CHAPTER TWENTY
A DISCOVERY
"I tell you I ain't satisfied," nagged the district attorney.
"Say something new," growled that amiable person, Felix Craft.
"If you fellers weren't blinded by a pretty face, you'd see it like I do."
"The girl said those cartridges were for her own personal use," pointed out Sam Larder, scratching a plump ear. "I believe that girl."
"You can't believe any girl most of the time," denied the district attorney.
"And where a girl's feller is concerned, you can't believe her any of the time. Sam, can't you understand a girl will lie just for the fun of it, if she hasn't any other reason. It's female nature to act that way. You've got to take it into consideration and make allowances accordingly, when dealing with a woman. You can't trust 'em, damn 'em, one li'l short inch."
Sam grinned at Felix. "Ain't he got a pleasant nature."
"Milk of human kindness has curdled in him complete," declared Felix.
"Never you mind about any milk of human kindness. I ain't got a smidgin of it with a girl like Hazel Walton, the lying hussy."
"Do you know, Arthur," said Sam solemnly, "I don't believe you like that lady."
"I don't," admitted the district attorney, and wondered why both men laughed.
"Be a Scotchman," advised Sam Larder, "and give her the benefit of the doubt."
"I'd like to give her a good swift week or two in jail," snarled the district attorney. "That would bring her to her senses. That would make her talk."
"Well, you can't do it," said Felix, weary of the argument. "So why waste your breath?"
"Tell you what I can do," said the district attorney, brightening with hope. "I can go out to Walton's and question her some more."
"Good Gawd, ain't you had enough ridin' for one day?" said Sam.
"I'm good for a li'l bit more."
Felix laughed. "I had to laugh to-day. First time you ever went out with a posse, I guess. Guess they must have thought you were crazy."
"I know damwell Shotgun and Riley Tyler thought so," declared Sam. "They kept a-looking at you almighty hard."
The district attorney nodded. "They're a suspicious pair, those two. I'll give you fellers credit. If it hadn't been for you, I'd never have been able to bluff it through! I don't think anybody suspects anything out of the way."
"Only that you're a damfool, Arthur. And they don't suspect that. They're absolutely sure of it."
"Alla same," said Felix, "it's a good thing Sam Prescott wasn't along. It would have been just like him to make out those tracks we followed were a day old instead of one hour."
"I was worried some," admitted the district attorney, "when Shotgun Shillman said they were too old to be the marks of Dan Slike's horse."
"That didn't bother me," declared Felix. "I knew it would be all right if we could contradict him fast enough and loud enough before anybody else could agree with him. Folks are like sheep thataway. They'll most always believe the boys makin' the most noise. No, Shotgun didn't bother me any. What made me feel like scratching my head was where the tracks crossed the stage trail. There were the hoof-marks and wheeltracks of the stage overlying the horse-tracks we were following. I drew a long breath when I had 'em blotted out, you can gamble on that."
"Was that why you rode ahead and twisted your horse round and round on the trail so funny?"
"Sure that was why. Why else do you suppose?"
"I never thought of the stage passing," said the district attorney.
"No, you wouldn't, of course not. I don't see, Arthur, when you made those tracks so careful in the first place you couldn't have kept off the stage trail. It wasn't necessary, and it mighty near put the kibosh on the whole deal."
"I wanted to end the trail in the west fork of the Wagonjack," defended the district attorney. "It seemed like a good place."
"It was—only for the stage trail being in the way," said Felix warmly. "If that infernal Wildcat Simms had come up half-a-minute earlier he'd seen how those horse tracks lay, same as I did. Oh, lovely! Wouldn't it have been a joke?"
"Well, it ended all right, anyway," offered the district attorney pacifically.
"I didn't like to have that Slike jigger get off that-away," grumbled Sam Larder. "I'd like to see him hung, the lousy murderer! I wish we could have worked it some other way."
"There wasn't any other way," the district attorney hastened to assure him. "We couldn't risk having Slike tried. He'd have snitched on Rafe Tuckleton, sure as fate. It was the only thing for us to do, and you know it."
Sam nodded. "I know, but——" He left the sentence unfinished.
"Now that we've got Dan out of the way," the district attorney pattered on, "we've got to glom onto Bill Wingo, and the sooner the quicker. Me, I'm going out to Walton's to-night and question Hazel some more. You boys don't have to go, you know. I can get hold of somebody, I guess."
"We'll go," said Sam Larder decidedly. "I ain't a heap attracted by your methods with the ladies, and I intend to see the girl gets a square deal."
"Me too," chimed in Felix Craft.
The district attorney was none too well pleased and showed it. "I'll get two other jiggers then," he grumbled.
"Why not another posse?" suggested the sarcastic Mr. Larder. "Us three might not be able to handle her by ourselves."
"Suppose Bill Wingo is there, then what? We took a big bunch before and——"
"And got damwell laughed at by the whole town for our trouble," snapped Sam. "Serves us right. Wild goose chase, anyway, and to-night will be another. C'mon, if you're goin'."
The moon was high in the heavens when the three men came to the mouth of the draw leading to the Walton ranch. A quarter-mile up this draw they came upon a man standing beside a horse. This man they surrounded immediately. He proved to be the town marshal, Red Herring, engaged in the prosaic business of tightening a slipped cinch.
"What are you doing here," demanded the district attorney.
"Same thing you're doing," the marshal returned sulkily.
"It ain't necessary for you to be watching the Walton ranch," said the crotchety district attorney.
"I got as much right to the reward as the next one, I guess," flared the marshal. "If I wanna watch the ranch, I guess I got a right to do that too. You don't want to cherish any idea that you own the earth and me too, Artie Rale!"
"Well, you can ride along with us if you want to," condescended the district attorney.
"Thanks," said the marshal, with sarcasm, "I kind of thought I would, anyway."
Two hundred yards short of the bend in the draw that concealed the ranchhouse from view the district attorney's horse which was leading, snorted at something that lay across his path, and shied with great vigor, coming within a red hair of throwing the district attorney off on his ear.
The district attorney swore and jerked the animal back. Then he dismounted hurriedly and ran forward to view at close range the object that had startled the horse.
The three others pulled up and followed his example.
"My Gawd!" shrilled the district attorney. "It's Rafe Tuckleton!"
It was indeed Rafe Tuckleton. There he lay on his back, his legs and arms spread-eagled abroad, his body displaying the flattened appearance a corpse assumes for the first few hours after death. Rafe's throat had been slit from ear to ear. His head was cut open and lay in a pool of blood. His face was scored with scratches. There was blood on his coat and vest and shirt, they found on examination. The district attorney ripped open the shirt and found four distinct stab wounds in the region of Rafe's heart. From one of these wounds protruded the broken end of a broad-bladed knife.
"Pull it out," urged Sam Larder, with a slight shudder, his fat face so white that it showed green in the moonlight.
"I can't," said the district attorney. "Jammed in between his ribs, I guess. That's what busted her. See if you can find the handle, Red."
"There it is," pointed out the marshal. "Right by his elbow."
"Oh, yeah," said the district attorney, picking up the knife handle. From force of habit he fitted the broken part of the knife remaining attached to the handle to the part protruding from the wound. Of course they fitted perfectly.
The marshal ran his hand along Rafe's naked waist. Then he lifted one of Rafe's arms and let it go. The arm snapped stiffly back into position.
"Been dead about two hours," proffered the marshal.
"About that," agreed Felix. "What you lookin' at, Arthur?"
"This," replied the district attorney, holding up the handle of the butcher knife.
With his fingers he traced two initials on the wood. The initials were T.W.
"You can't tell me," said the district attorney belligerently, "that this butcher knife didn't come from the Walton ranch."
Sam Larder stated his belief at once. "She couldn't have done it, Arthur. Why Rafe's carved up like an issue steer. She——"
"She's a woman," interrupted the district attorney. "And a woman will do anything when her dander is up. And we know what this particular woman will do when she's mad. Didn't she try to split open Nate Samson's head when he was hardly more than joking with her? Didn't she throw down on us with a rifle without any excuse a-tall? I tell you this Hazel Walton is a murderess, and I'm going to see her hung."
"Are you?" said Felix Craft. "Seems to me you've overlooked a bet. Didn't we run across Red Herring at the end of the draw?"
"Now look here, Craft," cried the marshal. "You can't hook this killing up with me! I can prove I was in Golden Bar an hour ago. I can get people to swear I was."
The district attorney nodded. "Red's innocent of this, all right. He couldn't have done it. It wouldn't be reasonable. He always was friendly with Rafe, and this was a grudge killing. It couldn't have been robbery, because nothing of Rafe's was stolen; watch, money, it's all here. It's Hazel Walton, and you can stick a pin in that. C'mon, let's go."