CHAPTER VII
By the time the coroner's inquest and the funeral in town were over itwas three o'clock of the afternoon. As I only occasionally managed SodaSprings I felt no inclination to hurry on the return journey. Myintention was to watch the Overland through, to make some smallpurchases at the Lone Star Emporium, to hoist one or two at McGrue's,and to dine sumptuously at the best--and only--hotel. A programme simplein theme but susceptible to variations.
The latter began early. After posing kiddishly as a rough, woolly,romantic cowboy before the passengers of the Overland, I found myselfchaperoning a visitor to our midst. By sheer accident the visitor hadsingled me out for an inquiry.
"Can you tell me how to get to Hooper's ranch?" he asked.
So I annexed him promptly in hope of developments.
He was certainly no prize package, for he was small, pale, nervous,shifty, and rat-like; and neither his hands nor his eyes were still foran instant. Further to set him apart he wore a hard-boiled hat, aflaming tie, a checked vest, a coat cut too tight for even his emaciatedlittle figure, and long toothpick shoes of patent leather. A fairer markfor cowboy humour would be difficult to find; but I had a personalinterest and a determined character so the gang took a look at me andbided their time.
But immediately I discovered I was going to have my hands full. Itseemed that the little, shifty, rat-faced man had been possessed of asmall handbag which the negro porter had failed to put off the train;and which was of tremendous importance. At the discovery it was lackingmy new friend went into hysterics. He ran a few feet after thedisappearing train; he called upon high heaven to destroy utterly therace of negro porters; he threatened terrible reprisals against adelinquent railroad company; he seized upon a bewildered station agentover whom he poured his troubles in one gush; and he lifted up his voiceand wept--literally wept! This to the vast enjoyment of my friends.
"What ails the small party?" asked Windy Bill coming up.
"He's lost the family jewels!" "The papers are missing." "Sandy here(meaning me) won't give him his bottle and it's past feeding time.""Sandy's took away his stick of candy and won't give it back." "Thelittle son-of-a-gun's just remembered that he give the nigger porter twobits," were some of the replies he got.
On the general principle of "never start anything you can't finish," Imanaged to quell the disturbance; I got a description of the bag, andarranged to have it wired for at the next station. On receiving the newsthat it could not possibly be returned before the following morning, myprotege showed signs of another outburst. To prevent it I took himfirmly by the arm and led him across to McGrue's. He was shivering asthough from a violent chill.
The multitude trailed interestedly after; but I took my man into one ofMcGrue's private rooms and firmly closed the door.
"Put that under your belt," I invited, pouring him a half tumbler ofMcGrue's best, "and pull yourself together."
He smelled it.
"It's only whiskey," he observed, mournfully. "That won't help much."
"You don't know this stuff," I encouraged.
He took off the half tumbler without a blink, shook his head, and pouredhimself another. In spite of his scepticism I thought his nervousnessbecame less marked.
"Now," said I, "if you don't mind, why do you descend on a peacefulcommunity and stir it all up because of the derelictions of an absentcoon? And why do you set such store by your travelling bag? And why doyou weep in the face of high heaven and outraged manhood? And why do youwant to find Hooper's ranch? And why are you and your vaudeville makeup?"
But he proved singularly embarrassed and nervous and uncommunicative,darting his glance here and there about him, twisting his hands, neverby any chance meeting my eye. I leaned back and surveyed him inconsiderable disgust.
"Look here, brother," I pointed out to him. "You don't seem to realize.A man like you can't get away with himself in this country except behindfootlights--and there ain't any footlights. All I got to do is to throwopen yonder door and withdraw my beneficent protection and you will beset upon by a pack of ravening wolves with their own ideas of humour,among whom I especially mention one Windy Bill. I'm about the only thingthat looks like a friend you've got."
He caught at the last sentence only.
"You my friend?" he said, breathlessly, "then tell me: is there adoctor around here?"
"No," said I, looking at him closely, "not this side of Tucson. Are yousick?"
"Is there a drug store in town, then?"
"Nary drug store."
He jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair as he did so.
"My God!" he cried in uncontrollable excitement, "I've got to get mybag! How far is it to the next station where they're going to put itoff? Ain't there some way of getting there? I got to get to my bag."
"It's near to forty miles," I replied, leaning back.
"And there's no drug store here? What kind of a bum tank town is this,anyhow?"
"They keep a few patent medicines and such over at the Lone StarEmporium----" I started to tell him. I never had a chance to finish mysentence. He darted around the table, grabbed me by the arm, and urgedme to my feet.
"Show me!" he panted.
We sailed through the bar room under full head of steam, leaving thegang staring after us open-mouthed. I could feel we were excitingconsiderable public interest. At the Lone Star Emporium the little freaklooked wildly about him until his eyes fell on the bottle shelves. Thenhe rushed right in behind the counter and began to paw them over. Iheaded off Sol Levi, who was coming front making war medicine.
"_Loco_," says I to him. "If there's any damage, I'll settle."
It looked like there was going to be damage all right, the way hesnatched up one bottle after the other, read the labels, and thrustthem one side. At last he uttered a crow of delight, just like a kid.
"How many you got of these?" he demanded, holding up a bottle ofsoothing syrup.
"You only take a tablespoon of that stuff----" began Sol.
"How many you got--how much are they?" interrupted the stranger.
"Six--three dollars a bottle," says Sol, boosting the price.
The little man peeled a twenty off a roll of bills and threw it down.
"Keep the other five bottles for me!" he cried in a shaky voice, and ranout, with me after him, forgetting his change and to shut the doorbehind us.
Back through McGrue's bar we trailed like one of these moving-picturechases and into the back room.
"Well, here we are home again," said I.
The stranger grabbed a glass and filled it half full of soothing syrup.
"Here, you aren't going to drink that!" I yelled at him. "Didn't youhear Sol tell you the dose is a spoonful?"
But he didn't pay me any attention. His hand was shaking so he couldhardly connect with his own mouth, and he was panting as though he'd runa race.
"Well, no accounting for tastes," I said. "Where do you want me to shipyour remains?"
He drank her down, shut his eyes a few minutes, and held still. He hadquit his shaking, and he looked me square in the face.
"What's it _to_ you?" he demanded. "Huh? Ain't you never seen a guy hitthe hop before?"
He stared at me so truculently that I was moved to righteous wrath; andI answered him back. I told him what I thought of him and his clothesand his conduct at quite some length. When I had finished he seemed tohave gained a new attitude of aggravating wise superiority.
"That's all right, kid; that's all right," he assured me; "keep yourhair on. I ain't such a bad scout; but you gotta get used to me. Give memy hop and I'm all right. Now about this Hooper; you say you know him?"
"None better," I rejoined. "But what's that to you? That's a fairquestion."
He bored me with his beady rat eyes for several seconds.
"Friend of yours?" he asked, briefly.
Something in the intonations of his voice induced me to frankness.
"I have good cause to think he's trying to kill me," I replied.
He produced a pocketbook, fumbled in it for a moment, and laid before mea clipping. It was from the Want column of a newspaper, and read asfollows:
A.A.B.--Will deal with you on your terms. H.H.
"A.A.B. that's me--Artie Brower. And H.H.--that's him--Henry Hooper," heexplained. "And that lil' piece of paper means that's he's caved, comeoff, war's over. Means I'm rich, that I can have my own ponies if I wantto, 'stead of touting somebody else's old dogs. It means that I got oldH.H.--Henry Hooper--where the hair is short, and he's got to come myway!"
His eyes were glittering restlessly, and the pupils seemed to be undulydilated. The whiskey and opium together--probably an unaccustomedcombination--were too much for his ill-balanced control. Everyindication of his face and his narrow eyes was for secrecy and craft;yet for the moment he was opening up to me, a stranger, like an oyster.Even my inexperience could see that much, and I eagerly took advantageof my chance.
"You are a horseman, then?" I suggested.
"Me a horseman? Say, kid, you didn't get my name. Brower--Artie Brower.Why, I've ridden more winning races than any other man on the PacificCoast. That's how I got onto old H.H. I rode for him. He knows a goodhorse all right--the old skunk. Used to have a pretty string."
"He's got at least one good Morgan stallion now," said I. "I've seen himat Hooper's ranch."
"I know the old crock--trotter," scorned the true riding jockey."Probably old Tim Westmore is hanging around, too. He's in love withthat horse."
"Is he in love with Hooper, too?" I asked.
"Just like I am," said the jockey with a leer.
"So you're going to be rich," said I. "How's that?"
He leered at me again, going foxy.
"Don't you wish you knew! But I'll tell you this: old H.H. is going togive me all I want--just because I ask him to."
I took another tack, affecting incredulity.
"The hell he is! He'll hand you over to Ramon and that will be the lastof a certain jockey."
"No, he won't do no such trick. I've fixed that; and he knows it. If hekills me, he'll lose _all_ he's got 'stead of only part."
"You're drunk or dreaming," said I. "If you bother him, he'll just plainhave you killed. That's a little way of his."
"And if he does a friend of mine will just go to a certain place and getcertain papers and give 'em to a certain lawyer--and then where's oldH.H.? And he knows it, damn well. And he's going to be good to Artie andgive him what he wants. We'll get along fine. Took him a long time tocome to it; but I didn't take no chances while he was making up hismind; you can bet on that."
"Blackmail, eh?" I said, with just enough of a sneer to fire him.
"Blackmail nothing!" he shouted. "It ain't blackmail to take away whatdon't belong to a man at all!"
"What don't belong to him?"
"Nothing. Not a damn thing except his money. This ranch. The oil wellsin California. The cattle. Not a damn thing. That was the agreement withhis pardner when they split. And I've got the agreement! Now what yougot to say?"
"Say? Why its _loco_! Why doesn't the pardner raise a row?"
"He's dead."
"His heirs then?"
"He hasn't got but one heir--his daughter." My heart skipped a beat inthe amazement of a half idea. "And she knew nothing about the agreement.Nobody knows but old H.H.--and me." He sat back, visibly gloating overme. But his mood was passing. His earlier exhilaration had died, andwith it was dying the expansiveness of his confidence. The triumph ofhis last speech savoured he slipped again into his normal self. Helooked at me suspiciously, and raised his whiskey to cover hisconfusion.
"What's it to yuh, anyway?" he muttered into his glass darkly. His eyeswere again shifting here and there; and his lips were snarled backmalevolently to show his teeth.
At this precise moment the lords of chance willed Windy Bill and othersto intrude on our privacy by opening the door and hurling severalwhiskey-flavoured sarcasms at the pair of us. The jockey seemed toexplode after the fashion of an over-inflated ball. He squeaked like arat, leaped to his feet, hurled the chair on which he had been sittingcrash against the door from which Windy Bill _et al_ had withdrawnhastily, and ended by producing a small wicked-looking automatic--then anew and strange weapon--and rushing out into the main saloon. There heannounced that he was known to the cognoscenti as Art the Blood and wasa city gunman in comparison with which these plain, so-called bad menwere as sucking doves to the untamed eagle. Thence he glanced briefly attheir ancestry as far as known; and ended by rushing forth in thegeneral direction of McCloud's hotel.
"Suffering giraffes!" gasped Windy Bill after the whirlwind had passed."Was that the scared little rabbit that wept all them salt tears over atthe depot? What brand of licker did you feed him, Sandy?"
I silently handed him the bottle.
"Soothing syrup--my God!" said Windy in hushed tones.
The Killer Page 7
