“There’s Cliff Bender and Doug Pell at the Palace.”
“Ace’s bouncers? They have no reason for quarreling with him, and we don’t have Sam Hodge to cover us up any more.”
“How about Ike Wetmiller?”
The lawyer’s eyes narrowed calculatingly. “Not a bad selection. Ike knows about your rustling over the Slash B. Hm-m-m.”
For a short space he sat hunched in his chair, brows bent, eyes fixed on the desk before him; then the frown vanished, and he straightened up and reached for pencil and paper. For several minutes he wrote slowly and painfully in an unaccustomed hand, then read the note carefully, added a post-script, and handed the paper to his son.
Dear miss Dawn, the cattle you lost were russled through the help of Ike Wetmiller. he planted them where Tug could get them and saw to it that the crew did not get wise. a Friend p.s. don’t tell ike about this letter, he might figger out who sent it.
Steve looked up. “Well?”
“She won’t keep him after that. When he is discharged he will probably come to you. You will suggest that the only one who could have informed Barbara is Barry Weston. That ought to take care of the matter, eh?”
Steve nodded. “Address the envelope and I’ll drop it in the box when nobody’s lookin’.”
That same day Barry brought a lawyer from Hartsville, and sent him to see Clement at once. When the lawyer rejoined Barry, he was not at all optimistic.
“The evidence is going to be difficult to get around. According to the testimony of the sheriff, now deceased, Garth’s gun was found loaded and holstered. Palmateer and the two others who found him will testify to that effect also. To combat their testimony we have only Clement’s story and the improbability that a gunman with Garth’s reputation could have been shot directly from the front without even drawing his weapon.”
“Clement didn’t shoot the man without giving him a chance.”
“I agree with you; but will the jury?”
Barry was considerably disturbed as he rode to the Cinchbuckle. Clement was in a tight spot and his flight seemed to emphasize his guilt. A thought occurred to Barry on the way out, and after briefly telling Barbara of the lawyer’s arrival, he left her to pay Lola a visit.
Nip was seated by the girl’s bed and got up at Barry’s entrance, but Weston waved him back into the chair.
“Just dropped in for a minute,” he said, and inquired of the girl how she felt. Lola was rapidly improving, and Barry shrewdly guessed it was due in no small measure to the attention and untiring efforts of Nip.
“Lola, I want to ask you a question,” he said at last. “Clement is in a bad spot, and about the only way to save him is to prove that somebody reloaded Garth’s gun and put it back into his holster. Do you know anything about it? Has anybody ever hinted such a thing to you?”
She regarded him solemnly. “Bar-ree, I would tell eef I know, but I don’. Eees Steve you theenk might tell me, no?”
Barry was embarrassed. “Well—anybody that was in it; Steve, or Ace, or his two bouncers.”
“I’m not know,” she said sadly. “I weesh I do. Barbara ees treat me lak I’m her seester. I would lak to ’elp her so mach.”
He changed the conversation immediately, and soon after left them. When he went out to the gallery it was to find Alonzo J. Frothingham. The banker greeted him pleasantly.
“Just killing time while Miss Dawn gets into her riding togs,” he explained. “Sit down, won’t you?”
Barry did not feel much like lingering, but he reluctantly seated himself, and for several minutes they discussed cattle and the range.
“Everybody is making improvements but you,” said Frothingham. “Glad to see it. You certainly ought to join the procession, Weston. I’d be more than happy to finance any expansion you might plan. After all—”
“I know,” smiled Barry. “My prosperity is yours.”
Frothingham laughed. “You’ve heard it before, eh? Well, it’s true. A progressive banker should work hand in hand with his clients. Think it over; a few thousands would do wonders for the Flying W.”
Barbara came out on the gallery, and they both got to their feet. She was frowning over a sheet of note paper. Without a word she handed it to Barry.
He read the anonymous letter quietly, then handed it back. “What are you goin’ to do?”
“Discharge him. I asked Lola about it and she confirmed the letter. Steve had mentioned the matter to her. Barry, you were right. I suppose I was blind.”
“Just loyal, Barbara. You won’t give away Lola?”
“It won’t be necessary. I’ll give Wetmiller his time and tell him to go.”
Ike Wetmiller and the crew were working near the bunkhouse, getting equipment ready for the roundup. Barry saw her call him aside and speak to him. He replied, waving his hands as he protested; but she turned away and came back to the house. For a moment he stared after her, then, with an oath, flung the harness he had been mending to the ground and went after his belongings. When he rode to the house Barbara was waiting for him with a check. He took it from her, flashed a malignant look at Barry, and sullenly rode away.
“Don’t let me keep you from your ride,” said Barry. “I’ll go in and talk with Lola and Nip.” They rode away together, chatting animatedly, Barbara apparently having forgotten Barry as soon as she was mounted. His face tightened. He had come to understand men, but the ways of women were as unfathomable as the deepest sea.
He did not linger long at the Cinchbuckle. A feeling of depression had seized him and he was in a dangerous mood when he entered Mescal. Matt Billings hailed him from the sheriff’s office, and what that officer had to say did not improve matters.
“Ike Wetmiller’s down at the Palace Iappin’ up some Dutch courage. Miss Dawn fired him, and for some reason he’s blamin’ you. What’s the trouble?”
Barry told him about the rustling he had witnessed and the letter which accused Wetmiller. “Somebody on the Cinchbuckle was helpin’ those rustlers, and it must have been Ike. They got wise to my bein’ in the rustlin’ crew, and turned the cattle loose before I could bring witnesses to see them in the corral. Likely Ike thinks I told Barbara he was in the deal.”
“You want me to lock him up?”
“No. If he’s goin’ to make anything of it, lockin’ him up will only postpone the issue. Let him turn his wolf loose if he feels lucky. I’m gettin’ sick of this underhand work.”
“He’s mighty slick with a six, Barry. Mebbe you’d better steer clear of him until he sobers up.”
“I’m not runnin’ from a sneakin’ cattle thief.”
“All right, son; but don’t you take no chances.”
Barry nodded and turned away. He had come to town to order supplies for the Flying W, and so went directly to the store. As he entered, he noticed a lounger leaving, and felt sure the fellow was carrying the news of his whereabouts to the Palace. Bascomb waited on him nervously, evidently well aware of the trap into which he was expected to walk.
He went outside and stood for a moment rolling a cigarette. The sun was low, but there was still light enough to see by. Down the street a man sat on the edge of the watering trough outside the Palace. There was nobody else in sight except Matt Billings, who was walking down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Barry turned towards the Palace, and before he had covered fifty feet the man on the trough got up, stretched, and sauntered through the swinging doors into the saloon.
At the corner of the Palace, Barry turned left and followed the passageway to the alley. The rear door was locked, but the window he had broken had been repaired with a sheet of cardboard which he quickly cut away with his knife. Unfastening the sash, he raised it and slipped over the sill. The room was empty and in semi-darkness. He crossed to the door which led into the saloon and turned the knob. As he slowly opened the door the sound of suppressed voices reached him. There was a tenseness in the atmosphere of the place which subtly enveloped him as he stepped to the danc
e platform and stood looking down the long room.
He spotted Wetmiller at once. Ike stood at Barry’s end of the bar, half turned to face the front door. The rest of the patrons had left the bar, carrying their drinks to tables well out of the expected lane of fire. Ace Palmateer stood behind the short length of bar which extended to the wall. He, too, was watching the front door. Two bartenders mechanically polished glasses, ready to duck to safety; and seated in chairs at the very edge of the dancing platform, their backs to Barry, were the two gunmen bouncers, Cliff Bender and Doug Pell.
It was so quiet that Barry distinctly heard the thud of bootheels on the plank walk outside. A wave of suppressed excitement swept the room like the static electricity which precedes a lightning bolt. All eyes were turned to the swinging doors, hands gripped table or glass, jaw muscles tightened. Wetmiller flashed a quick glance over his shoulder towards the two gunmen, received a slight nod of assurance, and jerked his head to the front as the doors parted.
Sheriff Matt Billings ste ped into the room.
A sigh of escaped breath like the rustling of wind in autumn leaves broke the silence; the frigid attitudes of expectancy were relaxed; feet shuffied on the hard floor.
Matt spoke drawlingly. “Kinda quiet, boys. How about a drink?”
His gaze passed slowly along the faces which lined the side wall. Men shook their heads or held up glasses to show they were already occupied.
Matt grinned slightly. “Must be tired, settin’ around this way. I see Ike Wetmiller is on his feet. Have a drink, Ike.”
“Not drinkin’ now,” Wetmiller replied tightly. “I’m waitin’ for somebody. He was just seen comin’ down the street. Didn’t talk him out of comin’ in, did you, Matt?”
“Why, no. I expect he’ll be along. After all, I don’t feel much like drinkin’ myself. I’ll set down too.” He selected a chair where he could watch the bouncers. “Sure you ain’t bitin’ off more’n you can chaw, Ike?”
Wetmiller swore. “If you’re tryin’ to get my goat, Matt, your luck ain’t very good. I’ll show you how my digestion is when that lousy son walks in.”
A voice spoke behind him. “Don’t happen to be talkin’ of me, do you, Ike?”
Even in that tense moment Barry was able to appreciate the consternation which followed his words. As though attached to the same string, faces along the wall swung in a half circle from the front door to where he stood in the shadows of the dance floor. He had the impression of a thousand round eyes staring at him. Ike stiffened as though pricked by a pin; the two gunmen started so plainly that he easily observed their spasmodic movement. He spoke quietly, almost drawlingly.
“The two Palace peacemakers will remain seated durin’ the performance. Turn around, Ike.”
Wetmiller, rigid and erect, turned slowly. His hands were held away from his body as though to demonstrate that he had no intention of drawing as he faced about. For a moment the two men faced each other, Ike a bit white-lipped as he realized that the advantage he expected to hold was lost to him. Barry stood easily, arms folded. As invariably happened in moments of emergency, he was cool and entirely clear-minded.
“Heard you were lookin’ for me, Ike. In my language that means only one thing. Start explainin’ right quick or go for your gun.”
There was no way out of it for Ike. He could have denied that he meant Barry any harm, but to do so would be to sacrifice any respect folks might have for him. Not for a moment did he hesitate.”
“You’re clanged tootin’ I am, you lousy son!” he spat, and went for his gun.
Fast he was; unbelievably fast. Not for nothing was that tied-down holster carried so low on his thigh. Hand and gun were but blurs of motion, and he got in his shot fully half a second before Barry; and half a second between experienced gunmen is a very long interval.
Barry, watching keenly, took one step to his right as he drew. Just one step, but that was sufficient to cause Ike to miss. Barry felt a tug at his coat as the bullet passed between his side and his arm. He fired quickly, aiming at Wetmiller’s broad shoulder.
Ike spun around, tangled his feet, and piled on the floor. His gun flew from his lax fingers, but like a wounded wolf he squirmed around and clutched the weapon with his left hand. Barry aimed deliberately and fired, and the gun was torn from Wetmiller’s clutch and sent skittering along the floor.
Matt Billings recovered it. Ike had fallen on his face, unable to support himself with either arm.
“Show’s over,” announced Matt calmly. “Ike did bite off more’n he could chaw. Cliff, you and Doug take him over to the doc’s. The rest of you boys belly up; we’re goin’ to have that drink now.”
CHAPTER XIV
THE JAWS CLOSE
ALONZO J. FROTHINGHAM was graver than usual when he stepped from his horse before the Cinchbuckle ranch house. The zero hour had arrived and he found himself the victim of conflicting emotions. Never before had a girl stirred him as had Barbara Dawn; he had reached the point where he carried the memory of her face with him through his waking hours and dreamed of her at night.
Lola was on the gallery, reclining listlessly in a big chair which the ever attentive Nip had arranged for her. He attempted to shake the feeling of depression which had gripped him by greeting her lightly, but Lola answered shortly and closed her eyes again. She did not like Alonzo J.
“Barbara weel be ’ere soon, She ees expec’ you.”
He seated himself on the edge of the veranda, swinging his quirt idly. A horseman was approaching from the direction of the Flying W, and presently he recognized Barry Weston. A frown puckered his brow; the hunch persisted that Barbara, despite her apparent indifference, loved this man, and the knowledge piqued him. He was his old complacent self, however, when Barry swung from his horse and came up on the veranda.
“I seem always to pick a time for visitin’ when you and Barbara are goin’ ridin’,” said Weston. Neither words nor actions betrayed the annoyance he felt. He had come over determined to pay his court to Barbara, to strive to win back the place in her affections he at one time held. In Frothingham he instintively recognized a dangerous rival; the man was cultured and suave and handsome, and possessed of a captivating air which invariably drew one to him.
“It does seem to happen that way, doesn’t it? We must get together and work out a schedule which won’t conflict. Ah! Here you are, Miss Dawn. Shall we ride? Or would you rather chat with your visitor?”
Barbara answered indifferently. “Barry’s an old friend; he will be dropping in again. Besides,” she smilingly added, “I have a suspicion that he really came over to talk with Lola.”
The Mexican girl stiffened. “Barbara, you are mak fon!”
“Of course, dear; but you will entertain him while I’m gone, won’t you?” She ran lightly down the steps and permitted Frothingham to help her into the saddle. Barry watched them as they rode away, his face inscrutable.
Lola spoke quietly. “Barbara is get ver’ ’elpless, no? She mus’ ’ave somebody to leeft her on the caballo.”
Barry turned to her. “You girls got me beat. Barbara can mount and dismount four times while Frothingham is huntin’ for the stirrup.”
“For one who on’erstan’ us our ways are easy to read.... Bar-ree, you lof her ver’ moch, no?”
He regarded her quietly. “Very much, Lola.”
Her features contracted slightly and she leaned back in the chair. “Ees so plain to see,” she said. Barry never knew the effort her next words cost. “She ees lof you too.”
“Lola!” In an instant he was standing over her, tense, exultant, his direct gaze burning into hers.
She smiled wanly. “Ees so. Ah, you men are so stupid! Why you theenk she ees act so col’ to you? Why ees she let these other man ’elp her on the caballo? Why ees she laff an’ seem so ’appy?”
“Why—why because she enjoys bein’ with him, I reckon.”
“But no! Oh, my frien’, you ’ave moch to learn. Eef she care for these ma
n you theenk she would show heem so plain? We women are not lak that; some tam we ’urt the one we lof mos’. Ees w’en she ees not know we watch that we mus’ look. I see her stan’ at the window, her face so sad and weeth the dream in her eyes. Of who ees she theenk? Not of these man, for she ees not look towards Mescal; she ees look towards the Flying W.”
He dropped to one knee beside her and his eager hand found her small lax one and covered it. “Lola,” he said earnestly, “you are the best buddy a fella ever had!”
For a long moment Lola’s soft eyes met his burning ones, and, had he been less occupied with thoughts of another, he might have read the secret they could not hide. She smiled slowly. “Ah, yes; Lola ees the good frien’, no? But get to your feet, Bar-ree, for they are come back.”
He got up quickly, painfully aware that his position was not that of a mere friend. Barbara and Frothingham were riding towards the house, and so intent had he been on Lola’s words that he had not heard the soft thud of hoofs on the grass. He stood awkward and uncomfortable as Barbara swung from her horse and ran up the steps. She smiled very sweetly.
“Just forgot my quirt. I must be getting old.”
When they had gone again, Barry seated himself disconsolately on the edge of the gallery. Lola watched him beneath lowered lashes, and presently laughed.
“The goose, she ees cook’, no?”
“Lola, I reckon it is,” he answered dolefully.
“Ees good. Mees Barbara weel ’ave somet’ing to theenk about.”
Barbara, in the meanwhile, rode quietly beside Frothingham, listening to his bright sallies without really hearing them. A feeling of utter misery filled her. Barry loved Lola; his position at her side, the very intentness of the gaze he bent upon her, could have no other interpretation. She caught Frothingham’s comment:
“Barry seems to be quite enamored of our Mexican señorita, doesn’t he?”
She replied quietly. “He has every reason to be; she saved his life. And Lola is a sweet girl; I’ve come to love her very much.”
Wolves of the Chaparral Page 13
