Part 1

The Taking of Cloudy McGee

[Illustration]

The Taking of Cloudy McGee

by W. C. Tuttle Author of “On the Prod,” “The Sundown Prodigal,” etc.

It was easy to see that fate had been kind to Ferdinand P. Putney, because he was not in jail. In fact, he never had been in jail. But he was comparatively a young man yet. He was six feet three inches tall, would weigh about a hundred and forty, and wore a size eleven shoe.

His face was very long, his eyes pouched, rather inclined to redness, which gave him the mien of a very old and very wise bloodhound. His almost yellow hair grew without much opposition from the barber, and he wore a derby hat of a decided green tinge.

Ferdinand P. Putney was the lawyer of Lost Hills town. The folks of Lost Hills were not given to carrying their troubles to the law; so one lawyer was enough. Ferdinand had been many things in his forty years of life, but that has nothing to do with the fact that he had studied law--a little.

And there was another rather prominent man in Lost Hills, whose name was Amos K. Weed. Amos was the cashier of the Lost Hills bank, mate of his own soul, (Ferdinand P. Putney was the captain) and a bottle-drinker after working hours.

Amos was a scrawny individual, five feet six inches tall, with a high, wide forehead, pinched nose, beady eyes and long, slender fingers. His shoulders were slightly stooped and he shuffled when he walked. Amos’ life consisted mostly of looking up and down a column of figures.

But for many years Amos had dreamed of being a great criminal, a master mind; of smashing through things like a Springfield bullet. But his .22 caliber soul had held him back. Amos usually figured out a perfect crime, dreamed that he was about to be hung, and discarded the plan.

On this certain day Amos closed the bank at a few minutes after three o’clock. He carried his hat in his hand, and his breathing was slightly irregular. He fairly slunk away from the bank, shuffling his feet softly, as though afraid his departure might be heard.

He covered the half-block to Ferdinand P. Putney’s office in record time, and found the lawyer at his desk, tilted back in a chair, his big feet atop a pile of dusty books on the desk. Amos slammed the door behind him and stood there, panting heavily. Ferdinand shifted his gaze from the book, which he had been reading, and looked reprovingly upon Amos.

“Well?” queried Ferdinand softly.

“Well!” squeaked Amos. It is likely he intended to thunder, but Amos’ vocal cords were all of the E-string variety. He came closer to the lawyer, his Adam’s-apple doing a series of convulsive leaps, as though trying to break its bounds.

Ferdinand closed the book and waited expectantly for Amos to go further in his conversation, which he did as soon as he had calmed his jerking throat.

“Putney!” he squeaked. “We’re ruined!”

Ferdinand Putney slowly lowered his big feet, placed the book on the table and stood up.

“This?” he said huskily, “is terrible. Just how are we ruined, Amos?”

“They--they didn’t strike oil!”

“Oh!” Ferdinand stared at Amos.

“You mean--_you_ didn’t strike oil?”

“Us! You got me into it, Putney! You know darn well you did. You advised me to soak every cent I could get my hands onto in that Panhandle oil field. You did! You did! You did! You----”

Ferdinand got into the spirit of the chant and began beating time on the desk-top.

“And so you did, eh?” said Ferdinand. “How much, Amos?”

“Fuf--forty thousand dollars!”

“I didn’t know you had that much.”

“I--I didn’t!” Amos’ voice went so high it almost failed to register. Then he whispered, running back down the scale. “It was the bank money.”

“Mm-m-m-hah,” Ferdinand nodded slowly, wisely. “I’m going to have a hell of a time keeping you out of jail, Amos.”

“You’re as guilty as I am,” shrilled Amos.

Ferdinand shook his head. “No lawyer was ever put in jail for giving wrong advice, Amos. But I’ll do my best to defend you as soon as they put you in jail.”

“You--you wanted your cut out of it,” choked Amos. “That was the agreement. You hinted that I might take a few dollars from the bank. I bought a third interest in a well, and they never struck oil. I’ll tell ’em--the law--that you helped me; that you advised me to steal from the bank; that you--you----”

“If you keep on talking that way, Amos, I won’t defend you.”

“Defend me? You talk like I was already arrested.”

“It probably won’t be long, Amos. Are you sure they’ll miss it?”

“Miss it? There’s only ten thousand in the bank right now, and the bank examiner is due almost any day.”

“‘We are lost, the captain shouted, as he staggered down the stairs,’” quoted Ferdinand. “That’s worse than I anticipated, Amos. You have practically looted the organization, and the Lost Hills depositors are not the kind that----”

“I know that all by heart!” wailed Amos. “They’ll hang me.”

“But there is still ten thousand dollars in the bank,” mused Ferdinand. “Does Jim Eyton suspect you?”

Eyton was the president of the bank, a big, bluff sort of a person, who trusted Amos implicitly.

“Not yet,” moaned Amos.

“Hm-m-m-m,” said Ferdinand judiciously. He rested his head on one hand, thinking deeply.

And as he racked his brain for a solution out of the difficulty, a man came down the wooden sidewalk, bareheaded, his sleeves rolled to his elbow. It was Miles Rooney, the editor of the Lost Hills _Clarion_, a weekly effort, seven-eighths syndicate matter and one-eighth sarcastic editorial.

He was a living example of the fact that the Lost Hills _Clarion_ was not a paying proposition. His sparse hair stood straight up in the breeze and in one bony hand he clutched a piece of paper.

“What am I going to do?” he demanded, handing the paper to Ferdinand. “I ask you, Putney.”

Putney read the paper slowly. It said:

Editor of Clarion: I ben redin what you sed about me and i want you to no your a lier and it aint so ive all way had a firs clas repitashun amung men and i aint no menis to no budy and nothin like it and im goin to maik you wish you keep your damn nose out of my bisnes.

y’rs respy Cloudy McGee.

Putney placed the paper on his desk and squinted at the editor.

“You wrote an editorial on Cloudy McGee, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know him, Mr. Rooney?”

“I do not,” Mr. Rooney flapped his arms dismally. “I don’t need to know a man of his reputation in order to flay him in print, Mr. Putney.”

“He’s a bad egg,” put in Amos.

“Bad?” Putney lifted his brows. “He’d just as soon kill you as to look at you. If I was running a newspaper, I’d either say nice things about a killer, or I’d say nothing.”

“What satisfaction is your opinion to me?” demanded the harassed editor. “How can we stop him from coming here?”

“We?” Putney shook his head. “He has nothing against me. I have never seen the man in my life. This is a case for the sheriff--not an attorney.”

“Sheriff!” The editor spat angrily. “He and I do not speak. I wrote an editorial about the inefficiency of our sheriff’s office, and----”

“Now he won’t help you save your life, eh?”

“It amounts to that, Mr. Putney.”

“You might apologize to Cloudy McGee, Mr. Rooney.”

“I might!” snapped Mr. Rooney. “But when Cloudy McGee meets me, will he wait long enough to let me do it? The man has a terrible reputation. Why, there’s a thousand dollars reward for him. Will a man of his type be satisfied with an apology?”

“It would establish a precedent,” murmured Putney. “Still, there is only one thing for you to do and that is to wait and see. McGee is a bank robber, I believe.”

“Exactly.”

“According to that letter, he will be here soon. If I were in your place, I would shut up shop and go away for a vacation.”

“Couldn’t we get out a restraining order, Mr. Putney?”

“Yes, we could do that. But it is not likely that the sheriff would serve it. Would you know Cloudy McGee if you saw him?”

“Not at all. No one in Lost Hills has ever seen him.”

“McGee is a gambler,” remarked Amos Weed, who remembered seeing a general description of McGee on a reward notice. “They say he’ll bet on anything. You might make him a gambling proposition, Rooney.”

“Bet him that he can’t hit me three times out of four eh?” retorted Rooney, as he picked up his letter and went away. Putney knitted his brows, as in deep thought, while Amos Weed gnawed a finger-nail. Suddenly the lawyer got an inspiration. He leaned across the desk so suddenly that Amos almost bit his entire nail off.

“Watch for McGee!” snapped Putney. “You’re in a bad fix, Amos. You might as well die for a goat as a lamb. You say there is ten thousand dollars left in the bank--in cash. All right. What do I get for my scheme?”

“For your scheme? Tell it to me, Putney.”

“On a fifty-fifty basis, Amos. If you win, I get half.”

“And if I lose?”

“You’ve already lost, you poor egg.”

“All right,” eagerly. “Fifty-fifty, Putney.”

“That’s a bet, Amos. How soon will the bank examiner come?”

“I don’t know. He’s due any old time.”

“All right. Cloudy McGee is also coming--to kill Miles Rooney. You see McGee before he kills Rooney. Not that we care what he does to Rooney, you understand; but he must postpone it.

“McGee is our meat. Watch for him, Amos. And as soon as you see him, bring him to me. But do this secretly. If there’s any killing going on--remember I’m a lawyer, not a target.”

“I’m no target either,” declared Amos. “I don’t know Cloudy McGee, but I’ll do my best. You’ve got to get me out of this. I took your advice once--and lost.”

“This is a cinch,” assured Putney. “Just let me get at McGee.”

* * * * *

Twenty miles south of Lost Hills was the town of Salt Wells, from which place a stage line ran to Lost Hills. In a dingy little room at Salt Wells’ only hotel, two men sat at a table playing poker. It was early in the evening, and both men were too interested in the game to light a lamp.

One man was tall and lean, with deep-set eyes and a long, damp-looking nose. He breathed through his mouth, and regularly he wiped a long, gnarled finger across his nose, in lieu of a handkerchief.

The other man was also fairly tall, but not so thin. His face was also tanned, but his fingers were more nimble with the cards. He seemed greatly amused over his good luck. On the table between them was a cartridge-belt and holstered Colt six-shooter, and a scattering of currency.

The man with the bothersome nose spread his hand, his watery eyes triumphant. But the other man spread his hand, and without a word he picked up the belt, gun and money.

“Anything else?” asked the winner.

“Nobe,” The other man got heavily to his feet. “I’be cleaged.”

“All right, pardner. It was a good game eh?”

“Good gabe for you.”

The winner smiled and left the room, a huge sombrero, with an ornate silver band, tilted rakishly over one eye. The loser looked gloomily after him, flirting a forefinger across his nose. He dug in a pocket and took out several little bottles and boxes, which he studied closely. Each and every one was a guaranteed cure for colds.

He selected a tablet from each receptacle, put them in his big mouth and took a big drink from a broken-handle pitcher. Then he put on a derby hat, yanked it down around his ears, and went heavily down the hall and into the street.

For several moments he stood on the wooden sidewalk, looking up and down the street, before crossing to the Road Runner saloon, where he leaned against the bar. The sleepy-eyed bartender shuffled around behind the bar and waited for the order.

“Rog and rye,” thickly.

The bartender placed the bottle and glasses on the bar and watched the man toss off a full glass of the sweet whisky.

“Yo’re the only man I ever seen that drank rock and rye all the time,” observed the bartender. “Got a cold?”

“I hab. It’s killid be by idches--dab id!”

He sneezed violently, clinging to the bar with both hands. When he looked up there was a great fear in his eyes.

“Why don’tcha take somethin’ for it?” asked the bartender.

“Take sobedig? I’ve tried id all.” He shivered, and poured out another drink.

“Had it long?”

“Nod this wod. Sobe day I’ll ged pneumodia and die--dab id.”

“A feller don’t last long when he gets that,” declared the bartender hollowly. The sufferer shook his head, shivered and sneezed.

“You ought to take care of yourself, pardner.”

“No use,” wearily. “I’be fought id all by life. It’ll ged be sobe day--dab it.”

“It kinda takes the joy out of life, when yuh know darn well it’ll get yuh in the end,” sympathized the bartender.

“Pneumodia is bad,” nodded the man tearfully. “Shuds off your wid.”

“Why don’tcha see a doctor?”

“Nobe.”

“Scared?”

“Whad you don’t know won’t hurd yuh.” He poured out another drink of sweet whisky, shuddered violently, ran a finger across his nose and buttoned up his collar.

“How far is id to Lost Hills?”

“About twenty miles north of here.”

“Thang yuh.”

The man with the pneumonia complex went out into the night and approached a hitch-rack, where several riding horse-were tied. After looking them over he selected a tall sorrel. Loosening the cinch, he removed the blanket, mounted and rode north, wearing the blanket around his shoulders, holding it tightly around his throat. He sneezed several limes, as though bidding Salt Wells good-by, and faded away in the darkness.

* * * * *

Amos Weed was not to be caught napping. There were not many strangers ever seen in Lost Hills, but Amos spotted one that night. He was rather tall, slender, but was not dressed conspicuously. Amos dogged him from place to place, wondering if this could possibly be Cloudy McGee.

The stranger went from game to game in the War Path saloon, showing only a mild interest in the gambling. He picked up a billiard cue and spent an hour or so knocking the balls about the old pool table, paying no attention to anyone, while Amos humped in a chair, watching him closely.

He followed the stranger to the Chinese restaurant and watched him. This man wore no gun in sight. He seemed of a serious disposition, ate heartily, which was something Amos had been unable to do since he had heard of the well failure. He knew it must be a failure, when they did not strike oil within the four thousand foot depth.

The stranger left the restaurant and sauntered around the street, with Amos following him at a distance. Miles Rooney was getting out his weekly edition, and several interested folks were watching the flat printing press through the _Clarion_ window. The stranger stopped and watched the operation.

Amos came in beside him, also watching the operation.

“Pretty slick, the way it prints ’em, eh?” said the cashier. The stranger nodded.

“Stranger in Lost Hills?” asked Amos.

The man nodded quickly. “Just came in today.”

“Going to stay with us a while?”

“No, I don’t think so. At least, not long.”

“Drummer?”

“No-o-o-o. Bank examiner.”

“Oh.” Amos dropped the subject and got away as fast as possible. This was terrible, he thought. If the bank examiner was in town, tomorrow his theft would be discovered. Amos felt of the knot which was already galling his left ear.

Then he galloped down to Putney’s house, almost fell in through the front door, and blurted out the news.

“I tell you, we’re sunk, Putney!”

“You are, you mean,” indignantly.

“O-o-o-o-oh, hell!” wailed Amos. “I might as well blow out my brains, I suppose.”

“Well,” said Putney judiciously, “it might save complications. Might be safer to shoot the examiner.”

“But I can’t shoot straight, Put! You sure advised me into a lot of misery. What’ll I do?”

“Give yourself up.”

“And get hung?”

“Start running.”

“Run where? I haven’t got enough money to make a getaway.”

“Well, you can shoot straight enough to kill yourself, can’t you?”

“Oh, you’re a hell of a lawyer! Didn’t you ever give any good advice to anybody?”

“This ain’t a point of law, Amos--this is emergency.”

“Uh-huh. You sure are good in emergencies. Give up, run, or shoot myself. Any damn fool could give that advice.”

“Then keep on looking for Cloudy McGee. That’s your last chance. He might show up, you know.”

“Where there’s life there’s hope,” sighed Amos. “I’ll do it. In the meantime, you think of something, Put.” Amos went back to the street, hoping against hope.

* * * * *

Amos Weed was the first one to spot the stranger with the big hat and the silver-studded hat-band. He remembered that the reward notice had mentioned the fact that Cloudy McGee wore that kind of a hat. Amos was both frightened and thrilled. He saw the stranger go into the War Path saloon; so he went to the hitch-rack and looked at the stranger’s horse.

On the back of the saddle cantle was the single initial M, in a silver letter. M must stand for McGee, reasoned Amos. He rather thrilled at the thoughts of meeting a man like Cloudy McGee, who flaunted his big hat and an initialed saddle before all the sheriffs, who would be only too glad of a chance to gather him in and collect the thousand dollar reward.

Amos sauntered back to the saloon door, and met the stranger, who was just coming out. He glanced sharply at Amos and started across the street, with Amos trotting at his heels. The man stopped and looked at Amos. It was dark out there, and Amos’ knees smote together, but he summoned up his remaining nerve.

“Mr. McGee, can I talk with you for a minute?” he said.

The tall stranger started slightly. “What about?”

“Business,” Amos swallowed heavily. “But not here in the street,” he hastened to say. “Nobody knows who you are, except me. But you shouldn’t wear that big hat, you know.” It pleased Amos to give advice to Cloudy McGee.

But McGee didn’t seem to mind. He waited for Amos Weed to continue.

“You follow me,” said Amos. “I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

“Just a moment,” said Cloudy McGee. “What’s the game?”

“The game,” said Amos nervously, “is to make some easy money for you.”

“Easy money, eh? Say, I don’t believe I know you.”

“I’m all right,” quavered Amos. “I’m cashier of the Lost Hills bank.”

“I see. All right.”

They went to the sidewalk and headed down the street to where Ferdinand P. Putney kept bachelor hall in a little two-room building, just off the street, on the south end of town.

It was a great thrill for Amos, to walk with Cloudy McGee, on whose head was a thousand dollars reward. Cloudy stopped to light a cigarette, and Amos shivered as the match illuminated McGee’s ornate sombrero. Amos was afraid that Jim Potter, the sheriff, might see him.

A man was coming up the street toward them, but Amos did not know who it was. The man watched Amos and Cloudy McGee go in the front door of Ferdinand P. Putney’s home. Against the lamplight it was easy for this man to see the huge sombrero.

The man sneezed several times, cleared his throat raspingly and walked over toward Putney’s front door. It was the man who had stolen the horse in Salt Wells. He had ridden almost to Lost Hills and turned the horse loose, not wishing to be arrested for horse stealing.

Ferdinand P. Putney drew up three chairs, after shaking hands with Cloudy McGee.

“I--we were looking for you, Mr. McGee,” said Putney. “Mr. Rooney, the editor of the Lost Hills _Clarion_, said you were coming to--er--see him soon.”

Cloudy McGee nodded indifferently, and Amos mentally decided that the killing of an editor was merely an incident in the life of such a man as Cloudy McGee.

“You are a man of action,” said Putney, looking upon McGee with considerable favor. “What would you do for a thousand dollars?”

McGee grinned. “All depends.”

“I’m going to lay my cards on the table,” said Putney. “A man of your caliber appreciates honesty.”

“Such is my reputation,” nodded McGee.

“All right.” Putney stretched out his legs and squinted at Amos, who was not at ease. “Our friend here, is cashier of the Lost Hills bank. Some time ago he stumbled upon a flattering oil proposition.”

“Now, don’t lie about it, Put,” wailed Amos. “You advised me to put every cent----”

“If you will pardon me, I will tell Mr. McGee the story, Amos.”

“Well, don’t leave yourself out, Putney.”

“As I said before, Mr. Weed saw the possibilities of this investment, and, not having sufficient funds of his own, he took forty thousand of the bank money, in order to take a third interest in the Panhandle Number 7 well, a Texas oil company. It promised enormous returns. Today he received a communication to the effect that at a depth of four thousand feet, they have struck nothing. The average depth of that field is much less.

“It puts my friend in a bad position. The depositors of this bank are not of a forgiving nature, and in the event of an embezzlement it is doubtful whether the law would ever have a chance to pronounce sentence upon Amos Weed.”

“They’d lynch him, eh?” asked Cloudy McGee heartlessly.

Amos shivered.

“I am doing my best to save my friend’s life,” continued Putney. “The forty thousand is gone. And the only way we can explain the loss is to have the bank robbed. You know how to do things like that, Mr. McGee. There is already a thousand dollar reward for your arrest; so another robbery won’t make much difference to you one way or the other.”

“Well?” queried McGee thoughtfully. “How much do I get?”

Ferdinand P. Putney did some mental arithmetic. He knew there was ten thousand dollars in the bank. It would be just as simple to make this a fifty thousand dollar robbery as a forty thousand dollar robbery--and there would be ten thousand to split between himself and Amos.

“Suppose,” he said, “that we give you a thousand dollars. You don’t need to pull off a regular robbery; just come in the front door, fire a few shots, run out the back door, get on your horse and beat it. As you go through we’ll hand you the one thousand.”

McGee shook his head quickly. “You might hand me a package of nails.”

“Oh, I see. You think we might not hand you the money.”

“Be a fool if you did, Putney.”

Putney turned his head and considered Amos.

“Don’t look at me,” wailed Amos. “I’ve got no thousand.”

“I guess that’s no lie,” Putney turned again to McGee.

“How do I know you’d do the job?”

“You don’t. But you’ve got to take some risk.”

“How about you?”

“I take plenty, don’t you think? I’ve got to outrun the sheriff.”