CHAPTER VII
Oh! Bad Bill Brough, a way-back tough
Raised hell when he struck town;
With gun-in-fist met Sergeant Twist—
It sure was some show-down.
BALLAD OF SERGEANT TWIST
Cow Run was reached in the gathering dusk. Seen under winter conditions the drab little town looked dreary and uninviting enough as the party negotiated its main street. A frame-built hotel, a livery-stable, a small church, a school-house, a line of false-fronted stores, and some three-score dwellings failed to arouse in George an enthusiastic desire to become a permanent resident of Cow Run.
The corpse they deposited temporarily in an empty shack situated in the rear of the doctor's residence. From long usage this place had come to be accepted as the common morgue of the district. After arranging details with the coroner anent the morrow's inquest, and carefully searching the dead man, the sergeant and his two subordinates repaired to the livery-stable to put up their horses.
Nicholas Lee, the keeper of this establishment greeted them with wheezy cordiality, apportioned to them stable-room and guaranteed especial care of their horses. In appearance that worthy would have made a passable understudy for the elder Weller, being red-faced, generous of girth and short of breath. In addition to his regular calling he filled—or was supposed to fill—the office of "town constable" and pound-keeper. A sort of village "Dogberry." Incidentally it might be mentioned that he also could have laid claim to be a "wictim of circumstances"; having but recently contracted much the same sort of hymeneal bargain as did the Dickensian character. The sympathy of Cow Run, individually and collectively, was extended to him on this account.
From his somewhat garrulous recital of the day's events it was satisfactorily evident to his hearers that wind of the murder had not struck Cow Run as yet. For obvious reasons Slavin had enjoined strict secrecy upon Lanky Jones, Lee's stable-hand.
"Ar!" wheezed Lee. "It's a good job yu' fellers is come. That ther 'Windy Moran's' bin raisin' hell over in the hotel th' las' two days. He got to fightin' ag'in las' night with Larry Blake—over that hawss. Bob Ingalls an' Chuck Reed an' th' bunch dragged 'em apart an' tol' Larry to beat it back to his ranch—which he did. Windy—they got him to bed, an' kep' him ther all night, as he swore he'd shoot Larry. He's still over ther, nasty-drunk an' shootin' off what he's goin' t' do."
He rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation, gloating deeply in his throat: "Stirrin' times! ar! stirrin' times! . . . Now—'bout that ther hobo, Sargint—"
"Aw! damn th' hobo!" exploded Slavin impatiently. "Here, Nick! show me Windy's harse. Fwhat? Niver yeh mind fwhat for . . . now! Yu'll know all 'bout that later."
His native curiosity balked, the old gossip, with a slightly injured air, indicating a big sorrel saddle-horse standing in a stall opposite the Police team. Slavin backed the animal out. It seemed to be lame. With fierce eagerness they examined its "nigh-hind" leg—and found what they sought for.
For there—where the hair joins the hoof, technically known as the "coronet"—was a deep, jagged wound, such as is caused usually by a horse slipping and jabbing itself with sharp-pointed shoe-calks. The hoof itself was stained a dull red where the blood had run down. Slavin picked up a fore-foot and exhibited to them the round-pointed, screwed-in calks, commonly known as "neverslips." He took the measurements of the shoe and glanced at his note-book.
Finally, with a significant gesture and amidst dead silence, he thrust the book back in his pocket. Handing over the horse to Lee he bade him tie it up again.
Wordlessly, the trio exchanged mystified glances. "See here; look, Nick!" Slavin grasped the livery-man's fat shoulder and looked grimly into the startled, rubicund face. "I'm a-goin' tu put a question tu yeh, an' 'member now. . . . I want yeh tu think harrd! . . . Now—whin Larry Blake came in tu saddle-up an' pull out last night was that ther sorrel o' Windy's still in th' stable—or not?"
"Eh?" gasped Lee at last, "I dunno! Me nor Lanky wasn't around when
Larry pulled out. We was over t' th' hotel, Sarjint."
Slavin released the man's shoulder with a testy, balked gesture. "Yes! enjoyin' th' racket an' dhrunk like th' rist, I guess! . . . 'Tis a foine sort av town-constable yez are!"
Nick Lee maintained his air of injured innocence. "I came round here 'bout midnight, anyways!" he protested. "I always do—jes' t' see 'f everythin's all right. That hawss was in then, I will swear—'cause I 'member his halter-shank'd come untied and I fixed it. Ev'rythin' in th' garden was lovely 'cep' fur that 'damned hobo sneakin' round. He was gettin' a drink at th' trough an' I chased him. But he beat it up inta th' loft an'—I'm that scared of fire," he ended lamely, "I never lock up fur that."
Slavin nodded wisely. "Yes! I guess he made his getaway from yu'—easy. Mighty long toime since yuh've bin able tu dhrag yeh're guts up that ladder—lit alone squeege thru' th' thrap-dhure. Bet Lanky does all th' chorin'." He glanced around him impatiently, "But this here's all talk—it don't lead nowheres. Hullo! this is Gully's team, ain't it?" He indicated a splendid pair of roans standing in a double stall nearby.
"Yes!" said Lee, "he pulled in las' night t' catch th' nine-thirty down t' Calgary. He ain't back yet."
"Fwas he—" Slavin checked himself abruptly—"fwhat toime did he get in here?"
"'Bout nine."
"Fwhat toime 'bout fwas ut whin this racket shtarted up betune Windy an'
Larry?"
"Oh, I dunno, Sarjint!—'bout nine, may be—as I say I—"
"Come on!" said the sergeant, abruptly, to his men, "let's go an' eat.
Luk afther thim harses good, Nick," he flung back in a kind tone.
Outside in the dark road they gathered together, bandying mystified conjecture in low tones. "'Tis no use arguin', bhoys," snapped Slavin at last, wearily, "we've got tu see Chuck Reed an' Bob Ingalls an' Brophy av th' hotel. Their wurrd goes—they're straight men. If they had Windy corralled all night, as Nick sez . . . fwhy! . . . that let's Windy out."
He was silent awhile, then: "That harse av Windy's," he burst out with an oath, "I thought 't'was a cinch. Somethin' passin' rum 'bout all this. There's abs'lutely no mistake 'bout th' harse. Somebody in this god-forsaken burg must ha' used him tu du th' killin' wid. Well, let's get on."
Suddenly, as they neared the hotel, a veritable bedlam of sound fell upon their ears, apparently from inside that hostelry—men shouting, a dog barking, and above all the screeching, crazed voice of a drunken man.
The startled policemen dashed into the front entrance, through the office and across the passage into the bar beyond, from whence the uproar proceeded.
"Help! Murder! Pleece!" some apparently high-strung individual was bawling. A ludicrous, but nevertheless dangerous, sight met their eyes.
A motley crowd, composed mainly of well-dressed passengers from off the temporarily-stalled West-bound train and a sprinkling of townsfolk, were backed—hands up—into a corner of the bar by a big, hard-faced man clad in range attire who was menacing them with a long-barrelled revolver. He was dark-haired and swarthy, with sinister, glittering eyes. One red-headed, red-nosed individual had apparently resented parting with the drink that he had paid for; as in one decidedly-shaky elevated hand he still clutched his glass, its whiskey and water contents slopping down the neck of his nearest unfortunate neighbour.
"Mon!" he apologized, in tearful accents, "Ah juist canna help it!"
"Pitch up!" the "bad man" was shrieking, "Pitch up! yu' ——s!—That d——d Blake—that d——d Gully! Stealin' my hawss away'f me an' gittin' me fined! I'll git back at somebody fur this! Pleece! yes!—yeh kin holler 'Pleece!'—Let me get th' drop on th' red-coated, yelluh-laigged sons of ——! Ah-hh!"—His eyes glittered with his insane passion, "Here they come! Now! watch th' ——s try an' arrest me!"
Fairly frothing at the mouth, the man, at that moment working himself into a frenzy, was plainly as dangerous as a mad dog. Drunk though he undoubtedly was, he did not stagger as he stepped to and fro with cat-like activity, his gun levelled at the policemen's heads. It was an ugly situation. Slavin and his men taken utterly by surprise hesitated, as well they might; for a single attempt to draw their sidearms might easily bring inglorious death upon one or another of them.
We have noted that on a previous occasion Redmond demonstrated his ability to think and act quickly. He upheld that reputation now. Like a flash he ducked behind Slavin's broad shoulders and backed into the passage. Picking up at random the first missile available—to wit—an empty soda-water bottle, he tip-toed swiftly along the passage to a door opening into the bar lower down. This practically brought him broadside-on to his man. A moment he peered and judged his distance then, drawing back his arm he flung the bottle with all his force. At McGill he had been a base-ball pitcher of some renown, so his aim was true. The bottle caught its objective full in the ear. With a scream of pain the man staggered forward and clutched with one hand at his head, his gun still in his grip sagging floorwards.
Instantly then, Yorke, who was the nearest, sprang at him like a tiger and, ranging one arm around his enemy's bull neck, strove with the other to wrest the gun from his grasp. It was a feat however, more easily imagined than accomplished—to disarm a powerful, active man. The tense fingers tightened immediately upon the weapon and resisted to their uttermost. Slavin and Redmond both had their side-arms drawn now, but they were afraid to use them, on Yorke's account. The combatants were whirling giddily to and fro, the muzzle of the gun describing every point of the compass.
Taking a risky chance, Slavin, watching his opportunity suddenly closed with the struggling men and, raising his arm brought the barrel of his heavy Colt's .45 smashing down on the knuckles of the crazed man's gun-hand. Instantaneously the latter's weapon dropped to the floor.
Bang! The cocked hammer discharged one chamber—the bullet ricocheting off the brass bar-rail deflected through a cluster of glasses and bottles, smashing them and a long saloon-mirror into a myriad splinters. But few of the company there escaped the deadly flying glass, as badly-gashed faces immediately testified. It all happened in quicker time than it takes to relate.
"'Crown' him!" gasped Yorke, still grimly hanging onto his man, "'Crown' the —— good and hard!"
Redmond sprang forward, grasping a small, shot-loaded police "billy," but
Slavin interposed a huge arm.
"Nay!" he said sharply, and with curious eagerness, "Du not 'chrown' um bhoy! lave um tu me!" And he grasped one of the big, struggling man's wrists firmly in a vise-like grip. "Leggo, Yorkey!"
The latter obeyed with alacrity, and stooping he picked up the fallen gun. He had an inkling of what was coming.
"Ah-hh!" Slavin gloated gutterally, as he whirled his victim giddily around and brought the man up facing him with a violent jerk—"Windy Moran, avick!"—softly and cruelly—"me wud-be cock av a wan-harse dump!—me wud-be 'bad-man'! . . . Oh, yes! 'tis both shockin' an' brutil tu misthreat ye I know but—surely, surely yeh desarve somethin' for all this!" And he drew back his formidable right arm.
Smack! The terrific impact of that one, terrible open-handed slap nearly knocked his victim through the bar-room wall. The head rocked sideways and the big body turned completely round. Eyes rushing water and one profile now resembling a slab of bloodied liver, the man reeled about in a circle as if bereft of sight.
"Oh-hh!—Ooh!—No-o!—Ah-hh!" The wild, moaning cry for quarter came gaspingly out of puffed, blood-foamed lips. But there was no mercy in Slavin. He looked round at the wrecked bar, the glass-slashed bleeding faces of his men and the rest of the saloon's occupants. He thought upon many things—how near ignoble death many of them had been but a few minutes before—upon insult and threat flaunted at them by a drunken, ruffling braggadocio!—and he jerked the latter to him once more.
But his two subordinates jumped forward and made violent protest. "Steady!" It was Yorke now who appealed for leniency—"Go easy, Burke! for God's sake! You've handed him one good swipe—if he get's another like that he'll be all in—won't be able to talk. Let it go at that!"
The sergeant remained silent, breathing thickly and glaring at his prisoner with sinister, glittering eyes, and still retaining the latter's wrist in his iron grip. But eventually the force of Yorke's reasoning prevailed with him. Drawing out his hand-cuffs he snapped them on the man's wrists and haled him roughly out of the bar into the hotel office. The crowd, recovering somewhat from their scare, would have followed, but he curtly ordered them back and closed the door.
"Brophy!" He beckoned the angry, frightened hotel-proprietor forward.
"Is Bob Ingalls and Chuck Reed still in town?"
"Sure!" replied the latter, "They was both in here 'bout half an hour ago, anyways."
Slavin turned to Yorke. "Go yu an' hunt up thim fellers an' bring thim here!" he ordered.
"Ravin'—clean bug-house! that's what he is!" wailed Brophy. "That bar o' mine! oh, Lord! Yu'll git it soaked to yu' this time, Windy, an' don't yu' furgit it!"
The prisoner paid no attention to the landlord's revilings. Slumped down in a chair he had relapsed into a sort of sulky stupor, though he cringed visibly whenever Slavin bent on him his thoughtful, sinister gaze.
Presently Yorke returned, bringing with him two respectable-looking men, apparently ranchers, from their appearance.
Slavin nodded familiarly to them. "Ingalls!" he addressed one of them "I'm given tu undhershtand that yuh an' Chuck Reed there tuk charge av this feller—" he indicated the prisoner—"last night, whin he had that racket wid Larry Blake in th' bar? Fwhat was they rowin' over?"
"That hawss o' Blake's mostly," was Ingalls' laconic answer. "Course they was slingin' everythin' else they could dig down an' drag up, too." He chewed thoughtfully a moment, "We had some time with 'em," he added.
"Shore did!" struck in Reed. "We was scared fur Larry, so we told him to beat it home—which he did—an' then we got Windy up to bed an' stayed with him nigh all night."
Slavin looked at Brophy interrogatively. "Yuh can vouch for this, tu,
Billy? He's bin in yu're place iver since th' throuble smarted?"
Brophy nodded. "Yes! d——n him! I wish he had got out before this bizness started. Yes! he's bin here right along, Sarjint! why?—what's up?"
Slavin evaded the direct question for the moment. Silently awhile he gazed at the three wondering faces. "Now, I'll tell yez!" he said slowly. And briefly he informed them of the murder—omitting all detail of the clues obtained later. They listened with wide eyes and broke out into startled exclamations. The prisoner struggled up from the chair, his bruised, ghastly face registering fear and genuine astonishment. Redmond shoved him back again.
"If any feller thinks—" Moran relapsed into maudlin, hysterical protestations of innocence, calling upon the Deity to bear witness that he was innocent and had no knowledge whatever of how Blake came to his death.
Eventually silence fell upon all. Slavin cogitated awhile, then he turned to Brophy. "Who else was in, Billy? Out av town fellers I mean, fwhin this racket occurred betune these tu? Thry an' think now!"
Brophy pondered long and presently reeled off a few names. Slavin heard him out and shook his head negatively. "Nothin' doin' there!" he announced finally, "Mr. Gully was in, yuh say? Did he see anythin' av this row?"
"Cudn't help it, I guess," replied Brophy. "He just come inta th' office for his grip while it was a-goin' on. He beat it out quick for th' East-bound as had just come in. Said he was runnin' down to Calgary. He ain't back yet. Guess he wudn't want to go gettin' mixed up in anythin' like that, either—him bein' a J. P."
Slavin looked at Yorke. "Let's have a luk at that gun av Moran's!" he remarked. "Fwhat is ut?"
Yorke handed the weapon over. "'Smith and Wesson' single-action," he said. "Just that one round gone."
"Nothin doin' agin'," muttered Slavin disappointedly. He broke the gun and, ejecting the shells put all in his pocket. He then turned to Moran. "D——d good job for yu'—havin' this alibi, Mister Windy!" he growled, "don't seem anythin' on yu' over this killin'—as yet! But yez are goin' tu get ut fwhere th' bottle got th' cork for this other bizness, me man!"
And he proceeded to formally charge and warn his prisoner.
"Give us a room, Brophy!" he said, "a big wan for th' bunch av us—an' lave a shake-down on th' flure for this feller!"
Preceded by the landlord the trio departed upstairs, escorting their prisoner. Alone in the room they discussed matters in lowered tones; Slavin and Yorke not forgetting to compliment Redmond on his presence of mind—or, as the sergeant put it: "Divartin' his attenshun."
The big Irishman scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I must go wire th' O.C. report av all this. Sind Gully comes back on th' same thrain wid Inspector Kilbride to-morrow. Thin we can go ahead—wid two J.P.s tu handle things. Yuh take charge av Mr. Man, Ridmond! Me an' Yorke will go an' eat now, an' relieve yuh later."