Sheriff Morgan mounted his horse and Twister came out of his reverie when he felt a gentle pull on the rope and they moved into the moonlit trail to Marfa.

  CHAPTER V

  Chuckaluck reined his buckskin to an easy gallop when he was out of hearing distance from the spot he had left the sheriff and Twister. His mount had been under saddle all day with only a brief rest and an interrupted feeding at the Kirk corral. Besides, he wasn’t too eager to overtake Jerry Kirk. He had noticed that the angry, wild-acting young husband was not armed, and decided he wouldn’t kick up too much of a fuss.

  Slouched in the saddle with his chunky body swaying from side to side, his mind was alertly marshalling all the facts in the amazing situation into which he and his partner had been thrust.

  After saddling his buckskin at the Kirk place and leading him quietly to the edge of the mesa he had returned to the cabin and crouched outside listening to everything that was said, and now he had to try to put the pieces together and try to make some sense out of it.

  It was evident that Jerry Kirk wasn’t a rancher from the fancy way he talked and from his failure to get a start on the lush green mesa with plenty of water. He had married the only child of a rich farmer in Ohio, and her father had objected strongly enough to disinherit her. Kirk had brought her to the solitude of the home-steaded mesa in the mountains to eke out a living as best they could. Faced with a scarcity of cash a couple of months back, Kirk had left his wife and child in the lonely cabin and gone to the thriving town of San Angelo where he had swallowed his pride and gone to work in a feed store to save enough cash to keep them going through the spring and until he could get a crop harvested in the summer.

  But recently a rumour had reached Kirk in San Angelo that his wife was being friendly with a neighbouring rancher named Frank Adams, and jealousy had driven him to quit his job and come home unexpectedly to investigate the truth of the story. Kirk didn’t know enough about the unwritten law of the ranchers to know that if a man took advantage of a husband’s absence to pay improper attentions to his wife he would be run out of the country or else become the star in a neck-tie drama under a cottonwood tree.

  Chuckaluck shook his head solemnly from side to side. Jerry Kirk was a wild, high-strung, jealous young man who had a lot to learn. When his wife and baby were found and returned to their home and she received the money from her father’s estate, Chuckaluck decided, they would be the happiest ranchers in Texas. “Reckon a hombre that’s as jealous as him shore mus’ love his wife a-plenty,” he muttered to himself.

  He began watching for the white gateposts leading to the ZB spread, and now he saw them a few feet ahead, gleaming in the moonlight. When he reached them and started to dismount he saw that the four-strand wire gate was open. Again he shook his head, moodily this time, over the young man’s overwrought condition which had caused him to flout this inviolable law of the range. He could hear the hoofbeats of Kirk’s horse ahead racing toward the ranch house.

  Chuckaluck rode through, dismounted, and closed the gate behind him. He couldn’t find it in his heart to blame Jerry Kirk too much. He felt, in fact, that the young rancher had shown remarkable self-restraint when he let the sheriff talk him into going easy on Twister. The truths which Twister had told them were so fantastic he didn’t blame the sheriff and Kirk for thinking he was lying.

  Remounting, he rode on, every small detail of the events of the late afternoon racing through his mind. It was too much to ask anybody to believe the story of the Marfa shortcut sign. A sign was a stationary thing, nailed to a tree, and it just didn’t go travelling from one tree to another. There was only one way to figure it. The man who had opened the tank gate must have known about the Kirk’s cabin and in order to get even with them for thwarting his evil purpose had ridden up ahead of them and moved the sign, hoping to get them into trouble. Chuckaluck, himself, had ridden up the road to the real Marfa turn-off and found the sign there just as Kirk had said it was when he returned from Marfa via the short-cut a short time previously. It was from this point, after a scouting expedition, that Chuckaluck had galloped up to find Kirk reading the letter from the Ohio lawyers.

  The fact that Mrs. Kirk’s father had relented before his death and willed her all his property was an important part of the whole picture, though he couldn’t see just how it fitted in. In one sense, the letter ruined one crazy theory he had been building up in his mind before he knew of its existence.

  From almost the very first the absence of human beings from the cabin under the conditions existing was mysterious and somewhat eerie, and the more Chuckaluck thought of it now the more it seemed to be some sort of trickery or hoax on the part of Mrs. Kirk. Suppose the same person who had carried the story of his wife to Jerry Kirk, resulting in his panic of jealousy, had returned to warn Lucy Kirk that her husband was on his way home raging mad.

  Would she have arranged things in the cabin as he and Twister had found them, gone down and moved the sign in a desperate effort to trick some stranger into taking the mesa trail in the hope of having help if her husband became violent … and then waited in some secret hiding place until his anger subsided and gave way to anxiety over her absence?

  That theory was knocked into a cocked hat by the letter in the mailbox. If Mrs. Kirk had gone down the hill of her own free will and waited for someone to be fooled by the misplaced sign, he was morally certain she would have looked in the box and found the letter.

  As he jogged along his chin drooped on his chest as he brooded over the fact that a mere happenstance had turned into a sinister and mysterious circumstance that could result disastrously for Twister, and for himself, too, as soon as a description of the two riders was brought from Fort Davis to the Marfa Sheriff, unless he found the answer.

  He saw a lighted bunkhouse in a clearing ahead, and a larger cabin in the clearing to the right with darkened windows. Silhouetted in the light from the open door of the bunkhouse he could see a mounted figure, and as he drew nearer he heard voices raised in heated argument.

  “… tellin’ yuh thuh truth, that’s what.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Kirk’s angry voice smashed back at the speaker lounging against the door sill. He was a big, red-faced man with a bald head and a long black moustache. He was wearing a soiled undershirt and faded Levis. Neither of the men appeared to have heard him ride up, and he reined up some twenty feet away and listened.

  “You’re lying in your teeth,” Kirk raged. “I’m betting Frank Adams is home right now, and I mean to find out before I leave here.”

  “I dunno what’s got intuh yuh, Kirk,” said the bald-headed man soberly. “I nevah knowed yuh was crazy, but yuh are fer shore. I’m tellin’ yuh Frank ain’t tuh home.”

  “And I’m tellin’ you my wife and kid are missin’ and I aim to search every room of Adams’ house before I leave here.”

  “Yuh’ll stay outen that house,” said the big man, taking a swift stride from the doorway and catching the reins of Kirk’s horse close to the curb bit. “I’m boss on thuh ZB whilst Frank’s away, an’ I ain’t lettin’ nobody th’ough it.”

  “Now I know you’re lying,” sobbed Kirk. He jabbed spurs to his horse’s flanks and the animal lunged forward and would have trampled the ZB foreman had he not leaped aside with remarkable agility.

  Drawing a gun from his waistband the foreman roared, “Stay right heah or so he’p me I’ll drill yuh plumb centre th’ough thuh liver.”

  The sight of the gun brought the unarmed man to his senses. He pulled his horse up and leaped to the ground, walked back slowly with his hands swinging at his sides. “If you didn’t have that gun, Montrose …”

  “Yeh?” jeered Montrose. “If I didn’ have this gun in m’hand, whut then?” He twisted his head toward the open bunkhouse door and shouted, “Tex! Come out heah.”

  A lanky puncher emerged from the bunkhouse and the foreman backed toward him, holding the gun out butt first.

  “Take this, Tex. I’ll teach this crazy galoot a lesson he won’t forgit fast. I’ll fight ’im fair an’ if he should accidental-like git in a lucky lick, yuh run ’im offen thuh place.”

  Kirk leaped forward with an oath the instant the foreman’s gun-hand was empty. His fist crashed into Montrose’s face and blood ran from his nose as he rocked back on his heels under the suddenness of the attack.

  Kirk was after him again with the ferocity of desperation before the foreman had a chance to recover his balance, swinging hard rights and lefts to the chin and drawing grunts of rage from him as Kirk’s fist pounded into his opponent’s well-padded paunch.

  Slumped in the saddle, Chuckaluck watched. He saw Kirk stagger under a wild swing from Montrose that landed on the side of his head, but Kirk ducked his chin and bored in with flying fists.

  Then the burly foreman abandoned his former tactics and suddenly closed with Kirk, clasping both arms around the slender man’s waist in a crushing hug and lifting him until his feet dangled helplessly in the air.

  Kirk squirmed and twisted furiously for a moment, but the larger man bent his body inexorably backward until it formed an arc, and Kirk’s struggles grew weaker and weaker, then ceased in a half-strangled scream of pain.

  At the same moment that Montrose tossed Kirk’s lax body disdainfully to the ground Chuckaluck dismounted and stepped purposefully forward with his hand on his gun-butt. Montrose drew back his booted foot and kicked Kirk in the face as he writhed in agony on the ground.

  Chuckaluck triggered his gun and a lead slug chipped leather from the foreman’s boot-heel. He spung around angrily as the shot rang out, and Chuckaluck walked into the path of light from the open door. Ignoring Montrose, he said to Tex:

  “Drop thuh gun. From now on I’ll do thuh talkin’.”

  “Who thuh hell are yuh?” Montrose snarled as Tex dropped the gun to the ground.

  “Just a wanderin’ waddie passin’ by,” Chuckaluck told him cheerfully. “I sorta like tuh see a man fight fair, thass all.”

  “Whut do yuh mean?” demanded the foreman. “I passed m’gun tuh Tex an’ give ’im thuh chanct he wanted.”

  “Tain’t nice tuh kick a man in thuh face whilst he’s lyin’ on thuh ground with ’is back near busted,” Chuckaluck said. “Pick ’im up, both o’ yuh, an’ carry ’im inside.”

  Montrose glared at him for a moment, then muttered, “Yo’re right. I wuz so blamed mad I didn’ know whut I wuz a-doin’. Git a-holt, Tex,” he directed gruffly.

  Chuckaluck waited until they carried Kirk into the bunkhouse, then he scooped up the foreman’s gun from the ground and followed them.

  Kirk had struggled to a sitting position on the floor and was staring wildly around the room when Chuckaluck walked in. His face was bruised and his eyeballs curiously distended, but he recognized the chunky cowhand. “What the hell are you doing here,” he demanded.

  “I tol’ yuh an’ thuh sheriff I was headed here lookin’ fo’ a job,” Chuckaluck reminded him. “How aboot it?” he asked, turning to Montrose. “Be yuh thuh boss?”

  Montrose was sitting on a bunk, blowing on the bruised knuckles of his right hand. “I got charge whilst Adams ain’t heah,” he said gruffly, “but I ain’t hirin’ no noo hands.”

  “Where is Adams?” Chuckaluck asked casually.

  “Fo’t Davis, I reckon. He wuz headed fer there when he rode off at daylight this mawnin’. Headin’ on tuh Pecos City, mebbe.”

  Chuckaluck started to contradict this by saying he had ridden the road from Fort Davis that morning and hadn’t met even one rider, but he stopped himself in time. That was the trouble with lying. A fellow gets started on one and has to watch his words.

  “I don’t believe a word Montrose said,” Kirk protested.

  “Now, by God!…” Montrose started to get up, but Chuckaluck waved him back with his gun.

  “That ain’t no way tuh talk,” he reproved Kirk, and went on apologetically to the foreman. “Don’t get too het up aboot what thuh young feller says. ’Cordin’ to thuh sheriff he’s all worked up ’cause his wife’s missin’ and he don’t know whereat his li’l boy is.”

  “His wife and boy?” Montrose frowned blackly. “Whut happened to ’em?”

  “That’s what he don’t know. Reckon he come over here tuh ast yore boss,” Chuckaluck told him.

  Montrose’s frown smoothed out a trifle. He touched a bloody bandana to the cut on his face and said, “We shore ain’t got ’em heah.”

  Jerry Kirk still sat on the floor, carefully moving his shoulder and back muscles in an attempt to limber them. “I got a right to search the house over there and anywhere else to try and find my wife and boy,” he said weakly.

  “Why no,” Chuckaluck drawled judiciously. “I wouldn’ say yuh had no right. But it’d be a neighbourly thing,” he went on to Montrose, “if yuh was to show ’im th’ough thuh house an’ ease his mind sorta.”

  Montrose stubbornly shook his head. “I dunno whut bizness it is o’ yourn, mister, but Frank don’t want this here jasper on his spread a-tall. Thuh rip-snortin’ fool come a-tearin’ ovah heah an’ picked a fight with Frank … ’bout two months ago ’twas. ’Cused Frank o’ makin’ up tuh his woman.”

  “When was thuh las’ time yuh seen Missus Kirk?” Chuckaluck asked the foreman.

  “’Way las’ fall. We don’ have no call tuh ride up there.”

  “I’m not saying you rode up there,” Kirk said angrily. “What I want to know is when Frank Adams was there.”

  “Not sinct thuh time ’bout three months ago when he took up a side o’ yearlin’ steer we butchered. Frank wuz jest aimin’ tuh be neighbourly.”

  “I’ll bet he wanted to be neighbourly,” Jerry Kirk began sarcastically, but Chuckaluck said sternly, “Hush up an’ c’mon an’ le’s be ridin’.” He tossed Montrose’s gun on to the bunk beside him.”

  “Where to?” Kirk demanded, painfully getting to his feet. “If Lucy is here …”

  “I got me a idee,” Chuckaluck interrupted, “that yore wife ’d be a sight better off if she didn’ never come back tuh where yuh be. Yessuh, I’m shore gettin’ a notion she wasn’ runnin’ tuh somebuddy, but was runnin’ away from a rantin’ fool.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Kirk said sulkily. “What you stickin’ your tongue in for, anyway?”

  “The sheriff sort of deppitized me tuh see you got back tuh Marfa in one piece,” Chuckaluck told him coldly. “If there ain’t no jobs here on thuh ZB, le’s go.”

  “I don’t need anybody to see that I get back to Marfa,” Kirk protested, wincing with pain. “You can tell Sheriff Morgan …”

  “’Pears to me yuh could use a nussmaid,” said Chuckaluck sarcastically. “Stay aroun’ here an’ get yore damn teeth kicked in fo’ all o’ me.” He turned to Montrose and said calmly, “No hard feelin’s, I reckon.”

  “Hell no.”

  Chuckaluck nodded and went out the door and on to his horse. He was mounting when Kirk appeared in the doorway. He was bent forward at an angle and shuffling toward his mount.

  “Think yuh can make into thuh saddle?” Chuckaluck asked, walking his buckskin toward the young man and feeling a sudden surge of sympathy for him.

  “I can try,” Kirk said between clenched teeth. He got his left foot in the stirrup, heaved himself up, then slumped over the saddlehorn and groaned. Chuckaluck got a grip on the seat of his pants lifted him into the saddle.

  They were turning their horses to ride down the slope when the deep, drawling voice of the foreman stopped them. He was standing just outside the lighted doorway.

  “Iffen yore wife has run off, Kirk, I’d ride ovah to thuh Split X headquahters an’ ast about ’er.” His tone was cordial enough, but held a sneering undertone.

  “Rangoon’s place?” Jerry muttered. “What the devil makes you think she’d be there?”

  “Waal, fer one thing I got uh idee Missus Kirk moughta got tuh be frien’ly with thuh Split X fo’ks, seein’ as thuh wahter wuz turned back tuh Rangoon soon’s yuh lef’ fer San Angelo.”

  “I know the water is turned back,” Kirk grated. “But that’s no reason for my wife to run off without leavin’ me any word.”

  “Waal, I kinder thought mebbe Missus Kirk mighta got lonesome, an’ sinct yuh wouldn’ turn thuh wahter back, an’ she did, Rangoon moughta ast ’er up to thuh Split X fer a li’l visut.”

  “I told Rangoon to stay off my homestead,” Kirk raged. “If he’s been tresspassin’ on my …”

  “It moughta been Miss Jean whut ast ’er fer a visut,” Montrose broke in. “It’s natural fer her an’ Missus Kirk tuh wanta be frien’ly sinct both of ’em are moughty young an’ purty. I seen Miss Jean ridin’ thissaway a coupla times.”

  Kirk had been slumped over the saddlehorn as though too weary and full of pain to move. He pulled himself erect with an effort and said, “Who else from the Split X have you seen sneaking around my homestead?”

  “Waal, Rangoon’s got uh noo fo’man name o’ Clint Andrews, Moughty good-lookin’ feller. Gotta a heap o’ class. Reckon he’s purty smaht an’ aimin’ tuh make good on his noo job. Seen ’im ridin’ up thisaway lots o’ times, checkin’ on thuh tank an’ sech, an’ on thuh outlayin’ country in gen’ral, you mought say.”

  “Did you ever see him ride up the hill towards my place?” Kirk asked in a shaking voice.

  “Waal, I couldn’ ’zactly saw wheah all he rid tuh, but lak I said, with him a-wantin’ tuh make good on his noo job, an’ him bein’ whut yuh’d call han’some, he mought ’ve persuaded Missus Kirk tuh turn thuh watah intuh thuh tank so’s it’d run ovah on thuh Split X.”

  “If one of Rangoon’s hands has been snoopin’ around my homestead,” raged Kirk, “I’ll bust him wide open with my bare hands.”

  Chuckaluck, slumped in his saddle, had his eyes closed and his ears open. If ever he had heard a man deliberately goading another for sheer revenge, Montrose was goading Kirk. His round blue eyes narrowed when Montrose turned and went into the bunkhouse just as Kirk put spurs to his horse and galloped for a short distance, then slowed to a slow walk.