"Fee for a consultation is ten dollars, in advance--from you," the doctor finished.
"Obstructin' the course o' justice."
"Justice! Why, you couldn't spell the damn word, much less administer it," Malachi laughed, and presenting his back, poured another drink.
The sheriff breathed a sigh of relief; he stood no chance in a verbal contest with that man. In an effort to regain his self-respect, he glared round the room.
'You got anythin' to say, Dover?"
"Plenty," the young fellow replied, and told of the message his father had received. "It did not come from me--it was a trap, an' it's an easy guess who set it." - 29
"Guessin' won't git us nowhere; the Law demands proof," Foxwell said unctuously.
"The Law here squats on it's rump an' does nothin'," Dan sneered. "This ain't the first time a man has been done to death by a yellow-livered sneak afraid to show hisself. Well, I ain't askin' yore help, Sheriff; the Circle Dot can handle it."
The officer scowled, and then, "What is it, Bundy'?" as a lumpy cowboy in his early thirties, whose craggy face seemed to be endowed with a permanent sneer, stepped forward.
"All I wanta say is that yestiddy afternoon the en-tire Wagon-wheel outfit was workin' ten mile from where the shootin' took place."
"Methinks the witness doth protest too much," came a comment from the bar.
The sheriff swore. But evidently the statement was what he had been waiting for. "We ain't gittin' no forader," he said testily, and turned to the men standing behind him. Then, "The jury finds that deceased died from a gun-shot wound, but there ain't no evidence to show who done it."
"Had any existed, there would have been no enquiry," Malachi added. "Foxy, when my commodious abode needs white-washing, the job is yours."
"Who was it spoke for the Wagon-wheel?" Sudden asked.
"The foreman, as nasty a piece o' work as the Lord ever put breath into," Dan replied. "Sent a-purpose, an' the sheriff knew it."
"That sawbones ain't much respect for the Law."
"Devilin' Foxy is just pie to him, but it's a dangerous game. He's a queer cuss, but I like him."
Chapter IV
That afternoon another oblong heap of heavy stones was added to the little cemetery, a scant half-mile from the town. ft was a pretty place, a tiny plateau of short grass, sprinkled with gay-coloured flowers, and ringed in with shrubs and trees through which the sun sent flickering shadows. Rainbow did not possess a parson, so there was no- ceremony. The men present stood around, hats off, watching silently. When all was done, Dan, looking down upon the pitiful pile through misty eyes and gripping the brim of his Stetson with tense fingers, registered a vow:
"They shan't beat us, Dad," he muttered, and turned away. As the empty buckboard, with its escort of stern-faced riders moved slowly towards the town, a stout, ruddy-cheeked horseman slowed up to allow the young cattleman to join him.
"I'm powerful sorry, boy," he began. "I've knowed the 01' Man since you were knee-high to a sage-hen, an' knowed him well. He was hard-shelled, but inside he was the pure quill. He never let down a friend, or let up on a foe, an' for anybody in distress, he was a safe bet. Losin' yore mother shook him terrible, but if the preachers is right, mebbe they're together agin." He was silent for a moment. "What I wanted to say was, if there's anythin' I can do, any time, come to me."
"That's mighty nice o' you, Bowdyr," Dan replied. "I'll not forget. Guess I'll be needin' friends."
"Yore new hand looks a likely proposition. What do you know about him?"
"Not a thing; I took a chance."
"Fella has to--times," Bowdyr agreed. He studied the puncher--who was riding on the other side of the buckboard --for a while. "I'd 'a' done the same--with him."
When they reached Rainbow, Bowdyr drew rein at the Parlour Saloon, of which he was the proprietor, and voiced an invitation.
"I don't feel like drinkin', Ben," Dover said.
"A livener won't do us any harm, son," Bowdyr argued. "Frettin' ain't goin' to fetch the of boy back, an' I want a word with you."
The Parlour was very similar to Sody's but rather smaller. It had a long, highly-polished bar--the pride of its owner--facing the swing-doors. In front of it were tables and chairs. A roulette wheel, and other forms of gambling were to be found on the right side, while to the left was space for dancing, and a piano. Mirrors, and brightly-coloured Navajo blankets served to relieve the bareness of the wooden walls.
"Drinks are on the house this time, boys," the saloon keeper told the Circle Dot riders, all of whom he knew, save one. Dover remedied this by introducing the new man.
"Ben, this is Jim Green; he's goin' to ride for us."
"Glad to meetcha," Bowdyr replied, and with a grin, "I own this joint, though the Circle Dot fellas sometimes act as if they did."
"If they make trouble, Ben--
"Skittles, I was joshin'. They're a good crowd. I reckon a cowboy with no devil in him is no more use than a busted bronc. Ain't that so, Green?"
"It shorely is," Sudden agreed.
"We'll take our liquor over there," Bowdyr suggested, pointing to a table in one corner. "No need to tell everybody our affairs." When they were seated, he resumed. "Now, Dan, I'm goin' to ask a straight question, an' I want the same kind o' answer. In Sody's this mornin' you practically declared war on the Wagon-wheel. Did you mean that?"
"Every damn word," the young man replied harshly. "They're tryin' to smash the Circle Dot; they shoot down our riders, an' now they've murdered Dad. Mebbe I'm next on the slate, but until they get me, I'm fightin' back."
"Good enough," the saloon-keeper said. "What I can do, I will."
"Thanks, Ben. They had their alibi all fixed, but it was a mistake to send a liar like Bundy."
"It's got me guessin'," Bowdyr remarked. "The Trentons was allus high-handed an' disregardful of other folks' rights, but this ambushin' ain't like 'em."
"That's so, but the fella who's been givin' the orders at the Wagon-wheel for some time is that Easterner, Chesney Gar-stone. I figure he's got Zeb hawg-tied."
"An Easterner, an' runnin' a cattle-range?" Sudden queried. "Oh, Trenton does that; this jasper just runs Trenton," Dan explained.
"Been around long?"
"Less'n twelve months, but that's too long. Hell, there he comes. Don't often favour you, does he, Ben?"
"No, an' I ain't regardin' it thataway neither," the saloonkeeper replied bluntly.
Chesney Garstone was a big man, physically, and in his own estimation. About midway between thirty and forty, heavily-built, his close-cropped fair hair, blue eyes, and somewhat square head gave him a Teutonic appearance. He was meticulously attired; trousers neatly folded into the tops of his highly-polished riding-boots, a silk shirt, loosely-tied cravat, and soft black hat. Altogether a striking figure in any company. To their surprise, he stepped towards them.
"I came in to see you, Dover," he began. "I want to say how sorry I am--only heard the news two hours ago, when I rode in from the Bend."
Dan ignored the outstretched hand. "So you were there, huh?"
Garstone's eyebrows rose. "Certainly; I rode over yesterday morning and took the train to Washout, where I had business, and spent the night."
"Havin' given yore orders before you went."
"What the devil are you driving at?"
"Just this, Garstone. At the time my father was murdered, you claim to have been in Washout, Bundy says yore entire outfit was ten mile away, an' I s'pose Zeb has his tale all ready too."
"Are you suggesting--?"
"Not any--I'm statin' facts."
Garstone's eyes were furious, but he kept his temper. "Look here, Dover, you are talking wild," he said placatingly. "This must have been a terrible shock to you, and I'm willing to make allowances. My only object in coming here was to express regret, and see if we can come to terms. Listen: you have more water than you need, and we are short. Why not sell us the strip of land which would enable us to use the stream? I'll give you a fair price."