“I tol’ yuh once. Find a place where yuh can bed down safe fo’ thuh night an’ stay under cover till I come fo’ yuh t’morrer. Or, if I can’t come fo’ yuh, yuh can ride out tuh thuh Kirk mesa by yorese’f.”

  “Where’ll yuh be?”

  “I aim tuh ride back tuh town an’ see what’s goin’ on. Le’s circle on aroun’ thuh edge o’ town up ahead an’ see can we find a place where yuh can hide that I can find again.”

  They crossed the road and followed the trail, passing a house with lighted windows where a dog raced out and barked furiously at their horses’ heels, then on for a quarter of a mile farther until the gentle creaking of a windmill on the right attracted their attention. They turned off to investigate, and found a large moonlit clearing surrounded by brush with a mill-fed wooden watering trough for stock, a low shed sheltering cakes of salt, and two other sheds, empty now, but which were apparently used in winter to store feed for the stock that watered there.

  “This looks like a right good place fo’ yuh,” said Chuckaluck happily. “Watuh fo’ yore hawse, grass where yuh can stake ’im out under them trees, an’ a roof ovah yore head.”

  “’Most as good as yore hotel room with a nice sof’ bed,” Twister agreed sarcastically. “What’s I s’posed tuh eat t’morrer while yo’re gorgin’ yorese’f on ham n’eggs an ’fried pertaters?”

  “I’ll bring yuh somethin’ out here,” Chuckaluck promised. “But if somethin’ happens I can’t get here by right after dinner,” he went on sternly, “yuh staht ridin’ back ovah thuh Fo’t Davis road tuh keep yore app’intment with Sheriff Morgan.”

  “App’intment with a lynchin’ pahty,” said Twister gloomily, “with me s’pllyin’ thuh neck. Doggone it, Chuckaluck …”

  “Shut up,” hissed his partner. “Somebuddy’s ridin’ down thuh trail behin’ us.” They both listened intently to a single rider advancing at a cautious pace.

  “Stay here an’ keep plumb quiet,” Chuckaluck whispered. “I’ll ride out an’ take a look-see.” He turned his horse and rode slowly back to the trail, reined him to the left and saw the lone rider less than fifty feet away. As he drew closer he had a strange feeling of having seen the horse and rider somewhere before. Both men stopped when they met.

  “Howdy,” he said. “Yuh got thuh makin’s on yuh?” He spoke loudly, but there was a supplicating whine in his voice that grated on Chuckcluck’s raw nerves like a file drawn over a rusty wire.

  “He’p yorese’f,” said Chuckaluck ungraciously, passing cigarette papers and a sack of tobacco. The man was bareheaded, he noted, and his spent horse stood on widespread legs blowing loudly. A slicker-wrapped bundle was tied behind the saddle, and the man wore one gun-belt with a gun in the holster.

  “Was yuh by any chanch follerin’ me?” Chuckaluck demanded abruptly.

  “Fact is, I was, sorta. I been layin’ out in thuh brush back yonduh an’ heerd yuh ride pas’. Yuh know what’s a-goin’ on up in town?”

  “I jus’ rode from there,” Chuckaluck told him impatiently, waiting for him to lick the paper and seal the tobacco in and put a light to the cigarette.

  When he struck a match and held the flame to the cigarette, Chuckaluck caught a brief glimpse of an ugly face covered with a two- or three-days stubble of black whiskers, squinting eyes and thick crusty lips. He was bareheaded and wore only one gun-belt now, but he knew he was looking at the man he and Twister had caught opening the sluice-gates on the Rangoon ranch. He had gone back later, after the water subsided, and fished the gun out of the arroya, Chuckaluck decided.

  “I’m hongry an’ dyin’ fer uh drink,” he whined.

  “Yuh shore won’ find no bar nor no table set up with victuals on it whilst yo’re skulkin’ aroun’ out here,” Chuckaluck told him, the disgust he felt thick in his voice.

  “I heerd some shootin’ awhile ago an’ I wondered was it safe fer uh stranger tuh ride intuh town.”

  Chuckaluck’s round blue eyes narrowed suddenly and grew very bright between the slitted lids, and his voice took on a tone of cheerful comradeship when he said, “Things is sorta riled up in Marfa and it mought be safer if yuh was tuh ride in with me. Jus’ had a jail-break,” he went on with relish, “an’ some skunkin’ yahoo they claim scairt a young gal outten her wits on thuh Fo’t Davis road this afternoon an’ then run all thuh watuh outten thuh watuh tank jus’ fo’ plumb meanness, an’ then rode up thuh hill an’ murdered a woman an’ her li’l boy right in their house an’ buried ’em on thuh mesa.”

  “They caught ’im, yuh say?” quavered the man.

  “Had ’im locked up in jail,” Chuckaluck assured him, “an’ he was due fo’ a stretched neck fo’ shore if he hadn’ busted out o’ jail. Scarred-face feller,” he added with a chuckle, “else I moughta thought yuh was him.”

  “Thass right. I shore ain’t. This feller confess?” The man’s voice was shaky and he breathed heavily.

  “I don’ reckon any man’d confess doin’ them things,” Chuckaluck said mildly. “But they say they got ’im dead tuh rights.” He started away at a slow walk and the man turned his horse to ride beside him towards Marfa.

  “It shore beats all what some men’ll do,” the man said. “Makes yuh wonder what thuh country’s a-comin’ tuh.”

  “Does at that,” agreed the chunky cowhand warmly. “Yuh say yo’re a stranger in these parts?”

  “Jest rid in from thuh Big Bend this evenin’ on this here road,” he declared as they came to the wide road where Chuckaluck and Twister had paused a short time before and gazed wistfully southward. “I’d rode up t’wards town uh little ways when I heerd shootin’ an’ decided tuh lay back an’ see what it was all aboot.”

  They turned north and jogged toward the lights of the town, and Chuckaluck wondered if the man would recognize him when they reached a lighted bar. So far, he had shown no sign of recognition, and he remembered that the roar of the water from the sluice-gate had prevented the man seeing them approach, and afterward he was too much concerned with pulling his black hat over his face and going for his guns to get a good look at him and his partner. He didn’t care particularly whether the man recognized him or not, except that he preferred to turn him over to the sheriff alive.

  Chuckaluck’s round full mouth spread in a grin. That he should have ridden away from town only a short time ago with a man who was accused of molesting Jean Rangoon, and was now riding back not more than half an hour later with the man who was actually guilty was definite evidence that his faith in Fate was being rewarded. He wished mightily that Twister was riding with him, but there was still the charge against him of murdering Mrs. Kirk and her boy, and he had no definite proof that the stocky, mean-looking man beside him had committed that crime.

  “Yuh sartin thuh hombre whut busted outta jail is thuh one they’re shore done all them things?” the man asked fearfully.

  “Reckon so,” Chuckaluck told him. “There’s Main Street right ahead an’ a saloon where we can get a drink if yo’re so minded.”

  “I shore need uh drink,” he whined. “Mebbe if yuh’d pertend you’ve knowed me uh long time … yuh bein’ knowed here an’ all.”

  “’Twouldn’ hurt none,” Chuckaluck agreed cheerfully. They turned their horses in to the hitchrack in front of the first saloon they came to, and dismounted.

  The stranger swaggered up the boardwalk beside the chunky cowhand. Tensed for a fast draw, Chuckaluck pushed the swinging doors open and turned to face the man in the lighted room. There was no sign of recognition in his eyes.

  After glancing at the men lined up at the bar in the hope that the sheriff would be among them, he hid his disappointment by chuckling and saying to his companion, “C’mon. Le’s get that drink.”

  “I’m buyin’,” the man said, and they shouldered into a narrow space between a group of Marfa citizens and the Split X riders.

  After ordering two whiskies, Chuckaluck studied the man in the bright lamplight. His face and head were too small for his body, and his close-set eyes looked secretive and evil. His lips were thick and loose and he continually wet them with his tongue. His face, hands and clothes were dirty and the stench of stale sweat was strong in the warm saloon.

  Chuckaluck shrewdly suspected him to be mentally unbalanced. The bartender brought their drinks. The man gulped his down, licked his lips, and held out his glass for another, while Chuckaluck sipped slowly, wondering how he could get Sheriff Morgan into the saloon without arousing his companion’s suspicion, and how they could make the arrest without endangering the lives of others at the bar.

  He leaned forward and looked closely at the men slouched against the bar. On his right, the long bar squared off and closed against the wall, leaving room for three or four men to stand around the corner.

  Clint Andrews was the only man he knew. He was standing where the bar met the wall, and his dark angry eyes met Chuckaluck’s squarely.

  “Yore trigguh finger got ovah thuh itch?” Chuckaluck asked pleasantly.

  “Damn yuh!” Andrews raged. “I been hopin’ yuh’d show yore fat face ’fore I rode out.”

  “That’s right nice o’ yuh,” said Chuckaluck gently. He knew that the Split X foreman was drunk enough to be reckless, but he had to get the sheriff to come to the saloon. He put both hands on the bar and kept them there.

  “Yuh ’cused me o’ somethin’ tuh-night I ain’t fo’got, and I figger on gunnin’ yuh,” Clint Andrews announced loudly.

  Silence crept over the saloon and men began to draw back out of the line of fire, but Chuckaluck continued to smile affably, nudging the man beside him to stay where he was and put his hands on the bar.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man hastily slip out the swinging doors, and he hoped the sheriff wasn’t too far away. He said, “I don’ reckon yuh mean that.”

  “I mean it plenty,” grated Andrews, pounding the bar with his thick empty whisky glass. “I got my s’picions yore thuh one that emptied thuh jail tuh-night ’fore I shot thuh lock off.”

  “Ever’buddy’s got a right tuh their own s’picions,” he said agreeably.

  The bartender rushed up and poured whisky in their glasses when Chuckaluck nodded to him, then rushed back to flatten himself against the liquor shelves. Chuckaluck picked up his glass and turned slightly away from Andrews to sip it slowly.

  “Any low-down skunk tries to get me mixed up with Missus Kirk disappearin’ …”

  The swinging doors were flung open violently and Sheriff Morgan’s familiar voice demanded, “What’s the trouble in here? I warned you Split X men to not start no trouble.”

  Chuckaluck was standing on the right of his drinking companion, and as he turned to face the sheriff his right hand moved slowly down toward the man’s sagging holster as he said:

  “Yo’re jus’ thuh man I wanted tuh see, Sheriff. This here feller buyin’ me a drink is thuh one that Rangoon was lookin’ fo’ tuh string up. If yo’re a mind tuh arrest ’im …”

  As Chuckaluck’s calm statement penetrated the dull mind of the man beside him he swung about with an oath and reached for his gun just as Chuckaluck lifted it from the holster and stepped back a pace to let Morgan make the arrest.

  Before the sheriff could move, Clint Andrews came rapidly to a position directly opposite the bearded man and fired. The saloon echoed with the reverberations as the man swayed and slumped to the floor face down and lay very still.

  Sheriff Morgan’s gun was in his hand. He whirled angrily on the Split X foreman and shouted, “By God, yo’re under arrest, Andrews.”

  Chuckaluck said quietly, “I reckon Miss Jean’ll tell yuh he’s thuh man, Sheriff, but I was shore hopin’ yuh could mebbe make ’im confess he done away with Missus Kirk an’ her li’l boy, too.”

  Clint Andrews swaggered forward, handed the sheriff his gun butt first, and said in a harsh, reckless voice, “Shore yuh can lock me up. I’ll sleep good in yore jail knowin’ that skunk is in hell. I won’t even try tuh break thuh li’l ole cell lock, bein’ as that’s thuh only one yuh got lef’ tuh keep me in.”

  Chuckaluck stood back dispassionately with the dead man’s gun in his hand while Sheriff Morgan hustled Andrews out. He wondered if Clint Andrews had realized he was shooting an unarmed man, and whether his impetuous action had been motivated by some reason other than the loathing any normal man felt toward a depraved creature like the man whose blood oozed into an ever widening circle on the bar-room floor.

  CHAPTER XII

  Chuckaluck was working on his third drink when Sheriff Morgan returned to the saloon. The body had been removed to a back room and sawdust scattered over the blood. The other men at the bar had withdrawn from Chuckaluck beyond the centre where the man had been shot and were talking among themselves and eyeing him dubiously.

  Morgan’s face was unwontedly grave as he came up beside the chunky puncher and said, “I reckon you an’ me better have a little talk in private, Thompson.”

  “Yeh. I reckon as how we shore bettuh.” He started to beckon the bartender and order a drink for Morgan when a tall, middle-aged man whose legs looked unbelievably long in Levis detached himself from the others and came over to the sheriff with a loose-jointed stride.

  He drawled, “I reckernize that dead hombre. Drifted in yestiddy ridin’ thuh chuckline an’ slep’ in thuh bunkhouse las’ night. Claimed tuh be frum El Paso lookin’ fer work. I tol’ ’im I wasn’ hirin’ no new hands, but I let ’im bunk fer thuh night, an’ this mawnin’ he rid off t’wards Marfa. Name’s Steve Carson.”

  “I heard a coupla days ago you was hirin’ hands, Buck,” said the sheriff. “Mr. Thompson, this here’s Buck Barstow,” he added by way of introduction.

  “Howdy, Mister Barstow,” Chuckaluck said pleasantly, and Barstow took his extended hand in a loose handshake.

  “I am hirin’,” Barstow told the sheriff. “I could use uh coupla good han’s right now, but t’tell yuh thuh truth I didn’ cotton much tuh Steve Carson. Thuh boys didn’ get on with ’im neither las’ night in thuh bunkhouse.”

  “What’d they have against ’im?” the sheriff probed.

  “Waal, yuh know thuh boys on my spread, an’ they ain’t none of ’em whut yuh’d call Sunday School boys, but ’cordin’ tuh my fo’man, even they couldn’ stum-muck this nasty-mouthed hombre. Curly said thuh things he said was too nasty tuh tell. Said he was mo’ like uh vahmint than a man.”

  Morgan nodded soberly. “Sounds jus’ like thuh kind o’ skunk that’d turn thuh water outten a swimmin’ hole if he caught a gal in it. What time’d he leave yore place this mornin?”

  “Right aftuh sun-up.”

  “Twenty-mile ride to thuh water tank where he molested Miss Jean,” said Morgan thoughtfully. “If he rode easy that’d make it aroun’ thuh right time.”

  “But if he rode thuh twen’y miles fas’,” Chuckaluck, who had been listening with intense interest, put in, “he mought of got there aboot noon.”

  “What you got on yore mind?” queried the sheriff.

  “I’m wonderin’ if he mought o’ rode up tuh Kirk’s mesa jus’ aboot thuh time Missus Kirk was settin’ dinner out fo’ her an’ thuh baby.”

  “Then what?” demanded Morgan.

  “I dunno. But me an’ yuh knows somethin’ happ’ned tuh-day tuh keep Missus Kirk an’ her boy from eatin’ thuh victuals she set out.”

  “Damn Clint Andrews,” the sheriff grated. “Jumpin’ ’im befo’ he had a chance to do any talkin’. We’ll mebbe nevah know thuh truth of it now.”

  Buck Barstow cleared his throat and said apologetically, “We been tawkin’ aboot Clint back there,” indicating the group at the far end of the bar. “Did yuh lock ’im up, Sheriff?”

  “I shore did. Killed a man right befo’ m’eyes, didn’ he? An’ I put the only one of my deppities left in town on to guard ’im till Rangoon sends me a new lock fo’ thuh front door.”

  “Don’t reckon yuh kin blame Clint too much,” Barstow argued. “Eveh’buddy knows he’s plumb sweet on Miss Jean, an’ I reckon had uh man skeered a gal I was sweet on I wouldn’ of waited fer yuh to ’rest him neither. Way I get it, this here Steve Carson ain’t thuh same hombre yuh had locked up befo’ … thuh one yuh slipped out tuh keep Rangoon an’ his riders frum gettin’ they han’s on ’im.”

  “That’s right,” said Morgan non-committally. “Glad you could tell us somethin’ about thuh feller.”

  Barstow lifted his elbows and his curved spine from the bar against which he had been resting them and ambled back to the group at the other end.

  Sheriff Morgan straightened and said to Chuckaluck, “Which remin’s me, you an’ me’ve got to have a palaver about Twister. Le’s take a walk ovah to Doc Randolph’s office.”

  Chuckaluck nodded soberly, and they went out together. When the saloon doors swung shut behind them, Chuckaluck said, “I got yore pris’ner safe fo’ thuh night, Sheriff. He’ll be on han’ when I promised, an’ I reckon if yuh don’t know jus’ where he’s at yuh won’ hafta lie aboot not knowin’ case anybuddy asts.”

  Morgan didn’t say anything for a moment as they walked along the board walk, then he said, “Reckon sinct I trusted you this far, in thuh ’mergency an’ all, I’ll hafta keep on fo’ a while longah.”

  “Yuh shore don’ need tuh worry none,” Chuckaluck assured him.

  “Where’d you get on to Steve Carson? An’ how’d you know he was thuh man Rangoon wanted?”

  The chunky cowhand had been expecting this question and he had his answer ready. “We run ontuh ’im in thuh brush south o’ town close tuh where I was takin’ Twister. Twister got a good look at ’im an’ told me on thuh sly he was thuh yahoo he’d caught openin’ thuh sluice-gate. That hombre was scairt tuh come in town by hisse’f, so I sorta invited ’im tuh ride in with me. I pumped ’im some on thuh way in, an’ two-three li’l things he let slip made me purty shore he was thuh one Miss Jean had tol’ her pa aboot. But looka here, Sheriff, what for are we headed for thuh doc’s office?”