Rider stood at the window of his office looking toward the capitol. He could see the council members leaving the building, and soon he saw his deputies walking toward the jail. It’s all over, he thought. One way or the other. He moved back to his chair, sat down, filled and lit his pipe. He was smoking contentedly when they came in.
“The meeting’s over, Rider,” said George. “Council’s adjourned. They voted down the railroad. Apparently everyone thinks that the railroad lobby is responsible for the murder of Mix Hail, and that swung the vote against them.”
Rider nodded and puffed his pipe. He reached into a desk drawer and took out some money, which he divided into five equal portions. Then he opened a ledger book and turned it around on the desktop to face the deputies.
“Sign your names and take your pay,” he said. “Wado.”
In a few minutes the deputies were gone—all except George Tanner. George sat on the edge of his desk, his arms folded across his chest, and he stared at Rider. Suddenly he became aware of what he was doing and remembered the inherent cultural rudeness of the act. He was ashamed of himself, and he looked down at the floor before he spoke.
“Rider,” he said, “what the hell are you up to?”
Beehunter walked down Muskogee Avenue, holding his pay out in front of himself and smiling. He spoke to everyone he passed on the street, and he waved and gestured toward them with his money showing in his hand. By the time he had turned off the main street and headed toward the east edge of town, just about everyone in Tahlequah knew that Beehunter had been paid and that he was in a very good mood. About a half mile out of town, Beehunter came to a small frame house badly in need of paint. As he approached the house he called out in a loud and friendly voice.
“’Siyo. ’Siyo.”
The door opened just a crack, enough for someone inside to peek out to see who was coming. Then it was opened further and a woman stood in the doorway. She spoke to Beehunter in Cherokee.
“Hello,” she said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Beehunter answered. “Where is your old man?”
“He’s coming, I think.”
The woman stepped back and disappeared again into the house, but in less than a minute, Tom Spike Buck appeared in the doorway. He looked at Beehunter suspiciously for a few seconds then he stepped outside.
“What are you doing, Beehunter?” he said in Cherokee.
“I came looking for you, old friend. Look. I got paid for my work. The meeting’s over and I’m free again. I need to celebrate.”
“How are you going to celebrate?” said Buck.
Beehunter stuffed the money into a shirt pocket and eyed Buck coyly.
“You got a drink on you?” he asked.
“No,” said Buck. “I don’t have any. I know where to get some, but I don’t have any money either.”
“I got money,” said Beehunter, and he patted the pocket into which he had stuffed his pay. “Right here.”
“You work for Rider,” said Buck.
“Not any more. The meeting’s over. Rider just hires some of us extra just long enough for the meeting. We’re not real deputies. His real deputy is that new one. Little white boy.”
Beehunter laughed at his own joke, but Tom Spike Buck maintained the same sullen expression on his face. Beehunter shrugged and turned to leave.
“Ah, well,” he said, “I got to go. I’ll see you sometime.”
“Where you going?” said Buck.
Beehunter kept walking away from Buck’s house.
“Going to find somebody with a drink,” he said.
Buck trotted after Beehunter and moved up beside him.
“Come on,” he said. “I know where to go.”
“George,” said Rider, “let’s go get us some dinner. You’re making me nervous pacing around like that.”
“It’s early,” said George.
“What time is it?”
George pulled out his watch and gave it a glance.
“Oh,” he said. “Well, it’s about a quarter of twelve. It’s later than I thought.”
“Come on,” said Rider, and he walked out of the office without looking back. George followed him, almost angry. They walked up the hill to Rider’s house without speaking. Exie gave them each a cup of coffee to keep them occupied while she finished putting the noon meal on the table. The children were at school. Rider’s small talk at the table annoyed George, but he tried not to show it for Exie’s sake. When the meal was done, George thanked Exie and excused himself. He walked out to the dog run and paced until Rider came out to join him. Then he started to walk toward the road, but Rider had gone to his chair. He sat down and started to load his pipe.
“Are we going back to the office?” said George, the irritation showing through in his voice.
“In a while,” said Rider. “Ain’t no hurry. Sit down and relax.”
George sat down, but he didn’t relax. He glanced at Rider, then looked away again.
“Rider,” he said, “are we going to arrest Riley or not?”
“What would we arrest him for?” said Rider.
“Selling whiskey, I guess. Isn’t that what you said?”
Rider sent a large cloud of blue smoke drifting up over his head.
“I said we’d get back to work on that case. We don’t have any evidence on ole Bean yet. We can’t arrest the man on just my suspicion, now, can we?”
“So why are we just sitting here? Why aren’t we out looking—for evidence?”
“Where would we look, George?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Just calm down,” said Rider. “We’ll stroll on back down to the office here in a little bit and wait there. I got something going. We’ll have him before the day’s out.”
Beehunter was broke, and he was a bit unsteady on his feet. He felt light-headed and dizzy as he weaved his way down Muskogee Avenue. He bumped into a wall, avoiding a passing lady. The lady stopped and turned to watch him stagger on, her expression clearly one of stem disapproval. Finally, Beehunter could see the jail. He took a deep breath and aimed himself carefully, then began walking toward it with a slight list to his left. He hoped that Rider was still there. He had no idea of the time. When he reached the office inside the jail, he shoved too hard on the door and almost fell into the room. He caught his balance and straightened himself up, facing Rider.
“I’m drunk,” he said to Rider in Cherokee.
Rider got up and moved around the desk. He pulled a chair across the room and placed it behind Beehunter, then took Beehunter by the shoulders to help him.
“Sit down,” he said.
Beehunter dropped heavily into the chair, and Rider stepped around in front of him.
“Where’d you get it?” he asked.
“Tom Spike Buck got it for me first. He wouldn’t say where. Made me wait for him. So I had to drink with him. Then we got a little drunk and ran out. He didn’t care so much then, and I went with him. We bought it from Bean Riley.”
George couldn’t understand the Cherokee conversation, but he did catch the word tuya, bean, and he began to understand what was going on. At least he thought that he did. He sat quietly in his chair and listened carefully for any other words he might understand, but he knew that he would have to wait for Rider’s explanation.
“Where does he keep it?” said Rider.
“The springhouse.”
“Good work, Beehunter.”
“Go-Ahead,” said Beehunter, “I feel kind of funny.”
“Go find you a comfortable bed in a cell and sleep it off. You’ll be all right.”
Beehunter rose uneasily to his feet and began to slowly turn toward the door. Rider took hold of him by an arm and glanced over his shoulder toward George.
“George,” he said, switching to English, “help Beehunter to a cell.”
As George, supporting Beehunter, went through the office door leading to the cells, Rider called out after him, “But don’t lock the door on him.” Then he stepped over to his desk and picked up his two Colts. He pushed the six-guns into the waistband of his trousers and went to the hatrack to get his hat. George came back into the office.
“Inena,” said Rider. “Come on. Let’s go.”
They stopped by the capitol and picked up a search warrant from Harm Boley, then walked on down to Riley’s hotel. Riley was behind the counter.
“Well, well,” he said as the two lawmen stepped into the lobby. “More questions?”
“Nope,” said Rider. He walked over to the counter and slapped the paper down. “Read this, Bean.”
Riley picked up the paper, unfolded it, and began to read. His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed.
“What the hell you looking for?” he asked. His lips twisted and the lower one quivered slightly as he spoke.
“Whiskey,” said Rider. “Let’s go.”
Rider pushed Bean Riley ahead of him as he walked through the hotel to the back door, then outside. George followed. They walked on across the open yard behind the building, going east toward the creek.
“Where are we going?” said Riley, his voice now indicating panic.
“Keep walking.”
The springhouse was built of native stone hewn into slabs. It was down the bank and over the creek. Four stone steps led the way down to the doorway. The floor was smooth stone, but at the northeast corner of the small building was an opening that allowed the creek water to flow into the structure, run through a trench along the east wall, then along the south wall and out another opening at the southwest corner. The last of Riley’s winter ice had long since melted, but it was still incredibly cool in the springhouse. And there was the whiskey. Jugs sat on the floor and in the stone recesses in the walls. Bottles filled stacked crates. Nearby were kegs of beer. Riley was sweating in the cool air inside the springhouse. He glanced toward the small door, but the doorway was filled with the form of George Tanner.
“You’re under arrest, Bean,” said Rider.
“Ah, hell,” said Riley, “Fifty dollar fine. What the hell.”
The quaver in his voice, the cold sweat, and Riley’s obvious general nervousness were in sharp contrast to the indifference expressed by his words.
“Yeah,” said Rider. “Fifty dollars. I guess you can handle that all right. Course, we also smash all this. How much you got tied up in your inventory here, Bean? Huh? You lose that, too.”
Riley was beginning to breathe heavily. He looked from Rider to Tanner, and he fidgeted on his feet.
“Do we start smashing, Rider?” asked George.
“No hurry, George,” said Rider. “Nah. There’s plenty of time for that. Ole Bean here is taking this awful hard. I expect he’s going to lose a bundle.”
“You want me to take him on down to the jail?”
“No,” said Rider. “Not yet. There’s more.”
“More?” said George. This time he knew what Rider was doing, and he was taking part in the game. It was a cat-and-mouse game, with Bean Riley playing the part of the tormented mouse. Only Bean wasn’t playing.
“What do you mean, more?” he said. “What the hell you talking about?”
Rider looked down at his feet. With his right foot he pushed at the thin bed of straw that covered the stone floor.
“What do you see, George?” he said.
“Straw, Rider. This place is covered with straw.”
“Straw?” said Riley. “So what? What are you getting at? Come on. Let’s go to the damn jailhouse. I’m ready. You caught me. All right? I been selling booze. So take me to the jailhouse. Let’s go.”
Rider knelt and brushed away some dirt on the floor with a hand. The stone beneath his hand was stained with something dark, and so were the bits of straw which more or less covered it.
“Gi-ga,” said Rider.
“What?” said Riley. “Blood?”
Rider, still kneeling, looked up at Riley. Slowly he nodded his head affirmatively.
“I, uh, I had some hog meat in here. It’s gone now. Hog meat.”
Rider stood up and took two steps over to the southwest corner of the springhouse. Then he knelt again and reached down into the trench. A hat was there. It had fallen into the stream of water that ran through the building, but it had washed into the corner and had lodged there rather than being washed out through the opening. Bean Riley had probably not noticed it because of the nearby stacks of whiskey cartons. Rider picked up the hat. It had a flat, medium width brim and a low, round crown. It had been darkened in the water, but it was obviously a light tan color.
Bean Riley yelled, turned, and shoved George hard against the chest with both his hands. The suddenness of Riley’s action caught George by surprise, and he staggered backward out of the door and slipped on the stones, falling sideways into the creek. Riley ran up the stairs, but Rider was close behind him. Riley had made only a few strides toward his hotel when the sheriff’s hands gripped him hard from behind on the shoulders. He started to turn and swing a right, but Rider took advantage of the motion and flung him forward. Riley landed sprawling on the rough ground. He started to scramble to his feet, but there before him stood George Tanner, dripping from his fall in the creek, the Starr revolver in his right hand pointed at Riley.
“That’s all,” said George.
“Get up,” said Rider.
Riley got slowly up on his feet. He was facing George, and Rider stood behind him. His body sagged. He had given up.
“George,” said Rider, “I’ll take ole Bean on down to the jail. You stay here and watch over this springhouse till I get back.”
Rider took Bean Riley to the jail and locked him in an upstairs cell. Beehunter was asleep in an unlocked cell downstairs. Rider didn’t bother him. He would learn about the success of his undercover mission later, and Rider would question Riley later. He was convinced that Riley had been working for Omer Lyons, who in turn was employed by the railroad interests, and he wanted to get everyone who had been involved in the murder of Mix Hail. But all that could be dealt with later. He walked back to the capitol and found Harm Boley.
“We found what we were looking for, Judge,” he said, “but I’d like for you to come along with me and see the evidence before anything happens to mess it up. I’ve got George down there right now watching it.”
Boley went with Rider to the springhouse. He saw the whiskey and beer, and he saw the straw, the bloodstain, and the hat.
“I don’t know yet if ole Bean actually pulled the trigger or if someone else done that,” said Rider, “but he sure was involved.”
“I’d say so,” said Boley.
“Mix Hail and Jess Halfbreed.”
“You’re pretty sure the two are connected?” asked Boley.
“No question, Judge,” said Rider. “Can we go ahead now and bust up these jugs?”
“Go ahead,” said Boley.
“Smash them all, George,” said Rider. “Then go on home and get yourself into some clean, dry clothes. I’ll be at the office.”
By the time George got back to the office, Rider had made a fresh pot of coffee, and Beehunter had revived somewhat from his stupor. Beehunter was sitting in the office sipping coffee, and Rider was talking to him in Cherokee. George poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at his desk.
“I was just telling Beehunter what a good job he did for us,” said Rider.
“Yeah,” said George, and he smiled and nodded at Beehunter, wishing he could communicate more directly with the man.
“Bee hunter don’t usually drink,” said Rider. “I guess I gave him a pretty tough assignment.”
“I guess so,” said George.
“You know,” said Rider, “we solved another little mystery out there today.”
George looked up from his cup, a puzzled expression on his face. Something else? Had he missed something else that Rider had seen? Was Rider always going to be at least one step ahead of him? Damn it, he thought. He was irritated at himself. He had seen the same things. He tried to think back, to picture everything in the springhouse. What could it be?
“We found out who was selling the whiskey,” he said. “That was one thing. We also found out that Mix Hail’s body had been kept in the springhouse, and that means that Bean Riley was involved in the murder—in both murders. What else?”
“The time element, George,” said Rider. “Remember? Mix disappeared one day. We found his body the next day. Seemed like he hadn’t been dead all that long. Where was he in between?”
George’s eyes suddenly opened wider. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated an instant, then said, “The springhouse. It’s so cool in there. They killed him, then kept him in the springhouse until the next day, when they moved him out there on the road.”
“That’s it,” said Rider.