Navajo, Pima, and Hopi enjoy seven cardinal points—north, east, west, south, up, down, and right here. In these and any intermediate directions from the Vorhis Ranch the diligent posse comitatus made swift and jealous search through the slow hours of afternoon. It commandeered the V H Saddle horses in the corral; it searched for sign in the soft earth of the wandering draws between the dozen low hills scattered round Big Thumb Butte and Little Thumb Butte; it rode circles round the ranch; the sign of Christopher Foy's shod horse was found and followed hotfoot by a detachment. Eight men had arrived in the first bunch, with the sheriff; others from every angle joined by twos and threes from hour to hour till the number rose to above a score. A hasty election provided a protesting cook and a horse wrangler; a V H beef was slaughtered.
The posse was rather equally divided between two classes—simpletons and fools. The first unquestionably believed Foy to be a base and cowardly murderer, out of law, whom it were most righteous to harry; else, as the storied juryman put it, "How came he there?" The other party were of those who hold that evildoing may permanently prosper and endure.
In the big living room of the adobe ranch house much time had been wasted in cross-questions and foolish answers. Stella Vorhis had been banished to her own room and Sheriff Matt Lisner had privately told off a man to make sure she did not escape.
Lisner and Ben Creagan, crossest of the four examiners, had been prepared to meet by crushing denial an eager and indignant statement from Pringle, adducing the Gadsden House affair and his subsequent companying with Foy as proof positive of Foy's innocence. That no such accusation came from Pringle set these able but mystified deniers entirely at a loss, left the denial high and dry. Creagan mopped his brow furtively.
"Vorhis," said Sheriff Matt, red and angry from an hour's endeavor, "I think you're telling a pack of lies—every word of it. You know mighty well where Foy is."
The Major's gray goatee quivered.
"Guess I'll tell you lies if I want to," he retorted defiantly.
"But, Sheriff, he may be telling us the truth," urged Paul Breslin. "Foy may very well have ridden here alone before Vorhis got here. I've known the Major a long time. He isn't the man to protect a red-handed murderer."
"Aw, bah! How do you know I won't? How do you know he's a murderer? You make me sick!" declared the Major hotly. Breslin was an honest, well-meaning farmer; the Major was furious to find such a man allied with Foy's foes—certain sign that other decent blockheads would do likewise. "Matt Lisner tells you Kit Foy is a murderer and you believe him implicitly: Matt Lisner tells you I'm a liar—but you stumble at that. Why? Because you think about me—that's why! Why don't you try that plan about Foy—thinking?"
"But Foy's run away," stammered Breslin, disconcerted.
"Run away, hell! He's not here, you mean. According to your precious story, Foy was leaving before Marr was killed—or before you say Marr was killed. Why don't you look for him with the Bar Cross round-up? There's where he started for, you say?"
"I wired up and had a trusty man go out there quietly at once. He's staying there still—quietly," said the sheriff. "Foy isn't there—and the Bar Cross hasn't heard of the killing yet. It won't do, Major. Foy's run away."
John Wesley Pringle, limp, slack, and rumpled in his chair, yawned, stretching his arms wide.
"This man Foy," he ventured amiably, "if he really run away, he done a wise little stunt for himself, I think. Because every little ever and anon, thin scraps of talk float in from your cookfire in the yard—and there's a heap of it about ropes and lynching, for instance. If he hasn't run away yet, he'd better—and I'll tell him so if I see him. Stubby, red-faced, spindlin', thickset, jolly little man, ain't he? Heavy-complected, broad-shouldered, dark blond, very tall and slender, weighs about a hundred and ninety, with a pale skin and a hollow-cheeked, plump, serious face?"
At this ill-timed and unthinkable levity Breslin stared in bewilderment; Lisner glared, gripping his fist convulsively; and Mr. Ben Creagan, an uneasy third inquisitor, breathed hard through his nose. Anastacio Barela, the fourth and last inquisitor, maintained unmoved the disinterested attitude he had held since the interrogation began. Feet crossed, he lounged in his chair, graceful, silent, smoking, listening, idly observant of wall and ceiling.
No answer being forthcoming to his query Pringle launched another:
"Speaking of faces, Creagan, old sport, what's happened to you and your nose? You look like someone had spread you on the minutes." He eyed Creagan with solicitous interest.
Mr. Creagan's battered face betrayed emotion. Pringle's shameless mendacity shocked him. But it was Creagan's sorry plight that he must affect never to have seen this insolent Pringle before. The sheriff's face mottled with wrath. Pringle reflected swiftly: The sheriff's rage hinted strongly that he was in Creagan's confidence and hence was no stranger to last night's mishap at the hotel; their silence proclaimed their treacherous intent.
On the other hand, these two, if not the others, knew very well that Pringle had left town with Foy and had probably stayed with him; that the Major must know all that Foy and Pringle knew. Evidently, Pringle decided, these two, at least, could expect no direct information from their persistent questionings; what they hoped for was unconscious betrayal by some slip of the tongue. As for young Breslin, Pringle had long since sized him up for what the Major knew him to be—a good-hearted, right-meaning simpleton. In the indifferent-seeming Anastacio, Pringle recognized an unknown quantity.
That, for a certainty, Christopher Foy had not killed Marr, was a positive bit of knowledge which Pringle shared only with the murderer himself and with that murderer's accomplices, if any. So much was plain, and Pringle felt a curiosity, perhaps pardonable, as to who the murderer really was.
Duty and inclination thus happily wedded, Pringle set himself to goad ferret-eyed Creagan and the heavy-jawed sheriff into unwise speech. And inattentive Anastacio had a shrewd surmise at Pringle's design. He knew nothing of the fight at the Gadsden House, but he sensed an unexplained tension—and he knew his chief.
"And this man, too—what about him?" said Breslin, regarding Pringle with a puzzled face. "Granted that the Major might have a motive for shielding Foy—he may even believe Foy to be innocent—why should this stranger put himself in danger for Foy?"
"Here, now—none of that!" said Pringle with some asperity. "I may be a stranger to you, but I'm an old friend of the Major's. I'm his guest, eating his grub and drinking his baccy; if he sees fit to tell any lies I back him up, of course. Haven't you got any principle at all? What do you think I am?"
"I know what you are," said the sheriff. "You're a damned liar!"
"An amateur only," said Pringle modestly. "I never take money for it." He put by a wisp of his frosted hair, the better to scrutinize, with insulting slowness, the sheriff's savage face. "Your ears are very large!" he murmured at last. "And red!"
The sheriff leaped up.
"You insolent cur-dog!" he roared.
"To stand and be still to the Birken'ead drill is a dam' tough bullet to chew,'" quoted Pringle evenly. "But he done it—old Pringle—John Wesley Pringle—liar and cur-dog too! We'll discuss the cur-dog later. Now, about the liar. You're mighty certain, seems to me. Why? How do you know I'm lying? For I am lying—I'll not deceive you. I'm lying; you know I'm lying; I know that you know I'm lying: and you apprehend clearly that I am aware that you are cognizant of the fact that I am fully assured that you know I am lying. Just like that! What a very peculiar set of happenstances! I am a nervous woman and this makes my head go round!"
"The worst day's work you ever did for yourself," said the angry sheriff, "was when you butted into this business."
"Yes, yes; go on. Was this to-day or yesterday—at the hotel?"
"Liar!" roared Lisner. "You never were at the Gadsden House."
"Who said I was?"
The words cracked like a whiplash. Simultaneously Pringle's tilted chair came down to its four legs and Pringle sat poised, his weight on the balls of his feet, ready for a spring. The sheriff paused midway of a step; his mottled face grew ashen. A gurgle very like a smothered chuckle came from Anastacio. Creagan flung himself into the breach.
"Aw, Matt, let's have the girl in here. We can't get nothing from these stiff-necked idiots."
"Might as well," agreed Lisner in a tone that tried to be contemptuous but trembled. "We're wasting time here."
"Lisner," said the Major in his gentlest tone, "be well advised and leave my daughter be."
"And if I don't?" sneered Lisner. He had no real desire to question Stella, but welcomed the change of venue as a diversion from his late indiscretion. "If, in the performance of my duty, I put a few civil questions to Miss Vorhis—in the presence of her father, mind you—then what?"
"But you won't!" said the Major softly.
"Do you know, Sheriff, I think the Major has the right idea?" said
Pringle. "We won't bother the young lady."
"Who's going to stop me?"
Anastacio, in his turn, brought his chair to the floor, at the same time unclasping his hands from behind his head.
"I'll do that little thing, Sheriff," he announced mildly. "Miss Vorhis has already told us that she has not seen Foy since yesterday noon. That is quite sufficient."
Silence.
"This makes me fidgety. Somebody say something, quick—anything!" begged Pringle. "All right, then; I will. Let's go back—we've dropped a stitch. That goes about me being a liar and a damned one, Sheriff; but I'm hurt to have you think I'm a cur-dog. You're the sheriff, doin' your duty, as you so aptly observed. And you've done took my gun away. But if bein' a cur-dog should happen to vex me—honest, Sheriff, I'm that sensitive that I'll tell you now—not hissing or gritting or gnashing my teeth—just telling you—the first time I meet you in a strictly private and unofficial way I'm goin' to remold you closer to my heart's desire!"
"You brazen hussy! You know you lied!"
"You're still harpin' on that, Sheriff? That doesn't make it any easier to be a cur-dog. How did you know I lied? You say so, mighty positive—but what are your reasons? Why don't you tell your associates? There is an honest man in this room. I am not sure there are not two—"
Anastacio's eyes again removed themselves from the ceiling.
"If you mean me—and somehow I am quite clear as to that—"
"I mean Mr. Breslin."
"Oh, him—of course!" said Anastacio in a shocked voice. "Breslin, by all means, for the one you were sure of. But the second man, the one you had hopes of—who should that be but me? I thank you. I am touched. I am myself indifferent honest, as Shakespere puts it."
The sheriff licked his dry lips.
"If you think I am going to stay here to be insulted—"
"You are!" taunted John Wesley Pringle. "You'll stay right here. What?
Leave me here to tell what I have to say to an honest man and a half?
Impossible! You'll not let me out of your sight."
"My amateur Ananias," interrupted Anastacio dispassionately, "you are, unintentionally, perhaps, doing me half of a grave injustice. In this particular instance—for this day and date only—I am as pure as a new-mown hay. To prevent all misapprehension let me say now that I never thought Foy killed Dick Marr."
"In heaven's name, why?" demanded Breslin.
"My honest but thick-skulled friend, let me put in my oar," implored the Major. "Let me show you that Matt Lisner never thought Foy was guilty. Foy said last night, before the killing, that he was coming up here, didn't he?"
"Hey, Major—hold up!" cried Pringle. But Vorhis was not to be stopped.
"Don't you see, you doddering imbecile? If Foy had really killed Dick Marr he might have gone to any other place in the world—but he wouldn't have come here."
"Aha! So Foy did come here, hey?" croaked the sheriff, triumphant in his turn. "Thanks, Major, for the information, though I was sure before, humanly speaking, that he came this way."
"Which is another way of saying that you don't think Foy did the killing—that you don't even suspect him of it," said Anastacio. as the Major subsided, crestfallen. "Matt Lisner, I know that you hate Foy. I know that you welcome this chance to get rid of him. Make no mistake, Breslin. I was not wanted here. I wasn't asked and none of my people were brought along. I tagged along, though—to wait. It's one of the best little things I do—waiting. And I came to protect Foy, not to capture him. I came to keep right at his side, in case he surrendered without a fight—for fear he might be killed … escaping … on the way back. It's a way that we have in Las Uvas!"
Lisner threw a look of hate at his deputy.
"You don't mean to tell me there's any danger of anything like that?" said Breslin, staggered and aghast.
"Every danger. That's an old gag—the ley fuga."
"You lie!" bawled Creagan. His six-shooter covered Anastacio.
"That'll keep. Put up your gun, Bennie," said Anastacio with great composure. "Supper's most ready. Besides, the Barelas won't like it if you shoot me this way. There's a lot of the Barelas, Ben. I'll tell you what I'll do, though—I'll slip the idea to my crowd, and any time you want to kill me on an even break, no Barela or Ascarate will take it up. Put it right in your little holster—put it up, I say! That's right. You see, Breslin? Don't let Foy out of your sight if he should be taken."
"But he'll never let himself be taken alive," said Vorhis. "Even if anyone wants to take him—alive. Pass the word to your friends, Breslin, unless you want them to take part in a deliberate, foreplanned murder."
"Damn you, what do you mean?" shouted the sheriff.
"By God, sir, I mean just what I say!"
"Why, girls!" said Pringle. "You shock me! This is most unladylike. This is scandalous talk. Be nice! Please—pretty please! See, here comes some more pussy-foot posse—three, six, eleven hungry men. Have they got Foy? No; they have not got Foy. Is he up? He is up. Look who's here too! Good old Applegate and Brother Espalin. I wonder now if they're goin' to give me the cut direct, like Creagan did? You notice, Mr. Breslin."
The horsemen rode into the corral.
"No; don't go, Sheriff," said Anastacio.
"I'm anxious to see if those two will recognize Ananias the Amateur. They'll be here directly. You, either, Creagan. Else I'll shoot you both in the back, accidentally, cleaning my gun."
From without was the sound of spurred feet in haste; three men appeared at the open door.
"Why, if it ain't George! Good old George!" cried Pringle, rising with outstretched arms. "And my dear friend Espalin! What a charming reunion!"
Applegate's eyes threw a startled question at his chief and at
Creagan; Espalin slipped swiftly back through the door.
"I don't know you, sir," said Applegate.
"George! You're never going to disown me! Joe's gone, too. Nobody loves me!"
The third man, a grizzled and bristly old warrior with a limp, broke in with a roar.
"What in hell's going on here?" he stormed.
"You are, for one thing, if you don't moderate your voice," said
Anastacio. "Nueces, you bellow like the bulls of Bashan. Mr.
Applegate, meet Mr. Pringle."
"What does he mean, then, by such monkeyshines?" demanded the other—old Nueces River, chief of police, ex-ranger, and, for this occasion, deputy sheriff. "I got no time for foolishness. And you can't run no whizzer on me, Barela. Don't you try it!"
"Oh, they're just joking, Nueces," said the Major. "Tell us how about it. Here, I'll light the lamp; it's getting dark. Find any sign of Foy?"
Nueces leveled a belligerent finger at the Major.
"You've been joking, too! I've heard about you. Lisner, I'm ashamed of you! Let Vorhis pull the wool over your eyes, while you sit here and jaw all afternoon, doing nothing!"
"Why, what did you find out?"
"A-plenty. Them stiffs you sent out found Foy's horse, to begin with."
"Sure it was Foy's horse?" queried Lisner eagerly.
"Sure! I know the horse—that big calico horse of his."
"Why didn't you follow him up?"
"Follow hell! Oh, some of the silly fools are milling round out there—going over to the San Andres to-night to take a big hunt mañana. Not me. That horse was a blind. They pottered round tryin' to find some trace of Foy—blind fools!—till I met up with 'em. I'd done gathered in that mizzable red-headed Joe Cowan on a give-out horse, claim-in' he'd been chousin' after broom-tails. He'd planted Foy's horse, I reckon. But it can't be proved, so I let him go. He'll have to walk in; that's one good thing."
"But Foy—where do you figure Foy's gone?"
"Maybe he simply was not," suggested Pringle, "like Enoch when he was translated into all European languages, including the Scandinavian."
"Pringle, if you say another word I'll have you gagged!" said the exasperated sheriff. "Don't you reckon, Nueces, that Cowan brought Foy a barefooted horse? He can't have gone on afoot or you'd have seen his tracks."
"Sheriff, you certainly are an easy mark!" returned Nueces, in great disgust. "Foy didn't go on afoot or horseback, because he was never there. I've told you twice: Cowan left that calico horse on purpose for us to find. Vorhis is Foy's friend. Can't you see, if Foy had tried to get away by hard riding he would have had a fresh horse, not the one he rode from Las Uvas, and you wouldn't have found a penful of fresh horses to chase him with? Not in a thousand years! That was to make it nice and easy for you to ride on—a six-year-old kid could see through it! It's a wonder you didn't all fall for it and chase away. No, sir! Foy either stopped down on the river and sent his horse on to fool us—or, more likely, he's up in the Buttes. Did you look there?"
"I sent the boys round to out sign. I didn't feel justified in hunting out the rough places till we had more men. Too much cover for him."
"And none for you, I s'pose? Mamma! but you're a fine sheriff! Look now: After we started back here we sighted a dust comin' 'way up north. We went over, and 'twas Hargis, the Major's buckaroo, throwin' in a bunch from the round-up. He didn't know nothin' and was not right sure of that—till I mentioned your reward. Soon as ever I mentioned twenty-five hundred, he loosened up right smart."
"Well? Did he know where Foy was?"
"No; but he knew of the place where I judge Foy is, this very yet. Gosh!" said Nueces River in deep disgust, "it beats hell what men will do for a little dirty money! Seems there's a cave near the top of the least of them two buttes—the roughest one—a cave with two mouths, one right on the big top. Nobody much knows where it is, only the V H outfit."
Pringle had edged across the room. He now plucked at Bell Applegate's sleeve.
"Say, is that right about that reward—twenty-five hundred?" he whispered. His eyes glistened.
"Forty-five," said Bell behind his hand. "The Masons, they put up a thousand, and Dick's old uncle—that would have let Dick starve or work—he tacked on a thousand more. Dead or alive!" He looked down at Pringle's face, at Pringle's working fingers, opening and shutting avariciously; he sneered. "Don't you wish you may get it? S-sh! Hear what the old man's saying."
During the whispered colloquy the old ranger had kept on:
"There's where he is, a twenty-to-one shot! He'll lay quiet, likely, thinkin' we'll miss him. Brush growin' over both the cave mouths, Hargis says, so you might pass right by if you didn't know where to look. These short nights he couldn't never get clear on foot. Thirty mile to the next water—we'd find his tracks and catch him. But he might make a break to get away, at that. Never can tell about a he-man like that. We can't take no chances. We'll pick a bite of supper and then we surround that hill, quiet as mice, and close up on him. He can't see us to shoot if we're fool enough to make any noise. Come daylight, we'll have him cornered, every man behind a bowlder. If he shows up he's our meat; if he don't we'll starve him out."
"And suppose he isn't there?" said Creagan. "What would we look like, watching an empty cave two or three days?"
"What do we look like now? Give you three guesses," retorted Nueces. "And how'd we look rushin' that empty cave if it didn't happen to be empty? Excuse me! I'd druther get three grand heehaws and a tiger for bein' ridiculous than to have folks tiptoe by a-whisperin': 'How natural he looks!' I been a pretty tough old bird in my day—but goin' up a tunnel after Kitty Foy ain't my idea of foresight."
"Some man—some good man, too—will have to stay here and stand guard on the Major and this fresh guy, Pringle," said the sheriff thoughtfully. "He'll get his slice of the money, of course."
"You'll find a many glad to take that end of the job; for," said Nueces River, "it is in my wise old noddle some of us are going to be festerin' in Abraham's bosom before we earn that reward money. Leave Applegate—he's in bad shape for climbing anyway; bruise on his belly big as a washpan."
"Bronc' bucked me over on the saddle horn," explained Applegate. "Sure, I'll stay. And the Pringle person will be right here when you get back, too."
"Let the Major take some supper in to Miss Vorhis," suggested Breslin. "I'll keep an eye on him. He can eat with her and cheer her up a little. This is hard lines for a girl."
Lisner shrugged his shoulders.
"We have to keep her here till Foy's caught. She might bring a sight of trouble down on us."
"Say, what's the matter with me going out and eating a few?" asked
Pringle.
"You stay here! You talk too much with your mouth," replied the sheriff. "I'll send in a snack for you and Bell. Come on, boys."
They filed out to the cook's fire in the walled courtyard.
"George, dear," said Pringle when the two were left alone, "is that right about the reward? 'Cause I sure want to get in on it."
"Damn likely. You knew where Foy was. You know where he is now. Why didn't you tell us, if you wanted in on the reward?"
"Why, George, I didn't know there was any reward. Besides, him and me split up as soon as we got clear of town."
"You're a damn liar!"
"That's what the sheriff said. Somebody must 'a' give me away," complained John Wesley. He rolled a cigarette and walked to the table. "All the same, you're making a mistake. You hadn't ought to roil me. Just for that, soon as they're all off on their man hunt, I'm goin' to study up some scheme to get away."
"I got a picture of you gettin' away!"
"George," said John Wesley, "you see that front door? Well, that's what we call in theatrical circles a practical door. Along toward morning I'm going out through that practical door. You'll see!"
He raised the lamp, held the cigarette over the chimney top and puffed till he got a light; so doing he smoked the chimney. To inspect the damage he raised the lamp higher. Swifter than thought he hurled it at his warder's head. The blazing lamp struck Applegate between the eyes. Pringle's fist flashed up and smote him grievously under the jaw; he fell crashing; the half-drawn gun clattered from his slackened fingers. Pringle caught it up and plunged into the dark through the practical door.
He ran down the adobe wall of the water pen; a bullet whizzed by; he turned the corner; he whisked over the wall, back into the water pen. Shouts, curses, the sound of rushing feet without the wall. Pringle crouched in the deep shadow of the wall, groped his way to the long row of watering troughs, and wormed himself under the upper trough, where the creaking windmill and the splashing of water from the supply pipe would drown out the sound of his labored breath.
Horsemen boiled from the yard gate with uproar and hullabaloo; Pringle heard their shouts; he saw the glare of soap weeds, fired to help their search.
The lights died away; the shouts grew fainter: they swelled again as the searchers straggled back, vociferous. Pringle caught scraps of talk as they watered their horses.
"Clean getaway!"
"One bad actor, that hombre!"
"Regular Go-Getter!"
"Batting average about thirteen hundred, I should figger."
"Life-size he-man! Where do you suppose——"
"Saw a lad make just such another break once in Van Zandt County——"
"Say! Who're you crowdin'?"
"Hi, fellers! Bill's giving some more history of the state of Van
Zandt!"
"Applegate's pretty bad hurt."
"——in a gopher hole and near broke my fool neck."
"Where'd this old geezer come from, anyway? Never heard of him before!"
"'Tain't fair, just when we was all crowdin' up for supper! He might have waited."
"This will be merry hell and repeat if he hooks up with Foy," said
Creagan's voice, adding a vivid description of Pringle.
Old Nueces answered, raising his voice:
"He's afoot. We got to beat him to it. Let's ride!"
"That's right," said the sheriff. "But we'll grab something to eat first. Saddle up, Hargis, and lead us to your little old cave. Robbins, while we snatch a bite you bunch what canteens we've got and fill 'em up. Then you watch the old man and that girl, and let Breslin come with us. You can eat after we've gone."
"Don't let the girl heave a pillow at you, Robbins!" warned a voice.
"Better not stop to eat," urged Nueces.
"We can lope up and get to the foot of Thumb Butte before Pringle gets halfway—if he's going there at all. Most likely he's had a hand in the Marr killing and is just running away to save his own precious neck," said the sheriff. "We'll scatter out around the hill when we get to the roughs, and go up afoot till every man can see or hear his neighbor, so Pringle can't get through. Then we'll wait till daylight."
"That may suit you," retorted Nueces. "Me, I don't intend for any man that will buck a gun with a lamp to throw in with Kit Foy while I stuff my paunch. That sort is just the build to do a mile in nothing flat—and it's only three miles to the hill. I'm goin' now, and I'm goin' hellity-larrup! Come on, anybody with more brains than belly—I'm off to light a line of soap weeds on that hill so this Mr. Pringle-With-the-Punch don't walk himself by. If he wants up he'll have to hoof it around the other side of the hill. We won't make any light on the north side. That Bar Cross outfit is too damn inquisitive. The night herders would see it; they'd smell trouble; and like as not the whole bilin' of 'em would come pryin' down here by daylight. Guess they haven't heard about Foy or they'd be here now. They're strong for Foy. Come on, you waddies!"
Mr. Pringle-With-the-Punch, squeezed, cramped, and muddy under the trough, heard this supperless plan with displeasure; his hope had been otherwise. He heard the sound of hurried mounting; from the thunder of galloping hoofs it would seem that a goodly number of the posse had come up to the specifications laid down by the old ranger.
The others clanked away, leaving their horses standing. The man Robbins grumbled from saddle to saddle and gathered canteens. As he filled them from the supply pipe directly above Mr. Pringle's head, he set them on the ground within easy reach of Mr. Pringle's hand. Acting on this hint Mr. Pringle's hand withdrew a canteen, quite unostentatiously. An unnecessary precaution, as it turned out; Mr. Robbins, having filled that batch, went to the horses farther down the troughs to look for more canteens. So Pringle wriggled out with his canteen, selected a horse, and rode quietly through the open gate.
"Going already?" called Robbins as he passed.
Secure under cover of darkness, Pringle answered in the voice of one who, riding, eats:
"Yes, indeedy; I ain't no hawg. Wasn't much hungry nohow!"
At the foot of Little Thumb Butte a lengthening semicircle of fire flared through the night. John Wesley Pringle swung far out on the plain to circle round it.
"This takes time," he muttered to himself, "but at least I know where not to go. That old rip-snorter sure put a spoke in my wheel! Looks like Foy might see them lights and drift out away from this. But he won't, I guess—they said his hidey-hole was right on top, and the shoulder of the hill will hide the fires from him. Probably asleep, anyhow, thinkin' he's safe. I slep' three hours this morning at the Major's; but Foy he didn't sleep any. Even if he did leave, they'd track him up in the morning and get him—and he knows it. Somebody's goin' to be awfully annoyed when he misses this horse."
He could see the riders, dim-flitting as they passed between him and the flames. Once he stopped to listen; he heard the remaining half of the man-hunt leaving the ranch. They were riding hard. Thereafter Pringle had no mercy on his horse. Ride as he might, those who followed had the inner circle; when he rounded the fires and struck the hill his start was perilously slight. While the footing was soft he urged the wearied horse up the slope; at the first rocky space he abandoned the poor beast lest the floundering of shod hoofs should betray him. He took off saddle and bridle; he hung the canteen over his shoulder and pressed on afoot.
A light breeze had overcast the stars with thin and fleecy clouds. This made for Pringle's safety; it also made the going harder—and it would have been hard going by daylight.
The slope became steeper; ledges of rock, little at first, became larger and more frequent; he came to bluffs that barred his progress, slow and painful at best; he was forced to search to left or right for broken places where he could climb. Bits of rock, dislodged by his feet, fell clattering despite his utmost care; he heard the like from below, to the left, to the right. The short night wore swiftly on.
With equal fortune John Wesley should have maintained his lead. But he found more than his share of no-thoroughfares. Before long his ears told him that men were almost abreast of him on each side. He was handicapped now, because he must shun any chance meeting. His immediate neighbors, however, had no such fear; they edged closer and closer together as they climbed. At last, stopped against a perpendicular wall ten feet high, he heard them creeping toward him from both sides, with a guarded "Coo-ee!" each to the other; John Wesley slipped down the hill to the nearest bush. His neighbors came together and held a whispered discourse. They viewed the barrier with marked patience, it seemed; they sat down in friendly fashion and smoked cigarette after cigarette; the hum of their hushed voices reached Pringle, murmuring and indistinct. It might almost be thought that they were willing for others to precede them in the place of honor. A faint glow showed in the east; the moon had thoughts of rising.
After an interminable half-hour the two worthies passed on to the right. Pringle took to the left, more swiftly. Time for caution had passed; moonlight might betray him. When he found a way up that unlucky wall others of the search party farther to the left were well beyond him.
Perhaps a quarter of a mile away, the last sheer cliff, the Thumb which gave the hill its name, frowned above him, a hundred feet from base to crest. Pringle bore obliquely up to the right. Speed was his best safety now; he pushed on boldly, cheered by the thought that if seen by any of the posse he would be taken for one of their own number. But Foy, seeing him, would make the same mistake! It was an uncomfortable reflection.
The pitch was less abrupt now, and there were no more ledges; instead, bowlders were strewn along the rounded slope, with bush and stunted tree between. Through these Pringle breasted his way, seeking even more to protect himself from above than from below, forced at times to crawl through an open space exposed to possible fire from both sides; so came at last to the masses of splintered and broken rock at the foot of the cliff, where he sank breathless and panting.
The tethered constellations paled in the sky; the moon rose and lit the cliff with silver fire. The worst was yet to come. Foy would ask no questions of any prowler, that was sure; he would reason that a friend would call out boldly. And John Wesley had no idea where Foy or his cave might be. Yet he must be found.
With a hearty swig at the canteen Pringle crept off to the right. The moonlight beat full upon the cliff. He had little trouble in that ruin of broken stone to find cover from foes below; but at each turn he confidently looked forward to a bullet from his friend.
"Foy! Foy!" he called softly as he crawled. "It's Pringle! Don't shoot!"
After a space he came to an angle where the cliff turned abruptly west and dwindled sharply in height. He remembered what the Major had said—the upper entrance of the cave came out on the highest crest of the hill. He turned back to retrace his painful way. The smell of dawn was in the air; the east sparkled. No sound came from the ambush all around. The end was near.
He passed by his starting-point; he crept on by slide and bush and stone. The moon magic faded and paled, mingled with the swift gray of dawn. He held his perilous way. Cold sweat stood on his brow. If Foy or a foe of Foy were on the cliff now, how easy to topple down a stone upon him! The absolute stillness was painful. A thought came to him of Stella Vorhis—her laughing eyes, her misty hair, the little hand that had lingered upon his own. Such a little, little hand!
Before him a narrow slit opened in the wall—such a crevice as the
Major had described.
"Foy! Oh, Foy!" he called. No answer came. He raised his voice a little louder. "Foy! Speak if you're there! It's Pringle!"
A gentle voice answered from the cleft:
"Let us hope, for your sake, that you are not mistaken about that. I should be dreadfully vexed if you were deceiving me. The voice is the voice of Pringle, but how about the face? I can only see your back."
"I would raise my head, so you could take a nice look by the well-known cold gray light of the justly celebrated dawn," rejoined Pringle, "if I wasn't reasonably sure that a rifle shot would promptly mar the classic outlines of my face. They're all around you, Foy. Hargis, he gave you away. Don't show a finger nail of yourself. Let me crawl up behind that big rock ahead and then you can identify me."
"It's you, all right," said Foy when Pringle reached the rock and straightened himself up.
"I told you so," said Pringle, peering into the shadows of the cleft. "I can't see you. And how am I going to get to you? There are twenty men with point-blank range. I'm muddy, scratched, bruised, tired and hungry, sleepy and cross—and there's thirty feet in the open between here and you, and it nearly broad daylight. If I try to cross that I'll run twenty-five hundred pounds to the ton, pure lead. Well, we can put up a pretty nifty fight, even so. You go back to the other outlet of your cave and I'll stay here. I'm kinder lonesome, too…. Toss me some cartridges first. I only got five. I left in a hurry. You got forty-fives?"
"Plenty. But you can't stay there. They'll pot you from the top of the bluff, first off. Besides, you got a canteen, I see. You back up to that mountain mahogany bush, slip under it, and worm down through the rocks till you come to a little scrub-oak tree and a big granite bowlder. They'll give you shelter to cross the ridge into a deep ravine that leads here where I am. You'll be out of sight all the way up once you hit the ravine. I'd—I'd worm along pretty spry if I was you, going down as far as the scrub oak—say, about as swift as a rattlesnake strikes—and pray any little prayers you happen to remember. And say, Pringle, before you go … I'm rather obliged to you for coming up here; risking taking cold and all. If it'll cheer you up any I'll undertake that anyone getting you on the trip will think there's one gosh-awful echo here."
"S'long!" said Pringle.
He wriggled backward and disappeared.
Ten minutes later he writhed under the bush at Foy's feet.
"Never saw me!" he said. "But I'll always sleep in coils after this—always supposing we got any after this coming to us."
"One more crawl," said Foy, leading the way. "We'll go up on top.
Regular fort up there. If we've got to die we'll die in the sun."
He stooped at what seemed the end of the passage and crawled out of sight under the low branches of a stunted cedar. Pringle followed and found himself in the pitch dark.
"Grab hold of my coat tail. I know my way, feeling the wall. Watch your step or you'll bark your shins."
The cave floor was smooth underfoot, except for scattered rocks; it rose and dipped, but the general trend was sharply upward.
"You're quite an institution, Pringle. You've made good Stella's word of you—the best ever!" said Foy as they mounted. "But you can't do me any good, really. I'll enjoy your company, but I wish you hadn't come."
"That's all right. I always like to finish what I begin."
"Well," remarked Foy cheerfully, "I reckon we've reached the big finish, both of us. I don't see any way out. All they've got to do is to sit tight till we starve out for water. Wish you was out of it. It's going to be tough on Stella, losing her friend and—and me, both at once. How's she making out? Full of fight and hope to the last, I'll bet."
"They had me under herd; but she was wishing for the Bar Cross buddies to butt in, I believe. Reckon your sheriff-man guessed it. He had her under guard, too."
"Nice man, the sheriff! How'd you get away from your herder?"
"He don't just remember," said Pringle.
"Who was it?"
"Applegate. Dreadful absent-minded, Applegate is. Ouch! There went my other shin. Had any sleep?"
"Most all night. Something woke me up about two hours ago, and I kept on the look-out ever since."
"That was me, I guess. I had to step lively. They was crowding me."
"If the Bar Cross happened to get word," observed Foy thoughtfully, "we might stand some hack. But they won't. It's good-by, vain world, for ours! Say, in case a miracle happens for you, just make a memo about the sheriff being a nuisance, will you?"
"I'll tie a string on my finger. Anything else?"
"You might stick around and cheer Stella up a little. I'll do as much for you sometime. I'm thinking she'll feel pretty bad at first. Here we are!"
A faint glimmer showed ahead. They crawled under low bushes and stumbled out, in what seemed at first a dazzle of light; into a small saucer-shaped plat of earth a few feet across, enclosed by an irregular oval made by great blocks of stone, man-high. Below, a succession of little cliffs fell away, stair fashion, to an exceeding high and narrow gap which separated Little Thumb Butte from its greater neighbor, Big Thumb Butte.
"Castle Craney Crow," smiled Foy with a proprietary wave of his hand.
"Just right for our business, isn't it? Make yourself at home, while
I take a peep around about." He bent to peer through bush and crack.
"Nothing stirring," he announced. He leaned his rifle against a
walling rock. "Let's have a look at that water."
He raised the canteen to his lips. Pringle struck swift and hard to the tilted chin. Foy dropped like a poled bullock; his head struck heavily against the sharp corner of a rock. Pringle pounced on the stricken man. He threw Foy's sixshooter aside; he pulled Foy's wrists behind him and tied them tightly with a handkerchief. Then he rolled his captive over.
Foy's eyes opened; they rolled back till only the whites were visible; his lips twitched. Pringle hastily bound his handkerchief to the gash the stone had made; he sprinkled the blood-streaked face with water; he spilled drops of water between the parted lips. Foy did not revive.
Pringle stuck his hat on the rifle muzzle and waved it over the parapet of rock.
"Hello!" he shouted. "Bring on your reward! I've got Foy! It's me—Pringle! Come get him; and be quick—he's bleeding mighty bad."
"Come out, you! Hands up and no monkey business!" answered a startled voice not fifty yards away.
"Who's that? That you, Nueces? Give me your word and I'll lug him out.
No time to lose—he's hurt, and hurt bad."
"You play fair and we will. I give my word!" shouted Nueces.
"Here goes!" Pringle pitched the rifle over. A moment later he staggered out between the rocks, bearing Foy's heavy weight in his arms. The head hung helpless, blood-spattered; the body was limp and slack; the legs dragged sprawling; the dreaded hands were bound.
Pringle laid his burden on the grass.
"Here he is, you hyenas! His hands are tied—are you still afraid of him? Damn you! The man's bleeding to death!"
"You treacherous, dirty hound!" said Breslin.
"Of all the low-down skunks I ever seen, you sure are the skunkiest!" said Nueces. "The sheriff was right after all. Cur-dog fits you to a T." He finished washing out the cut on Foy's head as he spoke. "Now the bandages, Anastacio. We'll have the blood stopped in a jiffy. Funny he hasn't come to. It's been a long while. It ain't the head ails him. This isn't such a deep cut; it oughtn't to put him out. Just happened to strike a vein." He bound up the cut with the deftness of experience.
"I hit him under the jaw," observed Pringle. "That's what did the business for him. He'll be around directly."
Anastacio looked up at Pringle; measureless contempt was in his eyes.
"Judas Iscariot could have sublet his job to you at half price if you'd been in the neighborhood. You are the limit, plus! I hope to see you fry in a New English hell!"
"Oh, that's all right, too," said Pringle unabashed. "I might just as well have that forty-five hundred as anyone. It wouldn't amount to much split amongst all you fellows, but it's quite a bundle for one man. That'll keep the wolf from the well-known door for quite a while."
"You won't touch a cent of it!" declared the sheriff.
"Won't I though? We'll see about that. I captured him alone, didn't I?
Oh, I reckon I'll finger the money, alrighty!"
"Here, fellows; give him a bait of whisky," said Creagan.
Breslin, kneeling at Foy's side, took the extended flask. They administered the stimulant cautiously, a sip at a time. Foy's eyes flickered; his breath came freer.
"He's coming!" said Breslin. "Give him a sip of water now."
"He'll be O.K. in five minutes, far as settin' up goes," said old Nueces, well pleased; "but he ain't goin' to be any too peart for quite some time—not for gettin' down off o' this hill. See—he's battin' his eyes and working his hands around. He sure heard the birdies sing!"
"The rest of you boys had just as well go on down to the shack," directed the sheriff. "Creagan and Joe and me will take care of Foy till he's able to move or be moved, and bring him into camp. You just lead up our three horses and an extra one for Foy—up as far as you can fetch 'em. One of you can ride home behind someone. Call down to the bunch under the cliff that we've got 'em, and for them to hike out to the ranch and take a nap. You'd better turn old Vorhis loose—and that girl. They can't do any harm now."
"Bring my horse, too," said Anastacio. "I'm staying. I want to be sure the invalid gets … proper care."
"Me too," said Breslin.
"And I'm staying to kinder superintend," said Nueces dryly. "Sheriff," he added, as the main body of the posse fell off down the hill—"and you, too, Barela—I don't just know what's going on here, but I'm stayin' with you to a fare-you-well. You two seem to be bucking each other."
No one answered.
"Sulky, hey? Well, anyhow, call it off long enough to drive this Pringle thing away from here. He ain't fittin' for no man to herd with."
"I'm staying right with this man Foy till I get that reward," announced Pringle. "Those are my superintentions. Much I care what you think about me! There's other places besides this."
Breslin raised his eye from Foy's face and regarded Pringle without heat—a steady, contemplative look, as of one who studies some strange and interesting animal. Then he waved his hand down the pass, where certain of the departing posse, were bringing the saddle horses in obedience to the sheriff's instructions.
"They'll carry a nice report of you," observed Breslin quietly. "What do you suppose that little girl will think?"
A flicker of red came to Pringle's hard brown face. Even the scorn of Espalin and Creagan had left him unabashed, but now he winced visibly; and, for once, he had no reply to make.
Foy gasped, struggled to a sitting position, aided by his oddly assorted ministrants, gazed round in a dazed condition and lapsed back into unconsciousness.
"I'll take my dyin' oath it ain't the cut that ails him," said the ranger, tucking a coat under Foy's blood-stained head. "That must have been a horrible jolt on his jaw, Pringle. You're no kind of a man at all—no part of a man. You're a shameless, black-hearted traitor; but I got to hand it to you as a slugger. Two knock-outs in one day—and such men as them! I don't understand it."
"He 'most keel Applegate," said the Mexican.
"Aw, it's easy!" said Pringle eagerly. "There ain't one man in a thousand knows how to fight. It ain't cussin' and gritting your teeth, and swellin' up your biceps and clenching your fists up tight that does the trick. You want to hit like there wasn't anybody there. I'll show you sometime."
He paused inquiringly, as if to book any acceptance of this kindly offer. No such engagements being made, Pringle continued:
"Supposin' you was throwin' a baseball and your hand struck a man accidentally; you'd hurt him every time—only you'd break your arm that way. That ain't the way to strike. I'll show you."
"That wasn't no olive branch I was holdin' out," stated Nueces River.
"You'll show me nothin'—turncoat!"
"It helps a lot, too, when the man you hit is not expecting it," suggested Anastacio smoothly. "You might show me sometime—when I'm looking for it."
"Now what's biting you?" demanded Pringle testily. "What did you expect me to do—send 'em a note by registered mail?"
"I'm not speaking about Applegate. That was all right. I am speaking about your friend."
"Here; Kit's coming to life again," said Lisner.
Kitty Foy rolled over; they propped him up; he looked round rather wildly from one to the other. His face cleared. His eye fell upon Pringle, where it rested with a steady intentness. When he spoke, at last, he ignored the others entirely.
"And I thought you were my friend, Pringle. I trusted you!" he said with ominous quietness. "I'll make a note of it. I have a good memory, Pringle—and good friends. Give me some water, someone. I feel sick."
Espalin brought a canteen.
"Take your time, Chris," said Lisner. "Tell us when you feel able to go."
"I'll be all right after a little. Say, boys, it was the queerest feeling—coming to, I mean. I could almost hear your voices, first. Then I heard them a long ways off but I couldn't make any sense to the words. Here; let me lean my back up against this rock and sit quiet for a while. Then we'll go. I'm giddy yet."
"I've got it!" announced Nueces a moment later. "Barela, he's hankering to be sheriff—that's the trouble. He wanted to take Chris himself, to help things along. That would be quite a feather in any man's hat—done fair. And the sheriff, natural enough, he don't want nothing of the kind."
"That's it," said Anastacio, amusement in his eyes. "I knew you were a good gunman, Nueces, but I never suspected you of brains before."
"What's the matter with that guess?" said Nueces sulkily. "Kid, you're always ridin' me. Don't you try to use any spurs!"
"I'm in on that," said Pringle, rising brightly. "That's my happy chance to join in this lovin' conversation. Speaking about gunmen, I'm a beaut! See that hawk screechin' around up there? Well, watch!"
The hawk soared high above. Pringle barely raised Foy's rifle to his shoulder as he fired; the hawk tumbled headlong. Pringle jerked the lever, throwing another cartridge into the barrel, as if to fire again at the falling bird. Inconceivably swift, the cocked rifle whirled to cover the seated posse.
"Steady!" said Pringle. "I'm watchin' you, Nueces! Chris, when you're able to walk, go on down and pick you a horse from that bunch. Unsaddle the others and drive 'em along a ways as you go." Still speaking, he edged behind the cover of a high rock. "I'll address the meetin' till you get a good head start…. Steady in the boat!"
"Well, by Heck!" said Nueces.
"And I thought you had betrayed me!" cried Foy.
"Well, I hadn't. This was the only show to get off…. I hate to kill you, Nueces; but I will if you make a move."
"Hell! I ain't makin' no move! What do you think I am—a damn fool?" said Neuces. "If I moved any it was because I am about to crack under the justly celebrated strain. Say, young fellow, it strikes me that you change sides pretty often."
"Yes; I am the Acrobat of the Breakfast Table," said Pringle modestly.
"Thanks for the young fellow. That listens good."
"Look out I don't have you performing on a tight rope yet!" growled the sheriff hoarsely. "There'll be more to this. You haven't got out of the country yet."
"That will be all from you, Sheriff. You, too, Creagan—and Espalin.
Not a word or I'll shoot. And I don't care how soon you begin to talk.
That goes!"
Espalin shriveled up; the sheriff and Creagan sat sullen and silent.
Foy got to his feet rather unsteadily.
"Chris, you might slip around and gather up their guns," said Pringle. "Pick out one for yourself. I left yours where I threw it when I picked it out of your belt. I meant to knock you out, Chris—there wasn't any other way; but I didn't mean to plumb kill you. You hit your head on a rock when you fell. It wouldn't have done any good to have got the drop on you. You had made up your mind not to surrender. You would have shot anyhow; and, of course, I couldn't shoot. I'd just have got myself killed for nothing. No good to play I'd taken you prisoner. This crowd knew you wouldn't be taken—except by treachery. So I played traitor. As it was, when I knocked you out you didn't look much like no put-up job. You was bleeding like a stuck pig."
"Hold on, there, before you try to take my gun!" warned old Nueces River as Foy came to him for his gun, collecting. "You got the big drop on me, Pringle, and I wouldn't raise a hand to keep Chris from getting off anyhow—not now. But I used to be a ranger—and the rangers were sworn never to give up their guns."
"How about it, Pringle?" asked Foy, who had already relieved the sheriff and his satellites of their guns. "He'll do exactly as he says—both ways."
"I wasn't done talking yet," said Nueces irritably. "But I'll let
Chris take my gun, on one condition."
"What's that?" inquired Pringle.
"Why, if you ain't busy next Saturday I'd like to have you call around—about one o'clock, say—and kick me good and hard."
"Let him keep his gun. He called me a young fellow. And I don't want
Breslin's, anyway. He's all right. Not to play any favorites, let
Anastacio keep his. There are times," said Pringle, "when I have great
hopes of Anastacio. I'm thinking some of taking him in hand to see if
I can't make a man of him."
"Ananias the Amateur," said Anastacio, "I thank you for those kind words. And I'd like to see you Saturday about two—when you get through with Nueces. I'm next on the waiting list. This will be a lesson to me never to let my opinion of a man be changed by anything he may do."
"If you fellows feel that way," said Foy, "how about me? How do you suppose I feel? This man has risked his life fifty times for me—and what did I think of him?"
"If you ask me, Christopher," said Anastacio, "I think you were quite excusable. It was all very well to dissemble his love—but I should feel doubtful of any man that handed me such a wallop as that until the matter had been fully explained."
"What I want to know, Pringle, is, how the deuce you got up here so slick?" said Nueces.
"Oh, that's easy! I can run a mile in nothing flat."
"Oh—that's it? You hid in the water pen?"
"Under the troughs. Bright idea of yours, them fires! I knew just where not to go. After you left I hooked a horse. If you'd had sense enough to go with the sheriff and eat your supper like a human being I'd 'a' hooked two horses, and Chris and me would now be getting farther and farther. I don't want you ever to do that again. Suppose Chris had killed me when I tried to knock him out? Fine large name I would 'a' left for myself, wouldn't I?"
"If you had fought it out with us," said Breslin musingly, "you would have been killed—both of you; and you would have killed others. Mr. Pringle, you have done a fine thing. I apologize to you."
"Why, that all goes without saying, my boy. As for my part—why, I don't bother much about a blue tin heaven or a comic-supplement hell, but I'm right smart interested in right here and now. It's a right nice little old world, take it by and large, and I like to help out at whatever comes my way, if it takes fourteen innings. But, so long as you feel that way about it, maybe you'll believe me now, when I say that Christopher Foy was with me all last night and he didn't shoot Dick Marr."
"That's right," said Foy. "I don't know who killed Dick Marr; but I do know that Creagan, Joe Espalin, and Applegate intended to kill me last night. They gave me back my sixshooter, that Ben Creagan had borrowed—and it was loaded with blanks. Then they pitched onto me, and if it hadn't been for Pringle they'd have got me sure! We left town at eleven o'clock and rode straight to the Vorhis Ranch."
"I believe you," said Anastacio. "You skip along now, Chris. You're fit to ride."
"Why shouldn't I stay and see it out?"
"It won't do. For one thing, your thinker isn't working as per invoice," said Nueces River. "You're in no fix to do yourself justice. We'll look after your interests. You know some of the posse might be coming back, askin' fool questions. Pull your freight up to the Bar Cross till we send for you."
"Well—if you think Pringle isn't running any risks I'll go."
"We'll take care of Pringle. Guess we'll make him sheriff next fall, maybe—just to keep Anastacio in his place. Drift!"
"No sheriffin' for mine, thanks. Contracting is my line.
Subcontracting!"
"So long, boys! You know what I'd like to say. You gave me a square deal, you three chaps," said Foy. "Get word to Stella as soon as ever you can. She thinks I'm a prisoner, you know. You know what I want to say there, Pringle—tell her for me…. Say! Why don't you all go in now? You boys all know that Stella's engaged to me, don't you? What's the good of keeping her in suspense? Go on to the ranch, right away."
"I told you your head wasn't working just right," jeered Nueces. "We want to give you a good start. They'll be after you again, and you're in no fix to do any hard riding. But one of us will go. Breslin, you go."
"Too late," observed Anastacio quietly. There is Miss Vorhis now, with her father. They're climbing to the Gap. Go on, Foy."
"They've got a led horse," said Nueces as Stella and the Major came to the highest point of the Gap. "Who's that for? Chris? But they couldn't know about Chris. And how did they get here so quick? Don't seem like they've had hardly time."
Stella dismounted; she pressed on up the hill to meet her lover. The first sunshafts struck into the Gap, lit up the narrow walls with red glory.
"Magic Casements!" thought Pringle.
"Watch Foy get over the ground!" said Anastacio. "He'll break his neck before he gets down. I don't blame him. He's nearly down. Look the other way, boys!"
They looked the other way, and there were none to see that meeting. Unless, perhaps, the gods looked down from high Olympus—the poor immortals—and turned away, disconsolate, to the cheerless fields of asphodel.
"But they're not going away," said Breslin after a suitable interval.
"They're waiting; and the Major's waving his hat at us."
"I'll go see what they want," said Anastacio.
In a few minutes he was back, rather breathless and extremely agitated in appearance.
"Well? Spill it!" said Nueces. "Get your breath first. What's the trouble?"
"Applegate's dead. Joe Espalin, I arrest you for the murder of Richard
Marr! Applegate confessed!"
"He lied! He lied!" screamed Espalin. "I was with Ben till daylight, at the monte game; they all tell you. The sheriff he try to make me keel heem—he try to buy me to do eet—he keel Dick Marr heemself!"
"That's right!" spoke Creagan, suddenly white and haggard. His voice was a cringing whine; his eyes groveled. "Marr was at Lisner's house. We all went over there after the fight. Lisner waked Marr up—he'd been tryin' to egg Marr on to kill Foy all day, but Marr was too drunk. He was sobering up when we waked him. Lisner tried to rib him up to go after Foy and waylay him—told him he had been threatening Foy's life while he was drunk, and that Foy'd kill him if he didn't get Foy first. Dick said he wouldn't do it—he'd go along to help arrest Foy, but that's all he'd do. The sheriff and Joe went out together for a powwow. The sheriff came back alone, black as thunder—him and Dick rode off together——"
The sheriff sprang to his feet, his heavy face bloated and blotched with terror.
"He cursed me; he tried to pull his gun!" he wailed. His eyes protruded, glaring; one hand clutched at his throat, the other spread out before him as he tottered, stumbling. "Oh, my God!" he sobbed.
"That will do nicely," said Anastacio. "You're guilty as hell! I'll put your own handcuffs on you. Oddly enough, the law provides that when it is necessary to arrest the sheriff the duty falls to the coroner. It is very appropriate. You must pardon me, Mr. Lisner, if I seem unsympathetic. Dick Marr was your friend! And you have not been entirely fair with Foy, I fear…. Creagan, we'll hold you and Joe for complicity and for conspiracy in Foy's case. We'll arrest Applegate, too, when we get to camp. He'll be awfully vexed."
"What!" shrieked the sheriff, raising his manacled hands. "Liar!
Murderer!"
"So Applegate's not dead? Well, I'm just as well pleased," said
Pringle.
"Not even hurt badly. I was after the Man Lower Down. What the Major told me was that the Barelas were at the ranch—more than enough to hold Lisner's crowd down. They come at daylight. I was expecting that, and waiting. As I told you, that's the best thing I do—waiting."
"But how did you know?" demanded Breslin, puzzled.
"I didn't know, for sure. I had a hunch and I played it. So I killed poor Applegate—temporarily. It worked out just right and nothing to carry."
"One of the mainest matters with the widely-known world," said Pringle wearily, "is that people won't play their hunches. They haven't spunk enough to believe what they know. Let me spell it out for you in words of two cylinders, Breslin: You saw that I knew Creagan and Applegate, while they positively refused to know me at any price; you heard the sheriff deny that I was at the Gadsden House before I'd claimed anything of the sort. Of course you didn't know anything about the fight at the Gadsden House, but that was enough to show you something wasn't right, just the same. You had all the material to build a nice plump hunch. It all went over your head. You put me in mind of the lightning bug:
"The lightning bug is brilliant,
But it hasn't any mind;
It wanders through creation
With its headlight on behind.
"Come on—let's move. I'm fair dead for sleep."
"Just a minute!" said Anastacio. "I want to call your attention to the big dust off in the north. I've been watching it half an hour. That dust, if I'm not mistaken, is the Bar Cross coming; they've heard the news!"
"So, Mr. Lisner, you hadn't a chance to get by with it," said Pringle slowly and thoughtfully. "If I hadn't balked you, the Barelas stood ready; if the Barelas failed, yonder big dust was on the way; half your own posse would have turned on you for half a guess at the truth. It's a real nice little world—and it hates a lie. A good many people lay their fine-drawn plans, but they mostly don't come off! Men are but dust, they tell us. Magnificent dust! This nice little old world of ours, in the long run, is going right. You can't beat the Game! Once, yes—or twice—not in the long run. The Percentage is all against you. You can't beat the Game!"
"It's up to you, Sheriff," said Anastacio briskly. "I can turn you over to the Bar Cross outfit and they'll hang you now; or I can turn you over to the Barelas and you will be hung later. Dick Marr was your friend! Take your choice. You go on down, Pringle, while the sheriff is looking over the relative advantages of the two propositions. I think Miss Vorhis may have something to say to you."
* * * * *
She came to meet him; Foy and the Major waited by the horses. "John!" she said. "Faithful John!" She sought his hands.
"There now, honey—don't take on so! Don't! It's all right! You know what the poet says:
"Cast your bread upon the waters
And you may live to say:
'Oh, how I wish I had the crust
That once I threw away!'"
Her throat was pulsing swiftly; her eyes were brimming with tears, bruised for lost sleep.
"Dearest and kindest friend! When I think what you have done for me—that you faced shame worse than death—guarded by unprovable honor—John! John!"
"Why, you mustn't, honey—you mustn't do that! Why, Stella, you're crying—for me! You mustn't do that, Little Next Door!"