Chapter Thirteen

After the race to Crazy Butte, which he won handily, Jim Bond moved to the south, watered his horse, refreshed himself, and then climbed a ridge that afforded him an excellent view of the country to the east, south, and west. To his surprise, the lone rider who had challenged him had disappeared. Bond decided he had struck directly south into the screen of timber.

It was now broad daylight, with the sun climbing out of a sea of crimson in the east. The plain trail to Rocky Point was a gray ribbon leading southeast. There was no telltale streamer of dust spiraling upon it. For Farlin had passed out of sight in that direction and the lone horseman had not had time to reach it. Bond loosened his saddle cinch and permitted his horse to graze, while he sat down with his back to a friendly rock covered with moss and proceeded leisurely to roll and light a cigarette. The town that was his goal was off somewhere in the southeast, and, though he never had been there, it could not be such a great distance away. If it served the purpose of his pursuer to permit him to take the lead in the ride to Rocky Point, he was prepared to do so shortly. And, after the swift ride from Sunrise and the final, mad spurt, he entertained no fear of being overtaken.

Bond smoked contentedly. He now felt reasonably sure that Farlin had gone on into town, or that he was well on his way there. He had seen him start in this direction, and there was no other town within a great radius of miles to go to. And the gambler had made no preparations for a longer ride. Lester had as much as said he was headed for Rocky Point.

While he was smoking and resting, Bond kept a sharp look-out in all directions, as well as about the ridge where he maintained his vigil, and his ears were alert to the slightest sound. The sun emerged from the crimson banners on the horizon’s rim and began its climb in the clear eastern sky. Black dots were visible on the flowing plain of green where cattle grazed. It was a quiet scene of solitary splendor and more than once the youth’s thoughts flew back to Gladys Farlin in the wicked town in its setting of beauty, where the benchlands marched up to the foothills of the Rockies in the west. Youth and dawn and a universe of green, with a cool breeze playing, and a subtle, faint perfume as evasive as the movement of the atmosphere—boundless life, and joyous.

Bond stamped out the light in the end of his second smoke and rose quickly. He stretched his six feet of height luxuriously. Then he caught up his horse and tightened the cinch.

“If that hombre is waiting for us to start, horse, we’re on our way,” he said softly. Before he mounted, he drew his gun and examined it carefully, sliding it back and forth on his right palm, balancing it, and then whipping it back into its sheath with a move so fast that it might have been the lightning work of a machine.

He rode down the ridge on its east side where the small trees were far apart, and, in no time at all, so to speak, was on the trail that led straight across the rolling plain into the hazy southeast. He looked behind constantly and held his pace to a sharp lope. But there were no signs of pursuit. He decided that his follower was content to let him go on ahead, and he turned his whole attention to the business of getting into town as quickly as possible without calling upon his mount’s reserve of speed.

The dust raised by Farlin’s horse was hardly laid when Bond rode into Rocky Point.

By the simple expedient of massaging the liveryman’s palm with a silver dollar, Bond learned that “his friend,” Dan Farlin, had preceded him by a matter, almost, of minutes. He put up his own horse, carried his pack into the barn office, and made a few changes in his attire—after having used plenty of water and soap—and then avoided the gambler by going to a café to eat instead of to the hotel.

So Lester did not believe him to be the notorious Bovert, eh? At least, he had told Lawson that. Bond thought he had been lying. It did not require any great amount of sleuthing to hang around and witness Farlin’s visit to the bank. His next move, for the bad man he was reputed to be, was a queer one. He secured his directions and proceeded straight to the county jail, which was a squat, square, stone building on a side street, graciously shaded from the hot rays of the sun by several big cottonwoods.

Sheriff Mills glanced casually from his newspaper to his visitor and took his feet from his desk as a token of respect and nodded in greeting.

“You the sheriff?” drawled Bond.

The official put down his paper with another nod. “Yes, I’m Sheriff Mills,” he confessed, as if unwilling to make the concession as to his identity. “You want to see me?”

“Well . . . yes,” Bond admitted. “Do you want to see me?”

“I always want to see anybody that has business here,” was the sheriff’s reply as his bushy brows drew together.

“That’s it.” Bond nodded. “I don’t know if I have any business here or not, to spill the juicy truth.”

“Then what did you come for?” Mills demanded.

“They as much as told me up in Sunrise that you’re looking for a man named Bovert,” said Bond calmly.

“Well, what of it?” growled the sheriff, biting off the end of a black cigar and staring hard at his visitor.

“They seem to think I’m Bovert.”

“Well, are you? And whether you are or not, you can sit down.”

Bond accepted the invitation. “If I’m Bovert, you ought to know,” he evaded. “And if I am this gent, what do you want me for?”

“Who thinks you’re Bovert?” the sheriff parried.

Bond tipped back his hat and sighed. “I guess you remember when I rode in on my way to Sunrise the other morning. Dan Farlin and you came prancing along when I was asking directions of Gladys . . . of Farlin’s daughter who I happened to meet up with out there east of town. He seemed peeved, and you rode on back here.”

“Oh, yes.” Mills displayed more interest. “Yes, I remember now. You said your name was . . . was . . . ?”

“Bond. Jim Bond,” the youth put in impatiently. “You’ll remember I told him my word was as good as my name, but it didn’t seem to make much of a hit with him.”

“That’s right.” Mills nodded. “Dan’s queer sometimes.”

“This whole business seems queer to me!” Bond exploded. “I drift into Sunrise quiet as a kitten and find you’ve got ’em all het up by telling ’em a bad one called Bovert is on his way there, and to lay off. That big bag of wind, Tom Lester, gets it into his head I’m this man-eater, and sicks one of Lawson’s crowd on me to feel me out. He’s got Farlin to thinking the same thing. For all I know, that cut-throat Lawson’s got it in his head, too . . . and he’s nothing to meet on a dark night.”

“I see.” The sheriff yawned. “You seem to be having a hard time of it.” His look and tone changed. “Suppose I said you are Bovert, and slammed you into jail?” he exclaimed curtly.

“You’d have a lot to prove afterward,” Bond said coolly.

“You seem mighty sure of yourself, almost too sure, I’d say,” was the sheriff’s rejoinder. “Maybe you’re wondering if I’ve got any authority around these parts. Now you’ve busted in here and shot a lot of questions, so I’m going to shoot a few back. Get me?” There was no mistaking the official’s seriousness, for the way he put it showed that he meant every word he said.

“It’s all right with me,” Bond retorted defiantly.

“What did you mean by saying that Lester sicked one of Lawson’s men on you? Who was it, and what happened? That’s number one.”

“I’ll have to pass your number one, Sheriff,” Bond answered complacently. “Lester wanted to try me out to see if I was the man he thought, that’s all. I’m not here to give out information. If I’m the man you think, and you’ve got anything on me and want to jug me, why, I guess I’ve got everything with me I need to go to jail. Here’s my gun.” The weapon was on the desk before his last word was out.

The sheriff looked at him steadily, chewing on his cigar. “Maybe you’ll answer number two,” he said less sternly. “Did you follow anybody into town?”

Bond hesitated, puckering his brows. “Yes,” he replied finally.

Sheriff Mills looked vaguely about the office, and then again centered his eyes on Bond.

“That’s fair enough,” he decided aloud. “I saw Dan come in, and you showed up next, so I could have guessed it all by myself. Number three makes it harder. Did anybody follow you in?” His gaze was now keen.

“I . . . don’t know.” Bond was puzzled by the sheriff’s manner. And he really did not know if the lone rider had followed him, or had preceded him, for that matter. He had a feeling that the man across the desk from him was getting more information than Bond was.

“Humph,” grunted the sheriff.

A long silence ensued. The sheriff relit his cigar, puffed upon it violently until it was burning well, looked critically at the end, and stared out the window where the leaves of the trees stirred and whispered in the breath of wind. Jim Bond turned his hat about in his hands by the brim, looked at the sheriff with a frown, and then at the gun on the desk.

“You want that gun?” he demanded.

Mills looked at the gun as if he were seeing it for the first time. “Nope. I’ve got one of my own that suits me, and I can use it when I have to. Nice gun, though.”

Bond cleared his throat, and, without taking his eyes from the official, retrieved the weapon and slipped it into its holster. It was as if he expected the sheriff to come to life with a quick move the instant he reached for the six-shooter.

Another silence.

“Suppose I said I am Bovert?” said Bond suddenly, his eyes narrowing ever so little.

“That’s your business,” was the exasperating reply.

Bond swore softly under his breath. “It begins to look as if I didn’t have any business here in the first place . . . or now,” he said, slamming on his hat.

“I take it your memory is average,” said Mills. “If you’ll stir it up a little, you’ll remember I didn’t send for you.” He looked at his visitor coldly.

Bond rose and leaned one hand on the official’s desk, looking down at him with a quizzical light in his eyes and a queer smile on his lips.

“Sheriff,” he said slowly, “we’ve either told each other a lot, or nothing, but we’ve each learned something. I’m not exactly sure what you’ve learned, and I’m not going to ask you, because you wouldn’t tell me if I did.” He paused, and Mills nodded brightly. “But I’m going to tell you what I’ve learned,” Bond went on, “and that is that you’re a mighty slick article.” He drew out his last words and emphasized each of them with a solemn nod.

“There was only one other man who told me that.” The sheriff sighed. “And he’s dead.”

“Died a natural death, I suppose,” said Bond sarcastically.

“All men die naturally,” the sheriff observed dryly, picking up his paper. “Something inside ’em stops working and they die.”

“Yes,” snorted Bond in disgust. “They die. So long.” He turned to go.

“Where you going from here?” the sheriff asked sharply.

“I’m going to get myself a pack of cards and play solitaire,” Bond flung over his shoulder.

When he had gone, Sheriff Mills put aside his paper, opened a drawer, and took out a manila envelope. For some minutes he scanned its contents. Then he again was interrupted, this time rudely.