to your face, and then laugh at you, you sap. I’ve got twenty guns behind me to cut you down if you start anything.” He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.
Three Trails to Triangle Page 14