“What’s thuh meanin’ of this?” demanded Morgan, his voice trembling with rage as he took a step toward the three men. “Why ain’t thuh pris’ner ridin’ next to yore gun-hand?”

  “Don’t come no closer,” Chuckaluck said apologetically. “All is ast is tuh say a few words befo’ anybuddy makes a play.” He looked around and saw that the Split X riders were mounted side by side, as were the sheriff’s deputies. The others, he judged, were Marfa citizens, some still mounted and others standing. “I done what I promised tuh do when thuh sheriff deppitized me, an’ I b’leve evah man here wants tuh know thuh facks aboot all thuh things that’s happ’ned.”

  The sheriff took two more steps toward him and an angry mutter rose from the crowd. Then Jean Rangoon’s voice rose loud and clear above the rumble:

  “Father! Those are the two men who ran that horrible man away from the tank and closed the sluice-gates before all the water ran out.”

  The sheriff stopped in his tracks and all eyes were turned toward the beautiful girl sitting erect in the saddle between Paul Rangoon, whose hand had not left the butt of his gun, and Clint Andrews who was bent stiffly forward, his eyes blazing with anger as he glared at the chunky deputy sheriff.

  Chuckaluck looked at her. Her golden eyes were wide with surprise and wonder. She smiled and waved at him and said, “I’m so glad you didn’t go away.”

  Chuckaluck’s round mouth broke into a wide grin. He said, “Howdy, Miss Jean. Sorry I got both han’s full so I can’t lif’ m’hat proper.”

  The sheriff ejaculated into the silence, “I’ll be dogged, Miss Jean. You mean these two was t’gether yesterday afternoon? Are you shore?”

  “O’ course we was,” Chuckaluck answered for her.

  “What’s goin on here,” Jerry Kirk’s shrill, shaky voice cried out. “If this is going to be a social gathering ’stead of hanging the man that killed my wife and baby …” He reined his horse back, but Twister’s hard, scrawny arm shot out and gripped the reins up close as Chuckaluck’s gun swung around and the muzzle jabbed in his ribs.

  “Yuh wanna fin’ out who kilt yore wife an’ baby, don’ yuh,” he said mildly.

  “If I had my gun,” raged Kirk, “I’d show you the man that killed ’em.”

  Twister let go the reins and his hand darted under his belt and came out with the dead man’s gun. He jabbed it against Kirk’s ribs on the other side. A low mutter arose from the few who witnessed Twister’s swift action. Without appearing to notice, Chuckaluck took his own gun away, straightened in the saddle and said:

  “We rode here from Fo’t Davis t’gethuh thinkin’ we was ridin’ tuh Marfa on thuh short-cut, an’ I slipped off when I heard yuh an’ Kirk ridin’ up, Sheriff. I lis’ened outside to ever’thing yuh said. But none o’ that don’t matter no mo’. Yuh-all foun’ thuh bodies of Missus Kirk an’ Bobbie yet?”

  “We ain’t found nothin’,” growled the sheriff.

  “I thought yuh was lookin’ fo’ ’em tuh be buried here.”

  “We been ovah evah inch o’ thuh ground an’ they ain’t here,” one of the deputies cut in loudly and angrily.

  “I reckon yuh didn’ look too good,” Chuckaluck said. “Iffen they ain’t buried on this here mesa, m’name ain’t Chuckaluck Thompson.”

  “I don’t know what yore name is,” Morgan admitted bitterly, “but I know fo’ shore there ain’t been a spadeful o’ dirt turned on this mesa fo’ months.”

  “I didn’ say it had been,” Chuckaluck went on slowly, “but after I got tuh thinkin’ things ovah keerful las’ night I recollected seein’ one place where thuh groun’ was softer’n thuh rest. I stepped on it when I was tryin’ to fin’ whoevah lived here when we rode up and saw victuals on thuh table. I had a lantern, an’ I noticed thuh grass was greener’n thuh rest, too, ’cause watuh soaks in sof’ groun’ bettuh. Place aboot thuh size a man’d dig tuh bury a mama an’ her baby. Reckon yuh’ll fin’ my boot-print on it,” he ended solemnly.

  “Where at?” The same deputy who had spoken before slid from his horse as angry voices spoke in chorus and men began milling around.

  “Wait!” shouted the sheriff, drawing his gun and swinging it in an arc, but men who were standing began searching, and four men on horseback galloped toward Kirk’s corral in search of shovels, while above the uproar came a ghastly shriek from Jerry Kirk:

  “He’s lying! I tell you he’s lying. That’s just a …”

  “Wait … men!” the sheriff shouted again. “Don’t staht goin’ off ha’f-cocked till we learn mo’ about this loony yarn. I tell you Missus Kirk didn’ disappear till yesterday, an’ it’d take months fo’ grass t’grow ovah a grave like that.”

  At this statement from the sheriff, several men started angrily towards Twister, but the sheriff moved fast and took a stand before the three horsemen ranged side by side, and Paul Rangoon’s voice boomed out for the first time:

  “Men! Split X riders! Get back and be quiet and listen.” His command was followed by a gun-shot fired above their heads.

  Twister’s gun muzzle didn’t move from Jerry Kirk’s ribs but slid along solidly as Kirk collapsed against the saddlehorn during the silence after Rangoon’s shot.

  “Go on, man!” Rangoon shouted to Chuckaluck while the sheriff slowly forced the men away from Twister with a menacing glare and a cocked gun.

  “It’d take mebbe a coupla months fo’ thuh grass tuh grow back like that,” Chuckaluck went on, “which’d put thuh diggin’ back tuh jus’ aboot thuh time Jerry Kirk rode off tuh San Angelo an’ lef’ his wife an’ baby by theirse’ves. An’ right aboot thuh same time Frank Adams tol’ his men he had a run-in with Kirk an’ fo’ them not tuh ride up thisaway. An’ aboot thuh same time, mo’ or less,” he added in a louder voice, “that thuh spring watuh stahted flowin’ back ontuh thuh Split X again … an’ when Jud Montrose seen Rangoon’s noo fo’man stahtin’ tuh ride up here an’ warned ’im he bettuh stay offen thuh mesa.”

  A short, ugly silence followed his words. Listening with wide, frightened eyes, Jean Rangoon glanced swiftly at Clint Andrews’ drawn, angry face. She shuddered and drew away from him.

  Paul Rangoon spurred forward with drawn gun and demanded harshly: “Are you accusing me of … by God, Sheriff, this man is crazy.”

  “I ain’t accusin’ nobody … yet,” said Chuckaluck. “I’m tellin’ Sheriff Morgan why it’d be smart tuh have his men sink their shovels in that green sod ovah there,” he ended, pointing to the spot.

  Morgan didn’t have to issue an order. The four men raced up from the corral and slid from their horses, holding two shovels and two hoes, and started digging while men sauntered over and looked on with morbid curiosity.

  Morgan watched with tight-lipped disapproval and continued to argue. “It can’t be,” he stated flatly. “How d’you reckon she cooked that dinner yesterday if she’s been dead an’ buried two months?”

  “I’m guessin’ she nevah set no victuals on that table, Sheriff,” Chuckaluck said patiently. “Whoevuh killed her fixed up ever’thing in this cabin t’make us think she was here yestiddy. I’m bettin’ there ain’t been a soul livin’ there fo’ two months, an’ somebuddy come here yestidday mo’nin’ an’ fixed up thuh hull thing jus’ like we foun’ it, right down tuh havin’ thuh coals from a fire in thuh stove tuh fool fo’ks intuh feelin’ shore she was here at noon.”

  “What give you a crazy idee like that?”

  “Mos’ly that Marfa sign moved down so’s me an’ Twister would ride up here an’ find things like that. I knowed somebuddy had moved it there jus’ long ’nough fo’ us to ride on up thuh mountain an’ then put it back where it b’longed. Somebuddy that wanted moughty bad fo’ somebuddy tuh fin’ it so’s they could swear Missus Kirk an’ her baby was alive when they was awready dead.”

  “And you’re trying to make these people believe that I had one of my men kill them just to get the water …” Rangoon began.

  Clint Andrews spurred his horse forward, then jerked him hard to a standstill as a mutter of angry voices rose from the men at the rectangle of green sod and a deputy grated loudly:

  “He’s right, Sheriff! They’re here.”

  Morgan didn’t move as men hurried past him toward the diggers, and a few pressed in closer to hear what Chuckaluck had to say. Paul Rangoon dismounted and joined the latter group just as Sheriff Morgan asked:

  “What about Lucy’s uncle that was here day befo’ yesterday?”

  “Why, he foun’ thuh cabin vacant. Thass why she didn’ tell him where her husban’ was, an’ why he had tuh ast aroun’ town. And why Bascom’s off-hawse was shot in thuh head las’ night when he was roundin’ that curve on his way back from San Angelo, ’causin’ thuh buckbo’d tuh go ovah thuh edge. I reckon he would of been finished off down in thuh ravine if thuh stage hadn’ come along right then an’ skeered thuh feller off.”

  “Who done it? An’ why?” the sheriff demanded hoarsely.

  “Yeh! Whut yuh goin’ all ’roun’ yore face tuh get tuh yore nose fer?” an impatient listener asked angrily, and others took up the demand, shouting, “Who done it, an’ where’s yore proof?” and “Why’n’t yuh come right out with it?”

  “’Account of I got tuh tell thuh sheriff evahthing I know,” Chuckaluck said harshly, bringing his gun up as the men pressed in closer.

  “’Nother thing was that lettuh from thuh lawyers in Ohio to Missus Kirk aboot her pappy dyin’ an’ leavin’ all his money tuh her. I reckon there ain’t no woman livin’ wouldn’t look in thuh mail box fo’ three hull weeks.”

  “What’s that letter got to do with it?” Morgan demanded in deep perplexity.

  “A moughty heap. Yuh can see that whoevah fixed things up so keerful here at thuh cabin had tuh be plumb shore it’d be foun’ yestiddy. Nobuddy ’cept a stranger ridin’ ovah that road would be fooled by movin’ that sign … so it had tuh be somebuddy that was in thuh F’ot Davis saloon night befo’ las’ an’ heard me an’ Twister astin’ aboot ridin’ tuh Marfa an’ heard some other feller tell us aboot thuh short-cut.

  “Knowin’ we’d be ridin’ this-away yestiddy, he took off from Fo’t Davis right then an’ must of got here soon after daylight. He met Frank Adams down thuh road a piece an’ killed ’im ’cause his plan depended on nobuddy knowin’ he was in these pahts ’til after Twister an’ me had foun’ thuh set-up here an’ could swear Missus Kirk must of been here yestiddy.”

  “Who?” Morgan demanded again.

  The crowd was growing restless, dividing into groups as though taking sides and tensing themselves for action. The one word shouted by the sheriff brought sudden silence.

  “Why, Jerry Kirk.” Chuckaluck turned to the slumped figure on his left and prodded him with his gun muzzle. “Soon’s I recollected seein’ him in thuh saloon in Fo’t Davis thuh night befo’, I knowed he was lyin’ aboot jus’ ridin’ in from San Angelo that afternoon.”

  Kirk jerked himself erect and shouted, “That’s a lie. I never …”

  “Yuh shouldn’ of bragged tuh me ridin’ intuh town aboot thuh law that’d bring yore wife’s money to yuh on ’count of an’ if she died after he died. I wonder’d where yuh foun’ out aboot that law, so I writ a letter tuh Sam Pryor in San Angelo. Here’s thuh answer. Come on thuh afternoon stage.” He took an envelope from his pocket and held it out to the Split X owner. “Yuh want tuh read it out loud, Mr. Rangoon?”

  The big man took a step forward, accepted the letter, opened it and began reading in a loud voice that reached across the mesa:

  “‘In reply to your inquiry I can tell you in strict confidence that Jerry Kirk did consult me on the question of inheriting his wife’s estate. Three days ago he showed me a newspaper clipping telling of her father’s death in Ohio several weeks ago. He explained that his wife was quite ill and that he had not heard from her for weeks, and he wondered what the legal position would be if it developed she had died prior to her father’s death.

  “‘I informed him that in that case the estate would go to her father’s heirs who were living at the time of his death, but that if it could be proved his wife had outlived her father for even so much as one hour, then the money would go to him and the son born of their marriage.

  “‘I trust this will clarify the matter, and if I can in any way …”

  A sharp, strangled cry of anguish burst from Jerry Kirk’s bloodless lips. He whirled his horse on his haunches in a desperate effort to escape over the rim of the mesa, but Chuckaluck’s gun spoke simultaneously, striking him through the hip, and he tumbled from the saddle and lay writhing on the ground while his frightened horse plunged over the rim and disappeared.

  For a moment pandemonium spread through the crowd. Every man’s gun-hand reached for his holster. Three deputies picked Kirk’s crumpled form up and laid him out on the grass away from the milling crowd, and there were angry cries of “How come yuh done that!” and “What did he wanta kill ’is own wife an’ baby fo’?” and others who stalked toward Chuckaluck and Twister muttering, “He done it tuh save their own necks.”

  Paul Rangoon joined the sheriff in holding the men back with threats and guns, and Morgan once again shouted for silence, while Rangoon commanded over and over again, “Order!”

  As the noise gradually died away, a belligerent voice from the rear called out: “Jest let ’im tell one reason why Jerry Kirk kilt ’is own wife an’ baby.”

  “I reckon thuh sheriff can tell you mo’ than I can aboot that, but I’d say he done it in a fit o’ rage befo’ he left here, then cut thuh spring watuh back to thuh Split X, then picked a fight with Frank Adams an’ ordered him and ’is men tuh stay off thuh mesa. Reckon he’ll tell yuh hisse’f soon’s he’s able.

  “Think aboot how he must of felt when he foun’ out Lucy’s daddy was dead and lef’ her all that money, thinkin’ if he’d jus’ waited a coupla months to kill ’er, an’ tryin’ tuh figger out a way to make fo’ks b’lieve she was alive. I reckon it took ’im a spell tuh fin’ a coupla suclers like us tuh be fooled by thuh sign, an …”

  “Yuh still ain’t got no proof yuh didn’ …” a gruff voice began.

  A man appeared over the rise and raced toward the crowd waving one arm and yelling wildly, “Hold ever’thing … hold it!”

  “Here comes thuh deppity I sent to Fort Davis,” the sheriff announced, “to find out did these fellers leave there when they said.”

  The deputy galloped up and reigned his horse up with a jerk. “Took me longer’n I. ’spected, Sheriff,” he panted, “but I shore got plenty evidence these two rannies lef’ Fort Davis exactly when this Twister feller said.”

  Chuckaluck nodded sombrely and picked up his reins. “Reckon there won’t be no lynchin’, gen’lemen, lessen yuh decide tuh string up a man what run hisse’f crazy tryin’ tuh get a-holt o’ a lot o’ money ’thout workin’ fo’ it.” He tipped his hat politely and started to put spurs to his buckskin.

  Twister nudged him fiercely and demanded, “Why didn’ yuh tell us right off you seen Jerry Kirk in thuh saloon in Fo’t Davis? Then Sheriff Morgan would of knowed he was lyin’ aboot ridin’ in from San Angelo that afternoon an’ I mought of slep’ in a hotel bed las’ night?”

  Chuckaluck gave his partner a quick, warning glance, raised his hat again and said, “Reckon we’ll be ridin’ on,” reined his horse into the trail and Twister followed.

  Riding abreast to the rim, Chuckaluck grinned at Twister’s dour face and said, “Reason I didn’ tell thuh Sheriff what yuh ast me aboot is ’cause I didn’t see Kirk in thuh saloon. There’s mo’ tuh things sometimes than jus’ seein’. Yuh got tuh have faith in Fate an’ figger like thuh devil.”

  “All I ast of yore finaglin’ fate is a sof’ hotel bed tu-night ‘an’ a road south t’wards thuh Rio Grande I can see in thuh mawnin’,” Twister told him gloomily.

  They went over the rise without looking back, and as they started down the steep mountain the buckskin gradually dropped a half-length behind. Chuckaluck got his harmonica out and the sprightly, off-key strains of “Coyote A-howlin’ on a Hawg-back Ridge,” whisked through the still, hot air.

  About the Author

  Brett Halliday (1904–1977) was the primary pseudonym of American author Davis Dresser. Halliday is best known for creating the Mike Shayne Mysteries. The novels, which follow the exploits of fictional PI Mike Shayne, have inspired several feature films, a radio series, and a television series.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1953 by Ward Lock

  Cover design by Andy Ross

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-2537-9

  This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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  New York, NY 10014

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