Part 4

“Yeah,” reflected Swede seriously, “and they’ll carve on it, ‘All fools ain’t dead yet, but we got two big ones cinched.’”

While Sad and Swede appeased their hunger, Bill Wyatt and his men, Abe Snow and Snipe Lee, stood at the Cactus bar and drank liberally. Snipe had told Bill and Abe all about the affair in no uncertain terms, and bitterly censured the sheriff for not arresting Sad and Swede for murder. Of course, Snipe was still smarting from his encounter with Sad and was inclined to be vindictive.

“He accused me of bein’ a rustler,” complained Snipe. “Yuh know, he can’t git away with a thing like that, Bill.”

“He got away with it, didn’t he?” demanded Bill. “You talk too much, Snipe. But where do yuh suppose the old man is?”

Snipe shook his head and felt of his twisted arm muscles.

“I can’t even start to suppose, Bill. Jist like I said, he wasn’t at the buckboard, nor at the ranch. There was the dead horse and the live one. Everthin’ was jist like that kid said, except we couldn’t find old Eph.”

“What did the sheriff think?” asked Bill.

“Well, he didn’t know. We had an idea that them two strangers had killed him, but when we couldn’t find the body, we didn’t know what to think. Wheezer Wilson figured that they had shot the old man and got scared that somebody might find it out; so they hid the body.”

“What good would that do?” demanded Bill.

“Yuh got to prove a murder,” said Snipe wisely. “If there ain’t no corpse yuh can’t prove nothin’. A man ain’t noways dead until he’s proved dead, and yuh can’t prove nothin’ without yuh can identify the corpse. If they don’t never find old Eph, the law won’t never figure him to be dead.”

“But if he don’t never show up, he must be dead,” argued Bill.

“He must be,” agreed Snipe, “but the law don’t look at it like me and you would. Mebbe old Eph wandered off in the brush and died; mebbe somebody took the corpse and hid it.”

“But why would they hide it?” Bill poured out a fresh drink and drank it raw. “I don’t sabe it, Snipe.”

“To protect themselves,” explained Snipe. “Jist like I said, the law don’t know that anybody got killed yet.”

Slim Wray and Art Alberts, the sheriff’s two cowhands, came in, so the argument was dropped for a while. Bill invited them to partake of his hospitality, which they accepted with alacrity, and the talk drifted to the fact that the Bar S herd was missing.

“Bunty O’Neil is sure fussin’ about that,” declared Slim. “If we can’t find them cows Bunty won’t get the money that’s comin’ to him. I heard him say that he’d have them cows or somebody would be darned sorry.”

“He talks big,” grunted Bill Wyatt. “I ain’t got no love for that Sontag person, but I’m sure glad he piled Bunty.”

“Who are them two fellers, anyway?” asked Abe Snow, squinting through his glass of liquor at the light. “Look like a couple of cow detectives to me, if anybody asks yuh.”

“What would they be doin’ over here?” demanded Snipe.

“Yuh know they made yuh look at yore fingernails,” smiled Slim Wray meaningly. Snipe growled and reached for his glass.

“They ain’t got nothin’ on me.”

“Well, they ain’t been here long,” grinned Slim.

“What about lookin’ at fingernails?” queried Bill.

“Didn’t you hear about it? Sontag asked Snipe if he knew that you could tell a cattle rustler by lookin’ at his fingernails.”

Bill turned his hand sideways and glanced at his nails while Slim snorted with laughter.

“There yuh go!” he chuckled. “That’s what Snipe done.”

“That’s a hell of a joke!” growled Bill, glowering at Slim. “All fingernails are the same color.”

“You looked!” choked Slim.

“You don’t mean to insinuate that I’m a rustler, do yuh?” Bill grew suddenly belligerent. He shoved away from the bar and glared at Slim.

“Aw, cool off,” advised Slim. “Nobody’s accusin’ yuh, Bill. Yo’re jist like Snipe. He got mad, too.”

“Well, I’m no rustler, Slim,” declared Bill coldly. “I’ll accept yore apology, but don’t say anythin’ like that again. I’m honest, I am.”

“Sure, we all know it,” agreed Slim. “Let’s have another drink.”

“I’m hones’, too,” blurbled Snipe, who was looking owlishly at himself in the back-bar mirror. “Almos’ too honesht.”

“Almost,” said Bill savagely.

It was not often that the Box 8 outfit drank too much liquor, but that night was one time when they threw all reserve to the winds. Whisky seemed to have little effect on Bill Wyatt, except to make him more savage.

But he kept out of the Oreana saloon. Several times he met Sad and Swede during the evening, but avoided direct contact with them.

[Illustration]

“Look out for Bill Wyatt,” Slim Wray cautioned Sad and Swede.

“What’s achin’ him tonight?” asked Sad.

“Liquor and a bad disposition. Yuh see, old Eph Wyatt was his uncle.”

“Was his uncle?” queried Sad. “Ain’t he still his uncle?”

“Well—sure,” hesitated Slim. “They’re sayin’ that the old man is dead, yuh know. I suppose Bill is workin’ up a little war medicine for himself. Of course the sheriff don’t believe yuh had any hand in shootin’ the old man, but the sheriff ain’t everybody.”

“Much obliged,” grinned Sad. “We’ll look out for Bill. He prob’ly thinks he owes me somethin’.”

“And he’ll pay yuh, if he gets a safe chance.”

“And he’ll get a receipt,” said Sad meaningly. “Anyway, I’m sure obliged to yuh, Slim.”

But Bill Wyatt was too wise to start trouble with them. For once in his life he decided to let discretion be the better part of valor. He got his men, Snipe and Abe, away from the Cactus bar and walked them up and down the street. They sobered considerably, and Bill outlined his scheme.

“They hid the body of the old man, that’s a cinch. Fightin’ ’em won’t tell us where it’s hid; sabe? They’ve got a room at the Oreana hotel, and them partitions ain’t very thick. Here’s the scheme. Abe, me and you will see if we can git the room next to them. They’ll probably talk enough to let us know a few things. Snipe, you take our horses to the livery-stable, and you stay there. If they decide to leave town, you come a-runnin’; sabe? Leave our horses all saddled, so we won’t lose no time.

“And from now on, we don’t take no more liquor. We’ve got to find out a few things. You better go to the stable now, Snipe. Me and Abe will get the room, and find out which room Sontag rented. If we can’t get the next one without seemin’ to want it, mebbe it’s empty and we can take it anyway.”

Snipe grumbled profanely, but went to the hitch-rack after the horses. The stable-keeper showed him which stalls to use, asked Snipe if he wanted to take off the saddles, accepted the two-bits per head and went back to his gear-room.

He thought that Snipe went out, which Snipe did not. Later the stable-keeper went out, shut the big doors and went up to the Oreana saloon. Snipe stretched out on the grain-bin and went to sleep. He had a pint of liquor on his hip, which assisted in his departure to the land of dreams.

Sad and Swede were at the Oreana saloon when the stable-keeper ran into them and accepted of their hospitality.

“Kinda quiet tonight,” observed Sad.

“Yeah, it is.” The stable-keeper squinted around the room. “It always is this early. Mebbe it’ll pick up. The Box 8 must figure on makin’ a night of it, ’cause they’ve stabled their horses. It ain’t often they do that. Usually leave their broncs at the rack until they’re ready to go home.”

Sad squinted at himself in the back-bar mirror and wondered why Bill Wyatt and his outfit intended to make a night of it. He drew Swede out of the Oreana and they made the rounds, looking for Bill and his gang, who were not in evidence.

“You think they’re layin’ for us?” asked Swede.

“I dunno,” Sad grinned thoughtfully. “Mebbe they are. Let’s look a little further.”

They went down the street to the hotel and entered the dingy little office, which was little more than a wide hall, lighted by a hanging lamp. The rooms were all on the second floor. Behind the little counter sat the proprietor, tilted back against the wall, reading a year-old magazine.

“Goin’ to bed early, ain’t yuh?” he asked.

“It is a little early,” agreed Sad.

“Sober, too,” observed the proprietor, and laughed at his own wit. “They don’t usually go to bed sober on Sat’day night here. Bill Wyatt and Abe Snow got too much under their belts, and bought a room a while ago. They sure must ’a’ punished a lot of hooch.”

“Yeah, I reckon they did,” laughed Sad. “They’ll prob’ly snore all night and keep us awake.”

“By jing, I never thought about that when I put ’em in number five. That’s right beside you fellers. Say,” he tilted forward and got to his feet, “I’ll git ’em out of there.”

“No, don’t do that,” said Sad quickly. “They’re likely asleep right now. Shucks, we don’t mind.”

“Well, if yuh don’t mind. By golly, I never thought about it when I got ’em the room. I’ll change, if yuh say so.”

“No, that’s all right,” assured Sad.

They sauntered outside and crossed to the Cactus hitch-rack, where Sad appropriated a lariat rope, which he concealed under his coat. Then they went back to the hotel and climbed up the stairs. Sad cautioned Swede to let him do the work; so both of them staggered visibly down the hall.

Sad carried a narrow loop of rope in his hands, as he blundered drunkenly into the door of number five and quickly slipped the loop around the door-knob.

“Hey!” chuckled Swede drunkenly. “Tha’s the wrong door, Sad. We sleep in thish room.”

“Tha’s right,” muttered Sad. “Excuse me, everybody.” He staggered across the hall and against the other door, where he quickly drew the rope tight and threw several half-hitches around the other doorknob.

“What’s the matter—can’tcha fin’ the key-hole, Swede?”

“Thish is wrong key,” declared Swede. “Too small, I tell yuh. C’mon.”

They went down the hall, reviling the proprietor for giving them the wrong key, which he had not. In fact, they had no key.

“That was a maguey rope,” chuckled Sad. “Them things ain’t got no stretch in ’em. Bill Wyatt is smart enough to want to know more, which ain’t nothin’ against him.”

“Now, what do we pull off next?” asked Swede, chuckling with laughter.

“Find Snipe Lee. I’ve got a hunch.”

And they faded down the dark street toward the livery-stable, while Bill Wyatt and Abe Snow sat on a bed and waited for them to come back with the right key.

It was a long, long wait.

Finally Bill Wyatt swore disgustedly and decided to go out and see what had become of them, but the door would not open. It would slip past the lock, which proved that it was fastened from the outside, and which proved that Sad and Swede had out-smarted them.

It was dark outside and the two-story drop was too much for Bill to risk, because he was not sure just what might be down there for him to fall into.

“They’ve roped us in,” declared Bill, punctuating his declaration with oaths. “They wasn’t drunk, Abe.”

But Abe did not care. He had stretched out on the bed again and was snoring blissfully. Bill pried the door open as far as possible with the barrel of his gun, cut a notch with his pocket-knife and managed to tie his knife to the barrel of Abe’s gun strongly enough to enable him to cut the rope.

Then he left Abe sleeping audibly and went downstairs, where he accosted the sleepy proprietor.

“Has Sontag and Harrigan come in yet?” he demanded.

“No,” replied the proprietor. “They was in here a couple hours ago, but ain’t been in since.”

“Came upstairs, didn’t they?”

“Nope. Said they was afraid you’d keep ’em awake snorin’.”

“Oh, yeah!” Bill snorted and went outside.

He made the rounds of the saloons, but could not find Sad and Swede; so he headed for the livery-stable, where he found the stable-man in the gear-room, getting ready for bed.

“Hyah, Bill,” greeted the stable-man. “Want yore bronc?”

“No,” said Bill shortly. He thought for several moments. Then, “I’m kinda lookin’ for Sontag and Harrigan, and I wondered if they went away tonight.”

The stable-man picked up his lantern and walked out to the stalls.

“Their horses and saddles are gone,” he said. “They must ’a’ rode out while I was uptown.”

“Uh-huh,” Ed squinted reflectively. “Seen anythin’ of Snipe Lee?”

“Not since he brought yore horses down here.”

“All right.” Bill turned and started for the door.

“Say, do yuh want me to grain yore broncs?”

Bill turned at the door, “Yuh might as well.”

“More work,” grumbled the stable-man, as Bill went out. “I can always think of somethin’ that’ll make me extra work.”

He walked over to the oat-bin, hung up his lantern and unfastened the staple which held down the lid. Swinging up the long lid, he leaned over to scoop up a pail of oats, when Snipe Lee sat up and looked him in the face.

[Illustration]

The shock was so great that the stableman dropped the lid on Snipe’s unprotected head and stepped back; while from within came the muffled voice of Snipe, demanding to know why in hell everybody was pickin’ onto him.

The stable-man lifted the lid and let Snipe get out. He was still half-drunk, dazed and inclined to be indignant.

“Well how did yuh get in there, anyway?”

Snipe scratched his head thoughtfully and looked into the oatbin.

“Mus’ ’a’ fell in,” he said thickly. “How in hell does anybody git into oat-bins, I’d crave to ask yuh?”

“You couldn’t fasten the staple,” argued the stable-man.

“Thasso? Lemme tell yuh, I’m smart.” Snipe rocked on his heels and goggled owlishly at the lantern.

“But yuh couldn’t do a thing like that,” declared the stable-man. “Yuh could fall into the bin, but I’m danged if yuh could lock the lid from the outside.”

“Is thasso? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Is thasso? Well, smarty, couldn’t I lock it firs’? Anshwer me that. Couldn’t I? I must ’a’ done it thataway. Shay,” Snipe looked around foolishly, “have you sheen anythin’ of Sontag and Harrigan?”

[Illustration]

“They left here quite a while ago.”

“Oh, my!” Snipe seemed shocked.

“Bill Wyatt was here a while ago, and he asked for you.”

“Yeah? Huh! Well, I’m mush obliged. S’-long.”

And Snipe went weaving out of the door, while the stableman filled the bucket with oats and fed the three horses. He flung the bucket against the wall, picked up his lantern and went back to his bunk, still wondering how on earth a man could get inside an oatbin and lock himself in from the outside.

V

The next morning Sheriff Buck Rainey and Wheezer Wilson his assistant went hunting cows. They went past the Bar S, and were agreeably surprised to find most of the last fifteen Bar S cattle in the pasture. They stopped to put up the broken wires, and rode on.

Slim Wray and Art Alberts, the sheriff’s punchers, had gone further north, looking for the missing herd. The following day the sheriff was to sell out the Bar S, and he wanted more than fifteen head of cattle.

“Looks like a short chance,” observed Wheezer, as they rode further into the hills. “We can’t find much except Box 8’s and Diamond W’s. Old Eph Wyatt must have quite a lot of cows, Buck.”

“Y’betcha.” The sheriff spat reflectively. “I wonder what did happen to the old man. It don’t seem reasonable to think that Sontag and Harrigan had anythin’ to do with the shootin’. There ain’t no motive.”

“We don’t know of any,” amended Wheezer.

“My gosh, you’re gettin’ particular. Pretty soon you’ll be doin’ all your eatin’ with a fork, jist to be correct.”

“Not ’less they make a kind that don’t leak food. There’s Bill Wyatt and Snipe Lee.”

Wheezer pointed at the opposite hillside, where two riders were coming toward them. They drew rein and waited for the Box 8 boss and his puncher to join them.

“Lookin’ for Bar S stock?” asked Bill, after the customary greetings had been exchanged.

“That’s about all it amounts to,” replied Buck Rainey. “We ain’t found none yet.”

Bill twisted in his saddle and pointed east. “We seen five or six head over thataway this mornin’, and there was fifteen or twenty head out near the Box 8.”

“That ain’t noways three hundred and ten head,” grinned Buck.

Wheezer grinned at Snipe Lee. “What happened to yuh last night, Snipe? I heard Jimmy Logan, the stable-keeper, talkin’ about findin’ yuh in the oatbin, with the lid locked.”

Snipe twisted his face disgustedly.

“I must ’a’ been awful drunk. Don’t remember a thing about it. Took our broncs to the stable, set down on the oatbin, and don’t know a darned thing what happened after that.”

“And somebody roped two doors together at the hotel,” said Buck. “McKinney showed me the rope. Slim Wray was pretty drunk when he found the lariat half-hitched around his door-knob; so he thought it was a warnin’ that somebody had hung to his door. He slept in the barn with a six-gun strapped to his wrist.”

“That must ’a’ been after we left,” said Bill dryly. “Got any track of the old man, Buck?”

“No!” replied the sheriff.

“Uh-huh. I happen to know that Sontag and Harrigan rode out of Oreana about midnight.”

“How’d yuh know?”

“Jimmy Logan said they did.”

“Thasso?” The sheriff squinted reflectively. “I wonder where they went. I don’t sabe that pair, Bill.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ on the rest of us, Buck.”

“They’re sure full of fun,” offered Wheezer.

“They’re full of hell!” snorted Bill. “They’ll run against a snag, if they don’t watch out.”

“They ain’t so young,” observed Wheezer. “’S funny they ain’t run agin’ it before this.”

“This ain’t findin’ us any Bar S stock,” reminded the sheriff. “Want to ride with us, Bill?”

“Yeah, we might as well.”

And while Bill and Snipe joined forces with the sheriff, Sad Sontag and Swede Harrigan also rode into the hills, also looking for Bar S stock. They found one of that brand, which they examined closely, noting that the iron had been run on the right shoulder.

“Well, that’s one of the three hundred and ten,” observed Sad, as they moved on. There were numerous Box 8 cattle scattered along the brushy draws.

“This sale won’t be worth attendin’,” declared Swede. “By golly, I wish we’d stayed in Sundown.”

“I’m havin’ a good time,” grinned Sad. “You want too much. I wonder what Bill Wyatt and his bunch had to say? I’ll betcha Snipe Lee didn’t know what happened to him, Swede.”

“I’ll bet he didn’t. Only thing I hope is that somebody let him out of the oatbin before he suffocated.”

“Aw, he was all right. That lid was full of cracks. Wyatt was foxy enough to take that adjoinin’ room, where they’d have a swell chance to hear us talk, and I’ll betcha he cursed the man who invented a maguey rope.”

Sad pulled up his horse, as several Box 8 cattle came out of a draw beyond them and moved into an open swale. He studied them for several moments, a half-smile on his face, and then took down his rope.

“Whatcha goin’ to do, Sad?” asked Swede.

“Practice a little,” grinned Sad, spurring his horse forward and shaking out his loop. Swede swore foolishly, but did not follow him.

The cattle broke into a gallop, heading back toward the ravine, but Sad singled out a rangy, red steer and spurred swiftly in pursuit. The animal twisted along the edge of the shallow ravine, trying to reach the cover of a willow thicket, but the loop sailed true, dropped fair over the horns, and Sad Sontag made his dally around the horn in approved style.

It was all very well done, except that Sad’s cinch was far too loose for a roping-stunt, and when the jerk came it yanked the saddle high up over the horse’s withers, throwing it sideways, and upsetting the calculations of a well regulated roping horse.

The big steer took a header into the brush, the horse skidded sideways over the edge of the washout, and Sad went out of the saddle, much after the manner of a flying-squirrel hunting for a more favorable location.

The action had hardly taken place before Swede spurred past, his own rope in hand, dismounted almost on the run and proceeded to hog-tie the steer, which had had the shock of its life. Sad’s horse regained its feet, kicked a few times, blew the alkali dust from its nostrils and looked back at Sad, who was sitting against the opposite bank, rubbing the alkali out of his eyes.

“You rised something, didn’t yuh?” fleered Swede, red of face. “You’ll never get no sense, Sad Sontag. Ropin’ a steer as big as that one on a loose cinch! I’ve seen a lot of fools in my time!”

“You hadn’t ort to be vain,” said Sad painfully. “It’s all right for a feller of yore physique to look in a mirror, but he shouldn’t brag about it. Didja tie up the little pet?”

“Yeah, I tied it,” Swede spat out some alkali viciously. “If I hadn’t, that red steer would ’a’ made a pet out of you, cowboy.”

“Thank yuh kindly, Swede.” Sad climbed out, after working his saddle back into place, and walked over to the wheezing steer. It was lying on its right side, glaring its hate from a pair of blood-shot eyes.

Sad squatted on his heels and reached for his cigarette papers, while Swede complained audibly.

“I dunno why yuh done this, Sad. That steer feels the insult awful strong, and I’m goin’ to ask _you_ to turn it loose. I’m no matador. I’ll betcha even money that when yuh take the piggin’-string off that steer, he’ll beat yuh to yore bronc.”

Sad frowned over his cigarette, and sang mournfully, “O-o-o-oh, Susie Jones was a clingin’ vi-i-i-ine, but her father was a pi-i-i-izen o-o-oak.”

“Oh, all right,” sighed Swede.

Sad got to his feet and walked over to the steer.

“C’mere, Swede, and help me turn him over.”

“Do yuh think he’s tired, Sad? And after we turn him over, do we have to set him up for a spell?”

“Don’t strain yourself,” grinned Sad. They completed their turning process, when something unexpected happened.

“Don’t move, gents!”

It was the voice of Buck Rainey, the sheriff of Oreana. Sad and Swede whirled quickly to see Buck, Wheezer Wilson, Bill Wyatt and Snipe Lee, standing just a few feet away, guns in hand.

“Keep yore hands where they are,” warned the sheriff. “Get their guns, Wheezer.”

Wheezer came forward and emptied their holsters, while the two Sundown cowboys looked blankly at each other.

“We been watchin’ yuh,” said the sheriff easily. “Yuh see, it ain’t ethical to hang yore rope on other men’s stock in this range, Sontag.”

“That’s one of my animals, too,” said Wyatt angrily.

“I shore apologize,” said Sad contritely.

“Apologize!” snorted Bill. “I—guess—you—would!”

“Yuh might at least be gentleman enough to accept it.”