CHAPTER IX—AT THE CIRCLE SPADE
Chuckwalla Ike was up a little after daylight. He had a headache and a dark-brown taste in his mouth, which caused his long mustaches to assume a forlorn angle. He spilled the hot cake batter on the floor and cut himself in slicing the bacon.
Monty Adams and Steve Winchell had not been to town the night before, for the simple reason that it had not been payday on the Circle Spade, and because they were both broke. They joked with Chuckwalla, who was in no mood to joke, and ate their breakfast.
“Did the old man get drunk?” asked Steve, mopping off his plate with a hunk of bread.
“Not to my knowledge. I lost him early in the game. But I got drunk ’f anybody stops to ask yuh. But I’m all through. Feller’s a fool to drink.”
“Was anybody playin’ the games at the Eagle?” queried Monty.
“Everybody. Rance won—gosh, I dunno how much. Why, him and Angel dealt first ace for five thousand, and Rance won. First card off the deck was an ace. Jim Langley dealt ’em. And I seen Rance win eight one-hundred-dollar bets, hand-runnin’, on the black-jack. He busted the game. Fact. And then he set in on the stud game and won thirteen hundred on one hand. Had an ace in the hole and three more in sight, while Angel held a ten-full on queens.”
“Holy cats! And did he quit with all that money?”
“I per-sume he did, Monty. If Angel ain’t busted, he’s sure bent like a pretzel.”
“Rance ain’t up yet, eh?”
Chuckwalla shook his head slowly.
“I ain’t seen hide ner horn of him since he left the Eagle, but I think he’s in bed upstairs.”
“Well, we shore missed a good evenin’,” sighed Steve, shoving away from the table. They went down toward the corral, and Chuckwalla sat down to drink a cup of black coffee. It was about the only thing that appealed to his appetite just now.
He heard a step in the doorway, and turned to see old Rance. The old man was bootless, his hair uncombed, and over his right temple was a bruised lump almost as large as an egg. His eyes were bloodshot, and he seemed unsteady.
“Well, f’r God’s sake!” blurted Chuckwalla.
“Rance, you’re a mess!”
“Yeah,” nodded Rance wearily. “Mess.”
He came over to the table and sank down in a chair, feeling tenderly of the lump on his head, while Chuckwalla looked him over seriously.
“Somebody must ’a’ petted yuh right smart,” was his verdict. “I’ll heat up some water and see if it won’t take some of the swellin’ out of the pinnacle.”
He bustled back to the stove and filled the kettle.
“I lost yuh last night, Rance. Climbed plumb over my bronc, jist tryin’ to get aboard. Mamma, I shore was drunk! A feller of my age ort to be more careful. Did you git here ahead of me?”
“I dunno, Chuckwalla.”
“Well, I don’t. Who hit yuh, Rance?”
Rance blinked slowly, his eyes focussed on the oilcloth covering of the table.
“I dunno.”
“No? You must ’a’ been pretty drunk yoreself. I’m goin’ to put a little vinegar in this water. They say it’s good to pull down a swellin’. Sore, ain’t it? Uh-huh. Looks like it might ’a’ been caused with a six-gun bar’l. I pistol-whipped a feller once, and he was thataway all over. Figurin’ his normal skin as sea-level, I shore gave him altitude.”
“That warm water feels good, Chuckwalla.”
“You must ’a’ got hit hard, Rance.”
“Why?”
“You ain’t swore once.”
“Guess I’m gittin’ old.”
“We both are—too dam’ old to be foolish. I looked for yuh to kill Billy DuMond.”
“I didn’t. He’s a coward, Chuckwalla. I used to be a gunman. But I’m old now. They don’t realize I’m old. Most any man in the valley could beat me to a gun, but they don’t know it.”
“Do yuh think that’s too sore to use horse-liniment on? Mebby it is. Skin’s busted. Funny about Lila comin’ to warn yuh, Rance.”
“Funny?”
“Queer, I meant.”
“Queer—yeah.”
“Wish you’d saved that letter, Rance.”
“Yeah. Don’t squeeze that swellin’.”
Came the sound of horses walking on the hard-packed ground of the ranch-yard. Chuckwalla stepped to the door and looked outside.
Slim Caldwell, the sheriff, Chuck Ring and Scotty McKay were dismounting near the kitchen door. Chuckwalla turned his head and glanced quickly at Rance, who was holding the wet compress to his temple.
“Got company,” said Chuckwalla softly. “Officially.”
Old Rance did not look up until the three officers were in the doorway. Slim Caldwell looked curiously at old Rance.
“What have yuh been doin’ to yoreself, Rance?” he asked.
“Gittin’ bumped,” shortly.
“Shore looks like it.”
“You fellers must ’a’ got up before breakfast,” said Chuckwalla, grinning.
“Ye guessed it,” nodded McKay, sniffing at the odors of coffee. Chuckwalla knew that was an acceptance of his unvoiced invitation, and he proceeded to add to the pot of coffee and to slice more bacon.
Old Rance wiped his face with a towel, threw the compress into the wash-basin, and leaned back wearily in his chair. The three officers sat down around the table and rolled smokes, while Chuckwalla prepared breakfast.
“Quite a night, wasn’t it?” boomed Chuck Ring. “The last I seen of Chuckwalla he was imitatin’ a goat with blind-staggers.”
“I shore got wobbly,” grinned Chuckwalla.
“You didn’t drink much, didja, Rance?” queried Caldwell.
Rance shook his head. “I never do, Slim.”
“I never did see yuh drunk.”
“A man is a fool to git drunk, Slim.”
“Aw, yuh don’t need to preach,” said Chuckwalla quickly, jerking back from the explosive splatter of an egg in hot grease.
“I’m not preachin’,” said Rance. “Some folks can’t carry their liquor.”
“That’s me,” laughed Chuckwalla. “How do yuh like yore aigs, Slim?”
“Fresh.”
“All right, sheriff. But I warn yuh, they’re tasteless. Set up ag’in’ the table, will yuh? There’s milk in the can. Say, I hope some day I’ll work on a cow-ranch where they have cow-milk. Been a cowhand all m’ life, and all the milk I’ve ever seen was in cans. And that butter was shipped from Nebrasky. Sometimes we do accidently eat our own beef.”
There was plenty of good-natured banter during the breakfast, except from old Rance, who smoked his pipe and shot an occasional quizzical glance at the sheriff. It was unusual for the entire force of officers to be riding together at that time in the morning.
They finished their breakfast and shoved back from the table to enjoy their cigarettes. Old Chuckwalla gathered up the dishes and swept the table clean with a wet cloth. He knew something was wrong.
“Where’s Monty and Steve?” asked Slim.
“Gone to work,” said Chuckwalla.
“They wasn’t in town last night, was they?”
“They’re broke.”
“Good and sufficient reason,” grinned Chuck Ring. “Lot more cow-rasslers are broke this mornin’.”
Old Rance knocked the dottle out of his pipe, shoved the pipe in his pocket, and leaned forward on the table, facing the sheriff.
“What’s wrong, Slim?” he asked abruptly.
“Wrong?” Slim rubbed his nose thoughtfully.
“You three ain’t ridin’ for yore health.”
“We-e-ell, we ain’t—exactly, Rance. Last night about midnight the Overland was held up at Curlew Spur. Flagged ’em down with a red lantern, broke the express car and engine loose, ran up to the end of the big cut near the bridge, and blowed the express car safe. One-man job. Knowed how to do it, I reckon. We was down there at daylight, lookin’ the place over and kinda thought we’d drop in for breakfast with yuh.”
“Blew the Overland safe, eh?” snorted Chuckwalla. “Well, sir, I’ve often wondered why somebody——”
Chuckwalla shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the dish-pan.
“One man,” said Slim thoughtfully. “It takes nerve to do a job of that kind, Rance.”
“How much did they git, Slim?”
“We don’t know yet. The messenger says there was a lot of stuff in the safe, but he don’t know what it was worth.”
“Prob’ly got well paid for a few minutes’ work,” said Chuck Ring. “That’s the way to pull a job—alone.”
“Safest way,” nodded old Rance. “Split with nobody and keep yore mouth shut.”
“What was his description?” asked Chuckwalla.
“Not worth repeatin’,” said Slim. “It would cover half of the men in the Valley.”
“Nobody got hurt, eh?” questioned old Rance.
“Not that we know about. The messenger got his gun and emptied it, after the robber left the car, and they said the robber fired a shot or two back at him. Just shootin’ in the dark.”
“It wasn’t done by a gr-r-reenhorn,” declared Scotty. “That job was done by a man who knew what to do; a man who had plenty of nerve.”
“No reward yet, is there?” asked Chuckwalla.
“Too soon,” said Slim. “But there will be. I’ve got a hunch that it was a big haul.”
“The Overland carries millions a day,” said Chuck seriously.
“Let’s be goin’,” suggested Scotty, getting to his feet. “Chuck’s imagination will get the best of him some day.”
“I reckon we might as well drift along,” agreed the sheriff. “Much obliged for the breakfast, boys.”
“You’re always welcome,” said old Rance, following them to the doorway, where he watched them mount and ride away.