“An’ like I told you befo’,” the sheriff said harshly, “it could be like he tells it … if somebody moved the sign down here to yore road an’ then took it back to the actual Marfa short-cut after he rode up.”

  “Who in tarnation’d do that?” raged Kirk. “And why? And give me just one reason why anybody’d do a crazy thing like that.”

  “I dunno … yet,” said the sheriff soberly. “But I’m beginnin’ to wonder if maybe we won’t know soon’s we find Lucy.”

  “You mean you think Lucy played a trick like that? Why, in the name of common sense?”

  “May be lots o’ reasons. You say her fo’ks back in Ohio have got money. Maybe she wrote ’em she was lonesome an’ they sent her money to come for a visit an’ she put thuh sign up there to get somebody to ride up here an’ he’p her get off.”

  “’Thout lettin’ me know about it?” Kirk snapped.

  “Reckon she’d of got word to you in San Angelo a’right.”

  “I know that didn’t happen,” Kirk said flatly. “That old skinflint pa of hers wouldn’t give her a dime.”

  After a long heavy silence he said, “If that’s so, it don’t look like common sense is gonna help us much. We got to hunt for somethin’ that ain’t sensible … maybe not human even … to figure out what happened in this cabin to-day.”

  Jerry Kirk’s jaw was slack. “Something not sensible … or even human?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Yore wife’s been cooped up here by herse’f with just the boy for ’most two months,” the sheriff reminded him gently. “Some fo’ks gets funny when they’re by their-selves like that.”

  “No. Not Lucy.” He jerked the words out and his face was contorted with horror.

  “I found out long time ago that when there ain’t a reason’ble explanation for somethin’ you have to look fo’ a unreason’ble one. Come on you,” he said to Twister. “We’ll get yore hawse saddled an’ ride down to look at that Marfa sign an’ see do you reckonize it again.”

  CHAPTER IV

  “Before we go I want to know what you meant by what you just said, Sheriff,” Jerry Kirk said desperately.

  “I don’t hardly know m’self. Thuh way I look at it is there’s just two answers that makes any sense. Somethin’ happened right about noon to-day … just when Lucy had set dinner out on thuh table … to make her walk off with Bobbie in thuh same clothes they had on an’ not come back. That’s one answer.”

  “But what could make her do that?” groaned Jerry.

  “I dunno. Not if she was in her right mind, I don’t.”

  “And the other answer?” Kirk demanded.

  “That this here rannie is doin’ some plain an’ fancy lyin’ an’ killed both of ’em, maybe, an’ hid ’em where they can’t be easy found.”

  “Now look-a-here,” said Twister swiftly, “if yuh’ll ride tuh Fo’t Davis with me yuh’ll find out I left at ten o’clock like I said, an’ I couldn’ of been here at noon when them dishes was set on thuh table.”

  “Mebbe so,” agreed the sheriff uncompromisingly. “After you’re safe locked up in jail I’ll send a deppity to Fort Davis to find out.”

  “Hold on, Sheriff,” Kirk cut in. “Even that won’t prove a thing. Supposin’ he has just been here half an hour or so. It don’t take very long to … to do a job on a defenceless woman and baby.”

  “Dadblame yore hide!” Twister lunged at Kirk. “Yuh take that back ’fore I bust yore haid op’n. I ain’t laid a hand on yore woman.”

  The sheriff’s big hands grabbed Twister and held him in a vicelike grip. “You better ca’m down. I’m runnin’ things ’round here,” he said gruffly. “Them dishes on thuh table shows that whatever happened to yore wife happened to her back at noon,” he went on in an exasperated tone to Kirk.

  “He could’ve fixed it that way. By God, Sheriff, don’t you see? To make us think Lucy hasn’t been here since noon.”

  “Purty smart work,” grumbled the sheriff, “for a jasper that don’t look none too smart above thuh ears.” He studied Twister’s scarred face disapprovingly. “Could be, though. But if anything like that has happened to Missus Kirk we can’t he’p her none by settin’ around here gabbin’. Fust thing is to get him locked up while we find out.”

  “You’re right. We can’t help her none if she’s dead,” said Kirk in a broken voice. “But if she’s wandering around somewhere with Bobbie …”

  “Then she’s bound to turn up,” said the sheriff. He turned to the door with his hand gripping Twister’s arm.

  “You can waste time takin’ him to Marfa if you want,” Kirk growled, “but I’m ridin’ straight to Frank Adams’ place.”

  “Stay away from Adams to-night,” the sheriff warned sharply. “We got trouble a-plenty lookin’ for Lucy ’thout you gettin’ in a shootin’ scrape with Adams.”

  “You can’t stop me,” Kirk answered defiantly. He stepped in the kitchen to blow out the lamp, returned to the sitting-room to blow the table lamp out, then followed the sheriff and Twister out to the corral.

  In the corral the sheriff released Twister and said gruffly, “There’s plenty o’ moonlight for shootin’, so don’t try nothin’. Get yore ketch-rope off thuh saddle an’ rope out whichever hawse yuh wanta straddle into Marfa.” He moved on through the corral gate as Twister leaned over his saddle to unloop the buckskin thong binding his coiled lariat to the horn.

  “Hey you there!” yelled Sheriff Morgan. “There ain’t but one hawse penned up here. There was two when Jerry an’ me was here a while ago.”

  Twister straightened up with the coiled rope in his hand. “That damn hawse,” he groaned. “Is it thuh buckskin that’s gone?”

  “Yeh. ’Twas a buckskin, I reckon. This here’s a roan. You saw two hawses, didn’ you, Jerry, when we was here?” he added to Kirk as he came into the corral.

  “’Course there was two. Buckskin and roan, and one saddle lyin’ by the gate. He said he had a lead horse.…” Kirk stopped beside the sheriff and looked at the single horse who picked up his ears and snorted, backing away from the smell of strangers. “Where’s the other one?” he demanded.

  “Reckon yuh skeered ’im with yore lantern,” said Twister angrily. “That buckskin’s a jumpin’ fool. Allus gettin’ out o’ corrals. If yuh fellers hadn’ hazed ’im here in a strange place an’ all …”

  “We didn’t,” the sheriff said in a perplexed tone. “They was both eatin’ hay when we looked in.”

  “Somethin’ skeered ’im tuh make ’im jump ovah,” Twister maintained stoutly. “Now I’m out thuh best damned saddle-hawse west o’ thuh Pecos. Ain’t no use lookin’ fo’ him now, I reckon.” He flipped a spread loop with a twist of his wrist and it settled over the head of roan. He led the horse to his saddle, leaving the sheriff and Jerry Kirk arguing angrily.

  “Ca’m yorse’f down, Jerry,” the sheriff admonished. “Any hawse can jump a three-strand barbwire fence if he takes a notion.”

  “But you know they don’t do it less they’re goaded to it.… less they’re scared half to death. And I didn’t hear a noise from out here.”

  “I didn’t neither,” the sheriff agreed vaguely and with a hint of suspicion in his voice. “But don’t worry. I’ll shore keep a close lookout fo’ that jasper.” He went out of the corral and turned toward Twister.

  Twister had his roan saddled and had started to loosen the rope noose around the horse’s neck when the sheriff came up to him and said gruffly:

  “Just leave that be, stranger. I’ll loop that rope over my saddlehorn whilst we’re ridin’ just to make plumb shore yore hawse don’t make no wrong turn on the road an’ maybe disappear in the dark with you on him.”

  Twister went with them, leading his horse, to their two saddled mounts near the front door. He said, “My handle is Twister Malone if yuh like that better’n callin’ me stranger.”

  “Twister’s a right nice name,” said the sheriff agreeably, swinging into the saddle and looping the lead-rope from Twister’s horse to his saddlehorn. He went ahead down the steep, narrow trail, with Kirk in the rear. He reined his horse up for Twister to come beside him when they reached the wider and more travelled wagon road between Fort Davis and Marfa a couple of miles below.

  “Now then, Mr. Malone, suppose you show us that sign you said was down here pointin’ the way to Marfa.”

  “The sign ain’t here, just like I said,” Jerry Kirk grated as he ranged up beside them. “Damn it, Sheriff …”

  “Let Twister do the talkin’,” the sheriff said sharply.

  In the bright moonlight Twister lifted his Stetson and scratched his head in perplexity as he leaned forward in the saddle and peered at a small pine in the intersection of the turn-off. “It ain’t there now,” he admitted soberly. “But I swear it was right here this afternoon, nailed to that tree.”

  The sheriff rode close to the tree and struck a match. Leaning forward and holding the flame close he scrutinized the rough bark. “Don’t see no nail holes,” he reported. As he moved the tiny light downward he saw a covered wooden box nailed to the trunk a few feet from the ground. “This here yore mailbox, Kirk? Might be the missus left a note in it.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Kirk said hastily and swung from his horse. He hurried over to the box. “We don’t hardly ever get any mail, and …” He lifted the lid of the box and felt inside, gave a grunt of surprise as he pulled out a long white envelope. “By golly, Sheriff,” he exclaimed excitedly, “maybe it is from Lucy! Strike another match.”

  The hoof beats of a galloping horse came to them from the Marfa road as the sheriff dismounted to strike a match for Kirk to read what was written on the envelope.

  He held it up in shaking hands and read aloud, “Mrs. J. M. Kirk. It’s a letter for Lucy,” he groaned. “I thought sure it would …”

  “I’m afraid that’s bad Jerry,” the sheriff said solemnly. “Wouldn’t Lucy have looked in the mailbox if she’d come this way to-day?”

  “I reckon she would’ve,” Kirk muttered. “We don’t come down the hill for mail much, but if she’d passed by …”

  The hoofbeats were louder and approaching rapidly. “Maybe somebody dropped it in the box since noon,” Sheriff Morgan suggested. “Look an’ see when was it mailed.” He struck another match and held it close to the envelope.

  “From Summerville, Ohio. Lucy’s hometown. It was mailed June the twelfth. That’s … almost three weeks ago! It must’ve been here a week or more. It’s from Dibby and Meadows, Counsellors at Law.” He looked up at the sheriff, his face strained and yellowish brown in the match flare. “Lawyers. I wonder what … do you reckon I ought to read it?”

  “I reckon you shore ought,” said Morgan emphatically. “Le’s squat down here an’ make a twig fire so’s you can make out to read it.”

  They squatted on their haunches, raked up a handful of small dry twigs and struck a match to them. The fire flared and crackled, and so intent were they upon reading the letter they only glanced up absently when a rider galloped up in a cloud of dust. He reined his lathered buckskin in sharply and dismounted, strode toward the two squatting men with only a brief glance at Twister who sat gloomily in the saddle.

  Twister allowed himself a sardonic grin as he watched Chuckaluck walk boldly over and say, “Howdy.”

  Then, panic seized him when he remembered the missing buckskin from Kirk’s corral. The fire flared high as fresh twigs were piled on, outlining his partner’s mount in the yellow light. He knew at once why Chuckaluck had pushed him so hard. Wet with sweat from the fast ride, trail dust had settled in a thick layer on his hide and it was impossible to identify him as the horse they had glimpsed by lantern light in the corral.

  The sheriff settled back on his heels to look up at the new arrival. “Howdy, stranger,” he drawled. “You in a hurry to get somewheres?”

  “Lookin” fo’ thuh Adams’ spread,” the chunky cowhand said. “Feller in Marfa says Frank Adams is needin’ a hand.”

  “That so?” said the sheriff with interest. “Fust I knowed about it. Spring round-up, I reckon.”

  “Reckon so,” said Chuckaluck.

  Jerry Kirk was crouched forward on his knees reading the letter. He looked up as he finished and said in an awed voice, “Listen to this, Sheriff. It’s Lucy’s old man. He’s dead … back there in Ohio. Here’s what the lawyers say:

  “‘DEAR MRS. KIRK,

  It is our sad duty to inform you that your father, John Bascom, passed away last Friday after a brief and painless illness.

  As his only child, you are sole heir to your father’s estate, and we trust that you will find it convenient to return soon so that his will may be probated and this property turned over to you.

  Please advise us if there is any way in which we may serve you in this period of bereavement, and believe us, dear madam, to be

  Your obedient servants,

  DIBBY AND MEADOWS.’”

  His black eyes were filled with consternation when he looked up from the letter and stared at the sheriff. “I don’t get any of this. Her old man was dead set against her marryin’ me and comin’ out to Texas to live, an’ he cut her off without a damned cent when she eloped with me. She never had a letter from him even when she wrote him about Bobbie being born. Now the old codger dies and leaves her all his money.”

  “Was he well-fixed?”

  “Plenty,” said Kirk bitterly. “Half a dozen farms in Ohio, and a big house in town with servants to keep it nice. He was so damned tight-fisted and mean he wouldn’t even send Lucy the rest of her clothes after she married me. She wrote him once last winter that Bobbie was sick and needed medicine and we didn’t have the money to buy it. The old devil didn’t answer her letter.” He twisted the legal notification into a tight roll and made a move to throw it into the fire.

  “Don’t do that!” the sheriff growled. “Better lemme have that for safekeepin’ till we find Lucy. Reckon her pa had a change o’ heart on his deathbed. Thing is for us to find Lucy now an’ tell ’er ’bout it.” He held out his enormous right hand, palm up, and Kirk put the rolled letter in it.

  Kirk sprang up and clasped his hands together, held them high and shook them impotently at the moonlit sky. “That’s just it, damn it!” he raged into the cool, still night air. “Maybe it’s too late!”

  “Sounds t’me like somebuddy’s done had some moughty good luck,” Chuckaluck observed in a friendly voice.

  “What’s that you say?” demanded Kirk fiercely. “Who are you?”

  “Name of Chuckaluck Thompson,” the chunky man said. “I got thuh handle ’account o’ being powerful lucky when I play chuckaluck. Whereat did yuh say is thuh Adams’ spread?” he asked the sheriff.

  Before Sheriff Morgan replied, Kirk cut in to ask wildly, “You one of Frank Adams’ hands?”

  “Not yet, but I hope tuh be. What’d yuh say yore name was?” Chuckaluck answered politely.

  “I didn’t say,” snapped Kirk. He went over to his horse, saying over his shoulder, “I’m seein’ Frank right now. You’ll do me a favour if you’ll get a posse together to hunt for Lucy in case I don’t find out nothin’, Sheriff. I mean to search every inch of the ZB outfit.” He was in the saddle and galloping away before Morgan could reply.

  “Acks like he’s got a invasion o’ grasshoppers in ’is britches,” muttered Chuckaluck. “What’s eatin’ on him?”

  “He’s in a bad way,” Morgan said curtly. “Jerry Kirk’s his name. Come here lessen a yeah ago from Ohio. Allus was sorta nervous an’ jumpy. Home-steaded the mesa up the hill yonder an’ had a heap o’ trouble gettin’ a start. Reckon it’s enough to get a feller down when he can’t make a livin’ fo’ his wife an’ baby. Got hisself a job in San Angelo t’make money for victuals, an’ now he’s come home an’ found ’em missin’.”

  “Missin’?” Chuckaluck glanced over his shoulder at Twister and lowered his voice to ask, “Yuh mean that ugly-lookin’ feller on thuh roan yonder …?”

  “I dunno,” groaned the sheriff. “We can’t find no signs o’ her ’round the mesa. See here, now.” He studied Chuckaluck’s cherubic face intently in the firelight for a long moment, then continued as though he suddenly came to a decision:

  “You’re ridin’ to the ZB spread. That’s where Kirk’s headed right now … with a crazy idee that maybe his wife has run out on ’im. I got to take this here jasper in to Marfa an’ lock’im up an’ I’d take it a might big favour if you’d take out on Kirk’s trail to see he don’t come yo no hahm. Frank Adams is right hot-headed, an’ I’m a-feared there’ll be trouble if Jerry barges in there an’ ’cuses ’im o’ somethin’ unsuitin’ to a gen’lemun. An’ with Jerry bein’ ha’f crazy …”

  “Shore,” said Chuckaluck hastily. “Iffen I ride fast anough.…” He turned and hurried to his horse without another glance at Twister.

  “Turn through them high white gateposts to the right ’bout ha’f a mile ahead. Try to get Jerry to come on to Marfa right away. I’ll be gettin’ a search party ready.” The sheriff’s voice rose to a shout as Chuckaluck moved away from him, but the chunky cowhand waved one hand, nodded to indicate he had heard, then spurred his muddy horse to a rapid gait.

  Twister Malone sat silently astride his weary roan and watched his partner disappear. There was an amused smile on his wide mouth and amazed admiration in his grey eyes because of Chuckaluck’s quick wit and daring. But he was not surprised. There he was, practically deputized by the Marfa sheriff to go after the man whose wife he would be accused of murdering if the sheriff knew he had been in the cabin with Twister.

  This thought brought Twister back to the realization of his own predicament. Here he sat waiting to begin the weary ride into Marfa to be locked up for a crime he had not committed. It was danged curious, but things often worked out that way when he and Chuckaluck got into trouble together. It had happened so often that he was no longer surprised. Chuckaluck’s strange belief and trust in Fate heartened him a little, and he hoped his partner would find out something that would get the other end of his catch-rope out of the sheriff’s hands.