CHAPTER VIII
At that epoch I prided myself on being a man of resource; and Iproceeded to prove it in a fashion that even now fills me withsatisfaction. I annexed the remainder of that bottle of soothing syrup;I went to Sol Levi and easily procured delivery of the other five. ThenI strolled peacefully to supper over at McCloud's hotel. Pathologicalknowledge of dope fiends was outside my ken--I could not guess how soonmy man would need another dose of his "hop," but I was positively surethat another would be needed. Inquiry of McCloud elicited the fact thatthe ex-jockey had swallowed a hasty meal and had immediately retired toRoom 4. I found Room 4 unlocked, and Brower lying fully clothed soundasleep across the bed. I did not disturb him, except that I robbed himof his pistol. All looked safe for awhile; but just to be certain I tookRoom 6, across the narrow hall, and left both doors open. McCloud'shotel never did much of a room business. By midnight the cowboys wouldbe on their way for the ranches. Brower and myself were the onlyoccupants of the second floor.
For two hours I smoked and read. The ex-jockey did not move a muscle.Then I went to bed and to a sound sleep; but I set my mind like an alarmclock, so that the slightest move from the other room would have fetchedme broad awake. City-bred people may not know that this can be done bymost outdoor men. I have listened subconsciously to horsebells for somany nights, for example, that even on stormy nights the cessation ofthat faint twinkle will awaken me, while the crash of the elements oreven the fall of a tree would not in the slightest disturb my tiredslumbers. So now, although the songs and stamping and racket of therevellers below stairs in McCloud's bar did not for one second preventmy falling into deep and dreamless sleep, Brower's softest tread wouldhave reached my consciousness.
However, he slept right through the night, and was still dead to theworld when I slipped out at six o'clock to meet the east-bound train.The bag--a small black Gladstone--was aboard in charge of thebaggageman. I had no great difficulty in getting it from my friend, thestation agent. Had he not seen me herding the locoed stranger? Isecreted the black bag with the five full bottles of soothing syrup,slipped the half-emptied bottle in my pocket, and returned to the hotel.There I ate breakfast, and sat down for a comfortable chat with McCloudwhile awaiting results.
Got them very promptly. About eight o'clock Brower came downstairs. Hepassed through the office, nodding curtly to McCloud and me, and intothe dining room where he drank several cups of coffee. Thence he passeddown the street toward Sol Levi's. He emerged rather hurriedly andslanted across to the station.
"In about two minutes," I observed to McCloud, "you're going to observeyon butterfly turn into a stinging lizard. He's going to head in thisdirection; and he'll probably aim to climb my hump. Such being the case,and the affair being private, you'll do me a favour by supervisingsomething in some remote corner of the premises."
"Sure," said McCloud, "I'll go twist that Chink washee-man. Beenintending to for a week." And he stumped out on his wooden foot.
The comet hit at precisely 7:42 by McCloud's big clock. Its head wasBrower at high speed and tension; and its tail was the light alkali dustof Arizona mingled with the station agent. No irresistible force andimmovable body proposition in mine; I gave to the impact.
"Why, sure, I got 'em for you," I answered. "You left your dope lyingaround loose so I took care of it for you. As for your bag; you seemedto set such store by it that I got that for you, too."
Which deflated that particular enterprise for the moment, anyway. Thestation agent, too mad to spit, departed before he should be temptedbeyond his strength to resist homicide.
"I suppose you're taking care of my gun for me, too," said Brower; buthis irony was weak. He was evidently off the boil.
"Your gun?" I echoed. "Have you lost your gun?"
He passed his hand across his eyes. His super-excitement had passed,leaving him weak and nervous. Now was the time for my counter-attack.
"Here's your gun," said I, "didn't want to collect any lead while youwere excited, and I've got your dope," I repeated, "in a safe place." Iadded, "and you'll not see any of it again until you answer me a fewquestions, and answer them straight."
"If you think you can roll me for blackmail," he came back with somedecision, "you're left a mile."
"I don't want a cent; but I do want a talk."
"Shoot," said he.
"How often do you have to have this dope--for the best results; and howmuch of it at a shot?"
He stared at me for a moment, then laughed.
"What's it to yuh?" he repeated his formula.
"I want to know."
"I get to needing it about once a day. Three grains will carry me by."
"All right; that's what I want to know. Now listen to me. I'm custodianof this dope, and you'll get your regular ration as long as you stickwith me."
"I can always hop a train. This ain't the only hamlet on the map," hereminded me.
"That's always what you can do if you find we can't work together.That's where you've got me if my proposition doesn't sound good."
"What is your proposition?" he asked after a moment.
"Before I tell you, I'm going to give you a few pointers on what you'reup against. I don't know how much you know about Old Man Hooper, butI'll bet there's plenty you _don't_ know about."
I proceeded to tell him something of the old man's methods, from the"boomerang" to vicarious murder.
"And he gets away with it?" asked Brower when I had finished.
"He certainly does," said I. "Now," I continued, "you may be solid as abrick church, and your plans may be water-tight, and old Hooper maykill the fatted four-year-old, for all I know. But if I were you, Iwouldn't go sasshaying all alone out to Hooper's ranch. It's altogether_too_ blame confiding and innocent."
"If anything happens to me, I've left directions for those contracts tobe recorded," he pointed out. "Old Hooper knows that."
"Oh, sure!" I replied, "just like that! But one day your trustworthyfriend back yonder will get a letter in your well-known hand-write thatwill say that all is well and the goose hangs high, that the old man isa prince and has come through, and that in accordance with the nice,friendly agreement you have reached he--your friend--will hand over thecontract to a very respectable lawyer herein named, and so forth and soon, ending with your equally well-known John Hancock."
"Well, that's all right."
"I hadn't finished the picture. In the meantime, you will be getting outof it just one good swift kick, and that is all."
"I shouldn't write any such letter. Not 'till I felt the feel of thedough."
"Not at first you wouldn't," I said, softly. "Certainly not at first.But after a while you would. These renegade Mexicans--like Hooper'sRamon, for example--know a lot of rotten little tricks. They drivepitch-pine splinters into your legs and set fire to them, for one thing.Or make small cuts in you with a knife, and load them up with powdersquibs in oiled paper--so the blood won't wet them--and touch them off.And so on. When you've been shown about ten per cent, of what old Ramonknows about such things, you'll write most any kind of a letter."
"My God!" he muttered, thrusting the ridiculous derby to the back of hishead.
"So you see you'd look sweet walking trustfully into Hooper's claws.That's what that newspaper ad was meant for. And when the respectablelawyer wrote that the contract had been delivered, do you know whatwould happen to you?"
The ex-jockey shuddered.
"But you've only told me part of what I want to know," I pursued. "Yougot me side-tracked. This daughter of the dead pardner--this girl, whatabout her? Where is she now?"
"Europe, I believe."
"When did she go?"
"About three months ago."
"Any other relatives?"
"Not that I know of."
"H'm," I pondered. "What does she look like?"
"She's about medium height, dark, good figure, good-looking all right.She's got eyes wide apart and a wide forehead. That's the best I can do.Why?"
"Anybody heard from her since she went to Europe?"
"How should I know?" rejoined Brower, impatiently. "What you drivingat?"
"I think I've seen her. I believe she's not in Europe at all. I believeshe's a prisoner at the ranch."
"My aunt!" ejaculated Brower. His nervousness was increasing--thesymptoms I was to recognize so well. "Why the hell don't you just shoothim from behind a bush? I'll do it, if you won't."
"He's too smooth for that." And I told him what Hooper had told me. "Hishold on these Mexicans is remarkable. I don't doubt that fifty of thebest killers in the southwest have lists of the men Old Man Hooperthinks might lay him out. And every man on that list would get hiswithin a year--without any doubt. I don't doubt that partner's daughterwould go first of all. You, too, of course."
"My aunt!" groaned the jockey again.
"He's a killer," I went on, "by nature, and by interest--a badcombination. He ought to be tramped out like a rattlesnake. But this isa new country, and it's near the border. I expect he's got me marked. IfI have to I'll kill him just like I would a rattlesnake; but thatwouldn't do me a whole lot of good and would probably get a bunchassassinated. I'd like to figure something different. So you see you'dbetter come on in while the coming is good."
"I see," said the ex-jockey, very much subdued. "What's your idea? Whatdo you want me to do?"
That stumped me. To tell the truth I had no idea at all what to do.
"I don't want you to go out to Hooper's ranch alone," said I.
"Trust me!" he rejoined, fervently.
"I reckon the first best thing is to get along out of town," Isuggested. "That black bag all the plunder you got?"
"That's it."
"Then we'll go out a-horseback."
We had lunch and a smoke and settled up with McCloud. Aboutmid-afternoon we went on down to the livery corral. I knew the keeperpretty well, of course, so I borrowed a horse and saddle for Brower. Thelatter looked with extreme disfavour on both.
"This is no race meet," I reminded him. "This is a means oftransportation."
"Sorry I ain't got nothing better," apologized Meigs, to whom I hadconfided my companion's profession--I had to account for such a figuresomehow. "All my saddle hosses went off with a mine outfit yesterday."
"What's the matter with that chestnut in the shed?"
"He's all right; fine beast. Only it ain't mine. It belongs to Ramon."
"Ramon from Hooper's?"
"Yeah."
"I'd let you ride my horse and take Meigs's old skate myself," I said toBrower, "but when you first get on him this bronc of mine is arip-humming tail twister. Ain't he, Meigs?"
"He's a bad _caballo_," corroborated Meigs.
"Does he buck?" queried Brower, indifferently.
"Every known fashion. Bites, scratches, gouges, and paws. Want to tryhim?"
"I got a headache," replied Brower, grouchily. "Bring out your old dog."
When I came back from roping and blindfolding the twisted dynamite I wasengaged in "gentling," I found that Brower was saddling the mournfulcreature with my saddle. My expostulation found him very snappy andvery arbitrary. His opium-irritated nerves were beginning to react. Irealized that he was not far short of explosive obstinacy. So I concededthe point; although, as every rider knows, a cowboy's saddle and acowboy's gun are like unto a toothbrush when it comes to lending. Alsoit involved changing the stirrup length on the livery saddle. I neededthings just right to ride Tiger through the first five minutes.
When I had completed this latter operation, Brower had just finisheddrawing tight the cinch. His horse stood dejectedly. When Brower hadmade fast the latigo, the horse--as such dispirited animals oftendo--heaved a deep sigh. Something snapped beneath the slight strain ofthe indrawn breath.
"Dogged if your cinch ain't busted!" cried Meigs with a loud laugh."Lucky for you your friend did borrow your saddle! If you'd clumb Tigerwith that outfit you could just naturally have begun pickin' out thelikely-looking she-angels."
I dropped the stirrup and went over to examine the damage. Both of thequarter straps on the off side had given way. I found that they had beencut nearly through with a sharp knife. My eye strayed to Ramon'schestnut horse standing under the shed.
The Killer Page 8
