Tangled Trails

by Raine, William MacLeod

  "Did anything peculiar about the wound impress you?" he asked.

  "Yes. The forehead of the deceased was powder-marked."

  "Showing that the weapon had been fired close to him?"

  "Yes."

  "Anything else?"

  "One thing. The bullet slanted into the head toward the right."

  "Where was the chair in which the deceased was seated? I mean in what part of the room."

  "Pushed close to the left-hand wall and parallel to it."

  "Very close?"

  "Touching it."

  "Under the circumstances could the revolver have been fired so that the bullet could have taken the course it did if held in the right hand?"

  "Hardly. Not unless it was held with extreme awkwardness."

  "In your judgment, then, the revolver was fired by a left-handed person?"

  "That is my opinion."

  The coroner swelled like a turkey cock as he waved the attorney to take charge again.

  Lane's heart drummed fast. He did not look across the room toward the girl in the blue tailored suit. But he saw her, just as clearly as though his eyes had been fastened on her. The detail that stood out in his imagination was the right arm set in splints and resting in a linen sling suspended from the neck.

  Temporarily Rose McLean was left-handed.

  "Was it possible that the deceased could have shot himself?"

  "Do you mean, is it possible that somebody could have tied him to the chair after he was dead?"

  "Yes."

  The surgeon, taken by surprise, hesitated. "That's possible, certainly."

  James Cunningham took the witness chair after the police officers who had arrived at the scene of the tragedy with the surgeon had finished their testimony. One point brought out by the officers was that in the search of the rooms the two thousand dollars was not found. The oil broker gave information as to his uncle's affairs.

  "You knew your uncle well?" the lawyer asked presently.

  "Intimately."

  "And were on good terms with him?"

  "The best."

  "Had he ever suggested to you that he might commit suicide?"

  "Never," answered the oil broker with emphasis. "He was the last man in the world one would have associated with such a thought."

  "Did he own a revolver?"

  "No, not to my knowledge. He had an automatic."

  "What caliber was it?"

  "I'm not quite sure—about a .38, I think."

  "When did you see it last?"

  "I don't recollect."

  The prosecuting attorney glanced at his notes.

  "You are his next of kin?"

  "My brother and I are his nephews. He had no nearer relatives."

  "You are his only nephews—his only near relatives?"

  Cunningham hesitated, for just the blinking of an eye. He did not want to bring Kirby into his testimony if he could help it. That might ultimately lead to his arrest.

  "He had one other nephew."

  "Living in Denver?"

  "No."

  "Where?"

  "Somewhere in Wyoming, I think. We do not correspond."

  "Do you know if he is there now?"

  The witness dodged. "He lives there, I think."

  "Do you happen to know where he is at the present moment?"

  "Yes." The monosyllable fell reluctantly.

  "Where?"

  "In Denver."

  "Not in this court-room?"

  "Yes."

  "What is the gentleman's name, Mr. Cunningham?"

  "Kirby Lane."

  "Will you point him out?"

  James did so.

  The lawyer faced the crowded benches. "I'll ask Mr. Lane to step forward and take a seat near the front. I may want to ask him a few questions later."

  Kirby rose and came forward.

  "To your knowledge, Mr. Cunningham, had your uncle any enemies?" asked the attorney, continuing his examination.

  "He was a man of positive opinions. Necessarily there were people who did not like him."

  "Active enemies?"

  "In a business sense, yes."

  "But not in a personal sense?"

  "I do not know of any. He may have had them. In going through his desk at the office I found a letter. Here it is."

  The fat little coroner bustled forward, took the letter, and read it. He handed it to one of the jury. It was read and passed around. The letter was the one the promoter had received from the Dry Valley rancher threatening his life if he ever appeared again in that part of the country.

  "I notice that the letter is postmarked Denver," Cunningham suggested.

  "Whoever mailed it must have been in the city at the time."

  "That's very important," the prosecuting attorney said. "Have you communicated the information to the police?"

  "Yes."

  "You do not know who wrote the letter?"

  "I do not."

  The coroner put the tips of his fingers and thumbs together and balanced on the balls of his feet. "Do you happen to know the name of the lady with whom your uncle had an appointment on the night of his death at his rooms?"

  "No," answered the witness curtly.

  "When was the last time you saw the deceased alive?"

  "About three o'clock on the day before that of his death."

  "Anything occur at that time throwing any light on what subsequently occurred?"

  "Nothing whatever."

  "Very good, Mr. Cunningham. You may be excused, if Mr. Johns is through with you, unless some member of the jury has a question he would like to ask."

  One of the jury had. He was a dried-out wisp of a man wrinkled like a winter pippin. "Was your uncle engaged to be married at the time of his death?" he piped.

  There was a mild sensation in the room. Curious eyes swept toward the graceful, slender form of a veiled woman sitting at the extreme left of the room.

  Cunningham flushed. The question seemed to him a gratuitous probe into the private affairs of the family. "I do not care to discuss that," he answered quietly.

  "The witness may refuse to answer questions if he wishes," the coroner ruled.

  Jack Cunningham was called to the stand. James had made an excellent witness. He was quiet, dignified, and yet forceful. Jack, on the other hand, was nervous and irritable. The first new point he developed was that on his last visit to the rooms of his uncle he had seen him throw downstairs a fat man with whom he had been scuffling. Shown Hull, he identified him as the man.

  "Had you ever had any trouble with your uncle?" Johns asked him.

  "You may decline to answer if you wish," the coroner told the witness.

  Young Cunningham hesitated. "No-o. What do you mean by trouble?"

  "Had he ever threatened to cut you out of his will?"

  "Yes," came the answer, a bit sulkily.

  "Why—if you care to tell?"

  "He thought I was extravagant and wild—wanted me to buckle down to business more."

  "What is your business?"

  "I'm with a bond house—McCabe, Foster & Clinton."

  "During the past few months have you had any difference of opinion with your uncle?"

  "That's my business," flared the witness. Then, just as swiftly as his irritation had come it vanished. He remembered that his uncle's passionate voice had risen high. No doubt people in the next apartments had heard him. It would be better to make a frank admission. "But I don't mind answering. I have."

  "When?"

  "The last time I went to his rooms—two days before his death."

  Significant looks passed from one to another of the spectators.

  "What was the subject of the quarrel?"

  "I didn't say we had quarreled," was the sullen answer.

  "Differed, then. My question was, what about?"

  "I decline to say."

  "I think that is all, Mr. Cunningham."

  The wrinkled little juryman leaned forward and piped his question
again. "Was your uncle engaged to be married at the time of his death?"

  The startled eyes of Jack Cunningham leaped to the little man. There was in them dismay, almost panic. Then, swiftly, he recovered and drawled insolently, "I try to mind my own business. Do you?"

  The coroner asserted himself. "Here, here, none of that! Order in this court, if you please, gentlemen." He bustled in his manner, turning to the attorney. "Through with Mr. Cunningham, Johns? If so, we'll push on."

  "Quite." The prosecuting attorney consulted a list in front of him.

  "Cass Hull next."

  Hull came puffing to the stand. He was a porpoise of a man. His eyes dodged about the room in dread. It was as though he were looking for a way of escape.

  CHAPTER XII

  "THAT'S THE MAN"

  "Your name?"

  "Cass Hull."

  "Business?"

  "Real estate, mostly farm lands."

  "Did you know James Cunningham, the deceased?" asked Johns.

  "Yes. Worked with him on the Dry Valley proposition, an irrigation project."

  "Ever have any trouble with him?"

  "No, sir—not to say trouble." Hull was already perspiring profusely. He dragged a red bandanna from his pocket and mopped the roll of fat that swelled over his collar. "I—we had a—an argument about a settlement—nothin' serious."

  "Did he throw you out of his room and down the stairs?"

  "No, sir, nothin' like that a-tall. We might 'a' scuffled some, kinda in fun like. Prob'ly it looked like we was fightin', but we wasn't. My heel caught on a tread o' the stairs an' I fell down." Hull made his explanation eagerly and anxiously, dabbing at his beefy face with the handkerchief.

  "When did you last see Mr. Cunningham alive?"

  "Well, sir, that was the last time, though I reckon we heard him pass our door."

  In answer to questions the witness explained that Cunningham had owed him, in his opinion, four thousand dollars more than he had paid. It was about this sum they had differed.

  "Were you at home on the evening of the twenty-third—that is, last night?"

  The witness flung out more signals of distress. "Yes, sir," he said at last in a voice dry as a whisper.

  "Will you tell what, if anything, occurred?"

  "Well, sir, a man knocked at our door. The woman she opened it, an' he asked which flat was Cunningham's. She told him, an' the man he started up the stairs."

  "Have you seen the man since?"

  "No, sir."

  "Didn't hear him come downstairs later?"

  "No, sir."

  "At what time did this man knock?" asked the lawyer from the district attorney's office.

  Kirby Lane did not move a muscle of his body, but excitement grew in him, as he waited, eyes narrowed, for the answer.

  "At 9.20."

  "How do you know the time so exactly?"

  "Well, sir, I was windin' the clock for the night."

  "Sure your clock was right?"

  "Yes, sir. I happened to check up on it when the court-house clock struck nine. Mebbe it was half a minute off, as you might say."

  "Describe the man."

  Hull did, with more or less accuracy.

  "Would you know him if you saw him again?"

  "Yes, sir, I sure would."

  The coroner flung a question at the witness as though it were a weapon,

  "Ever carry a gun, Mr. Hull?"

  The big man on the stand dabbed at his veined face with the bandanna.

  He answered, with an ingratiating whine. "I ain't no gunman, sir.

  Never was."

  "Ever ride the range?"

  "Well, yes, as you might say," the witness answered uneasily.

  "Carried a six-shooter for rattlesnakes, didn't you?"

  "I reckon, but I never went hellin' around with it."

  "Wore it to town with you when you went, I expect, as the other boys did."

  "Mebbeso."

  "What caliber was it?"

  "A .38, sawed-off."

  "Own it now?"

  The witness mopped his fat face. "No, sir."

  "Don't carry a gun in town?"

  "No, sir."

  "Ever own an automatic?"

  "No, sir. Wouldn't know how to fire one."

  "How long since you sold your .38?"

  "Five years or so."

  "Where did you carry it?"

  "In my hip pocket."

  "Which hip pocket?"

  Hull was puzzled at the question. "Why, this one—the right one, o' course. There wouldn't be any sense in carryin' it where I couldn't reach it."

  "That's so. Mr. Johns, you may take the witness again."

  The young lawyer asked questions about the Dry Valley irrigation project. He wanted to know why there was dissatisfaction among the farmers, and from a reluctant witness drew the information that the water supply was entirely inadequate for the needs of the land under cultivation.

  Mrs. Hull, called to the stand, testified that on the evening of the twenty-third a man had knocked at their door to ask in which apartment Mr. Cunningham lived. She had gone to the door, answered his question, and watched him pass upstairs.

  "What time was this?"

  "9.20."

  Again Kirby felt a tide of excitement running in his arteries. Why were this woman and her husband setting back the clock thirty-five minutes? Was it to divert suspicion from themselves? Was it to show that this stranger must have been in Cunningham's rooms for almost an hour, during which time the millionaire promoter had been murdered?

  "Describe the man."

  This tall, angular woman, whose sex the years had seemed to have dried out of her personality, made a much better witness than her husband. She was acid and incisive, but her very forbidding aspect hinted of the "good woman" who never made mistakes. She described the stranger who had knocked at her door with a good deal of circumstantial detail.

  "He was an outdoor man, a rancher, perhaps, or more likely a cattleman," she concluded.

  "You have not seen him since that time?"

  She opened her lips to say "No," but she did not say it. Her eyes had traveled past the lawyer and fixed themselves on Kirby Lane. He saw the recognition grow in them, the leap of triumph in her as the long, thin arm shot straight toward him.

  "That's the man!"

  A tremendous excitement buzzed in the courtroom. It was as though some one had exploded a mental bomb. Men and women craned forward to see the man who had been identified, the man who no doubt had murdered James Cunningham. The murmur of voices, the rustle of skirts, the shuffling of moving bodies filled the air.

  The coroner rapped for order. "Silence in the court-room," he said sharply.

  "Which man do you mean, Mrs. Hull?" asked the lawyer.

  "The big brown man sittin' at the end of the front bench, the one right behind you."

  Kirby rose. "Think prob'ly she means me," he suggested.

  An officer in uniform passed down the aisle and laid a hand on the cattleman's shoulder. "You're under arrest," he said.

  "For what, officer?" asked James Cunningham.

  "For the murder of your uncle, sir."

  In the tense silence that followed rose a little throat sound that was not quite a sob and not quite a wail. Kirby turned his head toward the back of the room.

  Wild Rose was standing in her place looking at him with dilated eyes filled with incredulity and horror.

  CHAPTER XIII

  "ALWAYS, PHYLLIS"

  "Chuck" Ellis, reporter, testified that on his way home from the Press Club on the night of the twenty-third, he stopped at an alley on Glenarm Street to strike a light for his cigar. Just as he lit the match he saw a man come out from the window of a room in the Paradox Apartments and run down the fire escape. It struck him that the man might be a burglar, so he waited in the shadow of the building. The runner came down the alley toward him. He stopped the man and had some talk with him. At the request of the district attorney's assistan
t he detailed the conversation and located on a chart shown him the room from which he had seen the fellow emerge.

  "Would you know him again?"'

  "Yes."

  "Do you see him in this room?"

  Ellis, just off his run, had reached the court-room only a second before he stepped to the stand. Now he looked around, surprised at the lawyer's question. His wandering eye halted at Lane.

  "There he is."

  "Which man do you mean?"

  "The one on the end of the bench."

  "At what time did this take place?"

  "Lemme see. About quarter-past ten, maybe."

  "Which way did he go when he left you?"

  "Toward Fifteenth Street."

  "That is all." The lawyer turned briskly toward Kirby. "Mr. Lane, will you take the stand?"

  Every eye focused on the range rider. As he moved forward and took the oath the scribbling reporters found in his movements a pantherish lightness, in his compact figure rippling muscles perfectly under control. There was an appearance of sunburnt competency about him, a crisp confidence born of the rough-and-tumble life of the outdoor West. He did not look like a cold-blooded murderer. Women found themselves hoping that he was not. The jaded weariness of the sensation-seekers vanished at sight of him. A man had walked upon the stage, one full of vital energy.

  The assistant district attorney led him through the usual preliminaries. Lane said that he was by vocation a cattleman, by avocation a rough rider. He lived at Twin Buttes, Wyoming.

  One of the reporters leaned toward another and whispered, "By Moses, he's the same Lane that won the rough-riding championship at Pendleton and was second at Cheyenne last year."

  "Are you related to James Cunningham, the deceased?" asked the lawyer.

  "His nephew."

  "How long since you had seen him prior to your visit to Denver this time?"

  "Three years."

  "What were your relations with him?"

  The coroner interposed. "You need answer no questions tending to incriminate you, Mr. Lane."

  A sardonic smile rested on the rough rider's lean, brown face. "Our relations were not friendly," he said quietly.

  A ripple of excitement swept the benches.

  "What was the cause of the bad feeling between you?"

  "A few years ago my father fell into financial difficulties. He was faced with bankruptcy. Cunningham not only refused to help him, but was the hardest of his creditors. He hounded him to the time of my father's death a few months later. His death was due to a breakdown caused by intense worry."