CHAPTER X—SCOTTY GETS AN EARFUL OF DIRT
The three officers rode back toward Red Arrow, riding knee-to-knee along the dusty road.
“Well, what do yuh think, Slim?” asked Chuck, after a long period of silent riding.
The sheriff shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the bobbing ears of his mount.
“Looks bad,” he said seriously. “That bump on his head might ’a’ been caused by a fall from a horse.”
“That’s what I thought of, Slim. But, by golly, he’s cool. His face didn’t show nothin’ when yuh told him. I watched him close.”
Slim drew up his horse and looked back, his brows drawn together in a thoughtful frown. Then—
“Scotty, you go back to the end of that cut, and camp where yuh can watch things. If old Rance knows his saddle horse is lyin’ dead near the end of that cut, still wearin’ his saddle, he’ll prob’ly try to get it away.”
“That’s a chance we don’t want to take,” agreed Scotty. “If he comes, what’ll I do, Slim?”
“Stop him, Scotty.”
“The proper thing to have done would have been to arrest him on the evidence we’ve already got,” said Chuck.
“Mebby you’re right,” agreed Slim. “But there’s two ways of lookin’ at it. If he got one of the millions you talk about, arrestin’ him won’t get it back. He won’t run away and leave his ranch; so we don’t need to be in a big hurry.”
“That’s sense,” agreed Scotty. “I’ll see yuh later.”
He turned his horse and rode back toward the south, while Slim Caldwell and Chuck Ring continued on toward Red Arrow.
Scotty McKay didn’t like the idea of spending the day out there, standing guard over the body of a dead horse, but he realized the wisdom of protecting their main exhibit. He had turned back just short of the old wagon bridge across the Red Arrow River and headed back toward Curlew Spur. The going was very rough through the brushy hills, but Scotty was not in any great hurry.
He was about five hundred yards from the end of the big cut, following fairly close to the right-of-way fence, when a bullet droned so close to his ear that he almost fell off his horse. The hills echoed back the rattling report of the rifle, but there was no question in Scotty’s mind as to which direction the bullet came from. He slid quickly off his saddle, jerked his rifle from the boot, and ducked low in the tangle of brush. The horse turned and trotted back along the fence, hooked the reins around a snag, and stopped short.
Scotty squatted on his heels and debated thoughtfully.
“Not over two hundred yards away,” he decided. “Report of gun was plenty audible.”
He put his hat on the end of his rifle barrel and lifted it above the brush, jiggling it from side to side. But there was no shooting. He put the hat back on his head, scratched his chin reflectively. Scotty was no reckless fool. He realized that he had everything to lose and nothing to gain by exposing himself.
He considered his next move carefully. To his left was a wide expanse of small, brush-filled ravines where he would be able to find plenty of cover. So much cover, in fact, that he would be unable to see anything himself. To his right was the right-of-way fence, a steep bank—and the railroad track.
To crawl through this fence and slide down the bank would be a simple matter. And once in the wide open space of the railroad cut it would also be a simple matter for the other man to fill him full of lead. But, reasoned Scotty, the other man might think the same thing, and not expect him to take such a big chance.
He crawled under the lower wire and out to the edge of the cut, where he leaned out as far as he dared, scanning the bank along the tracks. As far as he could see there was no one in sight. After a minute of deliberation he turned around and lowered his legs over the steep bank.
Slowly he let himself down, gripping the top of the bank with his elbows. He was almost stretched out full length down that bank, working his knees into the soft dirt, getting all ready to let loose and slide to the bottom, when——
Whap!
A bullet thudded into the dirt just under his right hip.
Splug!
Another ripped into the dirt, higher up, and filled his right ear with a spray of gravel. Scotty was stretched out so completely that he was unable to act quickly for a moment, but when he did get going he rolled clear under the right-of-way fence, tearing a great rip across the back of his shirt.
“Whew!”
He sat up and shook the dirt out of his ear, before reaching back to get his rifle. His nose was beaded with perspiration, and the hand that reached for his cigarette-papers trembled exceedingly.
“For a moment I was what an insurance agent would call a bad r-risk,” he muttered aloud. “What a fool a man may be! And still, all I got was a dir-r-rty ear and the scare of me young life.”
He laid the rifle across his lap, lighted his cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“If ye want me,” he grinned softly, “ye know where I am.”
For the better part of fifteen minutes Scotty McKay remained motionless. He heard a locomotive whistling for Curlew Spur, and in a few minutes a freight train came along, creaking and groaning, the single engine working hard to pull the long train up the grade. Scotty pinched out the light of his second cigarette, stretched his arms, picked up his rifle and sneaked down through the brush.
Inaction had palled upon him, and he was going to try to find out who had been shooting at him. Slowly he moved ahead, most of the time on his hands and knees. It took him at least thirty minutes to cover a hundred yards, where he came out on the top of a little knoll, heaped high with boulders.
From this vantage-point he could get a good view of the surrounding country. As far as he could see, everything was serene. Farther ahead and to the right was an open swale with the railroad fence across the upper end of it. On the other side of that fence was the end of the big cut, and just beyond the swale, in a clump of brush, was Rance McCoy’s saddle horse, dead. A bullet had smashed through its head.
Scotty could not see the horse, but he knew where it was, and he was in a position to see if any one came to molest it. He squinted at the sun, estimated that it would be some time before Slim or Chuck would come to relieve him, made himself as comfortable as possible and prepared to watch.
Slim Caldwell and Chuck Ring went straight back to Red Arrow and dismounted at the depot, where the telegraph operator handed Slim a telegram, which read:
MOVE CAREFULLY FIVE THOUSAND REWARD FOR RETURN OF STOLEN PACKAGES SENDING OPERATIVE AND DETAILS
WELLS FARGO
“Didn’t I tell yuh?” said Chuck. “I said all along that we ought to go careful. They want them packages back. Betcha anythin’ yuh want to bet, they got away with a million.”
“With all yore hindsight, it’s a wonder to me that you never amounted to somethin’,” growled Slim. “They never got any million dollars, but they did get enough for the express company to advise movin’ carefully.”
They mounted their horses and rode back to the courthouse, where Slim had a conference with Albert Merkle, the prosecuting attorney. Merkle was as round as a barrel, with a face like a full moon, serving his first term as county prosecutor and taking his position very seriously.
Merkle read the telegram, listened closely to what Slim had to tell him, and then propounded wisely:
“That evidence won’t last long unless we take steps to protect it, Slim. A couple of nights, and the coyotes will ruin it for our use.”
“Well, we can’t file it away in my office,” protested Slim.
“No, that’s true. I’ll go out with you and look at it.”
They secured a horse for Merkle at the livery stable, and headed back toward the scene of the robbery. Merkle wanted to have Rance McCoy arrested at once, but Slim demurred.
“Wait’ll we find out what he got, Al. It was a one-man job, and if he got a big haul, he’s got it planted. He’ll never confess, and he’ll never tell where the stuff is hid.”
“My end of the affair is only interested in a conviction, Slim.”
“Yore end of the affair is only interested in justice,” corrected Chuck Ring. “Don’t be so civilized, Al.”
“I guess that’s right,” laughed Merkle. “It’s easy to overlook that angle of it.”
They made no attempt at concealment, but rode in at the lower end of the swale. Scotty saw them and stood up among the rocks, calling to them; after which he clawed his way through the brush to the clearing.
“Where’s yore horse?” asked Slim.
“Aw, he’s back along the railroad fence. Anyway, that’s where he was the last time I seen him.”
As rapidly as possible Scotty told them what had happened to him.
“Were they trying to kill you, McKay?” asked Merkle.
“Well, I dunno what was on their mind at the time,” said Scotty seriously. “It had all the earmarks of intent to kill, Mer-r-rkle.”
“And yuh didn’t see anybody, eh?” queried Slim anxiously.
“I did not. Ye missed the sight of your life. I tell ye, I was hangin’ by my elbows, without any foothold whatever, and I upended myself over the bank and under that wire so fast that I surprised myself. Look at the back of me shirt, will yuh?”
Slim scratched his chin reflectively and scanned the surrounding country, while Merkle shifted uneasily in his saddle.
“We might as well look at the evidence,” said Slim.
“Yes; let’s get it over with,” agreed Merkle heartily.
They rode up to the fence, accompanied by Scotty on foot, and tied their horses. Slim led the way over to where the horse was stretched out in the low brush.
“F’r the love of gosh!” exploded Slim. “Look at that!”
The saddle was missing, and from the upturned rump, which had been graced with the Circle Spade brand, had been skinned a spot about twelve inches square. On the shoulder was another skinned patch, one ear had been cut off close to the head, and the left front leg had been skinned from knee to fetlock.
“And the shoes have been yanked off!” snorted Scotty. “I remember that the animal was shod.”
“And there goes yore old evidence,” said Chuck dolefully.
Slim whistled unmusically between his teeth.
“They kept me away while they destroyed evidence,” said Scotty.
“That was the idea,” admitted Slim sadly. He twisted his neck and looked toward the Circle Spade ranch.
“But even at that, you three men saw the animal,” said the prosecutor. “You can swear it was a Circle Spade horse; the riding horse of Rance McCoy.”
“Sure,” nodded Slim quickly. “We saw it, Al. And not only that, but we recognized the old man’s saddle.”
“What kind of a saddle was it?”
Slim looked quickly at Chuck, who scratched his nose and looked at Scotty.
“I can’t tell yuh,” said Scotty. “I seen it, too.”
“Pshaw!” snorted Slim. “We all seen it, Al; but there ain’t a damned one of us that can describe it. I could pick it out, but I can’t describe it.”
“Not such good evidence,” admitted the attorney. “Maybe we better go back to town.”
“Yea-a-ah,” drawled Slim. “Go get yore bronc, Scotty.”