Kirk lapsed into moody silence, soothed, perhaps, or made more melancholy by the moaning mouth organ, as they jogged on together over the last rise and saw the small town of Marfa spread out on the plain about a half-mile below. Pale lights shone through the windows and doors of business establishments lining the one main street, and smoke from kitchen stoves and lamp-lighted windows outlined the residential section of the cow-town.

  Sensing watering troughs and restful hitching posts, their horses snorted and quickened their pace. Chuckaluck wiped his harmonica on his shirtsleeve and put it away, muttering, “So that there’s Marfa,” his relief upon finally reaching the destination he had started for many hours ago causing him to forget for the moment the role Fate had decreed he must play until Twister was free.

  Jerry Kirk shot him a quick, sidelong glance. “You sound surprised. Did you think it’d be changed since you left this afternoon?”

  Chuckaluck laughed lamely. “It ain’t that. Jus’ nevah saw it laid out at night from this road.”

  “Where you staying in town?”

  “At thuh … hotel.” He hoped there wouldn’t be more than one, or that Kirk wouldn’t ask him the name of it.

  “The Lone Star?” Kirk asked indifferently.

  “Thass right.” They were nearing the town and Chuckaluck was alert and thinking fast. After lying to the sheriff and Kirk about coming from Marfa he had to keep up the bluff, if possible, and not let them know he had never seen Marfa before.

  “I reckon I’ll stop by the hotel with you,” Kirk decided. “Rent me a room for a few days so I’ll have a place to flop if we don’t find Lucy and Bobbie right away.”

  “Why don’t yuh hunt up thuh sheriff fust thing?” Chuckaluck suggested, “an’ get ’im tuh ast his prisoner did he meet Adams on thuh road tuhday. I’ll get a room fo’ yuh,” he ended eagerly.

  “No use of that. It’s right on our way.” They were entering the main street now, lined with saloons and stores on either side, saddled horses standing patiently at hitchracks.

  Kirk reined up in front of an unpainted two-story frame building with a painted sign projecting out over the board walk that read: LONE STAR HOTEL. Kirk eased his sore body from the saddle and hitched his horse to the only available space directly in front of the hotel, and went inside.

  Chuckaluck took his time finding a place for his buckskin, hoping to give Kirk time to complete his business at the desk and come out before he went in, but when he entered the dimly lighted lobby a few minutes later, Kirk was still in earnest conversation with a fat man behind the desk. He turned and excitedly beckoned when he saw Chuckaluck.

  “I want you to hear this … since you’re sort of in the middle of this thing with me.” His black eyes glittered in his sun-browned face.

  Chuckaluck sauntered up uneasily, but Kirk was too excited to notice that the hotel proprietor didn’t recognize him. “Fritz says there was a man in here yesterday askin’ for me. A city feller. Hurry up, Fritz, and find his name on the register.”

  “Hold your horses,” the fat man grumbled as he turned the leaves of a small cloth-bound register. “Um-m. Here ’tis. Oscar Bascom, Summerville, Ohio.”

  “Oscar Bascom!” Kirk’s face muscles tensed and he took on a jaundiced colouring. “That’s Lucy’s uncle. Her pa’s brother. I met him once.”

  Fritz was chewing rhythmically on a cud of tobacco, his dimpled elbows resting on the pine shelf-desk. “That’s right,” he said. “Said your wife was his niece. He was mighty anxious to get out to see her. Hired a rig from the livery stable yesterday and drove out.”

  “Did he say why he wanted to see her? Did he see her? Was she there? How was she?” Kirk’s voice rose, rasping and demanding.

  “He didn’t say very much,” Fritz drawled. “Close-mouthed as all get-out.” He turned and spat a stream of tobacco juice, dead-centring the spittoon some eight feet away. “Come back from your place about four o’clock and was asking all around about you. Where you was … and all.”

  “Didn’t he say anything about seeing Lucy and Bobbie?” Kirk asked fiercely. “What did you tell him?”

  “To tell the truth I didn’t know where you was, Jerry.” Fritz’s pale blue gaze was faintly disapproving. “I thought you was out to your ranch. Later he came in and said he’d got word you was in San Angelo and he was driving down to-day to see you. Somebody told him you was working in a store there,” he ended accusingly.

  Kirk nodded his black head slowly, his breathing irregular and audible. “Lucy must’ve told him where I was. But maybe he didn’t believe her. Do you know what that means?” he demanded urgently of Chuckaluck.

  “’Tain’t so strange fo’ somebuddy from thuh family tuh come out tuh see what’s what after writin’ her a lettuh three weeks ago aboot her daddy bein’ daid an’ gettin’ no answer,” Chuckaluck told him.

  “I don’t mean that. Now we know she knew about her father’s death and the money before … whatever happened to-day.” Frowns of confusion rumpled the tight brown skin of his high forehead.

  Chuckaluck frowned back at him and ruffled his sun-bleached hair. “Yuh mean yuh reckon that’s why she walked out o’ thuh cabin at noon tuhday?”

  “I don’t mean that at all,” said Kirk irritably. “Why do you suppose she didn’t come back with him in his livery rig yesterday if she meant to leave the mesa?”

  “I dunno.” He spoke slowly, but his mind was turning this new information over rapidly.

  “Wouldn’t she have?” Kirk was raging. “Wouldn’t she have gone with him to find me?”

  “She didn’t,” the hotel manager said flatly.

  “But that would’ve been the natural thing to do,” Kirk insisted. “Why would she stay out there by herself after she knew she was rich and didn’t have to?”

  “Looks like she did,” Fritz drawled, one side of his fat face bulging with the tobacco cud.

  They fell silent, Fritz shifting his placid gaze from one man to the other, his jaws working in slow rhythm. Kirk’s eyes glinted as he stared at the plank walls, while Chuckaluck’s cherubic face screwed itself into worry-lines and he scratched his head slowly as though to rouse some ideas that would make sense.

  Suddenly Kirk thudded his right fist into his left palm and exclaimed, “I bet I know why … because I’ll bet that low-down skunk Oscar Bascom didn’t tell her. Lucy never liked him, and he hated me. I’ll bet he drove to San Angelo hoping to find me and …” He whirled, taking the rest of the sentence with him as he went out, his left shoulder drooping and his torso bent forward slightly as though to ease a pain in his recently wrenched back.

  Fritz scratched the inflated side of his face and asked in a bewildered voice, “Can you tell me what’s eatin’ on Jerry Kirk, Mister?”

  “’Pears like he’s mislaid a wife an’ a li’l boy name o’ Bobbie,” said Chuckaluck gently. “He’s moughty upset, so don’ pay too much heed tuh him. Yuh got a room fo’ me?”

  “Plenty of rooms. What do you mean he’s mislaid a wife and boy? Hadn’t heard anything about it.” Fritz was turning the ledger around. He carefully pulled the stubby pencil out the full length of the twine holding it to the ledger, looked up inquiringly as he handed it to the chunky cowhand.

  “I dunno too much aboot it m’se’f,” Chuckalong told him. “Reckon yuh’ll be a-hearin’ plenty afore it’s ovah.”

  There were no printed dates on the pages of the register. One page was used for several by entering the correct date in the middle of the page above the names of guests, if any, who registered that day. Chuckaluck noted that the new date had not been entered under the names of two men who had evidently registered the previous day. He scribbled his name and “El Paso, Texas” directly beneath the other names.

  When the proprietor turned the book around he discovered the error. He said apologetically, “I’ll just erase your name and put in the right date and then you can sign again.”

  “Better not do that,” Chuckaluck said gravely. “I got a funny superstition aboot signin’ m’name twict thuh same day.”

  Fritz looked up at him and said uncertainly, “I got to keep my book in order. It’s not legal to register you under the wrong date.”

  “Wouldn’ it be legal was I tuh pay yuh fo’ thuh day I’m registered fo?’”

  Fritz studied the round, solemn blue eyes for a long moment. “Dollar four bits is a pretty high price to pay for a superstition,” he argued mildly.

  “It’s my money an’ my superstition.” He put three silver dollars on the counter. “Now I’m paid up fo’ tuhnight, too. An’ jus’ fohget aboot thuh mistake if anybuddy asts yuh. Where-at’s thuh jailhouse?”

  The fat propretor slid the three dollars into a cigar-box under the counter and told his new guest to go to the end of Main Street and turn to the right until he came to an adobe building with iron bars on the windows and there he would find the jail. Chuckaluck thanked him and went out.

  CHAPTER VII

  There was a saloon next door to the hotel. Chuckaluck stopped in front of it and argued with himself. His first duty was to Twister who was probably trying to twist the bars from the jail windows to free himself and ride toward the Mexican border. His lanky partner could never relax and rest in a jailhouse even when he, Chuckaluck, was in there with him. It was pretty hard on him, being there alone and not knowing what was happening, not knowing whether anything was being done to obtain his release.

  Chuckaluck could hear voices inside the saloon and the smell of whisky floated out with the yellow light through the doorway. Perhaps he could help his partner better after a few drinks to wet his parched throat and warm his stomach. And maybe he would hear something new, some encouraging turn in the case against Twister, from the men inside.

  After winning the argument Chuckaluck pushed his black Stetson far back from his forehead and went into the saloon. There were a dozen or more men lounging against the bar talking excitedly.

  “… plumb due fer uh necktie party, way I see it,” were the first words he heard distinctly. “Plain as thuh nose on yore face he kilt ’em both an’ then figgered on settlin’ down right thar in thuh cabin. They say he done et his suppuh an’ wuz ca’m as yuh please when Morgan an’ Kirk rid up.”

  The bartender was a tall, thin man with a long thin nose and a receding chin. His Adam’s apple protruded like the joint on a doubled forefinger. It bobbed up and down when he said, “That ain’t what I heard. Fellow told me Frank Adams told him that Jerry Kirk told him to look in on his wife to see nothin’ happened to her whilst he was gone to San Angelo an’ now she’s upped an’ gone off with Frank an’ took the little boy along.”

  A big red-faced man in the centre of the group pounded the bar with a huge, hairy hand and roared, “What we need ish law! Needsh law an’ stashutes to protect womensh an’ li’l babysh.”

  “Aw shut yore mouth,” another man shouted. “Yo’re drunk as a coot.

  Chuckaluck sidled up to the bar and caught the thin man’s murky eye. Reluctantly he moved away from the centre of the engrossing subject and asked, “What’ll it be?”

  “Whisky.” Chuckaluck took papers and tobacco from his shirt pocket and rolled a cigarette, lit it, and puffed a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. When the bartender brought his drink he asked, “Who’s thuh big man what wants all thuh lawin’?”

  “That’s jest Barry,” said the thin man. “Come out here claimin’ he was a barrister and aimed to settle things ’cordin’ to law. He’s a powerful high-soundin’ talker when he’s sober, which he ain’t never no more. Reckon he didn’t have much chance to practice his lawin’ in these parts.” He turned and hurried back to the centre of the group.

  “Way I heard it,” one of the men was saying, “this galoot come along and caught Missus Kirk and her little boy swimmin’ in the water tank on Rangoon’s spread. He opened up the sluice-gates and washed the little boy down the arroya and then killed Missus Kirk and cut ’er up in little pieces and buried ’em roundabout where nobody could find ’em.”

  “All of yuh’s daid wrong,” another man broke in. “I got thuh very lates’ low-down on ever-thing. Seems like Missus Kirk’s ol’ man out in Ohio was plenty rich. He upped an’ died and lef’ all thuh money tuh her … iffen she wuz erlive. Yestiddy this hombre comes to Marfa and on thuh sly he finds out whar Missus Kirk lives an’ he goes up to thuh mesa and kills her an’ thuh li’l boy both so’s he’ll get thuh money ’stid o’ her. But nobody can’t find out whar he buried ’em at.”

  A low rumble of astonishment rose from the lips of the listeners. Then Barry the barrister’s voice roared into the rumble:

  “’Swhat comesh of no statutsh. What shay we get ’em both in court an’ try ’em. I can make ’em talk.” He straightened his heavy body to a height of six feet and four inches, and the effort appeared to sober him. “You gentlemen can sit on the jury,” he ended with a flourish.

  “Bet I know how they coulda hid ’em,” A slight youngish man with protruding eyes spoke for the first time. “They could of cut up thuh bodies and b’iled ’em up ’till thuh meat come offen thuh bones, then hid thuh bones in thuh cracks in thuh cliffs ’round thuh mesa.”

  Complete silence followed this awesome speculation, then Barry’s deep voice spoke: “Gentlemen, I bow to your superior judgment of a neck-tie party. I recall sometime ago when a Chinaman was murdered in cold blood in these parts. Judge Roy Bean spent an entire night going through his law books, and there wasn’t a word in any of them regarding a penalty for shooting a Chinaman. It goes without my saying that there is no law on the statutes penalizing a man for cannibalism.” He bowed deeply, resumed his lounging position at the bar, and picked up a drink.

  A pall fell over the group and the air seemed charged with the thoughts of the outraged men and their ominous intentions. Disappointed at the sudden quiet, the bartender went back to the end of the bar and said to Chuckaluck:

  “Stranger in Marfa?”

  “Been ’round two-three days.”

  “That so?” The bartender picked up a bottle of whisky and filled Chuckaluck’s empty glass almost to the brim. “I ain’t seen you ’round.”

  “I ain’t been in this here saloon befo’. Heard tell yuh poured thuh stingiest drinks in Marfa, so I been samplin’ thuh other places.”

  “Now that’s a dadblamed lie.” He peered down at Chuckaluck’s partially filled glass and dribbled whisky in to the brim. “You can’t say that ain’t full measure.”

  “Shore can’t,” Chuckaluck agreed amiably. “What’s all thuh talk aboot?” He indicated the group of men with a jerk of his head.

  “Ain’t you heard?” The bartender was both astounded and vastly pleased to meet someone who hadn’t heard the tale. “Sheriff’s got a woman-baby-killer locked up in jail. Boys’ll string ’im up I reckon, ’fore the night’s out. Folks’re turribly riled up.”

  “Is that so?” marvelled Chuckaluck. “Got ’im dead tuh rights, huh?”

  “Looks like. Mean-looking hombre. They say a man can tell jest by the look in his eye he’s a murderer. Some say that most likely he did it weeks ago right after Kirk left,” he went on, lowering his voice and leaning closer to his listener’s ear, “and has been stayin’ there at the cabin an’ takin’ his time gettin’ rid of the evidence … on account of it seems the law don’t enforce no penalty lessen they got a body to prove the killin’.”

  The man sitting next to Chuckaluck said, “I heard this here murderin’ galoot claims he rode in from Fort Davis to-day, but they say his horse was fat an’ sleek an’ showed he’d been eatin’ that green grass on Kirk’s mesa an’ drinkin’ all the water he could hold for weeks an’ hadn’t been under the saddle at all.”

  “Seems t’me like from what I been hearin’ thuh pore woman was kilt by two-three hombres all tuh once,” Chuckaluck said mildly. “Mebbe thuh one locked up jus’ …”

  “You standin’ up for this scarred-face killer?” the man demanded.

  “I ain’t standin’ up fo’ nobuddy,” Chuckaluck disclaimed promptly. “I dunno nothin’ aboot all thuh talk I been listenin’ tuh sinct I come in here to get m’se’f a drink. Only thing I heard aboot was a tough-lookin’ feller with black whiskers on ’is face openin’ thuh sluice-gates on Rangoon’s spread an’ lettin’ thuh water out. Feller what tol’ me said he rode up t’wards Kirk’s place.”

  “Thuh very same feller thuh sheriff’s got locked up,” one of the men at the bar said. “We’re jest waitin’ till thuh sheriff gets a posse out tuh search Frank Adams’ house. If Missus Kirk an’ her baby ain’t there we got a cottonwood tree an’ a rope what says he shore won’t kill no more wimmin an’ babies.”

  “Shore have,” another voice echoed, and the dark thoughts of the group gushed out in exciting and blasphemous words with every man shouting to be heard.

  Chuckaluck hastily downed his second drink and hurried out. The boardwalk was practically deserted as he went toward the Marfa jail, but from the swinging doors of every saloon came the sound of angry voices. The voices of men who were filling their bellies with whisky and their minds with all sorts of exaggerated rumours. The way things were shaping up by midnight the citizens of the little cowtown wouldn’t be in any mood to wait for a messenger to go to Fort Davis and return with proof that he and Twister had left there at ten o’clock in the morning.

  He reached the end of Main Street and turned off as the hotel manager had directed, passed one unlighted house and then saw a square adobe structure on the other side of the road with moonlight glinting on iron bars at the windows.

  The jail was dark, but close beside it was a neat frame house with lamplight shining between the curtains at the windows. Chuckaluck hurried up the steps and across the porch and pounded on the front door.

  Sheriff Morgan came to the door with a napkin tucked under his chin. His heavy face was calm and unworried and his voice was hearty when he said: