Part 5

Hank corked the bottle, shoved it into his hip-pocket and followed Leach outside, where they headed for the mine bunkhouse. Devine laughed and held out a handful of cigars to Brick.

“Might as well smoke on Hank Stagg, Brick. I’ve tried five of ’em, and not one will draw. But that hooch has authority.”

Brick accepted one, lit and discarded it in a moment for a cigaret.

“What’s on your mind?” queried Barney.

“You use a lot of meat don’tcha, Barney?”

“Darned right we do. You can’t feed a crew like we’ve got and not use a lot of fresh meat.”

“Who do yuh buy from?”

“Hm-m-m.” Barney frowned thoughtfully, reached for a book and skipped through the pages. “Here it is—Mostano; J. Mostano. I think they call him Joe.”

“Joe Mostano, eh? He’s that ’breed back on Lick Creek. Bought out that old Hopper ranch, didn’t he? Brands with a big H. Covers half the animal.”

“I don’t know,” replied Barney. “Art Fields runs the commissary and takes care of the buying. You got some beef to sell, Brick?”

Brick shook his head and got to his feet.

“I wonder if I could have a little talk with Fields?”

“Sure thing. He’s in that big building on the other side of the cook-shack. You know him?”

“Nope, but I can find him.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Barney got his hat and they walked to the commissary building. Hank Stagg and Leach were talking to several men near the bunk-house. Leach said something to the men, which caused them to laugh.

Art Fields was a little, fat man, with an almost totally bald head and a serious face. He shook hands with Brick and waited for him to state his business.

“Yes, we buy from Mostano,” he said, in answer to Brick’s question. “He has been supplying us with beef for several months. It is cheaper than having it freighted in. Mostano packs it in on his horses. His ranch is only about six miles from here, I think.”

“Is it good meat?”

“Fine.”

“Does he bring the hides with it?” asked Brick.

“The hides? Why, I don’t think so. We don’t buy hides.”

“Sure yuh don’t,” grinned Brick, “but it’s a law, Fields. When yuh sell meat that-a-way you’ve got to show the hide.”

“Oh-h-h, I get the idea.” Fields looked very wise. “I never thought of that, sheriff. Why, sure, it would be easy to kill somebody’s cattle and sell ’em to us. I don’t know whether Mostano knows about this or not, but I’ll see that he does. Next time he shows up, he better have the hide.”

“Has somebody been killing cattle?” asked Barney softly.

“I don’t think so,” smiled Brick. “I got to thinkin’ about you havin’ to buy so much meat, and I thought yuh ought to know what the law was. It might save yuh trouble.”

“That’s right,” agreed Barney. “We want to stay inside the law, you bet.”

“I guess that Mostano is all right,” said Fields. “He seems to be a pretty good ’breed, and he is sure prompt on delivery. He will bring in a load tomorrow some time.”

“Well, I’m much obliged,” smiled Brick. “See yuh later.”

“Come any old time.”

Brick and Barney walked back toward the office, and met Hank and Sam Leach, who were coming toward the commissary.

“Land any converts?” asked Brick.

“Got a lot of promises,” grinned Hank drunkenly. “Thish here polit’cal business is hard on the stummick.”

“Aw, come on!” snorted Leach.

“Foller papa,” laughed Brick.

Leach snorted and started to say something, but evidently changed his mind. A man was riding in on a pinto horse and Barney called Brick’s attention to him.

“That’s Mostano, Brick.”

The rider was of medium height, rather heavy, sitting humped in his saddle, his face completely shaded by a wide sombrero. He rode around the corner of the cookshack, heading toward the commissary building. Brick stopped and looked back.

“I reckon I’ll go back there, Barney,” he said. “I’d kinda like to get a look at Mostano.”

Brick started back and Barney went with him. They stopped at the corner of the building, where they could hear the men talking. It was evident that an argument had started, in which Hank and Leach had joined.

“It’s none of my business,” said Fields, “but it’s the law. You’ve got to have the hide of the animal, Mostano. I didn’t know it until the sheriff told me about it today.”

“Aw, to —— with the sheriff!” Thus Sam Leach. “Let’s all have a drink. Fields, I want you to meet Hank Stagg. Hank is our next sheriff.”

Fields grunted an acknowledgment.

“Why do I bring hides?” queried Mostano. “My meat is good.”

“I’m not kicking about the meat,” replied Fields. “I’m just telling you—”

“Nobody pays any attention to that law,” interrupted Leach. “It’s a law all right, but what the ——? We’ve got too many laws.”

“Hides make big load,” complained Mostano. “I have to pack one more horse. Too much work.”

“That’s right,” agreed Leach. “Here, have a drink, Fields. That ——ed sheriff is too officious. Wait until Hank is elected.”

There was silence while the bottle was being passed, and then Mostano’s voice grew a trifle more belligerent.

“I no like to pack hides.”

“All right,” grunted Fields. “Take a chance, if you want to. You never know when the sheriff is going to pop up on you. It’s your funeral—not mine.”

“He don’t come out here very often, does he?” asked Leach.

“I never met him until today. I may not be any judge of human nature, but I don’t want him catchin’ me breaking the law.”

“Aw, he ain’t so much,” said Hank thickly.

“You better take your sheriff prospect and put him to bed,” observed Fields, laughing. “He’s buckling at the knees.”

“I no bring hides,” declared Mostano.

Brick touched Barney on the arm and they walked back to the office. Brick was very thoughtful over what he had heard.

“That’s what whisky does,” said Barney. “Fields was all right, until he got that drink.”

“Don’t worry about him,” smiled Brick. “He’s just human. We’d all say the same thing, if we were in his place. Hank and Leach have the idea that whisky and cigars will bring votes. Maybe it would, if they could vote ’em right at the time. Well, I’ve got to be driftin’, Barney. Don’t say anythin’ to Fields.”

“It won’t get him into trouble, will it, Brick?”

“No-o-o. Maybe it’s better that way. So-long.”

* * * * *

Brick mounted and went slowly down the road about a quarter of a mile, where he swung up the side of hill, heading northwest of the Red Hill property. A narrow hog-back ridge led back to the top of the hill, from where he could get a bird’s-eye view of the big mine.

As he rested his horse he saw Mostano ride away from the mine, traveling in the same general direction as Brick was heading. Brick waited for Mostano to disappear in the timber before going on.

The ridge led back through fairly heavy timber, forcing him to travel slowly. About two miles from the mine he stopped. He knew that the old Hooper ranch was located about due north of where he was, and that Mostano must cross that ridge on his way home.

In a few minutes he was rewarded by seeing Mostano ride up the side of the hill, cross the ridge about two hundred yards beyond him and ride down into the next cañon. Brick moved on and found the trail. He gave Mostano plenty of time before following him.

The trail led around the head of the next cañon, twisted down the opposite side and came out into more open country. There were several head of cattle on this side, and Brick noted that all of them were branded with the big H.

The trail led to the edge of a high bluff, where he drew rein. Below the bluff, about half a mile away, he could see the buildings of the old Hooper ranch, standing in the middle of a big, partly cleared meadow. But he could see nothing of Mostano now.

There was no sign of life about the place. The corrals were empty. Brick considered the place for quite a while. He was suspicious of Mostano. Whoever was killing the beef must have a ready market for meat. There were other big mining crews at Redrock, but that was too far away for any one to transport the meat at a profit.

Finally he decided to take a closer view of the place; so he spurred down the bluff trail and rode boldly up to the old ranch-house. A half-breed woman came to the door, as he dismounted, shading her eyes from the sun. She was a slatternly looking woman, poorly dressed, bare of feet.

“Howdy,” grinned Brick. “You Mrs. Mostano?”

“Um-m-m.” She was not at all friendly.

“Where’s Joe?” he asked.

She squinted at him and shook her head. A number of mongrel dogs came from behind the house and created a din with their barking. Brick slapped at them with his hat and they went yelping for cover. It was evident that Mostano had taught them their place.

“Nice dogs yuh got,” offered Brick.

“Um-m-m.”

“Me and you don’t seem to be able to find things to talk about,” grinned Brick. “Don’tcha get lonesome livin’ up here?”

The woman squinted down at her bare feet and up at Brick.

“W’at you want here?” she demanded.

“I want to talk to Joe?”

“W’y you want Joe?”

“Mebbe I want to buy some cheap meat.”

She considered this thoughtfully. Brick thought he had made an impression, but this was quickly dispelled by—

“I think you —— liar.”

Then she turned, stepped into the house and shut the door. Brick laughed and swung back onto his horse.

“Mebbe that’s right, too,” he chuckled. “My reputation must ’a’ got here ahead of my winnin’ personality.”

He rode past the house and looked over the corrals. There was no sign of any one having butchered stock there, and Brick decided that Mr. Mostano must do the butchering in the hills. He was sure that Mostano had not come home, as there was no sign of himself nor of the pinto horse.

As he rode back past the house he noticed that the place commanded a fine view of the high bluff and trail. It would be impossible for any one to approach the ranch unseen in daylight from that direction.

At the top of the bluff he looked back, but there was no sign of any one moving around the house. He swung to the left, heading in almost a direct line toward Marlin City, taking a chance that he would be able to strike the Big Elk grades about where they sloped down onto the lower ground.

Brick had never been through that part of the hills, but felt that it would be easier than going back to the Red Hill mine. The timber was fairly heavy and that side of the hill was grown up with jack-pine and willows, making it rather difficult traveling.

He had just skirted a willow thicket and was looking for a good place to cross a rocky swale, when he caught a glimpse of a rider skirting the side of the hill about an eighth of a mile beyond him. The heavy cover made it difficult for him to catch more than a glimpse.

Brick drew his horse into the cover of a willow bush and waited. His sorrel horse blended in well with the colors of the hillside, and he was curious to know who this rider might be.

But try as he might he could not locate him again. He felt that the rider was not coming toward him, because it would be impossible for a horse to travel silently. He scanned the hills in all directions. There was something further up on the hill—something that moved.

“Prob’ly a cow,” said Brick to himself. “That jigger couldn’t ’a’ got up there that quick.”

Then came the smashing report of a gun. The echoes clattered from hill to hill, dying away in diminishing echoes. Brick dropped out of his saddle, gun in hand. He had not heard the bullet. Whoever it was, they were not shooting at him.

Again the rifle awoke the echoes. Brick grinned to himself.

“Shootin’ cattle,” he told himself. “Somebody is killin’ a load of meat for the Red Hill mine, and here’s my chance to put the deadwood upon him.”

There was no more shooting. Brick squatted on his heels and waited. He intended to give the man a chance to get busy on his butchering before making a search. He knew that this man might wait quite a while after his kill, to make sure that no one was going to make an investigation of the shots. Brick was a good waiter.

It was possibly fifteen minutes after the last shot had been fired, when Brick heard a noise. It came from below him, and sounded like the snapping of a dry stick. Brick’s horse was well concealed by the willows from any one coming up the slope.

Just below Brick was a jack-pine thicket, growing up out of a tangle of rocks and old logs, and he studied this closely. One of the jack-pine tops jiggled, as if something had struck it slightly. Brick humped a little lower and drew back the hammer on his six-shooter.

Something was coming out through the thicket within ten feet of Brick. At first he thought it was a bear. Brick did not want trouble with a bear just now. A six-shooter is an unreliable bear weapon—and Brick was after bigger game.

Then the bear resolved itself into a man—Santel. He lifted his head slowly, his eyes searching ahead—and looked into the muzzle of Brick’s six-shooter.

For several moments they looked at each other. Then:

“It’s yuh, eh?” said Santel softly.

“Yeah,” nodded Brick. “Yuh better let go that gun, Santel.”

“I know it.”

Santel sat up, leaving his gun on the ground, while Brick moved down and secured it. Then he sat down and they considered each other.

“Where’s your rifle?” queried Santel. He did not seem greatly concerned over his capture.

“I haven’t any,” replied Brick.

“No?” Santel wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. “No rifle? Huh! Yuh didn’t kill my horse with a six-gun?”

“I didn’t even shoot at your horse,” declared Brick.

“No?” Santel’s brows lifted slightly, and a grin twisted his lips. “Well, somebody did, sheriff. My horse is dead—neck broke.”

“Yeah?” Brick’s blue eyes squinted thoughtfully. “This must ’a’ been a three-handed game, Santel. Just what are yuh doin’ over here?”

“Just lookin’. No law against lookin’ around, is there?”

Brick grinned and handed Santel his gun.

“Not a bit.”

“Thanks,” Santel holstered his gun. “What was it all about?”

Brick shook his head. He was as much in the dark as Santel. He told Santel what he had seen, but he did not say that he was of the opinion that the shots were fired by a meat-thief.

Santel got to his feet and looked around. Brick walked back to his horse and picked up the reins.

“You ride a sorrel, too, eh?” remarked Santel thoughtfully. “My horse is a sorrel.”

“Mebbe,” said Brick seriously, “it was a good thing for me. We’ll cache yore saddle and ride my horse double.”

They found Santel’s horse, unsaddled it and hid the saddle in the heavy foliage of a fir-tree. Santel studied the landmarks to get his bearings, mounted behind Brick and they headed for Marlin City.

“Have yuh got any idea who done that shootin’?” asked Santel.

“Not for publication,” replied Brick. “Anyway, the county commissioners told me to let yuh alone, Santel. They said that yuh wouldn’t need my help in findin’ out things.”

“Tha’sso?”

“Yeah, yo’re supposed to be a regular finder, yuh know.”

“I’m tryin’ to find out some things, sheriff.”

“Well,” laughed Brick, “they can’t expect to have yuh find out everythin’.”

“They probably will be ——ed sorry if I do.”

“Oh, yeah,” grunted Brick. “I’ll betcha that’s right.”

But Brick hadn’t the slightest idea what Santel meant.

They rode to the Star Dot ranch, where they found Hank Stagg and Sam Leach sitting on the porch, talking with Bill Grant. Their coming, mounted on one horse, must have caused a certain amount of speculation in the minds of the three men, but no questions were asked.

Santel dismounted and held out his hand to Brick.

“I’m sure much obliged to yuh, sheriff,” he said.

“Same here,” smiled Brick.

“Get off and rest yore feet, Brick,” invited Grant.

Brick shook his head and gathered up his reins:

“Not today, Bill, thank yuh. I’m kinda busy these days, lookin’ after the morals of our feller-men.”

“That’s a good job for you,” declared Sam Leach.

“Y’betcha. There’s a lot of ’em that need lookin’ after, Leach. I don’t want to be personal, but I will say that there’s a lot of loose cinches in this country, and if they ain’t tightened up pretty quick—somebody’s saddle is goin’ to turn.”

“Meaning what?” queried Leach.

Brick swung his horse around and headed for the gate, without answering Leach’s question. In fact, he couldn’t have answered it. He disliked Leach, and he knew that such a statement would rankle in Leach’s bosom for quite a while.

That someone had mistaken Santel for him—Brick—was almost a certainty, Brick decided. Just what Santel was doing in that part of the hills, he had no idea. Brick had left the Red Hill mine and had ridden up the hog-back in full view of the mine. It was possible that Mostano had seen him and had tried to kill him.

It was not a place frequented by cowboys, and it would have been easy for Mostano to mistake Santel for Brick, as they were both mounted on sorrel horses. At any rate, thought Brick, Joe Mostano was worth watching.

Santel’s statement regarding the county commissioners set Brick to thinking. Just what would it make them sorry for him to find out, he wondered? Miss Miller had recognized Santel as being a bad man—a gun-fighter. According to her, Santel had been a hired gun-man for the sheep interests, and had been suspected of murdering two cowpunchers in Idaho.

Brick was willing to discount the murder statement. He knew that, under those circumstances, an ordinary killing would be termed murder. Santel did not look like a murderer, but he did look like a gun-man, whose gun might be for rent.

“Well,” Brick resolved, “I’m not goin’ to worry about Santel. Mebbe between us we can kinda launder old Sun Dog and hang her out to dry in the sun. Anyway, somebody has fired the first gun of the battle—and all they got was a horse.”

* * * * *

It was several days later that Soapy Caswell came to Marlin City, driving a spirited pair of bronchos, hitched to a buckboard. He tied them at the Dollar Down hitch-rack and met Brick in front of Wesson’s store.

“Goin’ some place, or just got there?” queried Brick.

“If I wanted to go some place, I wouldn’t stop here,” grunted Soapy. “Don’t like yore town. What do yuh think of that?”

“That’s fine,” grinned Brick. “Mebbe we better call a meetin’ and let everybody grieve. What do yuh know, Soapy?”

“Danged little, Brick. Doin’ any good for yoreself?”

“Not much.”

“Uh-huh.” Soapy lowered his voice. “Did that detective ever show up?”

“Been here quite a while, Soapy. Name’s Santel.”

“Tha’sso? I reckon I might as well expect to get all that stolen money back pretty soon, eh?”

“Yuh might as well expect to, Soapy.”

“Gosh, that’s fine! I’m all excited, like an old lady. It’s too bad he wasn’t here to find the little Malloy boy.”

“He was here. He helped hunt for him, Soapy.”

“Pshaw! Then he ain’t no wizard, is he? Well, mebbe I won’t get that money back. What are yuh doin’ today, Brick? Anythin’ special?”

“Nope.”

“Then come and take a ride with me, will yuh? I’ve got to go out to the Red Hill mine and see Barney Devine, and I sure hate to travel alone. We’ll be comin’ right back. What do yuh say?”

“Well, all right, Soapy. I’ll tell Harp that I’m goin’.”

Brick went to the office, where he found Harp stretched out on a cot, groaning out an alleged tune on his jew’s-harp.

“I’m goin’ to Red Hill with Soapy Caswell,” stated Brick. “If anybody tries to break into jail—stop ’em, Harp.”

“Aw-w-w right. Leave me plenty of shells for the riot-gun and I’ll sure keep the place sanitary. I’ve got a new tune, Brick. Listen to this, will yuh? It’s a dinger. Wa-a-ait a minute!”

But Brick ducked out through the doorway and hurried up to the hitch-rack, where Soapy waited for him. Harp got up and went to the doorway, where he watched Soapy and Brick drive out of town.

Slim Hunter was dismounting in front of Wesson’s store, so Harp wandered up there. Slim was talking to Cale Wesson about putting up an announcement in his store, when Harp came in.

“Hello, yuh long-geared ant-eater,” greeted Harp.

“Same to you, you bat-eared cattywampus,” grinned Slim. “How are yuh?”

“Finer ’n frawg-hair. Watcha doin’, Slim?”

“Advertisin’ a dance.”

“Tha’sso? Where—Silverton?”

“Y’betcha. Next Friday night. Oyster supper, too. Goin’ to have some reg’lar music, too, Harp. Yuh want t’ be there.”

“Friday night, eh?”

Harp was thinking fast. Here was his chance to take Miss Miller and he was not going to lose any time in asking her.

“See yuh later, Slim,” he grunted, turning to the door. “I’m kinda in a hurry right now.”

Harp went outside and headed for Wesson’s home, going as fast as he could walk on high heels. Mrs. Wesson answered his knock, squinting at him quizzically.

“Miss Miller to home?” asked Harp.

Mrs. Wesson shook her head.

“No, she is still at the schoolhouse, Harp. She won’t be home until after four o’clock.”

“Uh-huh.” Harp shifted his feet nervously. “There’s goin’ to be a dance at Silverton next Friday.”

“So I heard.”

“Yuh did? Who told yuh, Mrs. Wesson?”

“Why, Sam Leach was here kinda early this mornin’ to ask Miss Miller to go with him.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Harp in a far-away voice, “Uh-huh. We-ell, I reckon they’ll have a real nice dance. Much obliged, Mrs. Wesson.”

“I’m makin’ some doughnuts,” offered Mrs. Wesson, knowing Harp’s fondness for such delicacies. But this was one time when Harp’s sweet tooth had turned sour.

“Just as much obliged,” he said painfully. “I’ve been havin’ a touch of inde-jest-shun. Mebbe next time, thank yuh. Nice weather we’re havin’, Mrs. Wesson. Well, I’ll be jiggin’ along.”

Mrs. Wesson stood in the doorway and watched Harp go back to the street, walking dejectedly. She tried to laugh, was a failure; so she went back to her kettle. Harp went back to the street and headed for the Dollar Down.

His soul was sore within him and he needed a bracer. Slim Hunter had given the bartender one of the notices to put on the back-bar, and Harp gazed upon it with sad eyes.

“Drinkin’ anythin’?” queried Slim.

“Yeah—anythin’,” replied Harp sadly. “My stummick is kinda antegodlin’, and mebbe a shot or two will fix her up.”

They had a drink on Slim, one on Harp and then the bartender opened his heart enough to shove out the glasses. After these three drinks, Slim began to dilate upon the wonders of the coming dance.