“That’s a ridiculous accusation,” stormed Rangoon. “What makes you think I’d be a party to such a deal?”

  “Jud Montrose told me to-night,” Kirk told him.

  “That’s a plumb dad-rotted lie!” Clint Andrews jerked away from his employer’s restraining hand and confronted Kirk. “I ain’t nevah been up on yore mesa.”

  “Then why’d Jud say so?”

  “I dunno. Less’n he just wanted to stir up trouble,” Andrews said.

  “Look here, Kirk,” said Rangoon gruffly, “I want you to know that I don’t like a squatter any better than I ever did, and every rider on my spread has strict orders to stay off your mesa.”

  Clint Andrews chuckled suddenly and snapped his fingers. “I get it now,” he said. “Jud Montrose must of been thinkin’ aboot way back when I fust started ridin’ for thuh Split X. That was ’fore I knowed aboot us stayin’ off thuh mesa,” he went on apologetically, turning to Rangoon. “I was ridin’ past there one day an’ saw thuh trail leadin’ up an’ wondered where it went to. I was jest startin’ up when this Jud Montrose come along an’ hollered at me. Asked me where was I headin’ for and I tol’ him ’twan’t none of his damn business. Then he rode up to where I was and said somethin’ aboot Missus Kirk an’ thuh spring water. I didn’ know what he was talkin’ aboot, but I figgered I’d bettuh find out ’fore I rode up there. So, after he rode on I turned back, an’ that night I ast aboot it in thuh bunkhouse, an’ found out it was a good thing I didn’ ride up.” He finished the long explanation with a friendly smile, stepped closer to Kirk and held out his hand. “I swear that’s what happ’ned. Le’s shake hands an’ fohget it.”

  Jerry Kirk shook his head stubbornly. “I’m not shaking hands with any Split X rider.” He turned and walked stiffly to his horse, mounted, and raced away toward Main Street.

  Most of the Marfa citizens had drifted back to town. Rangoon said to his riders, “All right, men. Now that we’ve wasted a trip to town you might as well go ahead and make the best of it. But don’t get in any trouble, and stay sober enough so you can make it back to the ranch by sunrise in shape to do a day’s work.”

  His words wiped the sullen looks from the faces of the men who had ridden in with every expectation of high excitement. Reaction from their disappointment had left them languid and dull-eyed, and now they leaped to their saddles, and a cloud of dust enveloped them as they galloped away.

  “What about thuh mesa water, Paul?” Morgan asked in the awkward silence when they were left alone.

  “What about it?” Rangoon returned.

  “Who did fix it with Missus Kirk to cut it back to this spring after lettin’ yore range go dry all las’ summer?”

  “Far as I know it was her own idea,” said Rangoon gruffly. “Noticed the water was coming down one day and filling my tank. A short time later I heard Kirk had left home and was working in San Angelo, so I supposed his wife just decided to cut it over my way after he left.” He paused for a moment, then added, “My daughter, Jean, was mighty pleased about it because she enjoyed going swimming in the tank. I suppose it was wrong of me not to let her go over and see Mrs. Kirk and thank her. She wanted to. Reckon it was mighty lonesome for her up there at that.”

  “Thuh tumble thing now is her an’ the boy is …”

  “Now, you can answer me a question,” the arrogant rancher broke in as though he scorned the idea of even discussing the troubles of a squatter. “Where is your prisoner?”

  “Safe.”

  “When did you turn him loose?”

  “He ain’t turned loose. I’ll have ’im on hand to stan’ trial when thuh time comes, Paul, but I’m tellin’ you right now he don’t rightly fit thuh description of thuh man you say scared Jean this afternoon.”

  “The hell he don’t. Ugly as all get out and mean-looking, ain’t he? Wearing two guns?”

  “Jus’ one gun. His face is sorta scarred up, but I wouldn’ say he was real ugly. An’ he ain’t wearin’ a black hat.”

  “He could’ve thrown one gun away and changed hats,” Rangoon argued angrily. “Have you got him hid over at your house?”

  The sheriff grinned briefly and said, “Reckon Ma is sorry he ain’t hid in there. She had her heart plumb set on fattenin’ ’im up. Powerful skinny feller. I don’t even know where he’s at right now,” he went on hastily when Rangoon started to interrupt, “so you won’t get nowhere houndin’ me. But here’s what I’ll do. You bring Miss Jean with you to thuh Kirk mesa t’morrer afternoon. I’ll have ’im there for her to look at, an’ enough men to make up a jury if she says it’s him.”

  There was a note of finality in Morgan’s voice that warned the wealthy rancher that the lawman had made his last offer and couldn’t be pushed any further.

  “You better have him there,” Rangoon said sourly. “I’ll have my own riders for a jury.”

  “I’ll pick thuh jury,” said Morgan flatly.

  The two men stood looking squarely into each other’s eyes in the bright moonlight. Morgan’s usually placid face was set in heavy lines and his eyes were as cold as brown marbles.

  Rangoon shifted his eyes and said with grudging fairness, “I’m not going to hold this against you, George. Not if you deliver that man to-morrow. In fact, I’d have done the same if I’d been sheriff in your place.” He glanced over at the open jail door with the shattered lock and added, “I’ll have a new lock sent over first thing in the morning.” He strode to his horse and mounted heavily and rode away.

  Sheriff Morgan walked slowly across to his house where he found his wife sitting on the porch tensely waiting to hear what had happened. He began by saying, “Reckon you won’t have to fix a extry plate fo’ breakfus’, Molly,” and it was fully ten minutes before he was able to give her enough details to satisfy her interest and curiosity, and get back to town where he felt he had better ride herd on the Split X punchers to be sure none of them started any trouble.

  He heard the stage from San Angelo coming in as he neared Main Street, and looked at his watch. He frowned when he noted that it was fully thirty minutes late. This was so unusual that he quickened his steps and rounded the corner just as the stage pulled up in front of the first saloon it reached.

  The driver leaped from his high seat, looked frantically up and down the street, and when he saw the sheriff coming toward him he broke into a trot down the boardwalk to meet him.

  “Sheriff Morgan! Bad accident out on the road. Buckboard went over that steep cliff about two miles out and I stopped to pick the jasper up. He’s bad hurt. Is Doc Randolph around?”

  “Mos’ likely he’s gettin’ drunk in Mike’s place,” said Morgan. “Find somebody to he’p you get ’im out o’ thuh stage an’ I’ll see if Doc’s sober ’nough to do any good.” He lumbered down the street in a trot to Mike’s Good Luck Saloon.

  Dr. Lucian Randolph was at his usual place at the front of Mike’s bar with a glass of whisky in front of him and a glazed look in his eyes, but sober enough to gulp the whisky down hastily and follow the sheriff out when he called to him.

  The injured man was stretched out on the boardwalk when they returned. A crowd had quickly gathered, and while the doctor squatted down to examine him the sheriff learned that none of the citizens present could identify him.

  He was a big-boned man, solid-fleshed and wearing the clothes of an easterner. He looked more dead than alive with his head twisted curiously on his shoulders and the blood drained from his face, leaving a network of blue veins showing starkly beneath the skin.

  The sheriff caught the stage driver’s arm and drew him a dozen feet away and the onlookers moved after them, crowding into become listeners.

  “I saw his rig go off the road,” the driver began. “It was bright moonlight and I saw this buckboard travellin’ fast towards town just after I’d passed the junction where the stage road from Fort Davis comes in to the San Angelo road. I wasn’t more’n a quarter of a mile behind him when he come to that narrowest part of the road where the cliff on the left is steepest, and then all of a sudden the buckboard wasn’t up there ahead of me no more. Just plumb disappeared.”

  “Then you didn’t see it happen … don’ know what caused it?” the sheriff interposed.

  The driver was a tall, slight man with sun-reddened skin and buck teeth. His upper lip was too short to cover them. “Didn’t actually see him go over. One minute he was there, an’ next minute he weren’t,” he went on with rising excitement, his short lip jerking his thin nose up and down with every word. “First I thought I was seein’ things. But I knew there wasn’t no place a rig could turn off on that stretch of road and there wasn’t no place he could go except over the side.” He paused, took a bandana from his pocket and wiped sweat from his face.

  Morgan asked, “When you last noticed him befo’ that was he drivin’ ovah on thuh lef’-hand side much?”

  “Not as I noticed. No. I would of noticed, ’cause I was figuring I’d be passin’ him on the left pretty soon. Well, I slowed down an’ watched careful. In a minute I saw the marks in the soft dirt on the edge where he’d gone over. So I pulled up, an’ when I stopped we could hear one of his horses groanin’ and thrashin’ around in the traces down at the bottom of the ravine. I got two passengers an’ they went down with me. We found the buckboard smashed up an’ him layin’ off to the side lookin’ just like he does now. First I thought his neck was plumb broke, then I felt his heart beatin’ so we carried him up the bank easy as we could and brung him in.” He stopped and looked around at his audience which had gradually increased. Every eye was upon him, staring as though fascinated.

  As though he suddenly became self-conscious, he fumbled for his watch, looked at the time and said, “That’s how come I’m late. First time I’ve been late since I started drivin’ ten years ago,” he added dejectedly.

  “Was the hawses hurt bad?” the sheriff asked.

  “One of ’em was dead. T’other one had both legs broke and was kickin’ an’ moanin’ something fearful. I put a bullet through his head to put ’im out of his misery, but didn’t waste time down there ’cause this feller needed to get to Doc Randolph fast as we could get here.”

  “You done right,” the sheriff assured him. “You didn’ see nothin’, I reckon, on thuh road where he went off that could of caused it?”

  “Not a thing. I reckon something must of scared the team bad. Bear in the road, maybe. You know how horses go plumb crazy when they get a smell of bear. Whatever done it was gone by the time I got there.”

  Sheriff Morgan nodded and went back to the injured man where Dr. Randolph was just rocking back on his heels after conducting a superficial examination.

  “Neck’s twisted badly but not broken,” he announced. “Concussion of the head, likely, and some ribs broken. He’ll have to be moved very carefully into my office, Sheriff. We’ll need something flat to put him on.”

  Morgan looked around at the buildings, then said, “Tear the front door off that old shed over yonder,” to two of the men who had followed him back to the injured man. They rushed away with three others trailing them to help.

  Turning back to the doctor, the sheriff said, “Them things you said was the matter with him … are they real bad, Doc?”

  “Quite serious.” The emergency had sobered him and he spoke with professional curtness. “I won’t know just how serious until I make a complete examination.”

  “How soon can he talk, you reckon?”

  “I can’t promise anything. He’s not a young man. He may die before regaining consciousness.”

  The men hurried up carrying the wooden door. “Put it down here beside him,” the doctor ordered. “All right, now, take it very carefully. I’ll lift his shoulders while you slide it underneath as gently as possible.”

  Morgan stepped back to give them more room. He felt a tug on his arm and Jerry Kirk’s excited voice in his ear.

  “I was down at the Winchester Bar and heard somebody had an accident in a buckboard. Is it … do you reckon it could be …”

  “It’s a stranger,” Morgan told him. “They’re movin’ ’im to the doc’s office.” He took Kirk’s arm and moved around a group of men to the injured man. He had his mouth open to ask whether Kirk knew the man when he heard a sharp intake of breath followed by a low moan.

  “It’s him! It’s Oscar Bascom, Lucy’s uncle from Ohio. Is he … is he dead?”

  “Not yet, but mighty close, I reckon.”

  “What’s happening around here?” he asked in a hoarse whisper of despair. “First Lucy and Bobbie … and now her uncle. Why don’t you do something, Sheriff, instead of standing around with your hands in your pockets.”

  “I don’t know how I could of stopped an accident from happenin’ two miles out o’ town,” the sheriff said irritably.

  “How do you know it was an accident? Maybe he did it on purpose. Are you sure he didn’t have Lucy and Bobbie in the buckboard with him when it went over the edge?”

  “Thuh stage driver didn’t see neither one of ’em. Yo’re jus’ all worked up, Jerry. How could they of been with ’im in thuh buckboard when he’s been all day drivin’ to San Angelo and back lookin’ fo’ you?”

  “If he did really go to San Angelo,” Kirk growled. “How do we know that wasn’t just a dodge?”

  “A dodge for what?” asked Morgan obtusely.

  “How do you know he didn’t start out for San Angelo this mornin’ but turned off on the Fort Davis road two miles out of town an’ drove out to my cabin again? He could’ve been comin’ back from my cabin instead of San Angelo when he went over the cliff?”

  “But where would he of been all this time?”

  “Out in the hills somewhere, maybe, buryin’ Lucy and my boy. Or maybe he was just hiding out until it was time to drive back so he could make people believe he was in San Angelo to-day.”

  “That’s mighty far-fetched figurin’,” Morgan reproved him.

  “It’s better than not doin’ any figurin’ at all,” Kirk flung at him.

  Instead of taking offence Sheriff Morgan looked at the distraught young man who seemed on the verge of collapse. He said with gruff kindness, “Better not drink no mo’ whisky to-night, Jerry. I’ll trail along after Doc Randolph to be on hand if Mr. Bascom gets conscious enough to tell me what happ’ned.” He put a big hand on Kirk’s thin shoulder and hurried to the doctor’s office.

  CHAPTER XI

  Chuckaluck brought Twister up to date on everything that had happened while Twister was locked in a cell as they rode through the brush, finally coming upon a trail that led into a wide and well-travelled road running almost due south from Marfa into the Big Bend Country.

  They reined up on the edge of the road for a moment and Twister emitted a gusty sigh. “Reckon this here’s thuh road we’d of been ridin’ t’morrer mornin’ after spendin’ a night in a soft hotel bed if some joker hadn’ moved thuh road sign this afternoon an’ sent us up that hill ’stead o’ to Marfa.”

  “Reckon it is,” agreed Chuckaluck.

  “Seems like it’s got tuh where we can’t even turn offen a road tuh watuh our hawses ’thout runnin’ intuh trouble. Woman trouble … double woman trouble this time,” he ended gloomily.

  “Shore looks like.”

  “Why does such-like allus happ’n tuh us?” Twister demanded irritably.

  Chuckaluck shifted his weight sideways in the saddle and crooked his right leg over the saddle horn and appeared to be lost in thought as he rolled a cigarette. He struck a match to it, took a deep puff and said, “Like I tol’ yuh befo’, yuh ain’t got no faith in Fate. Thuh Almoughty keeps on sendin’ tribbylations on a feller ’till he gets hisse’f such faith.”

  “I call it lousy stinkin’ luck,” Twister said bitterly.

  Chuckaluck didn’t say anything. He puffed on his cigarette and looked dreamily at the road going southward, then Twister gave voice to the thought that was quite obviously in the minds of both the wanderers.

  “If we was tuh turn south on this here road right now we’d be a fur piece from Marfa come to-morrer afternoon aboot thuh time we’re supposed tuh turn up on Kirk’s mesa.”

  “Yeh. A right fur piece closer to thuh Border,” Chuckaluck agreed without emotion.

  “They say this country ’round here is rough … ’thout no law. Nobuddy’d botha tuh foller us, I reckon.”

  “Reckon not.”

  “Then what’s tuh prevent us jus’ ridin’ right on south? We slep’ good in Fo’t Davis las’ night an’ don’t need no rest. Our hawses is tired, but they could make mebbe thuhty miles by sunup if we take it easy.”

  “Yore gun’s back to thuh sheriff’s house.”

  “I got thuh one I fished outten thuh arroya back yonduh soon’s I get thuh mud an’ watuh cleaned off.”

  “A lot o’ folks’d go right on thinkin’ yo’re the kind o’ locoed son-uv-a-gun that skeers young gals in swimmin’ an kills wimmin an’ babies.”

  “I don’t give a durn what fo’ks in Marfa thinks aboot me,” said Twister moodily.

  “It’d be thuh owl-hoot trail fo’ us,” Chuckaluck said soberly. “Onct we crossed thuh Rio Grande we couldn’t nevah come back.”

  “Who wants tuh come back?” growled Twister. “Mexico suits me plumb good right now. Can yuh think up some mo’ reasons fo’ us not turnin’ our hawses’ tails tuh Marfa?”

  “One good reason.”

  “Name it,” Twister challenged.

  “Sheriff Morgan.”

  “He’ll be awright. I’m innercent an’ there ain’t nothin’ wrong with turnin’ a innercent man loose.”

  Chuckaluck took a final deep drag on his cigarette and said: “He trusted me tuh-night, Twister. After I’d lied to ’im an et supper at his table. He nevah seen me befo’ this evenin’, but he trusted me with thuh keys to his jail on my promise that I’d bring yuh out tuh Kirk’s place t’morrer.”

  “It was a dang fool thing fo’ a lawman tuh do,” Twister muttered uneasily.

  “He done it tuh save yore skinny neck from a rope.”

  “Yeh.” Twister rolled a cigarette in silence and when he lit it he slumped in the saddle, puffed on it for a while, then said, “Awright. Yuh an’ me both know we ain’t runnin’ out on Sheriff Morgan. So what do we do?” His tone was one of gloomy resignation.