Bluffer's luck

by W. C. Tuttle

CHAPTER XVI: BAGGS PULLS STRINGS

The following morning Sailor Jones came to Lobo Wells after the mail. It was seldom that Sailor took a drink, but when he did, he hated to stop. Such was the case this morning. He got the mail, stuffed it in his hip pocket, and was ready to go back when somebody told him about Baggs nearly being killed.

“By grab, there is some good people left in the world!” he exclaimed, and offered to buy his informant a drink.

One drink was but a beginning, and by the time Hashknife and Sleepy found him he was standing at the Oasis bar trying to sing. If there was one thing Sailor didn’t have, it was a voice, but he merely nodded to Hashknife and continued:

“Tell the ki-yotes, when they come at night,
A huntin’ for their prey,
They might as well go further,
For they’ll find it will not pay;
If they attempt to eat me-e-e
They very soon will see-e-e
That my bones and hide are petrified,
They’ll find no meat on me-e-e-e.”

“That’s a great song!” applauded Hashknife.

“Ain’t she? Fit for a primmer-donner. How are yuh?”

“Fine. How’s everythin’ at the Box S?”

“Couldn’t be any better, if I owned it m’self. Say! Didja hear about old Baggs almost gittin’ his earthly envelope slit? Ain’t that great! But the only thing bad about it is the fact that the present gineration can’t shoot straight. ’F I’d been behind that gun, we’d be celebratin’ a funeral right now.”

“You wouldn’t kill a man, would yuh?” asked Sleepy.

“Men are different,” said Sailor owlishly. “I’m not speakin’ of men, Mister—er⸺”

“Stevens,” said Hashknife.

“To be shore. How’re yuh, Steve? Pleased to meetcha. Well, I’ve got to git home—’f I kin. Gittin’ old, boys. Tha’s all right,” he pointed a finger at the opposite wall. “Nex’ time the door comes around, I’ll bus’ right through.”

“I’ll walk to the hitchrack with yuh,” offered Hashknife.

“Well, tha’s nice of yuh, I’m shore. ’Preciate it. Whoa, Blaze! C’mon, par’ner.”

Hashknife walked out and helped him on his horse. He untied the rope, looped it around the horn, while Sailor gathered up his reins. Suddenly he surged back on the reins, swung the horse around in a sharp curve, socked home the spurs and let out a yell, which could be heard all over town.

The horse made a lunging buck, almost unseating Sailor, and the mail flew from his hip-pocket, scattering out behind him, as he went streaking down the street. Hashknife walked out and recovered the mail, putting it in his own pocket.

“He’ll probably miss it later, and come back for it,” laughed Sleepy, as they walked down to the livery stable.

A little later Hashknife happened to think about the mail, and took it from his pocket. There were two letters to Whispering Taylor, which Hashknife judged were from some patent-medicine manufacturers, and one letter addressed to Miss Singer, bearing the letterhead of Amos A. Baggs.

Hashknife turned the letter over and noticed that the flap was not securely fastened. In fact, it could have been opened by round handling. A flip of the thumb, and it was open. Hashknife was not in the habit of opening other people’s mail, but something told him to look at the enclosure. It read:

“Miss Singer,—I want to have a talk with you, so you’d better come to my office at once. It will be decidedly to your interests not to ignore this letter.

“Very truly yours,

“Amos Baggs.”

Hashknife put the letter back in the envelope and sealed it securely, after which he shoved his hands deep in his pockets and stood on the edge of the sidewalk, deep in thought. It was rather a queer letter, he thought. A threatening order from a lawyer to a client.

Hashknife was puzzled. He did not believe that Len Ayres had killed Charley Prentice, although there was no evidence that any one else disliked him enough to do it. And Hashknife hadn’t the slightest idea who had shot at him. He was satisfied that he had been the target, instead of Baggs. The underlying motives were well concealed, but Hashknife felt that somewhere he would dig up a key to the mystery.

He found Sleepy and together they rode out to the Box S. Sailor was sound asleep in the bunk-house, and Whispering was outspoken in his disgust of any man who would get drunk in the morning.

“He tried to tell us somethin’ about Baggs gittin’ killed,” said Whispering. “Was that right?”

Hashknife explained what had happened, and Whispering was duly impressed.

“Lobo Wells is wakin’ up to what it needs,” he said seriously. “I don’t back no murderer’s play, but I do think the town needs cleanin’ up, Hartley. Len’s gone over to the OK this mornin’. Knight wants us to go in with him on a trainload of beef; so Len went to talk with him. The boss is somewhere in the house, if yuh want to see her.”

Hashknife gave Whispering his two letters, and explained about Sailor losing the mail.

“That’s jist like him! Valuables don’t mean nothin’ to him, when he gits a drink or two. Look at these letters! ’F it hadn’t been for you they’d be lost, and I’d never know how to cure liver complaints and as-my.”

Nan came out through the kitchen and greeted them warmly.

“I thought I heard voices out here,” she said, “but I wasn’t sure it wasn’t Whispering and Sailor. They converse quite a bit, as you probably know.”

“Well, I put him to bed,” grinned Whispering. “He was wrong about Amos Baggs gittin’ killed—he was jist shot at. Hartley can tell yuh the gruesome details.”

Hashknife explained to Nan, and then gave her the letter. He watched her closely as she glanced at the letterhead, and there was a worried look in her eyes, as she thanked him for bringing it. After a few moments she went back in the house.

Whispering urged them to stay for dinner, but Hashknife wanted to get back to town.

Shortly after Hashknife and Sleepy rode away, Nan came out to the kitchen and asked Whispering to hitch the team to the buckboard and take her to town.

In the meantime Len had talked with Knight at the OK ranch. Knight happened to have been in Lobo Wells when the shot had smashed through the sheriff’s window.

“I suppose they’ll blame me for that,” said Len.

“They probably will,” smiled Knight. “Some of them will blame yuh for not shootin’ straighter.”

“I guess Baggs isn’t very popular.”

“It’s his own fault, Len. He can’t keep his nose out of things that don’t concern him.”

Len rode away from the OK, intending to go back to the Box S, but changed his mind and rode north to Lobo Wells. He was worried about Larry. Len wanted the boy, and he did not understand just why his son would not come out to the ranch with him. He had seemed so friendly that first day, but had entirely changed his attitude.

Instead of going in on the main street he went straight to the Prentice house. On the porch was a battered old telescope valise and a couple of half-filled gunny-sacks. Minnie answered his knock. She was wearing a rusty black dress, which fitted her like the casing on a sausage, a moth-eaten old feather boa, and on her head, perched high, threatening at any time to lose its balance, was a small black straw hat, decorated with a single eagle feather, pointing straight toward the sky.

“How do,” she said shortly.

“Howdy,” smiled Len. “Where’s the boy?”

Larry came in from the kitchen, a woebegone expression on his face. Len smiled at him, but the boy did not respond.

“I go way,” said Minnie. “Wait for stage now.”

“Where are yuh goin’?” asked Len.

“I go to my people down by Kernwood.”

“Yea-a-ah? Goin’ to stay?”

“Stay long time, I guess.”

“What about the boy?” asked Len, pointing at Larry.

Minnie looked at him, but said nothing.

“I guess I’ll be all right,” said Larry.

“You can’t stay here alone, Larry.”

The question seemed deadlocked until Minnie came to the rescue with:

“Baggs say nobody pay me now, I go home. Baggs say county take care of boy.”

“I can take care of myself,” said Larry quickly.

The Kernwood stage drew up in front of the house, and Minnie went waddling out with her valise and bundles. Len watched her climb aboard the stage, and then turned to Larry.

“Son, I want yuh to tell me what Baggs said. C’mon and sit down here with me, ’cause me and you are goin’ to have a talk about ourselves.”

Larry sat down on the opposite side of the steps from Len.

“Baggs told Minnie to go home,” he said wearily. “He said that the county would have to take care of me, but I can take care of myself.”

“Plenty nerve,” muttered Len admiringly. “Larry, why won’t yuh go out to the ranch with me? I need yuh—need another cowpuncher out there. Me and you would git along great. The boss is a nice lady.”

Larry thought it over for a while, torn between two emotions.

“Mr. Baggs said I hadn’t better.”

“Since when did you start takin’ orders from Baggs, Larry?”

Larry shut his lips tightly. He was a very little boy, but there were things he couldn’t forget.

“Will yuh tell me why yuh won’t go out and live with me?” asked Len. “I ought to know, Larry. After all, you are my son.”

“Well, I don’t know,” he was near tears now. “Mr. Baggs said it wasn’t the place for me. He said you—you⸺”

“He said I wasn’t fit to have yuh, son?”

Larry nodded miserably.

“Because I had been in prison, Larry?”

“I—I guess that was—was part of it.”

“I see. And he said I killed Charley Prentice, didn’t he?”

“He—he said you was a killer, and that folks wouldn’t care to have anythin’ to do with me if I lived with you.”

If Amos Baggs had been in reach at that moment Len might have lived up to the reputation Amos had given him.

“Son,” he said tensely, “would you believe me if I told yuh that I never shot Charley Prentice?”

The boy swallowed painfully, gripped his hands tightly around one knee, but finally shook his head.

“Why wouldn’t yuh, son?”

“Because, I—I know yuh did.”

Len got to his feet and stared down at the boy, who did not dare look up at him.

“You know I did?” asked Len wonderingly.

“I heard you.” Larry was crying now. “Me and Minnie promised never to tell. We heard you say: ‘This is Ayres, you dirty dog.’ And then the gun went off twice.”

“Good God!” said Len softly.

For a long time he stood there, staring off across the old town, his face like carved granite in the shadow of his wide sombrero.

“We never told nobody—but you,” whispered Larry.

“Thank yuh, son.”

“I dunno what to do,” said Larry miserably. “Minnie’s gone now.”

“You ain’t afraid of me, are yuh?” asked Len.

“No, I ain’t afraid of yuh.”

“Then won’t yuh try livin’ on the ranch? Yuh won’t have to have anythin’ to do with me—just live there.”

“I guess it would be all right—if I had a job.”

“Can yuh cut wood, Larry?”

“Yeah, I can cut wood—fine.”

“We need a wood-cutter pretty bad. Whisperin’ makes a lot of biscuits and pies and cookies, and he needs wood.”

“Minnie wasn’t much good on pies and cookies.”

“C’mon, boy; we’ll get yore clothes later.”

Larry closed the front door softly and walked out with Len, who untied his horse and they went down toward the main street; a man whose greenish-gray eyes registered a momentary triumph, his lips set in a killing resolve; and a boy who looked ahead at a future of pies and cookies—and a man’s job.

“We’re goin’ over and tell Mr. Baggs about it, Larry.”

“Sure. Guess he won’t like it much.”

“We’ll make him like it, pardner.”

In the meantime Whispering had brought Nan to town, and left her at the lawyer’s office. She realised that she was at the end of her string; the tone of the letter told her that much.

For the first time since the beginning of her masquerade she was afraid of the consequences, but she summoned up all her reserve strength and went into the office, prepared at least to battle for a chance to drop out gracefully, but realising that Baggs was not the type to be lenient with an offender.

He was there at his desk, bowed over some papers, a dead pipe between his teeth. She stopped near his desk and he stared at her for several moments, before he got to his feet and indicated his chair. No word had passed between them. He closed the door tightly and came back to stand near her.

“Well, Miss Impersonator, what about it?” he jeered. “Thought you could steal another woman’s identity, eh? Didn’t you know it was a prison offence? No? Just playing a joke on us, eh?”

He pointed a lean forefinger at her threateningly.

“Don’t you realise that I could send you to prison for a nice long time for what you’ve done? Maybe I will—it all depends on what you do, young lady.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Nan helplessly.

Baggs walked to the window and looked out on the street. He was a firm believer in suspense. Finally he turned.

“I’ll tell you what you’ll do. Perhaps it isn’t what you want to do, but you’ll do it or go to jail. Pack up your little valise and catch the first train out of town. I’ll give you until to-morrow noon. That’s more consideration than I’ve ever shown anybody before. I guess I’m getting soft. I’ll fix up some sort of a story to cover the situation.”

“Can you prove that I am not Miss Singer?” asked Nan.

“Prove it?” Baggs laughed harshly. “Do you want me to?”

“By Jack Pollock?” asked Nan.

“Oh, you knew he was here, did you? Do you want me to bring him over here and face you with it? Your name is Nan Whitlock, or that’s the name he knew you by in Frisco. No doubt you’ve had a good many names. People who do what you attempted here would naturally have used many names.”

“Then I either get out or you send me to jail?”

“If you are here to-morrow noon, I’ll send⸺”

Came the sound of a swift, heavy step on the sidewalk in front of the office, the door was flung violently open and Len Ayres stepped in. Behind him was little Larry. For a moment Ayres looked at Nan, then he turned on Baggs, who had stepped back, a frightened look in his weak eyes.

“I just wanted to say a few short words to you, Baggs,” said Len hoarsely. “I’m takin’ my son out to the Box S to live there. Contrary to yore advice, the county won’t take him, because I won’t let ’em. You’ve done yore best to poison his mind against me, you dirty pup; and I want you to get this straight; if you ever do another thing against me, I’ll shoot yore dirty soul plumb out of yore skinny carcass.”

“Maybe that’s what you tried to do last night,” said Baggs rashly, and with one swift stride Len grabbed him, slammed him against the wall and held him helpless, while with a free hand he proceeded to slap Baggs’s face until the Lobo Wells lawyer shrieked for mercy.

When Len let him loose, Baggs slid weakly to the floor, holding his face in both hands. Len looked at him disgustedly.

“Gee, what a slappin’ he got!” exclaimed Larry.

Len turned to Nan, who had got to her feet.

“I suppose we might as well go home, Nan; that feller ain’t in no shape to talk business.”

Nan nodded, and they walked out together. Whispering was coming across to the buckboard, and they walked over there.

“Larry can ride with you folks,” said Len. “Larry, this is Miss Singer, the boss of the Box S, and this man is Whisperin’ Taylor, the man who makes the pies and cookies.”

“When I can git wood enough,” grinned Whispering, shaking hands with Larry.

“That’s what I’m comin’ out for—to cut wood,” said Larry.

“By golly, we’ll have plenty pie now. Pile in, Larry; the Box S Limited is ready to pull out.”

Larry shook hands gravely with Nan, and they started home, while Amos Alexander Baggs watched them from the window of his office, too mad to do more than grimace with his aching jaws and blink the tears out of his eyes.