“Well, well,” he said as the two lawmen stepped into the lobby. “More questions?”
“Nope,” said Rider. He walked over to the counter and slapped the paper down. “Read this, Bean.”
Riley picked up the paper, unfolded it, and began to read. His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed.
“What the hell you looking for?” he asked. His lips twisted and the lower one quivered slightly as he spoke.
“Whiskey,” said Rider. “Let’s go.”
Rider pushed Bean Riley ahead of him as he walked through the hotel to the back door, then outside. George followed. They walked on across the open yard behind the building, going east toward the creek.
“Where are we going?” said Riley, his voice now indicating panic.
“Keep walking.”
The springhouse was built of native stone hewn into slabs. It was down the bank and over the creek. Four stone steps led the way down to the doorway. The floor was smooth stone, but at the northeast corner of the small building was an opening that allowed the creek water to flow into the structure, run through a trench along the east wall, then along the south wall and out another opening at the southwest corner. The last of Riley’s winter ice had long since melted, but it was still incredibly cool in the springhouse. And there was the whiskey. Jugs sat on the floor and in the stone recesses in the walls. Bottles filled stacked crates. Nearby were kegs of beer. Riley was sweating in the cool air inside the springhouse. He glanced toward the small door, but the doorway was filled with the form of George Tanner.
“You’re under arrest, Bean,” said Rider.
“Ah, hell,” said Riley, “Fifty dollar fine. What the hell.”
The quaver in his voice, the cold sweat, and Riley’s obvious general nervousness were in sharp contrast to the indifference expressed by his words.
“Yeah,” said Rider. “Fifty dollars. I guess you can handle that all right. Course, we also smash all this. How much you got tied up in your inventory here, Bean? Huh? You lose that, too.”
Riley was beginning to breathe heavily. He looked from Rider to Tanner, and he fidgeted on his feet.
“Do we start smashing, Rider?” asked George.
“No hurry, George,” said Rider. “Nah. There’s plenty of time for that. Ole Bean here is taking this awful hard. I expect he’s going to lose a bundle.”
“You want me to take him on down to the jail?”
“No,” said Rider. “Not yet. There’s more.”
“More?” said George. This time he knew what Rider was doing, and he was taking part in the game. It was a cat-and-mouse game, with Bean Riley playing the part of the tormented mouse. Only Bean wasn’t playing.
“What do you mean, more?” he said. “What the hell you talking about?”
Rider looked down at his feet. With his right foot he pushed at the thin bed of straw that covered the stone floor.
“What do you see, George?” he said.
“Straw, Rider. This place is covered with straw.”
“Straw?” said Riley. “So what? What are you getting at? Come on. Let’s go to the damn jailhouse. I’m ready. You caught me. All right? I been selling booze. So take me to the jailhouse. Let’s go.”
Rider knelt and brushed away some dirt on the floor with a hand. The stone beneath his hand was stained with something dark, and so were the bits of straw which more or less covered it.
“Gi-ga,” said Rider.
“What?” said Riley. “Blood?”
Rider, still kneeling, looked up at Riley. Slowly he nodded his head affirmatively.
“I, uh, I had some hog meat in here. It’s gone now. Hog meat.”
Rider stood up and took two steps over to the southwest corner of the springhouse. Then he knelt again and reached down into the trench. A hat was there. It had fallen into the stream of water that ran through the building, but it had washed into the corner and had lodged there rather than being washed out through the opening. Bean Riley had probably not noticed it because of the nearby stacks of whiskey cartons. Rider picked up the hat. It had a flat, medium width brim and a low, round crown. It had been darkened in the water, but it was obviously a light tan color.
Bean Riley yelled, turned, and shoved George hard against the chest with both his hands. The suddenness of Riley’s action caught George by surprise, and he staggered backward out of the door and slipped on the stones, falling sideways into the creek. Riley ran up the stairs, but Rider was close behind him. Riley had made only a few strides toward his hotel when the sheriff’s hands gripped him hard from behind on the shoulders. He started to turn and swing a right, but Rider took advantage of the motion and flung him forward. Riley landed sprawling on the rough ground. He started to scramble to his feet, but there before him stood George Tanner, dripping from his fall in the creek, the Starr revolver in his right hand pointed at Riley.
“That’s all,” said George.
“Get up,” said Rider.
Riley got slowly up on his feet. He was facing George, and Rider stood behind him. His body sagged. He had given up.
“George,” said Rider, “I’ll take ole Bean on down to the jail. You stay here and watch over this springhouse till I get back.”
Rider took Bean Riley to the jail and locked him in an upstairs cell. Beehunter was asleep in an unlocked cell downstairs. Rider didn’t bother him. He would learn about the success of his undercover mission later, and Rider would question Riley later. He was convinced that Riley had been working for Omer Lyons, who in turn was employed by the railroad interests, and he wanted to get everyone who had been involved in the murder of Mix Hail. But all that could be dealt with later. He walked back to the capitol and found Harm Boley.
“We found what we were looking for, Judge,” he said, “but I’d like for you to come along with me and see the evidence before anything happens to mess it up. I’ve got George down there right now watching it.”
Boley went with Rider to the springhouse. He saw the whiskey and beer, and he saw the straw, the bloodstain, and the hat.
“I don’t know yet if ole Bean actually pulled the trigger or if someone else done that,” said Rider, “but he sure was involved.”
“I’d say so,” said Boley.
“Mix Hail and Jess Halfbreed.”
“You’re pretty sure the two are connected?” asked Boley.
“No question, Judge,” said Rider. “Can we go ahead now and bust up these jugs?”
“Go ahead,” said Boley.
“Smash them all, George,” said Rider. “Then go on home and get yourself into some clean, dry clothes. I’ll be at the office.”
By the time George got back to the office, Rider had made a fresh pot of coffee, and Beehunter had revived somewhat from his stupor. Beehunter was sitting in the office sipping coffee, and Rider was talking to him in Cherokee. George poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at his desk.
“I was just telling Beehunter what a good job he did for us,” said Rider.
“Yeah,” said George, and he smiled and nodded at Beehunter, wishing he could communicate more directly with the man.
“Bee hunter don’t usually drink,” said Rider. “I guess I gave him a pretty tough assignment.”
“I guess so,” said George.
“You know,” said Rider, “we solved another little mystery out there today.”
George looked up from his cup, a puzzled expression on his face. Something else? Had he missed something else that Rider had seen? Was Rider always going to be at least one step ahead of him? Damn it, he thought. He was irritated at himself. He had seen the same things. He tried to think back, to picture everything in the springhouse. What could it be?
“We found out who was selling the whiskey,” he said. “That was one thing. We also found out that Mix Hail’s body had been kept in the springhouse, and that means that Bean Riley was involved in the murder—in both murders. What else?”
“The time element, George,” said Rider. “Remember? Mix disappea
red one day. We found his body the next day. Seemed like he hadn’t been dead all that long. Where was he in between?”
George’s eyes suddenly opened wider. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated an instant, then said, “The springhouse. It’s so cool in there. They killed him, then kept him in the springhouse until the next day, when they moved him out there on the road.”
“That’s it,” said Rider.
Chapter Eight
George was sitting at his desk, the Starr revolver with its holster and belt lying on the desk before him. He had a cup of coffee in his hand, about half finished. The coffee in the pot on the stove was low, and George was thinking about making a fresh pot. Since the Council had adjourned and the council members had all gone home to their respective districts, the special deputies had also been dismissed. Rider had gone to the capitol to talk to the chief, and George had been left on duty at the jail.
There was nothing much to do. Bean Riley was the lone prisoner. The paperwork was all caught up. George knew that Rider planned to question Riley later on in the day, although they had already questioned the man briefly. They had implied that they knew that he had done the murders either for or with Omer Lyons. They had told him that he would surely hang for his part in the grizzly affair, and that, the vote of the Council having gone against the railroad, it had all been for naught.
Yet nothing fazed Riley. He was still nervous, anxious, obviously worried about his future, yet he said nothing to implicate Lyons or anyone else and stoutly maintained his own innocence. He swore that the bloodstain in the springhouse had resulted from fresh hog meat, which had long since been eaten, and he said that Mix Hail had come to him on the day of his disappearance to purchase whiskey. When Rider had said that he knew Mix Hail and Mix Hail did not drink, Riley had said, “That just shows what you know.” Mix, Riley had said, must have dropped his hat on that occasion. Riley had not noticed at the time, but come to think of it, he had said, he did seem to recall Mix Hail walking away hatless. Yes. He was sure of that.
Rider had not given up. He was going to question Riley further, but until that time came or until Rider gave George further instructions, George really had nothing to do except sit in the office and wait. He swallowed the rest of his coffee and made a face. It had gotten cold. He got up to put on a fresh pot. He had refilled the pot and dumped the grounds into the water and was just stoking the fire when he heard someone come in at the door. He looked over his shoulder to see Lee Hunt walk into the office.
“Oh,” he said. “Hello, Miss Hunt.”
“Hello,” she said.
George moved rapidly to place a chair for her near his desk.
“Please sit down,” he said.
She took the chair and thanked him.
“I just put on fresh coffee,” he said. “It’ll be ready soon.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I can really only stay a minute.”
“Well,” said George, “what, uh, what can I do for you?”
“I was just wondering if there was anything you wanted me to sign. You know, some kind of statement about what I saw.”
“I don’t know. Rider hasn’t said anything. I guess if there is, we’ll let you know. I don’t think it’s anything you need to be concerned about. But thank you for stopping by. You’ve already been a big help to us on this investigation.”
George nervously got up and checked the coffee. Of course it wasn’t ready yet. The water wasn’t even boiling. Lee Hunt stood up and turned toward the door.
“Miss Hunt,” said George. Then he paused. He didn’t have anything to say. He felt foolish.
“Mr. Tanner,” she said. “I’ll make a bargain with you.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll call you George if you’ll call me Lee.”
“All right.”
“There is one other reason I stopped by.”
George just looked at her, waiting for her to say more.
“I came to invite you over for supper tonight. That is, if you’re free.”
“Oh,” said George.
“Please don’t feel obligated. If you have something else to do, it’s all right. I realize that I haven’t given you much time.”
“Oh, no,” said George. “I’ll be there. Thank you. It’s just that I’m surprised. I wasn’t expecting such a—welcome invitation. I’ll bring some of my books. Some of the new ones I brought from the East. If you’d like.”
“I’d like that very much,” said Lee. “About six?”
“Six is fine.”
Lee Hunt left the office, and George stared after her for a long moment. He could scarcely believe his good fortune. He had been wondering how he could approach her, and she had come to him. Of course, he thought, her interest might be purely literary. She was an educated woman, a teacher, and he was recently returned from college in the East with some of the latest books. He could understand that. He would have to be careful. If that was the only interest she had in him, he would certainly honor and respect that. But he hoped and longed to find out that her interest would go beyond that. George felt like shouting out his joy, then he heard the water behind him boiling rapidly. He turned quickly and moved the pot over so that it was not directly above the fire. Then he heard Riley shouting from his cell.
“Hey, Rider. Rider, come here. Come in here, damn it.”
George stepped through the door into the hallway that led to the cells.
“Rider’s out,” he yelled. “Quiet down.”
“Well, where the hell is he?”
“You don’t need to know where he is,” said George. “Just shut up.”
“Come here. Is that you, deputy? What’s your name? Tanner, is it?”
“It’s Tanner,” said George. He stepped further into the hallway. “What do you want?”
“My throat’s dry,” said Riley. “I need a drink.”
“Of water?”
“Yeah, water. I know you got nothing else. Wouldn’t give it to me if you did. A man’s got a right to a drink of water, ain’t he? Even in jail?”
George walked on down to the cell, and he pointed to a bucket in a corner behind Riley.
“You’ve got water, Riley,” he said. “There’s a whole bucket of water, and it’s fresh.”
Riley turned toward the bucket, took a couple of long strides, and kicked it over, spilling water over the cell floor and out into the hallway.
“This?” he said. “It stinks. I want some fresh water.”
“Damn you, Riley,” said George. “You’re going to mop that up, and if you want anymore, you’d damn well better quiet down.”
George stalked down the hall, got a mop and the cell keys, and went back to Riley’s cell.
“Bring me that bucket,” he said. “Get it.”
Riley picked up the bucket.
“Put it here by the door.”
Riley dropped the bucket by the cell door.
“Now get back over there against the wall,” said George.
Riley backed up to the far wall, and George unlocked the cell door. He swung the door open, tossed the mop inside, and reached for the bucket. Riley produced a Colt .45 from somewhere, cocked back the hammer, and then aimed the gun at George in one sweeping motion.
“Don’t move, you son of a bitch,” he said.
George was caught bent over, reaching for the bucket. He stayed that way, his eyes on the barrel of the .45 that was pointing right at his face. Riley began working his way around the cell, keeping to the wall.
“Get in here,” he said, and he gestured with his revolver toward the wall opposite the one against which he was creeping. George slowly straightened himself up and stepped into the cell.
“Go on,” shouted Riley. George stepped in further, and Riley got quickly out the door. He slammed the door shut and locked it, removed the keys, and rushed down the hallway. At the end of the hallway, he stopped and looked back toward the cell.
“I ought to kill you,” he shouted. Then he was gone. Georg
e banged the heels of his hands against his forehead.
“Oh, no,” he said. “Damn.”
He had been suckered. His prisoner was gone, and he was in the cell, locked up tight. It was humiliating. It would be even worse when Rider got back. Damn, he thought. What will I tell Rider? What can I tell him? He dropped heavily onto the cot in the cell to wait.
Outside the front door of the jail, Bean Riley stopped. Probably everyone in town knew that he had been arrested. He couldn’t afford to be seen. And Rider had made him change his trousers for those damned striped ones. Even if he was too far away to be recognized, people would see those damned stripes. He thought about going back inside to find his own trousers, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that. He was out of the jail, and he didn’t want to go back in. But those stripes. He would have liked to kill Rider, but Rider wasn’t around. He would have killed that damned deputy, but the shot would have attracted attention. He was glad of the tall board fence running around the jail, but he had to do something. Rider would come back sooner or later. He couldn’t simply stand there in the jail yard.
There were horses and saddles in the sheriff’s barn. He could probably make his way there without being seen—if he was careful. He started to make his way around the building. He felt a lump in his throat when he passed by the gallows out back. Finally he reached the barn, and he rushed inside. He grabbed the first saddle he came to and threw it on the back of the first horse. Then he climbed into the saddle and raced away from town, heading south. He saw a wagon coming toward him and panicked momentarily. He jerked the reins of his mount to the right and rode down into the field and toward the woods. The driver of the wagon, a black woodcutter, hauled back on his reins.
“Hey,” he shouted. His eyes opened wide as he stared after the rider in the striped pants who was racing toward the woods.
“Hey.”
“Don’t feel bad, George,” Rider was saying. “It could have happened to me. No way you could have known that ole Bean had a gun in there. You done the right thing. If a man’s got a gun on you, do what he says. Now run on and get us a couple of horses saddled. We’ll try to find out which way he went.”
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