A strange expression came over Chuckaluck’s face. His round blue eyes were bright and his lips moved as though he tasted some savory morsel. He wriggled in his chair, scratching himself here and there, opening his mouth to speak and then clamping it tight.

  He was toying with the idea of dropping all pretence and admitting that he was with Twister. It would almost be worth it to see the expressions on their faces if he should affirm everything Twister had told them at the cabin while he crouched outside listening. But he didn’t dare show his hand yet. His innate bump of curiosity was a sizable one, and it was getting larger by the hour. There were too many queer things about the disappearance of Lucy Kirk and her baby, and now that he was in it so deep he wanted to know all the answers. A faint inkling of an idea was coming to him, but it was all mixed up and vague and hidden by a wall of things he didn’t understand yet.

  Jerry Kirk and the sheriff were still arguing, going over and over the same ground they had covered before, while Chuckaluck won the argument he was having with himself. The itching stopped and the bright gleam in his eyes changed to a shrewd and speculative stare.

  Kirk was saying, “I still think it was Oscar Bascom,” in a sullen voice, “and this scarred-faced galoot was mixed up in it with ’im somehow.”

  “I’m not sayin’ Twister ain’t mixed up in it,” Chuckaluck said. “But all thuh time we set ’round here talkin’ we don’t even know yore wife an’ baby ain’t plumb safe somewheres. We still ain’t checked with this here Twister Malone as tuh whether he met Frank Adams on thuh Fo’t Davis road or not.”

  “By God, that’s right. What are we waitin’ for, Sheriff? Why don’t we go out and get the truth out of Twister?”

  There was a twinkle of humour in Morgan’s eyes when he glanced at Chuckaluck behind Kirk’s back. “That’s what we been wantin’ to do all thuh time you was settin’ here talkin’ yore head off about Oscar Bascom,” he said resignedly, and slowly came to his feet.

  He led the way out the front door and across the intervening lot to the square adobe jailhouse. He unlocked the padlock of the heavy iron-slatted door and pulled it open, reached inside to take a lantern from a nail beside the door. As he lifted the chimney and lit it, Twister’s voice came to them with a note of cheerful mockery from the dark interior:

  “If yore wife has sent ovah another plate o’ supper, Sheriff, yuh tell ’er I cain’t eat no more’n ha’f of it.”

  Morgan grinned at Chuckaluck and Kirk as the lantern flared up. “Never had a pris’ner my wife took such a fancy to. Minute she seen ’im an’ saw how skinny he was she went plumb crazy an’ put on a hind-quarter o’ beef. If he stays in jail a week she’ll have ’im fatter’n you,” he told Chuckaluck. Then he raised his voice and shouted, “You done et up ever’thing in my house. Got a coupla visitors.”

  He went through the doorway and the two men followed him down a narrow corridor with empty cells on either side. Half-way down he stopped in front of Twister’s cell and held the lantern high so they could look through the bars and see the lanky puncher stretched full-length on a couple of clean cotton quilts folded over to make a comfortable bed.

  Twister lifted his head, crooked one elbow, rested his face in the palm of his hand and grinned at the faces through the bars. “Visitors?” he asked. “I don’ know nobuddy in Marfa.”

  “You know Jerry Kirk,” said the sheriff, “an’ this is a friend o’ mine, Chuckaluck Thompson. Feller that rode up when we lit a fire to read thuh letter.”

  Twister sat up in the bunk and nodded gravely. “Moughty nice fo’ ’em tuh come visitin’ a pore lonesome locked-up innercent man. Sorry I cain’t invite yuh all in tuh set an’ have a drink.”

  “We come to ask some questions,” said Morgan hastily.

  “Shore. But I done tol’ yuh …”

  “There’s one I didn’ ask you befo’.”

  “Seems like yuh ast me all there was in thuh book, but fire away.”

  “How many riders did you meet on thuh road ridin’ from Fort Davis to-day?”

  Twister blinked his eyes and drew his heavy black brows together in a deep frown as he pretended to try to remember. The lantern light shining through the bars threw a shifting pattern of light and dark shadows on his scarred face.

  Aware that his partner was stalling and waiting for some sign from him to indicate whether he was supposed to tell the truth or not, Chuckaluck ordered in a brisk and impersonal voice:

  “Speak up, man. If yo’re innercent thuh truth can’t do yuh no hahm.”

  “Reckon not.” Twister answered in a queer voice that sounded as though he might be choking with anger or with mirth. “Fact is, I didn’t meet nobuddy thuh hull damn way. Lonesomest country evah I rode th’ough. But I can prove I did make that ride even if I didn’ meet nobuddy. You send somebuddy tuh Fo’t Davis …”

  “I got a deppity on thuh way now,” Morgan assured him. “Think back careful now. There must of been somebody on that road. Near to Fort Davis, maybe, if you left when you say. A man ridin’ by hisse’f …?”

  “If I’d of seen anybudy I’d shore remembah ever’thing aboot ’im I’d of been so glad tuh meet up with a hooman bein’. An’ I’d tell yuh all aboot ’im.”

  “Reckon he’s tellin’ yuh thuh truth, Sheriff,” Chuckaluck said. “If he had of met Frank Adams and could describe ’im it’d back up his story.”

  “Yo’re right at that,” agreed the sheriff reluctantly. He lowered the lantern and turned to lead the way down the corridor, calling back to his prisoner, “Hope yuh sleep good.”

  “Hold on a minut,” Chuckaluck said.

  Morgan turned to ask, “What fo’?”

  “Ain’t yuh gonna turn him loose now?” Chuckaluck asked incredulously.

  “Why should I? We don’t know …”

  “Yuh know Jud Montrose was lyin’ aboot Frank Adams ridin’ tuh Fo’t Davis. Don’t that prove Adams had somethin’ up his sleeve an’ this pore devil is tellin’ thuh truth aboot ever’thing?”

  “I don’t reckon it proves that a-tall,” said the sheriff. “I’ll hustle some deppities out to Adams’ place to see what they can find out, but he’ll stay locked up ’till we get thuh straight of this.” He turned again and walked solidly down the corridor.

  Kirk spoke for the first time since they entered the jail. “Damn him!” he burst out. “So it was Adams all along. I’ll … by God, I’ll …” He hurried forward, his dark face twisted in an expression so venomous that Chuckaluck reached out and caught his arm in a firm grip.

  “Hold it, young feller,” he counselled. “This ain’t no time tuh fly off thuh bat.”

  “Let go of me,” Kirk said fiercely. “I’ll ride out there an’ …”

  They reached the door and the sheriff stepped aside to let the two men pass through, then he went out, closed and locked the iron door and joined them.

  “You ain’t ridin’ out nowheres,” he told Kirk grimly. “A body’d think yo’re not glad that it begins to look like yore wife and boy might be alive ’stead of dead an’ buried in a hidden grave.”

  Kirk struggled with all his hard, muscular strength to free himself, but Chuckaluck held him in an iron grip, watching him wince with pain from the injury Jud Montrose had inflicted on his back.

  Sheriff Morgan deftly lifted the six-gun from Kirk’s holster and stepped back. “Let ’im go,” he ordered Chuckaluck. “I’ll jus’ keep hold of this gun,” he told Kirk, “until my posse is on thuh road to Adams’ place. Then you can have it back. I need you here in town, anyhow,” he added with gruff kindness, “to meet this Oscar Bascom when he gets back from San Angelo. I wanta ask him some questions an’ I want you to hear his answers.”

  “All right,” said Kirk sulkily. “I’ll stay in town. Gimme me back my gun.” He held his hand out for it.

  Sheriff Morgan shook his head and thrust the weapon inside the wasitband of his Levis. “Not ’till after thuh posse gets on thuh road.”

  “I still wanta know why that feller’s got tuh stay locked up,” Chuckaluck persisted as Kirk stalked angrily away. “’Cause I say so,” the sheriff snapped. “Thanks fo’ yore help but I’ll handle things from now on out. Don’t be tellin’ me how to run my jail.”

  “Now, by golly,” said Chuckaluck slowly, “mebbe that’s jus’ what I will do. Who’s thuh bes’ lawyer in Marfa?”

  “There ain’t no lawyer in Marfa ’cept a feller name o’ Barry thuh barrister, so-called. He give up lawin’ in favour o’ drinkin’ years ago. We don’t have no truck with lawin’ hereabouts.” He turned and walked toward his house.

  “Mebbe yo’re gonna have some.” Chuckaluck was thoroughly angered now by the sheriff’s attitude. He moved swiftly to catch up with Morgan, faced him squarely and demanded:

  “Where’s thuh closest lawyer that knows how tuh swear out a habeas corpus or whatevah?”

  “Sam Pryor in San Angelo, I reckon. Dang it, Thompson, don’t you see I got troubles o’ my own. I got tuh get busy an’ fin’ Missus Kirk an’ her boy.”

  Chuckaluck shrugged his heavy, sloping shoulders and walked toward Main Street. It was a worrisome situation for the sheriff, he reckoned, but that wasn’t any reason why Twister should stay on in jail.

  When he reached the Lone Star Hotel he learned that there was a stagecoach to San Angelo coming through Marfa from El Paso in about an hour, and another coach leaving San Angelo for Marfa at ten o’clock the next morning, an hour after the El Paso coach arrived. There would be just about time for Sam Pryor to receive his letter and get an answer back to-morrow afternoon.

  He borrowed an envelope and a sheet of paper and a pencil from the hotel proprietor, carried them up to his room where he sat down at a rough board desk and wrestled with the problem of how to put his questions down on paper so they would elicit an immediate reply from the only practicsing attorney in that part of West Texas.

  CHAPTER IX

  Chuckaluck’s mouth and teeth were streaked with lead from the stubby pencil, but his letter was finished and he was nodding his head with satisfaction after reading it through when he heard the pounding of hoofbeats, the rattle of harness and wheels, and the hearty voice of the driver announcing the arrival of the stagecoach from El Paso. He hastily folded the letter, put it in the envelope and addressed it carefully, sealed it, and hurried down to the stage depot down the street where fresh horses were being hitched up for the next lap of the trip.

  He found the driver inside the depot talking with the local manager. Drawing him aside, he handed him the envelope, explaining that it was extremely important that it be delivered to Lawyer Pryor in San Angelo as soon as possible the next morning so that a reply would come by return stage. When the driver hesitated to make any promises, Chuckaluck took a ten-dollar gold piece from his pocket and spun it on the counter.

  “Like I say,” he explained earnestly, “it’s moughty important fo’ thuh letter tuh be delivered quick an’ not lay in thuh post office mebbe a day or two. Reckon yuh could fin’ somebuddy in San Angelo that’d take it tuh ’im pusson’ly?”

  The driver caught the gold coin before it stopped spinning. He grinned and said, “I’m off dooty at San Angelo. I know Sam Pryor an’ I’ll see yore lettuh gets in his hands ten minutes after I pull in. You want a answer brought back to you pussonal by thuh driver comin’ back this-away?”

  “I shore do. At thuh Lone Star Hotel.” Chuckaluck was digging in the pocket of his Levis again. He brought out another gold coin and said, “Mebbe yuh can take this an’ fix it up with thuh other driver for me. It’s tumble important.”

  “Shore. Glad tuh do it, podner,” the driver said heartily. “I’ll see tuh thuh hull thing m’self, an’ don’t yuh worry none.”

  A hostler shouted from the outside that the fresh team was ready to go, and he strode out with a nod to Chuckaluck, mounted to the driver’s seat, cracked his whip in the air and the horses galloped away.

  Chuckaluck stood in the doorway of the depot and watched the swaying coach until it disappeared. He gave a sigh of deep satisfaction, feeling that he had done everything possible at the moment to assure Twister’s release. He felt certain that Sheriff Morgan had dispatched a posse to search the ZB ranch by now, and he wondered whether they would find any trace of Lucy Kirk and her little boy, or Frank Adams. He was pretty sure the posse would not find them in the ranch house, even if they had been there when Kirk rode over and demanded the right to search for them.

  Chuckaluck stood alone on the board walk. The few people who had gathered when the stage came in had disappeared into the saloons along the main street. They hadn’t stood around and talked as people usually did in the small towns he had been in when the stage arrived.

  To-night there was a strange tension, an air of waiting, in Marfa. Men were gathered in the saloons drinking and telling over and over again the garbled tales they had heard, probably making up lurid details in their tense minds and adding them to the few known facts to further excite the citizens of Marfa. In spite of Sheriff Morgan’s calm assurance that there would not be a lynching, Chuckaluck could not rid himself of an ominous foreboding of trouble. Standing there on the walk, backlighted by the yellow light streaming through the depot door and staring at the empty, moonlit street, his round face drooped with gloom. He waggled his head mournfully and muttered, “Shore is gonna be powerful lone-sum ’thout Twister.”

  He began walking slowly down the walk, wondering where Frank Adams did go. The sheriff should be able to find somebody who knew and who would tell him. He felt, somehow, that when they found Adams a lot of things would be cleared up.

  His face screwed up into innumerable worry lines as he walked along. Two things bothered him to the point of itching irritation. He took off his Stetson and scratched his head, trying desperately to figure out why freshly cooked food was on the table in the cabin. That indicated Mrs. Kirk had not left of her own accord, yet there was no sign whatever of a struggle. It didn’t make sense either way.

  Another thing was the moving of the Marfa sign from its proper place to the trail leading to Kirk’s cabin and its return to the actual Marfa turnoff in so short a time. There had to be a reason for it, and if it had been done to lure him and Twister to the Kirk cabin so they would be found there by Jerry Kirk and the sheriff, what had been accomplished by it?

  The answer would not come. He quit scratching his head and put his Stetson on when he came to a saloon.

  Chuckaluck was a fatalist, and he had learned from other experiences when he and Twister had innocently rode into trouble that things generally worked out all right if a man had faith in Fate and let trouble run its course. Since Twister was safe and comfortable in jail, he might as well be watching a birdcage turn on a chuckaluck layout and win back the twenty dollars he had spent on his letter to Sam Pryor.

  He pushed the swinging doors of the saloon open and looked inside. The bar was crowded with men whose voices were loud and angry and blasphemous. There was no back room for gambling, and after listening for a moment and hearing them make suggestions for Twister’s death that were far more torturous than hanging, he eased the door shut and went on towards another saloon.

  He stopped suddenly, cocking his head and listening intently. The faint, muffled sound of hooves reached his ears. He stood stock still, holding his breath and straining his ears. As the sound came nearer he distinguished the measured beat of many horses moving in a group toward the town at a controlled lope, and he was far more disturbed than he would have been if the riders came at a headlong gallop. There was something inevitable about this sound, as though it betokened the approach of an implacable force sternly resolved to ride rough-shod over any opposition.

  For an instant Chuckaluck’s naturally optimistic nature came to his rescue and he thought it might be a detachment of cavalry troops riding in to prevent a lynching. Then he remembered that there were no government troops quartered in this section of the Big Bend, and the army post at Fort Davis had been abandoned long ago.

  A cold chill ran up and down his spine, and he felt a sense of paralysis, as though he could not move from the spot if he wanted to. There was a quality of doom in the sound as it came ever nearer, and he knew that the news of Mrs. Kirk’s disappearance had spread like wildfire over the range and that the man responsible for it was locked in the Marfa jail.

  The sound was near enough now to penetrate inside the saloons, and men began to stream out on to the boardwalk, talking in wild excitement and speculating on what this visitation might mean to the citizens of Marfa.

  When the riders swung into view, outlined in the moonlight at the head of Main Street, Chuckaluck’s eyes bulged and he had a queer, empty feeling in his stomach. They rode in military formation, two abreast, led by a single figure in front.

  Men were crowding around him now and he heard one of them say:

  “Paul Rangoon an’ his Split X riders …” and another shouted, “Captain Rangoon, by golly, an’ damned if he ain’t got ’em drilled like he was back headin’ his Rough Rider troop. I heard tell he had ’em trained that-away sinct he come back from Cuba, but damned if I’d believe it ’thout seein’ this.”

  There were twelve riders behind the owner of the Split X ranch. Six pairs riding abreast, and all with six-shooters on their hips and saddle guns beneath the right stirrup leathers.

  There was no word of command, but when Paul Rangood reined his horse up the others stayed in formation, halting behind him. Rangoon was directly opposite Chuckaluck, and he could see a harsh, square-jawed face beneath the wide brim of his Stetson, a heavy figure that sat the saddle solidly and exuded an unmistakable air of arrogant authority.

  When the riders stopped, an expectant silence fell over the group of spectators. Rangoon’s words boomed out commandingly:

  “I want Sheriff Morgan.”

  There was a stir among the men on the boardwalk but no one spoke aloud. There was only a conspiratorial whispering that was like the angry humming of bees in the still night.