“I know where Martin is, and I know who he is.”
“Who is Martin, then?” His eyes were on Bonelli’s shadowed face. He saw Bonelli’s hand go to his mouth and heard his teeth crunch.
In a lower tone Bonelli said, “Don’t say where you heard it. I would rather it wasn’t known that I told, but Wiley Martin is Bob Travis!”
“Thanks. I’ll have a talk with him.”
“You’ll not take him now?” Disappointment was obvious. “He’s your man! He just got back from Texas!”
“So did Jed Chapin. So did your man Jeff Erianger. Maybe you, too, for all I know. I want to talk to Martin. I have some other evidence that will have to tie in.”
When Bonelli was gone, Bowdrie walked down the dark street.
Bob Travis was sitting at his usual table in the Silver Dollar, but Bowdrie did not enter. He had reached the end of the street when he saw a light in the telegraph office again.
Bowdrie crossed to the railroad-station platform, glanced around, and then pushed the door open and went in. The operator glanced up.
“Any message?” Bowdrie asked.
The operator hesitated, started to say there was none, trying meanwhile to shuffle some papers to cover another lying there.
“All right,” Bowdrie said, “let me have it. And after this, don’t be running to Bonelli with stories, or you won’t have a job!”
“You can’t accuse me of that! Besides,” the operator said, “how would you get messages without me?”
“I can handle one of those keys as well as you, and from the speed you were sending, I can do a lot better!”
“You’re an operator?”
“When necessary. Learned it as a youngster, an’ worked at it a mite. Too confining for me, so I quit.”
Grudgingly the operator passed messages through the barred window. Bowdrie glanced at one page, then the other.
“You know who I am.” His black eyes pinned the operator. “Now destroy the copies.”
“I can’t! I don’t dare!”
Bowdrie slapped a hard palm on the window ledge. “You heard me! Destroy them. I will be responsible. And if one word of this gets out, I’ll be back. I’ll take over that key and report to your headquarters just what has been going on here.”
“Bonelli will pistol-whip me. He threatened it.”
“Keep your doors locked. If there’s a ruckus, I’ll come running. Anyway, these messages don’t concern Bonelli or you.”
Chick took the me sages and walked back up the dark street, pausing briefly in the light of a window to read the messages again.
The first presented no problem. Jed Chapins brother loaned him eight thousand. All regular. Impossible Chapin could reach Pecos in time.
The second message left Bowdrie a lot to think about.
Wiley Martin not wanted in Texas. Wanted in Missouri, Wyoming, and Nebraska for killings on Tom, Bench, and Red Fox. If he’s your man, be careful! His real name Jay Burke. Will not be taken alive.
Jay Burke. The name was familiar. He was the last survivor of the Saltillo Cattle War that had taken place on both sides of the border. The Burke enemies had been the notorious Fox family of outlaws. The Fox outlaws had killed Jay Burke’s father and destroyed his home. Jay Burke’s pursuit of the outlaws was legend.
He had followed them from state to state and killed them where he found them; all were killed in fair stand-up fights.
Bob Travis still sat at his table when Bowdrie walked into the saloon and seated himself across from him. Erianger and Bonelli were present, and Bowdrie caught a dark, malicious gleam in Bonelli’s eyes as he sat down.
His face inscrutable, the gray-eyed man faced Bowdrie, measuring him with careful attention. “You have made a good start on your job, Bowdrie.”
“You know me, then?”
“The whole town knows. They also know—“ he struck a match and lifted it to his cigarette—“what you’re here for.”
“Not many of them seem to want to talk,” Bowdrie said.
Travis’ eyes flickered to Bowdrie’s. “Then somebody has?”
“Of course.” Chick picked up the deck of cards and shuffled them.
“There is always somebody who will.” His eyes strayed to Bonelli, who was trying to conceal his interest.
“I see.” Travis seemed uncertain, and Bowdrie’s face indicated nothing. Travis, he was thinking, was a dangerous man, which was probably why Bonelli had left him alone.
On his part, Travis was studying Bowdrie and wondering about the next move. Bowdrie was known as a hard, relentless man, but rumor credited him with many acts of kindness.
“What are you going to do?” he asked finally.
“Ask some questions. Where did you go in Texas?”
“To a ranch north of Pecos.”
“Not to Pecos itself?”
“No. Although I passed within a mile of it.”
“You rode your gray?”
“Why, yes, I did. Why? What’s wrong?”
“I tracked that gray from in front of the Pecos Bank. The man who rode that horse killed two men while robbin’ the bank.”
Travis was white to the eyes, and Bowdrie reached a careful hand to his shirt pocket to bring forth the message that mentioned Burke. He handed it to Travis.
Travis glanced at it.
“What you have here”—he indicated the message—“is true. You know from what it says here the kind of man I am. No Burke ever robbed a bank. No Burke ever lied. I did not ride into Pecos. I did not rob a bank. I have never killed anyone in Texas.”
Bonelli was still watching them, but he was frowning now, and impatient. Jeff Erianger had moved to the bar and was standing with his back to it, glass in hand, watching Bowdrie.
“Travis, I would like to believe you, but today you talked to Amy Chapin in the street, and the tracks of your horse were the tracks of the horse the killer rode!”
“What?” He leaned forward.
“Man, why didn’t you say so? I rode a gray horse, all right, but not that horse. Today was the first time I’ve ridden him, although he’s been in my corral back of the saloon for the past two months.”
Bowdrie took the letter from his pocket, the letter addressed to Wiley Martin that had been found outside the bank after the robbery.
“This letter was dropped by the killer. It is addressed to you.”
“Yes,” Travis agreed, “that letter came to me. I do not recall seeing it again after receiving it.”
“About those horses in the corral? Did anybody but you ever ride them?”
“Half the town did. I kept at least a dozen head there. My own riders rode them when they needed a fresh horse, but so did various people around town, but I can’t imagine anybody actually taking one of them to Texas!”
Chick shoved back his chair.
“Don’t let it bother you, Travis, and just stick that message in your pocket. You aren’t wanted in Texas, and I don’t make arrests for anybody else. There were a few points I wanted to clear up. Now I know the answers.”
He got to his feet, his eyes sweeping the room.
Erianger lounged against the bar, watching him. Bonelli remained at his table, but he seemed uneasy now. Then the door opened and Jed Chapin came in. Buffalo Barton was with him.
“Tex,” Chapin said, “I’ve got to see you!”
“Later,” Bowdrie replied. “I’ve some work to do!”
Bonelli took something in his hand, glanced at it, then tossed it into his mouth.
“Bonelli, I am a Texas Ranger. I am arresting you for the robbery of the Pecos Bank and the murder of two men there!”
Bonelli got up. “That’s a lot of hogwash! You’ve got the deadwood on Travis! Or Martin, if he wants to call himself that! You’ve got nothing on me!”
“You’re wrong, Bonelli. I have all I need, even though you did all you could to implicate Travis, and so rid yourself of the one man you feared. You dropped that letter of Martin’s where it would be found. You rode one of h
is horses, planning for the trail to lead to him.”
Bonelli shrugged with apparent indifference. “Prove it! I’ve people will swear I was never out of the state, and you can’t prove I was ever in Texas!”
“Bonelli, a few days ago I noticed a habit you have. You chew wing scale seeds, like some Zunis do. You’re doing it now. You were chewing them tonight when I talked to you on the street, and you were chewing them when you waited across the street from the bank in Pecos. It isn’t a common habit, Bonelli.”
“That’s no proof. That’s no proof at all!”
“It’s enough for me to ask you to take off your shirt, Bonelli. You bathed the dust off your upper body in the trough by the corral in Pecos, and some people there saw the tattoo under your heart. Will that be proof, Bonelli?”
“I didn’t rob no bank!”
“Take off your shirt and show us. If you’ve no tattoo, I’ll not only apologize but I’ll stand treat for the house.”
“All right! I’ll show you! I’ll prove you wrong!” His hands went to the buttons on his shirt and dropped to his gun butt.
The draw was fast, for when his hand went to the buttons it was already moving and within inches of the gun, but Bowdrie had expected it and his gun stabbed flame an instant faster.
At almost the same instant, Travis fired across the tabletop, smashing Jeff Erianger against the bar. His knees sagged and he went to the floor, but Bowdrie was watching Bonelli.
He was still on his feet, his lips twisted in a wry, unhappy grin.
“Guess I wasn’t cut out for .. . for this here game.” He sank to the floor and spilled over on his face.
Gently Bowdrie turned him over. “I knew it was you,” he muttered. “Had you spotted.”
“No … no hard feelings?”
“No hard feelings. I’m only sorry you took the wrong turn in the trail.”
“Yeah.” Bonelli stared upward into the darkness near the ceiling.
“Guess that was it. Had me a little ranch once, in Texas.” He fumbled for words, but though his lips twisted, no sound came.
Bowdrie stood back, glanced around the room, then walked over to Travis’ table and sat down.
He glanced at Erianger’s body, then at Travis.
“Thanks,” he said; then he added, “Bonelli gave himself away earlier. He told me I’d know the tracks of Travis’ gray if I saw them, but the only way he could have known I got here by following the gray was by seeing me.
“For all he could have known, I’d gotten here by trailin’ you, because your trail and his crossed each other now and again. A good tracker can tell a lot by the trail of the man he is followin’. You rode like a man with an easy conscience, but Bonelli spent a lot of time stoppin’ from time to time to look down his back trail, and he kept under cover wherever he could.”
“That’s what I wanted to tell you about,” Chapin said. “I located a man who saw Bonelli take that gray from the corral.” He looked from Travis to Bowdrie.
“Amy’s outside, Tex.” Bowdrie went outside. Amy sat in the buckboard.
“I’m glad you’re all right,” she said. “Now you know why I couldn’t tell you about Wiley Martin.”
“Everybody seemed to like him,” Bowdrie admitted. “And I guess he was the only man standing between the Bonelli crowd and even more trouble.”
“It wasn’t only that, Tex. He’s my uncle. You see, my mother’s name was Burke, and my uncle’s name was Robert Jay Burke. He used whatever name was handy when he was on the trail of the Foxes, and when he first located here, he was known as Travis. He just kept that name.”
Amy glanced at Chick. “Are you going to accept Dad’s offer? He does need help.”
Bowdrie shook his head. “There’s too much to do back in Texas, and I’m a tumbleweed, I guess.”
“You can always come back, Tex.” Then she said, “I shouldn’t call you that, I guess. They say you are Chick Bowdrie.” Then she laughed.
“However did you get a name like Chick?”
He smiled. “My name was Charles. Most times Chuck is a nickname for Charles, but there was another boy in school who was called Chuck. He was bigger than I was, so they called me Chick.” He chuckled. “I never minded.”
When he was back in the hotel, he started thinking again about Amy. Maybe if he stayed on, worked for her father, and .. .
A RANGER RIDES TO TOWN
Morning lay sprawled in sleepy comfort in the sunlit streets. The banker’s rooster, having several times proclaimed the fact that he was up and doing, walked proudly toward the dusty street. The banker, his shirttail hanging out, was just leaving the front door accompanied by two men, both dusty from hard riding. Outside the bank a rider clad in a linen duster sat astride a blood bay with his rifle across his knees and the reins of three other horses in his hand. The fourth man of the group leaned against a storefront some twenty yards away with a rifle in his hands.
The bank’s door was already wide open and the banker and his escort disappeared within. East of town the dry wash had been bridged and the sound of a horse’s hooves on that bridge was always audible within the town. Now, suddenly, that bridge thundered with the hoofbeats of a hard-ridden horse, and the two men in the street looked sharply around. Behind his house, Tommy Ryan, thirteen years old and small for his age, was splitting wood. He glanced around in time to see a man on a hammerhead roan, the horse’s sides streaked with sweat, charge into the street. The man wore a black flat-crowned hat and the two guns in his hands were not there for fun.
The man in the linen duster was closest, and he hesitated, waiting to see who or what was approaching. When he saw a rider with pistols in his hand and a Ranger’s badge on his chest, he lifted his rifle, but too late. The rider’s bullet cut a long furrow the length of his forearm and smashed his elbow. The rifle fell into the dust. Numb with shock, the rider sat gripping his arm and staring. The rifleman down the street caught the second bullet just as he himself fired. He stood for an instant, then turned and walked three steps and fell on his face. One spur rowel kept turning a moment after he fell.
When the shooting was over, one of the banker’s escorts lay sprawled in the doorway, gun in hand, and the Ranger stood over him, gun in hand, staring into the shadowy precincts of the bank. Another man with a badge pushed his way through the crowd that gathered. “Hi, Bowdrie! I’m Hadley, sheriff. I didn’t know there were any Rangers in the country.”
“Looks like I got here just in time,” Bowdrie commented. He kept a pistol in his hand.
“Some shootin’,” a bystander commented.
“Surprise,” Bowdrie said. “They didn’t expect anybody to come shooting. I had an edge.”
Sheriff Hadley led the way into the bank. Two men lay dead on the floor, one of them the banker. He had been shot through the head at close range. “He was a good man,” Hadley said. “The town needed him.” He glanced around. “You scored a clean sweep. You got ‘em all.”
“That’s what it looks like,” he agreed. His eyes swept the scene with a swift, all-seeing glance. Then he went past the bodies and into the private office of the banker. It was cool there, and undisturbed. Bowdrie paused for a long minute, looking around, considering not only what he saw but what he had just seen. This room had been the seat of a man’s pride, of his life’s work. He had been a man who was building something, not only for himself and those who followed, but for his country. This man was putting down roots, enabling others to do the same. Now he was dead, and for what? That some loose-gunned wastrels might have a few dollars to spend on whiskey and women.
He turned to look back into the bank, where Hadley was squatting beside the bodies. “No business today, Hadley. I want the bank closed.”
“Young Jim Cane can handle it,” Hadley said. “He’s a good man.”
“Nevertheless, I want the bank closed for business. I want to look around. Don’t explain, just close it.”
Tommy Ryan stared wide-eyed at the Ranger. He had been hearing s
tories of Chick Bowdrie but had never seen a real live Ranger before. Bowdrie’s eyes wandered the street, studying the storefronts, the upstairs windows. Who might have been a witness? In a town of early risers, somebody must have seen what happened before the holdup.
“Anything I can do?” The man was tall and well-set-up, with blond hair and friendly eyes. “I’m Kent Friede. I was a friend of Hayes’s.”
“Nothin” anybody can do, Kent. Hayes never had a chance. Shot right through the skull. Bowdrie here come in on ‘em and made a cleanup. He got ‘em all.”
“No,” Bowdrie said quietly, oblivious of the startled glances from Hadley and Friede. “I got three. But I didn’t shoot at that man inside the bank and he didn’t shoot Hayes.”
“What?” Hadley turned on him. “Then who–?”
“There was a fifth man who never appeared in the operation. He killed both Hayes and the outlaw inside the bank.”
“I don’t follow, Fnede said. How could that be. ….”
Bowdrie shrugged. “Who runs the bank now? Is it this Jim Cane you mentioned?”
“If there’s anything left to run. Lucky they didn’t get away with any money.”
“It’s my guess they did get the money,” Bowdrie said. “The fifth man got it, and it’s my bet he knew where to look.”
“You’re implying it was an inside job?” Friede was obviously skeptical. “I don’t believe that. Jim Cane’s a fine young man. We all trust him.”
Bowdrie waved a hand. “Close it up, Hadley, .and give me the key. Some things don’t fit, but they will before I’m through.” Yet as he walked along the street he was far from feeling confident. The outlaw with the broken arm had been taken to jail and must be questioned. Bowdrie had an idea he would know nothing. The man who planned this job would have been shrewd enough to communicate with only one man, undoubtedly the outlaw killed inside the bank. At least, that was how it looked now.
He believed there was a fifth man involved, but it was no more than a theory and one that might not hold water. First, his own arrival had not been by chance. He had been tipped that a robbery was planned. Who had tipped him, and why? Who had thrown that note wrapped around a rock into his campsite only a few hours ago? A note that warned him of the holdup and how it was to be carried out?
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