Part 1

SUN DOG LOOT

A Complete Novel

By W. C. Tuttte

Author of “Just For a Laugh,” “Rustler’s Roost,” etc.

“Brick” Davidson hooked his spurred heels over the edge of his desk, shifted his position slightly and began rolling a cigaret, his eyes half-shut, as if deep in thought.

Brick was of medium height, with a thin, freckled face and red hair. It was red hair—not auburn at all; red hair, the color of a new brick. His mouth was wide, his eyes blue and ears rather prominent. Just now his faded blue shirt hiked up around his ears and his overalls threatened to withdraw from his short-topped high-heeled boots.

Over the wetting of his cigaret he squinted at the wall across from him, where a collection of reward notices covered the rough boards. There were many notices in this collection, with rewards ranging from fifty dollars to a hundred times that amount. Some bore photographs of those wanted, but the majority were mere descriptions, which might fit any one.

There were three other men in the office with Brick, seated in chairs near the desk; three serious-faced men who waited for Brick to speak. One of them was Bill Grant, a tall, sour-faced, middle-aged man, with a wispy mustache and a nervous manner. Another was Al Hendricks, heavy-set, dark-complexioned, slow of speech; while the third was Sam Leach, slight of physique, bat-eared and inclined to be sarcastic. Grant and Hendricks were ranchers, while Leach was a cattle-buyer. And the three of them composed the Board of Commissioners of Sun Dog County, of which Brick Davidson was the sheriff.

Brick lighted his cigaret and shifted his eyes to the three men.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I reckon yuh think that comin’ to see me will change things a lot, don’tcha?”

Grant cleared his throat, causing the wispy mustache to vibrate, and Brick grinned openly. The mustache amused him. He had remarked anent that futile effort of Grant’s, assuring him that he was too stingy to fill his soul with enough fertilizing to grow hair. And Grant was sensitive.

“We just came,” said Grant coldly, “to kinda talk to yuh about it, Davidson.”

“Sure, sure,” interposed Hendricks quickly. “We’ve been talkin’ among ourselves, Brick.”

Brick squinted at Leach, as if expecting some statement from him, but Leach’s sarcastic smile was his only response.

“There was that Red Hill hold-up,” said Hendricks suggestively.

“And the bank robbery at Silverton,” added Brick.

Leach laughed, but his laugh ended in a yawn, when Brick jerked his heels off the desk and turned in his chair.

“What in —— do yuh find to laugh at in that, Sam?” he demanded.

“Nothin’.” Leach was almost apologetic.

“’Course it ain’t nothin’ to laugh about,” said Grant. “It’s pretty —— serious, I’d say. In fact, it’s so serious that we’ve sent for a professional range detective to try and hang the crime onto the guilty parties.”

“Ye-e-eah?” Brick’s red mane of hair lifted slightly, as he inhaled deeply to control his temper.

“Yeah,” nodded Grant. “Of course he won’t interfere with yore office in any way, Brick. You jist go along like you’ve been goin’, and let him work it out in his own way. Them detectives _sabe_ criminals.”

Brick grinned in spite of his anger. A wave of crime had swept across the Sun Dog country in the past few weeks, causing the sheriff’s office to ride the hoofs off their horses, but without results.

It began with the hold-up of the Red Hill stage, when the bandits had stolen the treasure-box, which held several bars of gold, from the Red Hill mine. A few days later the Redrock stage was robbed, netting the robbers several hundred dollars. Then, to cap the climax, two masked men entered the bank at Silverton and forced the cashier to hand them over five thousand dollars.

And they had left no clues. Descriptions varied until Brick was of the opinion that the jobs had been done by three different outfits. The driver of the Red Hill stage swore that there were only two men. One was a big man and the other rather below medium height. The tall man was the spokesman.

In the Redrock robbery, the driver declared that there were two men, one rather tall and slender, the other medium-sized. The medium-sized man was the spokesman. And the cashier of the bank, frightened almost into a panic, could not be positive that there were two or three men, but he did know that the slim one did the talking.

The peculiar feature of the bank robbery was the fact that a fire had started in a shack down at the other end of the town, and that while every one was down there, trying to put out the fire, the robbery had taken place. No one had seen the robbers enter or leave, except the cashier, who admitted that he was so frightened that he did not know which way they went after leaving the bank, nor whether they were on foot or mounted.

And now the county commissioners were employing a professional thief-catcher. Brick reshaped his cigaret and smiled.

“He’ll prob’ly catch ’em,” Brick mused aloud.

“Y’betcha!” Sam Leach got to his feet, indicating that as far as he was concerned the meeting was over.

The others got to their feet as a man entered the doorway and halted just inside.

It was “Harp” Harris, the deputy sheriff. Harp was about two inches over six feet in height, but so thin that he looked much taller. His face was set in lines which combined both hope and despair—with despair predominating. His mouth was wide, his nose thin and almost transparent, while his ears grew at right angles to his face, giving him a perpetual listening expression.

Harp squinted at the three commissioners and shifted his eyes to Brick.

“Havin’ a li’l party, Brick?” he asked softly.

Harp was not any too popular with the commissioners.

“Democrat,” replied Brick, grinning.

Grant and Hendricks forced a smile, as they walked past Harp, but Leach gave Harp a sarcastic squint, bestowed upon him a look of disgust and walked past, with his nose in the air. Harp turned and pursed his lips as he watched Leach disappear. Brick grinned, as Harp turned and snorted softly.

“Some day I’m goin’ t’ just about squirsh that jasper,” said Harp slowly. “Jist squirsh him absolute and final. What did them three fried aigs want, Brick?”

“Their main object was to see if I’ve forgotten that there’s crime among us,” replied Brick.

“Oh!”

Harp’s nose twitched slightly and he sat down against the wall, ignoring the three vacant chairs. From his pocket he took a jew’s-harp, fitting it carefully between his teeth. Brick squinted at him thoughtfully, shaking his head.

“Don’t,” said Brick pleadingly. “My ——, ain’t there enough misery in the world without you addin’ to it, Harp?”

Harp removed the offending instrument and dangled it across his knee, clutched in a bony hand. He nodded understandingly, his serious eyes considering the troubled sheriff. It was not often that Harp would quit playing until he was ready. He was not musical, but seemed to derive much enjoyment from his own efforts.

“Aw right, Brick—I won’t regale yuh with music now. Sad music cheers me up, don’tcha know it? Sometimes, I wonder—” Harp rubbed the palm of his hand on the tightly drawn knee—“I wonder why paw didn’t educate me for the undertakin’ business. Man, I’d ’a’ sure been a dinger. I jist love to hear them singin’ ‘Rock of Ages,’ and by golly, I——”

Brick reached for his gun and Harp threw up both hands.

“You danged pall-bearer!” snorted Brick. “You keep up that kind of talk and there’ll be singin’—but you won’t hear it.”

“That’s right—jump onto me.” Harp grew indignant. “You big bully! I s’pose you’d strike me, wouldn’t yuh? Huh! It’s brutes like you that makes this world hard for us frail critters. I do everythin’ I can for yuh, and this is the treatment I get.”

* * * * *

Brick slumped down in his chair and began rolling a cigaret, as someone came clumping along the wooden sidewalk up to the office door. Then a head, surmounted by an ornate sombrero, was shoved inside from an angle that would indicate the man to be of abnormal height. The face beneath the sombrero was both broad and long, serious, except for the wide brown eyes. Brick glanced up at him, but showed no recognition. Harp squinted at the door, looked back at Brick and slapped himself on the knee.

“Now, jump onto me,” he invited Brick. “Abuse me, cowboy. Go ahead and try to be cruel. Ha, ha! Succor is at hand.”

“Sucker?”

The big man came inside and started slowly toward Harp, who threw both hands up to his face, as if to shut out the sight.

“Who’s a sucker?” demanded the big man, shaking himself until the silver _conchos_ of his bat-wing chaps creaked under the strain.

He slapped a big palm against his holster and halted in the middle of the floor.

“Love of gosh!” exclaimed Harp. “It’s little Lord Fauntleroy! Welcome home.”

The big man started toward Harp, but Brick slid between them and he halted.

“You danged cow-town comedians can’t bust up my office,” declared Brick. “Set down, ‘Silent’—you runt.”

Silent Slade flapped his big arms dismally and sank down in the nearest chair.

“I seen them three deuces walk out of here; so I come over to see what the rest of the deck was doin’,” said Silent. “I can smell trouble when I see them three pelicans together.”

“Brick’s so danged dumb that they has to come over here every week to remind him he’s the sheriff,” offered Harp seriously.

“Ought to pin his star on the wall,” observed Silent. “Might nail her to the door, so every time he comes up to the place he’ll know what he’s comin’ here for.”

But Brick did not take offense at their jokes. They knew that Brick was capable, honest, and was doing everything in his power to keep the peace of Sun Dog County. Silent Slade worked for the Nine-Bar-Nine cattle outfit, located about twelve miles southeast of Marlin City, where Brick had been foreman before he had been elected sheriff. Harp Harris had also been one of the Nine-Bar-Nine cowpunchers.

Old Lafe Freeman, owner of the Nine-Bar-Nine, had sworn to high heaven that the gods were against him when he lost Brick and Harp. Old Lafe was a little, old, grizzled cow-man; one of the fast-disappearing type of old-timers, who had carved out a niche in cowland with the combination of a six-shooter and square-dealing.

After an appreciable period of silence, the big Nine-Bar-Nine cowboy yawned widely and audibly.

“Didja ever try sleep for that?” queried Harp.

“That has all the earmarks of a jest,” observed Silent. “Some day I’m goin’ to date time from the minute yuh made me laugh.”

Silent turned to Brick, opened his mouth to capacity and yelled loud enough to shake the windows—

“How in —— are yuh?”

“Kinda downcast,” replied Brick softly.

“Uh-huh. Yuh ought to be. Say, old Lafe’s been down to Silverton—kinda ridin’ around—and he says it don’t look a —— of a lot like you was goin’ to be reelected, Brick.”

“Thasso?” Brick showed interest. It was nearing the first of October, and in November the primary election would be held.

“Dang right, it’s so,” nodded Silent. “Lafe says that you ain’t noways as popular as yuh was a few weeks ago.”

“What have I done?” queried Brick, grinning.

“Well,” Silent grinned widely, “they seem to think yuh ain’t done nothin’. I s’pose them three high-and-mighties were over here to kinda invigorate yuh, wasn’t they?”

Brick nodded. He realized now that these robberies were happening at a very inopportune time for him. The Sun Dog voters were very likely to judge him on present showings instead of on his past records; and the sheriff’s office was the one big issue in cow-land politics.

His opponent, Henry Stagg, known as “Hank,” had been considered more or less of a joke as a candidate. He operated the stage lines from an office in Silverton, where he could be found at nearly all times, reciting his own deeds of valor.

Hank was tall and angular, with a raspy voice and a wonderful vocabulary of profanity, gained from driving stage teams. He wore his gun in a shoulder-holster, because his hips were too thin to support a belt, and his favorite amusement was shooting magpies on the wing with a thirty-thirty rifle. This latter branded him as a fairly good rifle shot.

“They brought me some very good news,” said Brick. “When it comes to bringin’ good cheer, they’re a fine flock of buzzards. Sun Dog County is to be investigated by a professional detective and I’m to just go along in my own dumb way and let him do the lookin’ through the knot-holes.”

“Is—thasso?” Silent exploded and his mouth remained open.

“Relax!” snorted Harp. “My gosh, anybody’d think by yore face that it was in the dead of Winter instead of fly-time, Silent.”

“Hm-m-m! I’m dead amazed.” Thus Silent seriously.

“Settled fact,” grinned Brick. “I dunno who he is nor how many of ’em is to come among us; so don’t question me. I didn’t know that the commissioners took my job so seriously.”

“And they don’t even ask us to help him,” added Harp.

“Well, you hadn’t ought to let that worry yuh,” grinned Silent. “As far as the detective is concerned, somebody will probably kill him before he gets far into the mystery; but things are sure breakin’ bad for our li’l sheriff.

“Lafe was talkin’ with ‘Soapy’ Caswell, and Soapy is kinda inclined to the opinion that Brick ain’t exertin’ himself none to speak about. He didn’t come right out and say it, but that’s the impression he handed Lafe.”

“And he swings the vote of Silverton,” said Harp sadly. “He dang near swings Sun Dog County, as far as that’s concerned. He owns the bank here in Marlin, the Silverton bank and the Redrock bank; and when yuh own enough banks, yuh kinda controls a lot of them X’s that folks mark down on their ballot.”

Brick straightened up in his chair and reached for his tobacco.

“You two jiggers must ’a’ got up on the wrong side of the bunk this mornin’, didn’t yuh? Mebbe I better order all flags at half-mast and put crape on the door. All I’ve got to do is to beat Hank Stagg for the nomination.”

“Yeah, that’s all,” said Silent dryly. “Just beat Hank for the nomination, tha’sall. And then you’ve got to beat the nominee on the other ticket. But let me tell yuh somethin’, red feller: If you don’t put the deadwood on these stick-up jaspers pretty danged quick, you couldn’t beat a drum.

“I ain’t raggin’ yuh, Brick. —— knows, I’m for yuh. But it’s a cinch that there ain’t another man in Sun Dog County that can do more than you’ve done; but folks don’t stop to consider that part of it. Yo’re hired to catch criminals—so you’ve got to catch ’em, tha’sall.”

“Tha’sall,” nodded Brick seriously. “I remember when I was a little kid I had to recite a poem in school. It was somethin’ about Napoleon Bonaparte. It had a line like this—

“A very easy thing to plan, but difficult to do; As Wellington made clear to him one day at Waterloo.”

“Or it might be kinda like the Frenchman’s flea-powder, in which the directions said, ‘First catch the little flea.’”

“Still, it might be a danged good thing for me and Brick, if he did get beat,” observed Harp. “Livin’ in the city this-a-way is plumb ruinin’ both of us.”

Brick grinned at his deputy, but the lanky one was serious. Marlin City was a city in name only. By virtue of its central location, it was the county-seat of Sun Dog County, but this honor had never caused it to advance beyond the small, cow-town stage.

It had one street, not too straight and not too long, bordered with unpainted buildings, which were mostly of the false-fronted style of architecture. The wooden sidewalks, four feet in width, oozed pitch in the Summer; and in the Winter the excessive cold caused the nails to snap out of the two-by-four girders, leaving the top-boards free to rattle and clatter underfoot, like walking over an unmusical xylophone.

Of shade-trees there was none. In fact, someone had said that there was only one tree between Marlin City and the North Pole. A branch line of the C. P. Railroad had recently been completed into Marlin City, giving them transportation for stock and mining products; but the advent of a railroad had not caused any perceptible boom in the country.

Brick Davidson had been sheriff of Sun Dog County for two years, during which time both Silent and Harp had worked as deputies; not because they liked the work, but because Brick had needed the services of trustworthy men. Silent Slade had won his nickname because of his ability to talk continuously. He was never short on conversation, except when asleep. Silent was slow of movement, because of his great size, except when the occasion demanded speed; but he was not slow of temper.

Harp Harris was slow to anger, but loved trouble. He could ride anything he could saddle, and rope with deadly accuracy. But his favorite occupation was playing the jew’s-harp. And no one except Harp could recognize his tunes; but there was something about that weird _tung-g-ging_ that soothed the soul of the lean, angular cowpuncher and caused him to relax and close his eyes in ecstasy.

Just now he placed the instrument between his teeth, relaxed against the wall and struck a preliminary note.

“My ——!” exclaimed Silent, getting to his feet. “That —— thing is about to start agin’, Brick. C’mon; I’ll buy yuh a drink.”

“All right,” grinned Brick.

They walked outside, leaving Harp humped against the wall, moaning through the vibrating tongue of the harp, his right hand fanning slowly past one of his bat-ears, his eyes shut; while one of his upturned feet jerked an occasional accompaniment, all out of time with the beat of his alleged tune.

* * * * *

“By Gosh, you bettair keep away from de grizz-a-lee,” warned Mose La Clede, a gaunt, bearded Canadian-Frenchman, hitching his belt higher about his hips and shifting the huge quid of tobacco in his cheek.

“She’s de bad wan, and she’s ’ongry for little boy.”

Little “Whizzer” Malloy, five years of age, lifted his inquiring brown eyes and backed away so quickly that the dragging spur on his little foot tripped him and he fell flat in the dirt.

“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed the big man, as he picked the little fellow up and stood him on his feet.

The big grizzly in the pole cage rumbled deeply and flung his chest against the front of the cage, biting at the barrier. The semicircle of curious onlookers grinned as the youngster backed away, trying to straighten the spur and watch the bear at the same time. A horse, tied to one of the hitch-racks, snorted as the bear-scent assailed its nostrils, and snapped the tie-rope on a backward surge.

A cowboy spat out a curse, ran into the street from a saloon and cornered the animal before it had a chance to leave for parts unknown. That the idle population of Silverton was interested in Mose La Clede’s grizzly was attested by the fact that most of them were already crowding around the cage, which was placed in the street in front of the stage-office.

La Clede had trapped the animal in the Smoky Hills, where he had kept it until making a deal with an Eastern zoo. It was a full-grown specimen, savage as a tiger and as powerful as any four-legged animal could be. The pole cage creaked under its lunges, and the crowd shifted uneasily.

“How much does he weigh, La Clede?” asked Hank Stagg, who stood at a respectful distance.

Hank was in charge of the stage lines, and it was one of his vehicles that was to transport the grizzly to the railroad at Marlin City.

“By gosh, I’m dunno,” replied La Clede, scratching his head. “We weigh her on de hay-scale and she’s twelve hundred, forty pound. De cage weigh—I’m dunno how much, but I’m t’ink de bear mak’ ’bout ten hun’red.”

“Then how in —— are we goin’ to load it?” queried Hank. “There ain’t enough of us to lift that weight.”

“I’m know how,” grinned La Clede. “We tak’ two, t’ree plank and some round pole for de roller, _sabe_? We block de wagon, hitch team to cage by de rope, and pull her up.”

“All right,” growled Hank. “Get yore planks and rollers.”

The crowd, ever ready to assist, went in search of the required articles, while “Baldy” Malloy, the Whispering Creek stage-driver, went to the livery-stable to get the team, followed closely by Whizzer, whose spur tripped him every few feet.

But Whizzer did not whimper. He felt that the spur made him a cowpuncher, and he would wear that spur if it was the last thing he ever did. Whizzer’s mother had died shortly after he was brought into the world, and Whizzer had soon learned that there was little sympathy in the world for a cry-baby.

Not that Baldy did not love his son. He thought that the sun arose and set especially for Whizzer, and they were inseparable when Baldy’s trip was finished. Baldy was short, fat and bald, with weak, blue eyes and an insipid, rope-colored mustache.

Back they went from the stable with the team of half-wild bronchos, almost unmanageable when they scented the bear. Whizzer carried his spur in both hands, as he trotted along behind in the dust, his brown eyes wide with anticipation.

Two heavy planks had been secured, and some men were coming with a pole, which would be cut into short roller-lengths. One end of the cage was lifted onto the planks, which extended into the rear of the wagon-box, up which the cage was to be dragged.

At risk of losing one or both of his hands, La Clede managed to insert a rope through the bottom and side of the cage, tied it tightly and flung the loose end out over the front of the wagon.

The cage was tilted slightly and a roller inserted beneath.

“By ——, I don’t like that cage!” declared “Slim” Hunter, a sad-faced cowpuncher. “Them there poles ain’t fastened with nothin’ but rawhide.”

“By gosh, dey hold,” panted La Clede. “Plenty rawhide. She’s put on wet, an den she’s dry hout. Bettair den de nail.”

Baldy was having trouble with the team, which were frantic from the bear-scent and from the angry, deep-throated rumble of the big beast. With the help of two more men he managed to fasten the rope to the double-tree, and was ready for the loading.

“Keep ’way from de cage,” warned La Clede. “Dat —— bear she’s reach hout. All right—hup she’s go!”

There was no chance for a steady pull. The frightened team surged into their collars, fairly jerking Baldy off his feet, and the bear-cage went slithering up the planks and into the wagon-box, catching one corner of the box and ripping it loose from the wagon-bed.

“Whoa!” yelped La Clede. “Stop de team!”