Chuckaluck slid from the stool. “I’ll be gettin’ my hawse from thuh stable. Be right back.” He went out on the deserted street again and down an alley beside the hotel to the stable at the rear. He saddled his horse and led him back to the rail outside the restaurant. He started inside, hesitated a moment, wondering whether he dared ask the man for a tin bucket of coffee. It would look suspicious, he decided. Anybody would know that a man didn’t eat sandwiches and drink coffee out of a bucket on horseback. The man would be sure to suspect him of taking the food to someone else, and right now he didn’t want anyone following him when he rode out of town.

  He turned and went two doors down to a general store where a woman behind the counter was waiting on a woman customer. They both stopped talking as he entered and looked at him suspiciously. Then the woman clerk came toward him and asked eagerly, “You’re the Texas Ranger, ain’t you, that stopped the riot in town last night? Have they found out what become of Mrs. Kirk and her baby?”

  “Not yet. I come in tuh get coffee. Gimme a poun’ o’ Arbuckles.”

  She took a paper sack of coffee from the shelf and handed it to him. He paid for it and hurried out before she asked any more questions or made him out to be a general in the United States army. He unbuttoned the two top buttons of his shirt and dropped the sack inside with his harmonica before going into the restaurant for the sandwiches. The man had them ready and was eager to discuss the mystery that had aroused the town, but Chuckaluck answered him in monsyllables and got out as fast as he could.

  In the saddle he didn’t make any pretence of riding north toward the section being searched by the posses, but galloped south on Main Street and out on the road leading into the Big Bend. It was only a short distance to the intersecting trail they had ridden when escaping last night, and he turned east on it, loped past the house where the same dog ran out to bark at him, and on toward the windmill and feed sheds where he had left Twister.

  He took his harmonica out when he was well past the house and wheezed on it jerkily to let his partner know who was coming, but when he turned into the windmill clearing there was no sign of Twister or his horse. He jerked the mouth organ from his lips in disgust which changed quickly to fright and then despair when he realized that Twister had run out on him.

  As Chuckaluck sat there astride his buckskin, frantically trying to decide what to do, the scarred-faced man stepped from concealment behind one of the sheds and greeted him plaintively, rubbing his concave stomach with both hands:

  “Shore time yuh was showin’ up. M’guts thinks m’ th’oat is cut plumb in two.”

  “I ain’t et neither.” Chuckaluck slid from the buckskin and tossed the big sack of sandwiches to him. “I got us a poun’ o’ coffee if yuh can rustle up a tin bucket tuh boil it in.”

  “I got a bucket o’ watuh right back here, an’ wood laid fo’ a fire.” Twister led the way around to the back of the shed and out of sight of any passer-by, and his partner followed leading his horse.

  Twister squatted down and lit the pine shavings between two flat stones straddled by a rusty lard bucket half full of water, then poured half of the coffee in. Chuckaluck tethered his horse and they squatted back on their heels and munched on the sandwiches while they waited for the coffee to boil.

  Chuckaluck leisurely related all that had happened since they parted, and told of his fears and suspicions, and of the centrepiece for the puzzle that lacked the pattern for the other pieces to make it square. He ended by describing his encounter with the man they discovered opening the sluice-gate of Rangoon’s water tank.

  “So I jus’ nacherly kep’ hold o’ his gun after I took it outten thuh holster.” He pulled out one of his front shirt-tails and disclosed the butt of a .45 nestling between his wasitband and underwear. “He musta figgered on usin’ it sinct he cleaned it all up, an’ with thuh sheriff holdin’ yore hawgleg I reckon yuh better keep this ’un.”

  Twister took the dead man’s gun and examined it. “Good thing he did clean it,” he said. “Thuh one I fished outten thuh arroya’s got dry mud inside an’ out. Thuh bore’s mos’ likely clogged up so it’d blow up in m’face fust time I shot it.”

  The coffee boiled up and over. Twister grabbed a stick and scattered the fire from under it and Chuckaluck flipped his bandana from his pocket and lifted the bucket and set it aside to cool.

  When the coffee settled and was cool enough to drink they moved it over close to the shed, sat down with their backs against the boards and finished the sandwiches, taking turns drinking the thick, strong beverage in the lard bucket. For a while they talked of their wanderings and the conversation inevitably led into other troubles they had innocently ridden into, thus bringing them back to the stern realization of their present predicament.

  Chuckaluck squinted up at the sun. “Wonder if Morgan an’ ’is search parties foun’ Adams or Missus Kirk,” he mused. “If they ain’t found ’em by three o’clock, an’ if thuh rider Morgan sent tuh Fo’t Davis to check up on when we lef’ …”

  “If they ain’t an’ he ain’t it soun’s like lotsa fun,” Twister interrupted gloomily. “Yuh reckon they’ll swing us sep-rate or tuhgether when Miss Jean ’dentifies us?”

  “Yeh. That’s gonna look bad fo’ us,” Chuckaluck admitted. “But even if they do string us up, Twister, I got it fixed so a lawyer in San Angelo’ll make a protest. Mebbe tuh thuh Guv’ner even.”

  “That’ll shore be a moughty comfo’t tuh us when we’re sizzlin’ in hell. Doggone it, Chuckaluck, our hawses is rested up, an’ if we staht right out we can be a long ways t’wards Mexico befo’ they staht lookin’ fo’ us.”

  Chuckaluck shook his head stubbornly and emphatically. “I promised Sheriff Morgan.”

  “I hope they hang yuh fust,” Twister retorted.

  “If things works out right, they won’t hang neither one o’ us. I got tuh meet that stage from San Angelo an’ then I think we’ll be awright.”

  “Yuh think a letter from some law-feller is gonna keep ’em from stretchin’ our necks?”

  “We got tuh do things legal,” said Chuckaluck. “I better be ridin’ back now. Yuh stay right here till yuh hear thuh stage comin’ in. Then ride straight intuh town an’ I’ll be waitin’ at thuh Lone Star Hotel.”

  Twister did his best with a grin. He didn’t argue with his rotund partner. He knew from experience that Chuckaluck had a scheme in mind that he desperately hoped would work. But he knew, too, that they had never been involved in trouble as serious as this, trouble that meant hanging for one of them if they stuck to a lie … hanging for both of them if they told the truth. He hung on to the grin and said, “I shore won’t let yuh down when they string yuh up,” and was glad when Chuckaluck turned his back and mounted his horse, for his lips were beginning to twitch.

  When Chuckaluck re-entered Marfa from the south he saw Sheriff Morgan galloping in from the north. Both men slowed their horses and reined up in front of the doctor’s office. The sheriff’s horse was lathered with dusty sweat and breathing heavily, and the rider’s normally florid and genial face showed that he was suffering from a terrific emotional upset. His voice shook with anger when he roared:

  “Where you been hidin’ this mornin’, Thompson?”

  “I was up in my hotel room till a hour ago.”

  “Where you been since then?”

  “Feedin’ yore pris’ner breakfust.”

  “Where is Twister Malone?”

  “Hid out safe like I tol’ yuh las’ night.”

  “I want him.” Sheriff Morgan’s voice was harsh and his eyes were cold.

  “Yuh’ll get ’im,” said Chuckaluck flatly, “on Kirk’s mesa at three o’clock like I promised.”

  “I’m takin’ ’im out to thuh mesa with me now.”

  Chuckaluck held the sheriff’s cold gaze, his own eyes cold as blue ice, but his tone was mild when he said, “Why no, Sheriff. I don’t reckon yuh are. S’pose yuh quiet down an’ tell me what’s got yore guts in such a uproar all of a sudden.”

  A vein swelled dangerously in Morgan’s neck, but Chuckaluck’s composure and his mild tone had a calming effect. The lawman controlled himself with a visible effort and said:

  “I got proof now that Twister lied about thuh time he lef’ Fort Davis.”

  “What kind o’ proof?”

  “Frank Adams’ corpse. Him an’ his dead hawse off thuh side of thuh Fort Davis road in a ravine not more’n three miles north o’ Kirk’s mesa.”

  Not a muscle moved in Chuckaluck’s face. He sat quietly in the saddle with both hands clasped over the horn and received the announcement as though he had expected it. “What aboot Missus Kirk an’ thuh li’l boy?”

  “No sign of ’em yet, but I’m callin’ in my men to search ever’ foot of thuh mesa fo’ a new-dug grave. I reckon they’ll find where he buried ’em, all right. You can see fo’ yorese’f how Twister Malone must of lied about thuh hull thing,” he went on angrily. “’Stead o’ leavin’ Fort Davis at ten o’clock in thuh mawnin’ he must of left at night to’ve met Frank Adams that close to home an’ killed ’im. We know Frank started out at daylight, an’ he was killed a short time later.”

  “That’s right,” Chuckaluck agreed, “lessen he stopped somewheres.”

  “Where would he of stopped at daylight?” Morgan’s taut features relaxed a little and there was a thread of doubt in his voice when he muttered, as though debating with himself, “It jus’ don’t work out no other way. Who else could of killed ’im there if Twister didn’?”

  “I take it that yore deppity ain’t got back from Fo’t Davis,” said Chuckaluck.

  “Not yet. But he’ll be back soon an’ go up to thuh mesa, an’ we’ll have Twister dead to rights. Soon’s we find out he lied about spendin’ thuh night in Fort Davis.”

  “When yuh get proof o’ that,” Chuckaluck agreed, “will be time tuh string ’im up.”

  “I come in to take ’im back,” said Morgan, his face and voice hardening again.

  Chuckaluck shook his head. ‘I’ll see he’s there in plen’y time fo’ a lynchin’, Sheriff. Be a heap better if yuh wait fo’ thuh Split X outfit tuh join thuh pahty.”

  Again the eyes of the two men interlocked, the sheriff’s cold and demanding, but Chuckaluck’s were mild and inoffensive, squinting a little in the blistering glare of the sun, yet meeting the big man’s challenge without faltering.

  “A man’s got rights in thuh law,” Chuckaluck said persuasively after a moment. “I writ tuh Sam Pryor las’ night like I said I was goin’ tuh, an’ I reckon there’ll be a answer on thuh two o’clock stage. Yuh wouldn’ hang a man that didn’ have legal advice, I reckon.”

  “I don’ give a consarn what Sam Pryor says,” growled Morgan. “Twister’ll swing soon’s we hear from Fort Davis an’ when we make ’im tell where he hid thuh bodies.”

  “Fair ’nough.” Chuckaluck swung off his horse and asked amiably, “How’s Doc Randolph’s patient tuhday?” He pushed his Stetson far back on his head and mopped his face with a soiled bandana.

  “I ain’t ast,” said Morgan shortly, glaring down at the chunky cowhand. Then he stepped from his horse and muttered, “We’ll go ast him.”

  They went into the doctor’s office together. Randolph was sitting in the waiting-room playing solitaire with a dog-eared pack of cards and with an open bottle of whisky at his elbow. When he looked up and saw the sheriff he warned him sharply:

  “If you’ve come to question Bascom, don’t waste your time. He’ll live, all right, but I’ve given him another injection that’ll keep him asleep until dark. After that he’ll be strong enough to talk.”

  The doctor went back to his solitaire. Morgan and Chuckaluck looked at each other, turned and went out, and the sheriff said moodily, “Don’t reckon he could o’ tol’ us nothin’ nohow.”

  “By thuh time he’s able tuh talk it won’t be impo’tant,” said Chuckaluck. “Yuh ridin’ back tuh thuh mesa now?”

  “Soon’s I eat some dinner an’ change hawses.” The sheriff hesitated awkwardly, then said, “I don’t like to see a man hang no better’n you do. But when he’s guilty …”

  “When he’s guilty,” Chuckaluck cut in, “he had ought tuh hang. Yuh still got Clint Andrews locked up?”

  Morgan nodded and said unhappily, “Can’t blame ’im too much fo’ what he done las’ night. Young feller with thuh love-sap risin’ up in him is allus li’ble to shoot fust an’ think afterwards. Rangoon sent ovah a new lock this mornin’,” he added.

  “Shore was nice o’ him,” said Chuckaluck, then went on heartily:

  “I was thinkin’ thuh same as yuh aboot Clint Andrews. Why’n’t yuh turn him loose an’ take ’im back with yuh so he won’t miss thuh fun up on thuh mesa?”

  The sheriff considered for a moment, then said: “Reckon I’ll do that.”

  “But I shore wouldn’ give ’im back his gun yet,” Chuckaluck warned gravely. “Can’t tell but what he’ll get all excited again an’ trigger somebuddy ’thout thinkin’ fust. ’Specially sinct him an’ Kirk had a sorta run in.”

  Morgan nodded agreement. “He’ll be bettah off with a empty holster, I reckon.”

  “’Nother thing I wisht you’d do,” Chuckaluck said briskly, as though it was perfectly natural for him to be issuing orders to the Marfa sheriff. “I’ll be ridin’ out with Twister right after thuh San Angelo stage comes in. Yuh keep thuh rest o’ thuh boys back on thuh mesa an’ send Jerry Kirk in alone tuh meet us aboot ha’f-way. One thing yuh can do right now tuh make ’im feel good is tuh let ’im ride up so’s thuh rest can see him bringin’ in thuh man yo’re gonna lynch fo’ murderin’ his wife an baby.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Morgan warmly. “A thing like that’ll go a long ways t’wards makin’ a man feel bettuh.”

  “But be shore yuh take his gun, too, Sheriff,” he advised strongly. “He’s so het up he mought go plumb haywire, ’specially if him and Clint was tuh have a run-in.”

  The sheriff looked at him and frowned heavily, nodded agreement again, and said, “Them two’s like a couple o’ game cocks. Reckon Jerry won’t have no use fo’ a gun, nowhow.”

  “Thank yuh, Sheriff,” said Chuckaluck warmly.

  Morgan mounted and rode south on Main Street, a puzzled expression on his heavy features. He had a strange feeling that, somehow, he had allowed his newest deputy to put something over on him, but for the life of him he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. There was something very peculiar about the round-faced stranger. Maybe he was a federal marshal or a state ranger. Anyhow, it would be more decent and dignified if the lynching could be delayed until positive proof against Twister was established, and this way he would have his jury picked by the time the suspect showed up.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Chuckaluck and Twister had ridden silently under the searing heat of the mid-afternoon sun since leaving the Lone Star Hotel. A cloud of dust rode with them, carried along in the air by a faint breeze at the same slow speed they travelled, and was therefore inescapable. The buckskin, a half length to the rear, clopped along with his head down and waggling slightly from side to side as though he sensed the troubled mood of his chunky master and brooded with him.

  In the lead, Twister hoped to lift his partner’s spirits by assuming an air of reckless bravado. He sat jauntily in the saddle, a little to the side, his dusty tan Stetson far back on his head. He held the reins with mincing precision and pretended to admire the drab scenery along the trail. Occasionally he let out a wild “yippee” and stuck spurs to his horse, but the weary roan paid no heed when there was no sound of increased speed from the buckskin behind them.

  As they neared the point where the short-cut over the mountain led into the main Fort Davis road Chuckaluck sat up straight and spurred up beside Twister. “Yuh better shove yore gun outta sight,” he directed. “It ain’t fittin’ fo’ a pris’ner tuh wear guns.” Chuckaluck spoke with tense excitement as he watched narrowly for the rider who was to meet them on the trail.

  Twister quickly slid the dead man’s gun out of sight and pressed his elbow down tight to keep the bulge from showing. At the same instant Chuckaluck emitted a loud sigh of relief when he saw Jerry Kirk riding towards them.

  “Whew!” he said. “I was beginnin’ tuh get worried.” Both partners spurred their horses to a faster pace.

  Kirk set his horse at a steady gallop and in a short time they met. Kirk said, “Sheriff Morgan said he promised I’d meet you-all here.”

  “Thought yuh mought like tuh bring this here critter in yorese’f,” Chuckaluck explained. “Lynchin’ pahty all set?”

  Kirk turned to ride beside him, and his thin features tightened in a look of brooding melancholy. “I don’t rightly know what to make of things now,” he confided to Chuckaluck in a low tone, glancing past him dubiously at Twister. “Morgan didn’t tell me much. Took my gun before I rode off.”

  “He done right. Yuh ain’t in no shape tuh stan’ no mo’ excitement ’thout goin’ off yore kazip. Thuh sheriff wants thuh law tuh take ovah from now on out. I reckon ever’buddy’s kind o’ cooled off by now.”

  Twister dropped back a few paces, then reined up on the other side of Kirk.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Kirk demanded irritably his eyes darting from Twister to Chuckaluck.

  “This is jus’ thuh way we’re gonna ride up to thuh mesa,” Twister informed him. “Yuh jus’ keep yore mouth plumb shut an’ let Chuckaluck have his say when we get there, an’ yuh won’t get hurt none.”

  “Don’t fo’get I got m’gun handy,” Chuckaluck warned, “both o’ yuh. Long as I’m thuh deppity on this job, things is goin’ tuh be done legal.”

  They rode over the rim of the mesa and into full view of half a hundred armed men, and on down the short trail where the men moved slowly to form a semi-circle, with every man taking a position where no other obstructed his view.

  Chuckaluck reined up before them, muttered to his two companions to halt. Then he ordered, “Everbuddy put his han’s in front o’ yuh,” his voice cutting like a whiplash into the silence as men stared in stupid surprise, mouths opening and shutting soundlessly.