Part 11

They crossed the hills and came out on the grade at the little trail, just south of where Baldy had gone over the bank with the stage. Whizzer had straightened up a little and seemed less dazed now, so Brick led the way back to where the stage had gone over.

The youngster looked around, as though he recognized the spot, and finally looked up at Brick.

“Where’s my daddy?” he asked.

“For the love of mud!” exclaimed Silent. “He’s rememberin’.”

“Do yuh remember the stage, Whizzer?” asked Brick. “Remember what happened the day you rode with your daddy?”

“I fell off.” Whizzer’s eyes were round and excited.

“Yuh did?”

“Yeah!” He looked around. “I fell off on the road. Where did my daddy go?”

“And then somebody picked yuh up,” prompted Brick, ignoring the question. “Who picked yuh up, Whizzer?”

“I hurt my head. Somebody shoot a gun.”

“Didja see anybody before yuh fell off the wagon?”

Whizzer shook his head.

“I hear the gun shoot and then I fall off. Where’s my daddy?”

“Whizzer, old-timer,” said Brick earnestly, “you’ve got to remember some things for me. After yuh fell off the stage you hurt yore head. When you woke up, who did yuh see?”

Whizzer’s forehead puckered, as he stared at Brick.

“I seen two mans in house. One man got somethin’ on his face, like stage-robber. Woman and baby there.”

“One man was masked, eh? It wasn’t the Indian man, was it?”

Whizzer shook his head and looked around quickly.

“Don’tcha be afraid of him,” said Brick. “He’s dead.”

“He hit me,” said Whizzer simply. “They make me stay in the mine and I can’t git out.”

He began crying softly, still terrified at what he had experienced in the few days. Brick swore softly and hugged the youngster.

“Don’t cry, buddy,” he said. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to hurt yuh ag’in, y’betcha.”

They swung their horses around and galloped away toward town.

“Do yuh think Santel done it, Brick?” queried Silent, as they swept along the grade.

“I dunno, Silent. Me and Harp met Santel just below here that day. Anyway, he knows somethin’ about it, and I’m goin’ to find out what he knows, if I have to drill him plumb full of lead to let the information leak out.”

Whizzer was asleep when they rode up to Wesson’s home and dismounted. Mrs. Wesson met Brick at the door, and gasped with surprize at sight of his burden. Whizzer woke up and began crying, but the sleep had refreshed him and he quit crying as soon as he realized that he was no longer in the tunnel.

In a few words Brick explained how they had found him, and in less time than that Mrs. Wesson had placed him at the table behind a big bowl of bread and milk. He ate ravenously, while Mrs. Wesson sat across the table from him, her eyes filled with tears, and promised him a nice warm bath and a soft bed.

“Gotta find my daddy,” he told her. “They didn’t give me no bread and milk.”

“What did they give yuh, honey?” asked Mrs. Wesson.

Whizzer swallowed a big portion of bread, almost choking over it.

“They gimme ——,” he said simply.

“Yuh can’t beat him, can yuh?” grinned Brick. “He’s a buckaroo.”

“I lost m’ spur. Mebbe—” he smiled at Brick—“mebbe my daddy’s got it. He said he was goin’ to git me ’nother one.”

“Where’s Harp?” asked Silent.

“Him and Miss Miller went to the dance at Silverton,” smiled Mrs. Wesson. “Harp had a sweet time squarin’ himself with her, but he made Brick out to be the biggest liar in the State—and she believed him. By jinks, I think she likes him. Human nature is one queer thing. I’ll betcha Leach will be sore as a boil. He sure did want to go with her.”

Whizzer laid aside his spoon and sighed deeply.

“Had enough, buddy?” asked Brick.

“Uh-huh. I can’t hold no more.”

“Now I’ll give him a good hot bath and put him into a nice bed,” said Mrs. Wesson. “Mebbe we better have the doctor over to fix up them bruises, Brick. He’s sure been skinned awful bad.”

“Don’t hurt.” Whizzer shook his head.

“That’s fine, buddy,” nodded Brick. “Now if yuh could only tell us what that masked man looked like.”

Whizzer shook his head.

“Dunno. He had a cloth on his face.”

“But his clothes, Whizzer. Wasn’t there somethin’ yuh could remember? Somethin’ about how he looked?”

Whizzer shook his head. Brick lighted a cigaret and studied the youngster.

“Sleepy, Whizzer?”

“Nope. Say, when do I find my daddy?”

Brick sighed and shook his head sadly. He did not want to tell him now. Silent swore softly and counted the cartridge-heads in his belt.

“Want to take a ride to Silverton, buddy?” queried Brick.

“Sure.” Whizzer hopped off his chair and almost fell down. “My feet don’t feel good,” he told Brick. “They ache.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t take him plumb down there, Brick.” Thus Mrs. Wesson quickly. “He needs a bath and some good sleep.”

“I know it, Ma,” nodded Brick, “but I’ve got to take him. It might be kinda hard on Whizzer, but he’ll pull through.”

“Sure,” nodded Whizzer. “I’ll go.”

Mrs. Wesson grumbled to herself, as she wrapped him up in a light blanket. She knew that Brick must have a good reason for taking the youngster to Silverton; but she did want to clean him up a little.

“Lemme carry him,” begged Silent. “I’ve got a strong horse, and it takes a strong horse to carry two cowpunchers.”

“Sure,” agreed Whizzer. “I lost m’ spur, yuh know.”

“Yuh can have both of mine,” offered Silent, as Brick handed the youngster up to him.

“Oh, good! If daddy gives me one, I’ll have three. Mebbe he won’t though.”

“Mebbe not,” said Silent softly.

* * * * *

A dance in Silverton was almost a county affair. They had the largest hall in the county and boasted of the best orchestra. The dance usually began about eight o’clock in the evening and rarely ever ended before eight o’clock the following morning.

And it was not strange on this night that every bit of space in the livery-stable was taken and practically every inch of space at the several hitch-racks was occupied. It was also a big night for the games at the Short Horn saloon, as every cowpuncher made it a point to borrow or draw enough money to make the trip worth while.

Already the rasping notes of a fiddler tuning his instrument filtered out through the open windows of the big upstairs dance-hall across the street from the Short Horn saloon. Cowpunchers, suffering in celluloid collars, tight boots, and exuding odors of Jockey Club and cologne, were at the bar; trying to appear at ease, as if this sartorial splendor were nothing unusual.

From somewhere Slim Hunter had procured an old dress coat, which exhibited a vast expanse of his red-and-green striped shirt, and did not blend well with his light blue trousers and yellow boots. Banty Harrison, sans vest, but with a great, striped Ascot tie, was perspiring freely, trying to keep the thing on his collar. But no one criticized their apparel. Everyone was there to have a good time, regardless of clothes.

Men shouted at each other and flung their money on the bar or across the green cloth, while the roulette-wheel whizzed and the dealer’s voices blended into the babel of voices. Harp had left Miss Miller to the tender mercies of some Silverton ladies and had invaded the Short Horn for a nerve elixir.

Grant, Hendricks, and Leach were at the bar when Harp came in, and Grant went directly to him.

“Where’s Brick?” he asked.

Harp shook his head and gave his orders to the busy bartender.

“I dunno, Bill.”

“When did yuh see him last, Harp?”

Harp rubbed his nose thoughtfully. Leach had moved in close enough to listen in on the conversation; so Harp did not answer. He took his drink and drew Grant away from the bar, leaving Leach with Hendricks.

“I dunno where he is,” declared Harp. “He didn’t come home last night. I never knowed that McKeever was killed until late today.”

“Got any idea where he is, Harp?”

“Not a danged idea. Him and Silent sneaked away from me yesterday, and I ain’t seen ’em since.”

“It’s kinda funny,” mused Grant. “They wanted to hold an inquest over McKeever today, but they had to put it off until Brick and Silent showed up. Do yuh suppose they ran into somethin’?”

“Who seen ’em last here?”

“Doctor Bridger. He saw them ride out of town.”

“Uh-huh,” Harp squinted reflectively.

“Well, I dunno, Bill.”

Leach walked up to them and spoke directly to Grant.

“Well, does he know anything about them, Grant?”

Grant shook his head and looked at Harp who was looking curiously at Leach. Harp grinned softly. He could afford to grin now, because he knew that Leach had seen him bring Miss Miller to Silverton.

“Seems funny that the sheriff would avoid the inquest,” said Leach. “Perhaps he had a reason for not wantin’ to be here.”

“I’ll betcha he did,” said Harp. “Brick usually has a good reason for doin’ things.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Yuh see, Brick ain’t no detective—he’s a man-hunter.”

“Man-hunter?” Leach laughed sarcastically. “Who did he ever catch?”

“You better read local hist’ry,” advised Harp.

“Brick got a few of ’em,” nodded Grant.

“History, eh?” Leach grinned. “I suppose he has had it all written out and bound in books.”

“All except the last chapter,” said Harp seriously. “He’s writin’ that now, I reckon.”

Leach laughed and walked away.

“He don’t like you, Harp,” smiled Grant.

“By golly, that just about breaks me all up, Bill. When I look at him and know he don’t like me, I just tremble with emotion. Yes sir, it’s just like havin’ a chill. Yuh goin’ to the dance?”

“No, I don’t think so. I ain’t dressed for dancin’.”

“Yuh might borrow Slim Hunter’s coat. He looks just like one of them there doctor’s charts, which shows yore insides, after yore kinda opened up that-a-way. That shirt sure does correspond to them colored heart, liver and lung things.”

Banty Harrison came shoving his way past, but stopped to shake hands with Harp.

“Let’s go over and dance, Harp,” he panted. “It’s too danged hot in here. I’m goin’ to git a string, if I can find one, and tie this imported necktie to the top button of my pants. Dang anybody that would sell a tie like this. Yuh got to be a civil engineer to even tie it. C’mon.”

“Won’t she stay down, Banty?” queried Harp.

“Stay ——! Every time I start talkin’ and kinda wigglin’ my throat, the darned thing comes up and bumps my lower lip.”

Hank Stagg came past them and went to the bar. He was already half-drunk and talking loud. Ike Welden joined him at the bar, but Welden was still sober. Santel came in and walked past them, his eyes sweeping the smoke-filled room. Hank called to him, asking him to have a drink, but Santel either did not hear him or did not want to drink with him.

“There’ll be —— to pay before mornin’,” declared Banty. “Yuh can’t put a gang like that together, along with plenty of hooch, and not have trouble. Whisky and six-guns don’t mix. —— this necktie!”

“Why don’tcha pin it down to yore shirt?”

“Yeah—and have it pull my shirt off, eh? Harp, you ain’t got no idea of the —— in this necktie. What I need is a collar with a pistol-grip finish instead of this ——ed slick thing.”

“Cowboys goin’ to a dance, eh?” Slim Hunter stopped to look them over.

“Introducin’ to you,” said Harp seriously, “the effect of tobacco and alcohol on the intestines.”

“Jist when do I laugh?” asked Slim.

“Next time yuh go to the bar.”

“Uh-huh,” Slim grinned and went on. He had no idea what Harp meant.

“What’ll make him laugh when he goes to the bar?” queried Banty.

“He’ll be facin’ the bar,” said Harp wearily, “and the back-bar mirror ought to show him what I meant.”

“Haw, haw, haw! Aw, —— this tie! Can’t even laugh. C’mon and help me find a guy-rope. By golly, I won’t stand for my own clothes slappin’ me in the mouth.”

They crossed the street and procured a length of string at a general store, with which they secured the tie to a suspender button, much to Banty’s delight. Then they went upstairs into the dance hall, where the floor was rapidly filling for the first quadrille.

It was possibly an hour later when Brick and Silent dismounted at the hitch-rack across the street from the Short Horn saloon. Whizzer had slept nearly all the way, but he was awake now and Silent turned him over to Brick.

The music had just stopped in the dance hall, and a number of men were straggling across the street toward the Short Horn, laughing and talking. Brick heard Harp’s voice, arguing with somebody over the proper way to hold down a necktie.

“C’mon,” said Brick softly.

He hoisted little Whizzer up on his shoulder and walked boldly into the saloon. The place was filled with men, hazy with tobacco smoke. Brick shoved his way to the bar and stood Whizzer on its polished top.

It was several moments before any one recognized the youngster, who was looking them over with his wide brown eyes. It was Mose LaClede, the big trapper, who made the discovery, and his voice boomed loudly above the roar of the conversation:

“By ——! De los’ boy! Look! I’m be a —— liar, if it ain’t de leetle boy ’imself.”

The roar of conversation broke abruptly. It was not a slowing down, but a sudden silence. Even the whirr of the roulette and the rattle of poker-chips was stilled, as the crowd stared at the little overall-clad, dirty-faced youngster on the bar, who was looking at them.

There was a cleared space of several yards between Brick and the crowd. Silent had halted nearer the door. Brick could see Santel in the crowd. Hank Stagg was at the bar, just beyond Brick, staring wide-eyed at the youngster.

And before any one could voice a question Leach came striding in past Silent, but stopped quickly, wondering at the silence. He turned his eyes and saw little Whizzer. Meecham, well-dressed, came in, glanced quickly at the crowd and stopped almost against Silent.

“Well, I’ll be ——ed if it ain’t the kid!” exclaimed Bill Grant. “Where did yuh find him, Brick?”

But Brick did not reply. He was watching Whizzer.

“Baldy Malloy’s kid, eh?” Leach’s voice sounded as if he were suffering from a cold.

A man laughed, and Brick glanced in that direction to see Ike Welden standing up in a chair against the wall. Ike was partly drunk. Brick’s sweeping glance included Santel, who was leaning forward, his face tense, shoulders hunched.

“Take her easy, Brick.”

It was Harp speaking from the far end of the bar. He knew that trouble was coming. A man began crying. It was Hank Stagg. Perhaps it was from the effect of liquor—perhaps not. Meecham started to back away, but Silent blocked him.

Leach forced a smile and moved slightly closer. Whizzer was staring at Leach and now he grasped Brick’s shoulder.

“Don’t let him touch me!” The childish treble sounded loud in the silence of the room.

Leach stopped.

“Why not, Whizzer?” Brick’s lips barely moved and he did not turn his head. “Are yuh afraid of him, buddy?”

“He’s got warts on his hands! And there’s the frog on his holster!”

“Warts? Frog?”

Brick’s eyes shifted to Leach’s hands, which were turned away, as if Leach were trying to conceal them. But he could not conceal the holster, on which was the leaping-frog design in silver. Perhaps it was the symbol of a swift draw.

Leach’s face had gone white, his jaw tensed. Hank Stagg’s sobs were the only audible noise, except the heavy breathing of the crowd.

“Tell us about it, buddy,” said Brick softly. “He ain’t goin’ to hurt yuh.”

“He’s got warts on his hands,” repeated the little fellow. “The man had ’em—the man who wore the cloth over his face—and he had the frog on his holster. Frogs make warts, don’tcha know it? I don’t like warts—and he’s got ’em.”

The little fellow, in spite of his treatment, had seen the warty hands and the leaping frog, and they had impressed him so strongly that there was no chance of a mistake.

“Good boy,” breathed Brick, and then a little louder, “Bartender, will yuh please put this boy on yore side of the bar?”

The frightened drink-dispenser shuffled down behind Brick, lifted the youngster down and went quickly back to the farther end of the bar. Leach laughed. Somewhere a handful of poker-chips slid from a table and rattled to the floor.

“What’s it all about, anyway?” demanded Leach.

Brick leaned back against the bar. His face was drawn, blue, in that weak light, and he seemed tired. But those who knew him well, knew that he was dangerous now. The light-hearted, devil-may-care Brick Davidson was gone, and in his place was the sheriff of Sun Dog, a man-hunter— not a detective.

“It took quite a while,” Brick’s voice was pitched low, but plainly audible to every one in the room. “Sometimes things take a long time to work out. A lot of yuh don’t know that Baldy Malloy was shot through the heart before he went over the grade. I knew it, Doctor Meyers knew it, and Grant and Santel knew it. I reckon it’s been kept sort of a secret.

“I reckon that Baldy was shot because he bucked against doin’ any more crooked work. It kinda looks like Baldy wanted to go straight on account of his little kid; but they couldn’t let him get away, ’cause he felt indebted to me for savin’ his kid.”

“You ain’t guessin’ everythin’, are yuh, Brick?” queried Bill Grant anxiously.

“Not all of it. A lot of it is guesswork, Bill; but I’ll bet my life that I’m close to the bull’s-eye. It’s a funny thing—” Brick shifted slightly and a grin passed his lips—“we’ve had several robberies, which never occurred. Baldy Malloy was held up, Ike Welden was held up, and the Silverton bank was robbed.

“The robbers in each case were described as bein’ the same men. And the funny part of it all is the fact that the descriptions cover me, Harp Harris and Silent Slade. Nobody seen ’em except Baldy Malloy, Ike Welden and Meecham. Gents, those robberies never occurred.”

“The —— they didn’t!” Ike Welden’s voice squeaked like a discordant fiddle. “What in —— do you know about it?”

“Why—why, that is ridiculous,” faltered Meecham.

“And you better stay where yuh are,” warned Silent, as Meecham moved slightly backward.

“Baldy Malloy’s shack caught fire just before the bank robbery,” continued Brick. “Everybody went to the fire. It sure was a good chance to rob the bank.”

“Just what is all this conversation about?” queried Leach.

He folded his arms and squinted at Brick, trying to cover his nervousness.

Brick laughed at him—with his mouth; the rest of his face tensed, serious. The crowd shifted audibly.

“Mebbe yuh don’t get the drift of it, Leach,” said Brick. “I’ll start a little further back in hist’ry and give yuh a chance to foller me.

“It began in Idaho.”

Leach jerked slightly and his eyes flashed to Hank Stagg, who was slouched at the bar, looking down at the floor. Hank had stopped crying now and his thumbs were hooked over his cartridge-belt.

“Some folks got to understand each other—in Idaho,” continued Brick. “One of ’em came to Sun Dog and got in kinda solid. He made money, I reckon. But all the time he was lookin’ for bigger money; so he got them Idaho folks to migrate down here, and they formed kind of a little corporation to loot Sun Dog.

“It sure worked, too. But they got scared of the sheriff’s office. The big haul wasn’t pulled yet, and they wanted to keep me quiet until that was cinched; so they imported a detective to handle the mystery.”

Every eye in the place flashed to Santel, but he never moved. His eyes were watching Leach. Even Brick’s statement did not seem to impress him.

“They got him in Idaho, too,” said Brick softly. “He was known as a killer in that country. There’s prob’ly several sheriffs up there that would like to put handcuffs on him.”

But even the direct accusation did not affect Santel. Men moved away from him, but he remained as immovable as a statue.

“I kinda blame myself for Soapy Caswell gettin’ shot,” said Brick. “Yuh see, I lied about that hold-up. I told ’em down here that Soapy got through to the Red Hill mine with the twenty-seven-thousand-dollar payroll, when I knew better.

“It must ’a’ been that Soapy got hold of a dummy payroll, and that the gang couldn’t get in touch with the man who was to pull off the job to see if he had failed; so they shot Soapy and blew the mine safe to try and save themselves. They thought that I knew it was a dummy payroll and that I could trace ’em through the man who fixed up the dummy for Soapy; so they dynamited my office and burned half of the town of Marlin.”

Santel laughed hollowly, as if greatly amused. Leach shot a glance at Santel and his hands dropped to his sides.

“Didn’t trust me, eh?” said Santel.

“I seen you shoot Mostano today, Santel,” said Brick.

“Yeah,” Santel nodded, but did not look at Brick. “What about the frog on the holster? What did the kid mean?”

“He remembered that much,” said Brick tensely. “When his dad was shot and the stage swung off the grade, Whizzer was dumped off onto the grade. He was kinda badly hurt, but he remembers hearin’ the shot fired. The man who fired the shot wore a mask, but the kid remembers that he had a frog on his holster.”

“Leach!” Santel spat the name. “—— you, I thought you was the one!”

As Santel spoke he whipped out his gun. But Leach was not caught napping, and two guns thundered almost at the same time. There was only a short space between them—too short for either of them to miss. It was all being done in split-second time.

Brick felt the burning shock of a bullet into the muscles of his left arm, which staggered him back against the bar; but his gun came up and he fired at Ike Welden, who was standing on the chair shooting at him. Leach was falling into Brick, who fended him away with his gun-hand. Santel was on his hands and knees, coughing his life away, and Silent, with Meecham clutched in a wrestling grip, came crashing down in the middle of the floor.

Ike Welden was still on his feet, trying to pull the trigger, a vacant look on his face, as he leaned against the wall. The crowd had scattered like a covey of frightened quail. Some of them were flat on the floor, several were behind the bar, and many of them had faded out through the rear exit.

Hank Stagg was the only one who did not show fight. He still leaned against the bar, dazed, half-crying. The shooting had ceased now. Harp stepped away from the far end of the bar, a smoking gun in his hand, and stared at Ike Welden, who seemed asleep, standing up in the chair.