The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  “Cut the Dago part, will you?” demanded Arizona. “I ain’t no ways wishing to be reminded of that name. Nobody calls me that.”

  Kern grinned covertly.

  “I s’pose,” said Arizona slowly, “that you and Sinclair had a long yarn about when he knew me some time back?”

  The sheriff shook his head.

  “Between you and me,” he said frankly, “it sounded to me like Sinclair knew something you mightn’t want to have noised around. Is that straight?”

  “I’ll tell you,” answered the other. “When I was a kid I was a fool kid. That’s all it amounts to.”

  Sheriff Kern grunted. “All right, Arizona, I ain’t asking. But you can lay to it that Sinclair won’t talk. He’s as straight as ever I seen!”

  “Maybe,” said Arizona, “but he’s slippery. And I got this to say: Lemme have the watch over Sinclair while he’s in Sour Creek, or are you taking him back to Woodville today?”

  “I’m held over,” said the sheriff.

  He paused. Twice the little olive-skinned man from the south had demonstrated his superiority in working out criminal puzzles. The sheriff was prone to unravel the new mystery by himself, if he might.

  “By what?”

  “Oh, by something I’ll tell you about later on,” said the sheriff. “It don’t amount to much, but I want to look into it.”

  Purposely he had delayed sending the party to bury Sandersen. It would be simply warning the murderer if that man were in Sour Creek.

  “About you and Sinclair,” went on the sheriff, “there ain’t much good feeling between you, eh?”

  “I won’t shoot him in the back if I guard him,” declared Arizona. “But if you want one of the other boys to take the jog, go ahead. Put Red on it.”

  “He’s too young. Sinclair’s get him off guard by talking.”

  “Then try Wood.”

  “Wood ain’t at his best off the trail. Come to think about it, I’d rather trust Sinclair to you—that is, if you make up your mind to treat him square.”

  “Sheriff, I’ll give him a squarer deal than you think.”

  Kern nodded.

  “More coffee, Li!” he called.

  Li obeyed with such haste that he overbrimmed the cup, and some of the liquid washed out of the saucer onto the floor.

  “Coming back to shop talk,” went on the sheriff, as Li mopped up the spilled coffee, mumbling excuses, “I ain’t had a real chance to tell you what a fine job you done for us last night, Arizona.”

  Arizona, with due modesty, waved the praise away and stepped to the container of matches hanging beside the stove. He came back lighting a cigarette and contentedly puffed out a great cloud.

  “Forget all that, sheriff, will you?”

  “Not if I live to be a hundred,” answered the sheriff with frank admiration.

  So saying, his eye dropped to the floor and remained there, riveted. The foot of Arizona had rested on the spot where the coffee had fallen. The print was clearly marked with dust, except that in the center, where the sole had lain, there was a sharply defined pair of crossed arrows!

  A short, fat, heavy man.

  The sheriff raised his glance and examined the bulky shoulders of the man. Then he hastily swallowed the rest of his coffee.

  Yet there might be a dozen other short, stocky men in town, whose boots had the same impression. He looked thoughtfully out the kitchen window, striving to remember some clue. But, as far as he could make out, the only time Arizona and Sandersen had crossed had been when the latter applied for a place on the posse. Surely a small thing to make a man commit a murder!

  “If you gimme the job of guarding Sinclair,” said Arizona, “I’d sure—”

  “Wait a minute,” cut in the sheriff. “I’ll be back right away. I think that was MacKenzie who went into the stable. Don’t leave till I come back, Arizona.”

  Hurriedly he went out. There was no MacKenzie in the stable, and the sheriff did not look for one. He went straight to Arizona’s horse. The roan was perfectly dry, but examining the hide, the sheriff saw that the horse had been recently groomed, and a thorough grooming would soon dry the hair and remove all traces of a long ride.

  Stepping back to the peg from which the saddle hung, he raised the stirrup leather. On the inside, where the leather had chafed the side of the horse, there was a dirty gray coating, the accumulation of the dust and sweat of many a ride. But it was soft with recent sweat, and along the edges of the leather there was a barely dried line of foam that rubbed away readily under the touch of his fingertip.

  Next he examined the bridle. There, also, were similar evidences of recent riding. The sheriff returned calmly to the kitchen of the hotel.

  “And your mind’s made up?” asked Arizona.

  “Yes,” said the sheriff. “You go in with Sinclair.”

  “Go in with him?” asked Arizona, baffled.

  “For murder,” said the sheriff. “Stick up your hands, Arizona!”

  CHAPTER 31

  Even though he was taken utterly by surprise, habit made Arizona go for his own gun, as the sheriff whipped out his weapon. But under those conditions he was beaten badly to the draw. Before his weapon was half out of the holster, the sheriff had the drop.

  Arizona paused, but, for a moment, his eyes fought Kern, figuring chances. It was only the hesitation of an instant. The battle was lost before it had begun, and Arizona was clever enough to know it. Swiftly he turned on a new tack. He shoved his revolver back into the holster and smiled benevolently on the sheriff.

  “What’s the new game, Kern?”

  “It ain’t new,” said the sheriff joylessly. “It’s about the oldest game in the world. Arizona, you sure killed Sandersen.”

  “Sandersen?” Arizona laughed. “Why, man, I ain’t hardly seen him more than once. How come that I would kill him?”

  “Get your hands up, Arizona.”

  “Oh, sure.” He obeyed with apparent willingness. “But don’t let anybody see you making this fool play, sheriff.”

  “Maybe not so foolish. I’ll tell you why you killed him. You’re broke, Arizona. Ten days ago Mississippi Slim cleaned you out at dice. Well, when Sinclair told me where Cold Feet was, you listened through the door, but you didn’t stay to find out that Jig wasn’t wanted no more. You beat it up to the mountain, and there you found Sandersen was ahead of your time. You drilled Sandersen, hoping to throw the blame on Cold Feet. Then you come down, but on the way Cold Feet gives you the slip and gets away. And that’s why you’re here.”

  Arizona blinked. So much of this tale was true that it shook even his iron nerve. He managed to smile.

  “That’s a wild yarn, sheriff. D’you think it’ll go down with a jury?”

  “It’ll go down with any jury around these parts. What’s more, Arizona, I ain’t going to rest on what I think. I’m going to find out. And, if I send down to the south inquiring about you, I got an idea that I’ll find out enough to hang ten like you, eh?”

  Once more Arizona received a vital blow, and he winced under the impact. Moreover, he was bewildered. His own superior intelligence had inclined him to despise the sheriff, whom he put down as a fellow of more bulldog power than mental agility. All in a moment it was being borne in upon him that he had underrated his man. He could not answer. His smooth tongue was chained.

  “Not that I got any personal grudge agin’ you,” went on the sheriff, “but it’s gents like you that I’m after, Arizona, and not one like Sinclair. You ain’t clean, Arizona. You’re slick, and they ain’t elbowroom enough in the West for slick gents. Besides, you got a bad way with your gun. I can tell you this, speaking private and confidential, I’m going to hang you, Arizona, if there’s any way possible!”

  He said all this quietly, but the revolver remained poised with rocklike firmness. He drew out a pair of manacles.

  “Stand up, Arizona.”

  Listlessly the fat man got up. He had been changing singularly during the last speech o
f the sheriff. Now he dropped a hand on the edge of the table, as if to support himself. The sheriff saw that hand grip the wood until the knuckles went white. Arizona moistened his colorless lips.

  “Not the irons, sheriff,” he said softly. “Not them!”

  If it had been any other man, Kern would have imagined that he was losing his nerve; but he knew Arizona, had seen him in action, and he was certain that his courage was above question. Consequently he was amazed. As certainly as he had ever seen them exposed, these were the horrible symptoms of cowardice that make a brave man shudder to see.

  “Can’t trust you,” he said wonderingly. “Wouldn’t trust you a minute, Arizona, without the irons on you. You’re a bad actor, son, and I’ve seen you acting up. Don’t forget that.”

  “Sheriff, I give you my word that I’ll go quiet as a lamb.”

  A moment elapsed before Kern could answer, for the voice of Arizona had trembled as he spoke. The sheriff could not believe his ears.

  “Well, I’m sorry, Arizona,” he said more gently, because he was striving to banish this disgusting suspicion from his own mind. “I can’t take no chances. Just turn around, will you. And keep them hands up!”

  He barked the last words, for the arms of Arizona had crooked suddenly. They stiffened at the sharp command of the sheriff. Slowly, trembling, as if they possessed a volition of their own hardly controlled by the fat man, those hands fought their way back to their former position, and then Arizona gradually turned his back on the sheriff. A convulsive shudder ran through him as Kern removed his gun and then seized one of the raised hands, drew it down, and fastened one part of the iron on it. The other hand followed, and, as the sheriff snapped the lock, he saw a singular transformation in the figure of his captive. The shoulders of Arizona slouched forward, his head sank. From the erect, powerful figure of the moment before, he became, in comparison, a flabby pile of flesh, animated by no will.

  “What’s the matter?” asked the sheriff. “You ain’t lost your nerve, have you, Fatty?”

  Arizona did not answer. Kern stepped to one side and glanced at the face of his captive. It was strangely altered. The mouth had become trembling, loose, uncertain. The head had fallen, and the bright, keen eyes were dull. The man looked up with darting side-glances.

  The sheriff stood back and wiped a sudden perspiration from his forehead. Under his very eyes the spirit of this gunfighter was disintegrating. The sheriff felt a cold shame pour through him. He wanted to hide this man from the eyes of the others. It was not right that he should be seen. His weakness was written too patently.

  Kern was no psychologist, but he knew that some men out of their peculiar element are like fish out of water. He shook his head.

  “Walk out that back door, will you?” he asked softly.

  “We ain’t going down the street?” demanded Arizona.

  “No.”

  “Thanks, sheriff.”

  Again Kern shuddered, swallowed, and then commanded: “Start along, Arizona.”

  Slinking through the door, the fat man hesitated on the little porch and cast a quick glance up and down.

  “No one near!” he said. “Hurry up, sheriff.”

  Quickly they skirted down behind the houses—not unseen, however. A small boy playing behind his father’s house raised his head to watch the hurrying pair, and when he saw the glitter of the irons, they heard him gasp. He was old enough to know the meaning of that. Irons on Arizona, who had been a town hero the night before! They saw the youngster dart around the house.

  “Blast him!” groaned Arizona. “He’ll spread it everywhere. Hurry!”

  He was right. The sheriff hurried with a will, but, as they crossed the street for the door of the jail, voices blew down to them. Looking toward the hotel, they saw men pouring out into the street, pointing, shouting to one another. Then they swept down on the pair.

  But the sheriff and his prisoner gained the door of the jail first, and Kern locked it behind him. His deputy on guard rose with a start, and at the same time there was a hurried knocking on the door and a clamor of voices without. Arizona shrank away from that sound, scowling over his shoulder, but the sheriff nodded good-humoredly.

  “Take it easy, Arizona. I ain’t going to make a show of you!”

  “Sure, that’s like you, sheriff,” said a hurried, half-whining voice. “You’re square. I’ll sure show you one of these days now I appreciate the way you treat me!”

  Kern was staggered. It seemed to him that a new personality had taken possession of the body of the fat man. He led the way past his gaping deputy. The jail was not constructed for a crowd. It was merely a temporary abiding place before prisoners were taken to the larger institution at Woodville. Consequently there was only one big cell. The sheriff unlocked the door, slipped the manacles from the wrists of Arizona, and jabbed the muzzle of a revolver into his back!

  The last act was decidedly necessary, for the moment his wrists were released from the grip of the steel, Arizona twitched halfway round toward the sheriff. The scrape of the gunmuzzle against his ribs, however, convinced him. Over his shoulder he cast one murderous glance at the sheriff and then slouched forward into the cell.

  “Company for you, Riley,” said the sheriff, as the tall cowpuncher rose.

  The other’s back was turned, and thereby the sheriff was enabled to pass a significant gesture and look to Sinclair. With that he left them. In the outer room he found his deputy much alarmed.

  “You ain’t turned them two in together?” he asked. “Why, Sinclair’ll kill that gent in about a minute. Ain’t it Arizona that nailed him?”

  “Sinclair will play square,” Kern insisted, “and Arizona won’t fight!”

  Leaving the other to digest these mysterious tidings, the sheriff went out to disperse the crowd.

  In the meantime Sinclair had received the newcomer in perfect silence, his head raised high, his thin mouth set in an Ugly line—very much as an eagle might receive an owl which floundered by mistake onto the same crag, far above his element. The eagle hesitated between scorn of the visitor and a faint desire to pounce on him and rend him to pieces. That glittering eye, however, was soon dull with wonder, when he watched the actions of Arizona.

  The fat man paused in the center of the cell, regarded Sinclair with a single flash of the eyes, and then glanced uneasily from side to side. That done, he slipped away to a corner and slouched down on a stool, his head bent down on his breast.

  Apparently he had fallen into a profound reverie, but Sinclair found that the eyes of Arizona continually whipped up and across to him. Once the newcomer shifted his position a little, and Sinclair saw him test the weight of the stool beneath him with his hand. Even in the cell Arizona had found a weapon.

  Gradually Sinclair understood the meaning of that glance and the gesture of the sheriff, as the latter left; he read other things in the gray pallor of Arizona, and in the fallen head. The man was unnerved. Sinclair’s reaction was very much what that of the sheriff had been—a sinking of the heart and a momentary doubt of himself. But he was something more of a philosopher than Kern. He had seen more of life and men and put two and two together.

  One thing stared him plainly in the face. The Arizona who skulked in the corner had relapsed eight years. He was the same sneak thief whom Sinclair had first met in the lumber camp, and he knew instinctively that this was the first time since that unpleasant episode that Arizona had been cornered. The loathing left Sinclair, and in its place came pity. He had no fondness of Arizona, but he had seen him in the role of a strong man, which made the contrast more awful. It reminded Sinclair of the wild horse which loses its spirit when it is broken. Such was Arizona. Free to come and go, he had been a danger. Shut up helplessly in a cell, he was as feeble as a child, and his only strength was a sort of cunning malice. Sinclair turned quietly to the fat man.

  “Arizona,” he said, “you look sort of underfed today. Bring your stool a bit nearer and let’s talk. I been hungry for a chat
with someone.”

  In reply Arizona rolled back his head and for a moment glared thoughtfully at Sinclair. He made no answer. Presently his glance fell, like that of a dog. Sinclair shivered. He tried brutality.

  “Looks to me, Arizona, as though you’d lost your nerve.”

  The other moistened his lips, but said nothing.

  “But the point is,” said the tall cowpuncher, “that you’ve given up before you’re beaten.”

  Riley Sinclair’s words brought a flash from Arizona, a sudden lifting of the head, as if he had not before thought of hoping. Then he began to slump back into his former position, without a reply. Sinclair followed his opening advantage at once.

  “What you in for?”

  “Murder!”

  “Great guns! Of whom?”

  “Sandersen.”

  It brought Sinclair stiffly to his feet. Sandersen! His trail was ended; Hal was avenged at last!

  “And you done it? Fatty, you took that job out of my hands. I’m thanking you. Besides, it ain’t nothing to be downhearted about. Sandersen was a skunk. Can they prove it on you?”

  The need to talk overwhelmed Arizona. It burst out of him, not to Sinclair, but rather at him. His shifting eyes made sure that no one was near.

  “Kern is going to send south for the dope. I’m done for. They can hang me three times on what they’ll learn, and—”

  “Shut up,” snapped Sinclair. “Don’t talk foolish. The south is a tolerable big place to send to. They don’t know where you come from. Take ’em a month to find out, and by that time, you won’t be at hand.”

  “Eh?”

  “Because you and me are going to bust out of this paper jail they got!”

  He had not the slightest hope of escape. But he tried the experiment of that suggestion merely to see what the fat man’s reaction would be. The result was more than he could have dreamed. Arizona whirled on him with eyes ablaze.

  “What d’you mean, Sinclair?”

  “Just what I say. D’you think they can keep two like us in here? No, not if you come to your old self.”

  The need to confide again fell on Arizona. He dragged his stool nearer. His voice was a whisper.