Finally a voice said, “He was in Ed’s place a while ago,” and then another voice farther away shouted, “Here’s Morgan now.”

  The sound of the sheriff’s boots was loud in the utter silence as he stalked along the boardwalk toward the riders. He stepped from the walk on to the dusty street just in front of Chuckaluck and said:

  “Hello, Paul.”

  “Good evening, George,” Rangoon returned stiffly.

  “What’s on your mind?” the sheriff asked.

  “Give me the keys to the jail and there won’t be any trouble.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t waste time asking questions. Give me the keys.”

  “S’pose I don’t,” said Morgan mildly.

  “Then there’ll be trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?” Morgan’s voice remained mild, but there was a thread of steel running through the quiet words.

  “Either hand over the keys or have your lock blasted.”

  “It ain’t my jail, Paul, and it ain’t my lock. It b’longs to Marfa an’ it b’longs to you. You helped ’lect me sheriff. I recolleck you stood by when I swore on thuh holy Bible to enforce thuh law. Reckon you wouldn’ want me to go back on that oath, would you?”

  “You didn’t take an oath to protect a low-down skunk that molests young girls, did you?”

  “Fust I knowed I was doin’ that,” said Morgan gravely.

  “I hear you’ve got him locked up in jail.”

  “Who?”

  “A low-down hunk of buzzard-bait that jumped my Jean when she was in swimming this afternoon,” said Rangoon angrily.

  “Fust I heard of it.”

  “You’ve heard it now. Do I get him peaceful?”

  “Now wait, Paul. I reckon you been told wrong. I got a prisoner locked up on s’spicion of doin’ away with Missus Kirk, but there ain’t no charge laid ’gainst him o’ harmin’ yore girl.”

  “I’m laying that charge now,” thundered the Captain of the ex-Rough Riders. “Found him hiding in the Kirk cabin, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right. But I don’t …”

  “He’s the one,” declared Rangoon. “Couldn’t be two of them hanging around there at the same time. From what I hear the man you’ve got locked up answers Jean’s description. He opened the sluice-gate on my water tank, too. When she told me that I knew he had some hook-up with Jerry Kirk. When he got run off by two strangers, he rode up in the hills right towards Kirk’s mesa where you found him later.”

  “Two strangers run him off?” Morgan asked anxiously. “You shore there was two of ’em, Paul?”

  “Do you think Jean would lie?” roared Rangoon.

  “I reckon not,” said Morgan dubiously, “but you see, Paul, this man I got locked up claims he run a man off that had opened yore sluice-gate an’ then got it shut ’fore all thuh water run out. He didn’ say nothin’ about seein’ Jean.”

  Standing on the boardwalk behind the sheriff, Chuckaluck tried desperately to think of a way to clear Twister of this charge without getting himself involved. If he told the truth now both he and Twister would be in a far worse position than if he’d stepped right up at Kirk’s cabin in the beginning. Morgan might not even believe him now if he did tell the truth. He would feel it his duty to put him in jail with Twister.

  “I don’t reckon he did tell you anything about Jean,” Rangoon was saying sarcastically. “It’s not a thing even a devil like him would brag about.”

  “Just what did happen at thuh water tank,” Morgan asked anxiously.

  One of the riders directly behind Rangoon spurred his horse forward. He was a young man who sat straight and tall in the saddle and his dark eyes flashed angrily when he said, “What’re you arguin’ about? Whose damn business is it but ours what happened on thuh Split X this afternoon?”

  “Get back, Clint,” Rangoon ordered. “I’ll handle this.”

  “But you ain’t handlin’ it,” snapped the young man. “If he won’t give us the keys, by God, I’ll take ’em off him.”

  “What’s he so wringy about?” Morgan demanded of Rangoon. “I figgered you could handle yore own men.”

  “I can. Get back, Andrews.” Rangoon was breathing hard and his hand was on the butt of his gun.

  The young man did not move for a moment, then muttered something in a low, sullen voice and reined his horse back.

  Chuckaluck took advantage of this diversion to step down beside the sheriff and tell him in a loud voice, “Right now’d be a good time tuh ast Mister Rangoon an’ thuh young feller that jus’ spoke up how-come there was water in that tank anyhow. Which one of ’em fixed it with Misses Kirk tuh turn thuh water back after her husban’ left home?” He turned toward the mounted rancher who frowned blackly, and said:

  “Nobody fixed it with Mrs. Kirk.”

  “Yuh mean yuh jus’ natcherly rode up there an’ cut thuh water back whether she liked it or not … jus’ because she was a lone woman ’thout no man tuh run yuh off?” Chuckaluck’s voice had a cutting edge that brought a murmur of protest from the listening crowd.

  “I mean nothing of the sort,” said Rangoon shortly. “And that’s got nothing to do with the business at hand.”

  “Beggin’ yore pahdon,” said Chuckaluck quietly, “but I reckon it mought have. Fo’man out tuh thuh ZB seemed tuh think yore new hand name o’ Clint Andrews mought know a lot aboot where Missus Kirk is at.”

  “That’s a damn lie!” The young man spurred forward again, drawing his gun.

  Chuckaluck folded his short arms across his big chest and said, “Is it, shore ’nough?”

  “Draw, damn you!” Clint Andrews was frothing with rage. He sat with arm lifted, gun-barrel tilted toward the sky ready to make a fast arc downward when Chuckaluck went for his gun.

  Chuckaluck smiled irritatingly and kept his arms folded. “Why no,” he said gently. “Killin’ nevah did settle anything. Do yuh claim yuh ain’t been ridin’ up on Jerry Kirk’s mesa sinct he lef’ home?”

  “That’s enough,” said Paul Rangoon angrily. He shouldered his horse between Clint Andrews and Chuckaluck, then demanded of the sheriff, “Who is this man and what does he mean by that sort of talk?”

  “I don’t rightly know who he is,” the sheriff admitted. “But I’m deppitizin’ him right now to help me keep lawful ordah in Marfa.”

  “Yuh claim thuh man in jail molested yore daughter when she was in swimmin’ this afternoon,” said Chuckaluck with a ring of authority in his voice. “Can yuh prove it?”

  “I don’t have to prove what I say,” Rangoon said arrogantly. “Enough of this bickering, Morgan. Do I get the keys or do you want your lock blasted?”

  “Neither one. Not while I’m alive. You don’t know for shore my pris’ner is thuh man yo’re after,” he continued slowly. “If you’ll bring yore daughter in an’ she says he done what you claim, I’ll ’point a jury my ownse’f an’ we’ll try ’im on thuh spot. But it’ll be done legal.”

  “It’ll be done right now,” Rangoon snapped, “while your deputies are all out on the ZB. We met them riding out and I know there’s not a man in Marfa that’ll want to back you up in protecting that dirty coyote in jail. I’ve got twelve guns behind me that says we take him out and string him up to-night.”

  “Mebbe we better talk this ovah,” Chuckaluck said loudly to the sheriff. “Me bein’ a plumb new deppity I ain’t hankerin’ tuh stand up against odds like that.” He was close enough to Morgan to nudge him with an elbow. Then he turned and walked toward the centre of the street, away from the crowd on the boardwalk. He didn’t look back, but he knew the sheriff was following him.

  When he stopped and the sheriff joined him, he said, “I shore hope I can be of some he’p tuh yuh.”

  “I picked you right off fo’ a man I could tie to,” said the sheriff, “but if yo’re goin’ to back down in front o’ Paul Rangoon like that …”

  “And twelve guns,” Chuckaluck reminded him swiftly. “He’s plumb right, Morgan. We ain’t got a chanct with all yore men out o’ town.”

  “I won’t never turn a pris’ner over to a mob,” Morgan told him flatly. “They’ll have to kill me fust.”

  “Which won’t be too hard,” the chunky cowhand said. “Hell, Sheriff, bein’ noble is a moughty fine thing, but if yuh actually don’t want yore pris’ner lynched, gettin’ yoreself shot shore won’t he’p him none.”

  “I reckon not. But it’s my sworn dooty …”

  “Tuh see yore pris’ner stays alive, ’till he comes tuh legal trial,” Chuckaluck cut in hastily. “Here’s how we do it. I’m deppitized now, so give me thuh jail keys quick where Rangoon can’t see yuh do it. Then stall him fo’ five minutes an’ I’ll empty thuh jail an’ take Twister off safe. Rangoon ain’t got no right to lynch a man fo’ molestin’ his gal lessen she sees ’im and an’ identifies ’im her ownse’f, an’ I’m bettin’ this Twister ain’t him.”

  “Yo’re right, Thompson. Where’ll you take ’im to?” He was fumbling with the catch on the key-chain at his waist as he spoke.

  “Out in thuh hills,” Chuckaluck told him. “An’ I aim tuh do some scoutin’ aroun’ on m’own. I’ll bring him … to Kirk’s place up on thuh mesa t’morrer afternoon. Aboot three o’clock. If yuh still wanta hang ’im by that time, I’ll turn ’im ovah tuh yuh.”

  The sheriff nodded and passed the key to him. “I don’t know how come I trust you like this,” he said in an anxious voice, “but it looks like I can’t do no diffrunt under thuh circumstances, with all my deppities out to thuh ZB. I like living’ much as any man, but I don’t aim to vi’late thuh trust folks’ve put in me.”

  “An’ I don’t aim to vi’late thuh trust yuh’re puttin’ in me,” said Chuckaluck gravely.

  Paul Rangoon shouted angrily, “Make up your mind, Morgan, and be quick about it.”

  “Awright then,” Chuckaluck said in a loud voice, drawing back from the sheriff angrily. “If yuh ain’t got sense enough tuh hand thuh keys ovah tuh Mister Rangoon, I’m quittin’ right now.” He whirled around and stalked down the road in pretended disgust while men on the boardwalk hooted loudly and demanded to know who the sheriff was going to deputize next.

  Morgan walked slowly back to Rangoon and launched a final passionate appeal for law and order.

  Chuckaluck could hear his voice going on and on as he hurried to the hitchrack in front of the hotel and untied his buckskin. He mounted and circled around a path behind the buildings toward the jail.

  When he circled back to Main Street some distance away from the crowd he spurred his horse to a lope and reached the jail a few minutes later. Flinging himself off in front of the iron door he found the key that opened the big padlock and ran inside, calling cautiously, “Twister. Speak up, but don’t make a light.”

  “Right here,” came Twister’s voice. “What in tarnation …”

  “Save yore breath,” panted his partner, finding the cell lock in the darkness and fitting the key into it. The door swung open, and he grated, “C’mon fast. Lynch mob headed this-away.”

  “I got m’boots off,” Twister began, but Chuckaluck interrupted, saying, “Pick ’em up an’ come runnin’. We got mebbe two minuts if we’re lucky.”

  Twister needed no further urging. He trotted down the narrow dark corridor behind his partner, and as they emerged into the night they heard horses moving toward them from town. They were coming slowly, evidently delayed by the sheriff who went ahead of them on foot keeping up his protests.

  Chuckaluck swung the heavy door shut and locked it, saying to Twister, “My hawse’ll carry double. Get behind thuh saddle.”

  Twister was mounted when Chuckaluck turned away from the locked door. He swung up and spurred his horse away from the jail. “Where’s yore hawse at?” he asked, and veered toward the rear of the sheriff’s house when Twister told him his roan was corralled there.

  Twister slid from the buckskin’s rump and sat on the ground to pull his boots on when they reached the corral, while Chuckaluck roped out the roan for him. They threw the saddle on and worked swiftly and quietly. They were not more than a hundred feet from the jail where the crowd was gathered. They could hear Sheriff Morgan loudly insisting that he had thrown the keys away and the only way they could get in would be to cut off the lock with a cold chisel.

  When the saddle was cinched they led their horses a safe distance before mounting, then headed off into the hills at a slow walk.

  “Sheriff Morgan is a shore ’nough Texas man,” Chuckaluck told his partner. “All wool an’ a yahd wide. Ruther than let ’em hang you he deppitized me tuh see yuh got away.”

  “Who thuh devil wanted tuh hang me?” Twister asked in an aggrieved voice. “There I was jus’ gettin’ good tuh sleep an’ dreamin’ aboot thuh buckwheat cakes I betcha Missus Morgan was gonna bring me out fo’ breakfus’.”

  “It’s yore own danged fault,” Chuckaluck told him with asperity. “If yuh wasn’ so consarned ugly folks wouldn’ jus’ natcherly figure yuh was a hombre what goes aroun’ molestin’ young gals in swimmin’, an’ yuh’d still be asleep in jail. As ’tis,” he ended pessimistically, “I reckon neither one of us’ll sleep a wink tuh-night … an’ me with a hotel room paid fo’.”

  “Iffen yuh an’ thuh sheriff had of had sense enough tuh tell ’em they could string me up soon’s thuh gal was brung in tuh identify me I could of had me a good sleep an’ buckwheat cakes t’ boot.”

  “That’s be jus’ fine an’ dandy,” Chuckaluck drawled with heavy sarcasm. “Then yuh an’ me both’d be thuh highly honoured guests at a double hangin’ fo’ killin’ Missus Kirk an’ her li’l boy an hidin’ thuh bodies where nobuddy could find ’em.”

  “Yeh. Thass right,” Twister admitted meekly.

  The moon was bright upon the deserted hills and they guided the horses between the stunted growth until they went over a gentle rise and down the other side where they would be hidden from view in case any of the excited mob attempted to trail them.

  “Shore is nice an’ peaceful,” said Twister sorrowfully. “Wisht we could jus’ travel on t’wards thuh border.”

  “We’re travellin’ tuh some place I can hide yuh where I can fin’ yuh again t’morrer,” said Chuckaluck flatly.

  CHAPTER X

  “I swear I ain’t got thuh keys on me, Paul.” Sheriff Morgan was standing solidly before the heavy jail door facing Paul Rangoon who had dismounted and walked over to Morgan to persist in his demand for the prisoner. Morgan lifted his heavy arms and said, “Search me if you want.”

  A crowd of the townspeople had followed the Split X riders to the jail and were gathered just behind the riders who were dismounting one by one and closing in around the Split X owner.

  “You always were a stubborn fool, George,” Rangoon said. “I’m not going to search you.” He turned his head and called out, “Jim … ride to town and get Billings to open up the store and give you a cold chisel and hammer.”

  “No need for all that bother,” said Clint Andrews, stepping forward briskly and drawing his gun. “I’ll knock that padlock right off with a foh-ty-five slug.”

  Rangoon shrugged and moved away from the door. “Go ahead, Clint. We’ve fooled around long enough.”

  Sheriff Morgan didn’t move at once. During the dead silence that followed Rangoon’s words the sheriff listened alertly and was certain he heard two horses moving quietly away from the corral back of his house. Then, fearful lest the others hear the sound and become suspicious, he stepped aside to let Clint Edwards shoot in order to cover the escape of the two men until they were beyond hearing distance.

  There was a loud report as Andrews fired his gun with the muzzle pressed against the padlock. The young foreman uttered an oath when the heavy lock did not yield. He fired again, and then again, and the padlock sagged open. Andrews pulled the door open, turned, straightened his tall form with the air of a conqueror and said, “There yuh are, boss.”

  Rangoon stalked forward and his riders pressed close, while the Marfa citizens waited breathlessly in the background. Sheriff Morgan stood aside with folded arms, his heavy features showing tight-lipped disapproval as Rangoon went inside the jail, followed by half a dozen of his men who struck matches and held them high.

  Presently, muffled oaths from the searchers reached the ears of those waiting and listening outside. Then Paul Rangoon was standing in the doorway sputtering with rage. “What kind of trick is this?” he bellowed. “When did you turn that galoot out?”

  “It was a trick,” Morgan admitted grimly, “but I didn’t turn him out, Paul. He’s safe enough for the rope when you prove to me he’s thuh man you want.”

  The arrogant rancher started toward the sheriff threateningly, but stopped in his tracks when he heard a horse racing madly in the direction of the jail. The rider jerked the reins fiercely and flung himself from the saddle when he reached the edge of the crowd.

  Jerry Kirk swayed drunkenly forward and stopped a few feet away from Paul Rangoon. “I just heard you was in town,” he said, panting and half-choking over the words. “You an’ that new rider named Clint Andrews. Where’s he … which one?”

  “I’m right here, Mister.” Clint Andrews lounged out of the dark doorway of the jail and confronted Kirk with his thumbs hooked in his gun-belt. Who might yuh be?”

  “Jerry Kirk … that’s who.” His blazing eyes raked over the tall foreman. “So you’re the low-down sneak that sweet-talked my wife into turning the water in the tank. Where is she? When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Yore wife? You lost ’er?”

  “I reckon you know damn well I have,” grated Kirk. “Go for your gun …”

  Rangoon and Sheriff Morgan moved simultaneously. The rancher threw his body against Andrews at the same moment Morgan grabbed Kirk’s gun-hand.

  “There’s been too much gun-slingin’ ’round here,” said the sheriff sternly. “What kind o’ fool play you makin’ this time, Jerry?”

  “Ask him if he didn’t get Lucy to turn my spring water into the Split X. And ask Rangoon if he didn’t hire him to go up there and talk her into it.”