“Right now I’m guessin’ there was only one man down there,” Pat said grimly. “Else, why did the Texas rannie go off and leave those two lead hawses alive like that with busted legs?”

  Both men looked at him with puckered brows.

  “What kind of man would do that?” Pat went on angrily. “First thing we thought of was to put them two hawses out of their misery with a bullet. But he didn’t. He admits ridin’ down there. But he wouldn’t waste two bullets on those poor critters. Why not?”

  “You got somethin’ there,” Sam agreed excitedly. “He was wearing a six-gun awright. And a belt-full of cartridges. I noticed particular because he carried it on thuh wrong side. I never saw a right-hand holster on the left side before.”

  “I did. Once,” Pat said. “Back in Arizona when I was a kid. Tombstone Jake could pull a gun faster from a holster on the left in front like that than greased lightnin’. He’d proved it seventeen times before a hawse throwed him an’ broke his neck. Whatever else he is, that fellow’s a killer,” he went on flatly. “I figure the reason he didn’t kill those two crippled hawses was the same reason he used a rock instead of his gun on Winters. He wanted it to look like an accident.”

  “But he could of used the rock on Winters an’ still gunned the hawses without it bein’ suspicious,” Sam argued. “He could say Winters was dead when he got there, so he finished off the hawses before ridin’ on.”

  “A man that’s committed murder don’t always think straight,” Pat said. “He gets panicky an’ he don’t figure things out good.”

  “I’ve knowed some fellers that like tuh see animals suffer,” said Ezra. “You kin tell ’em by thuh way they allus mistreat the hawses they ride. That kinda man woulda rode off an’ left ’em laying there with their broken laigs.”

  “All the same,” said Pat, “I’m going to do some checkin’ up. I want to know when he left Hopewell Junction and whether he talked to anybody there.” He got up and tugged his hat lower on his forehead. “You two had better ride back to Dutch Springs. Keep an eye on that rannie. Don’t mess with him ’less he tries to make a break for it, but don’t let him leave town.”

  They separated, Pat riding back to Hopewell Junction, and Sam and Ezra heading together toward Dutch Springs.

  News of the stagecoach tragedy had preceded Pat Stevens to Hopewell Junction when he reached the little railroad town a couple of hours later. He went directly to the livery stable behind the old frame hotel, left his horse with orders to have him fed immediately and be ready for the road again within an hour, and then went around to the front of the hotel.

  He found a group of citizens inside the dingy lobby excitedly discussing the accident, and they descended on the Powder Valley sheriff with a lot of questions. He gave them an outline of the accident without mentioning the suspicious evidence he had unearthed with the help of Ezra, and then drew the proprietor of the hotel to one side.

  Lafe Magnum was an old man with a white mustache and a bald head. He had run the Hopewell Junction Hotel for forty years and knew every rancher in the surrounding countryside by his first name.

  “I haven’t got much time, Lafe,” Pat told him. “Got business back in Dutch Springs. But I need the answer to some questions first. Could you eat supper with me so I could eat an’ get the answers at the same time.”

  “You bet I can, Sheriff. Right in here.” Lafe Magnum led him back to a small rear dining room with half a dozen tables covered with cheery red-and-white checked tablecloths. He selected a table by the window, somewhat removed from the others, and when one of his daughters bustled up, he told her, “Steak an’ fixin’s for both of us, ’Mira.” When the girl went away he asked curiously, “What’s on yore mind, Pat?”

  “Strangers. You got any stopping here?”

  Lafe shook his head. “I’m plumb sorry I ain’t. Last one I had checked out about noon today.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Name of Charley Dilson. Signed the register from Denver, but he didn’t know much about the city when I talked to him. Texas, I’d say. Black shirt an’ hat, and a funny way of wearing his shootin’ iron.”

  Pat nodded. “How long was he here?”

  “Four-five days. Lemme see now.” Lafe contracted his brow in thought. His daughter brought two bowls of steaming soup to the table and went away.

  “’Twas last Sunday that he rode up an’ rented a room, I reckon. Yep. I know ’twas. ’Cause he asked ’bout trains from Denver an’ I told him the next one wouldn’t be in till the next mornin’ … there not bein’ any afternoon train on Sunday. That was the train them two from the East came in on. The purty gal and her friend. Right rich and stuck-up they was, I reckon. Kicked ’cause they couldn’t get the stage to Dutch Springs till afternoon and rented a hotel room jest for the few hours they was here. Didn’t even sleep in it either. Looked like a waste of good money but I didn’t argy with ’em.”

  Pat waited until the garrulous old hotel proprietor ran down before asking, “This Charley Dilson? What’d he do while he was here?”

  “Nothin’ much. Rode out to look the country over on Monday afternoon. Said somethin’ about maybe getting a job an’ settling. Asked questions about all the ranches in the Valley and sech. Come back late on Monday night an’ cut me off short when I asked did he find a job. Rode out again Tuesday afternoon but wasn’t gone but three-four hours.”

  “What time did he pull out this afternoon?”

  “Must of been right after dinner,” the old man reflected. “He paid his bill an’ said he’d be ridin’ on. I dunno whether he said it outright, but I got the idee he was ridin’ to Dutch Springs. Taw Drummond said he was down to the stage depot this mornin’ talkin’ to him about the road to Dutch Springs and all.”

  “Do you remember him ever asking any questions about Mr. Winters coming through here?” Pat asked sharply.

  “Can’t say that I recollect him doin’ that. But I do recall he was settin’ out in the lobby this mornin’ when the telygram come from Winters askin’ Taw to hold the stage if the train was late. Mr. Winters allus did that,” Lafe went on to explain, “since that time two years ago when the train was thutty minutes late an’ Taw pulled out without him … not knowin’ he was due on it. Mr. Winters had to hire a rig at the livery stable on account of it an’ he gave Taw Hail Columbia for not waitin’ next time he saw him.” Lafe chuckled at the recollection and tackled his soup.

  Pat let him finish the bowl before asking, “Do you remember talking to Dilson about the telegram or about Mr. Winters?”

  “Shucks, I might’ve,” the old man admitted cheerfully. “You know how I am. Jest an old wind-bag, Jenny usta tell me. I like to talk ’bout this an’ that when somebody’s around.”

  “Sunday afternoon when Charley Dilson asked about the trains from Denver,” said Pat slowly, “did he act like he expected somebody in on a train?”

  “Can’t say that he did, but I neither can’t say that he didn’t. Dunno why else he’d ask though. He wasn’t takin’ one. He come in ridin’ a black hawse. Plenty spur-scarred and with a pair of ugly eyes. An outlaw if ever I saw one. His hawse, I mean. But I’d say he was jest as mean as his outlaw hawse an’ knew how to handle him. Them Easterners was quite tooken by him,” Lafe went on with a chuckle. “Acted like they hadn’t never seen a gun-toting jasper before. Got right thick with him durin’ them few hours they was here waitin’ for the stagecoach.”

  Pat Stevens stiffened at this item of information. He tried to keep his voice casual, to avoid showing Lafe he considered it important: “Do you think they might have known each other before they met here at your hotel?”

  “If they did they was mighty careful not to show it,” the proprietor assured him. “Dilson was here in the lobby when they come in from the train. That gal couldn’t hardly take her eyes off him, but they didn’t say nothin’ to each other till after I called him over an’ interdooced him to her. After that the three of ’em talked together most of the time till he rode off after dinner … saying he was goin’ out to look for a job like I told you.”

  “Do you remember any of them asking you about Bill Freeman?”

  “No, I sure don’t. I reckon I might’ve told Dilson about the Four-V’s spread when he was askin’ about ranches hereabouts, but I couldn’t say that he asked me.”

  The girl brought a pair of thick steaks and a big platter of fried potatoes. Lafe waited until she went away before asking in a cautious undertone, “Is somethin’ wrong, Pat? I know Bill Freeman got murdered in his bed a couple of days ago. An’ Mr. Winters died in that there stage accident this afternoon. How come you’re askin’ about both of them in connection with Dilson?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Pat told him honestly. “Playing out a hunch right now.” He shook his head soberly and attacked his steak. “Soon as I finish this I’ll be ridin’ back to Dutch Springs. Keep all these questions under your hat, Lafe.”

  11.

  It was a little before midnight when Pat Stevens rode his tired horse back into Dutch Springs. The only lights in the little village were at the Gold Eagle Saloon and up the street at the Jewel Hotel. He dismounted in front of the saloon, saw Ezra’s and Sam’s horses tied there along with a few others.

  Ezra was at the bar with a group of men still discussing the afternoon’s accident over a bottle of whiskey. Ezra’s single eye gleamed redly as he turned it toward the sheriff, and his scarred face was flushed by the amount of liquor he had inside him.

  “Hyar comes Pat Stevens now,” he boomed to the others at the bar. He lurched forward unsteadily. “Whatcha bin doin’, Pat?”

  “I rode to Hopewell Junction to make a report to the stage company on the accident,” Pat said curtly for the benefit of the listening men. “You’re drunk as a fiddler’s spotted dog, Ezra.”

  “Mebby so.” The big man grinned happily and flung a heavy arm about Pat’s shoulders. “But I ain’t yet as drunk as a hootey owl. You kin see that plain as day fer yoreself.”

  Pat shrugged Ezra’s arm off his shoulders and went up to the bar. He filled a glass from the bottle sitting there, and tossed it down, then turned to ask Ezra, “Where’s Sam at?”

  “Up to thuh hotel.” Ezra closed his one eye in a slow wink that gave his face a look of cunning. “Makin’ up to that purty gal from thuh East, I wouldn’t be none s’prised. Wait’ll Kitty Sloan hears about that. She’ll give ol’ Sam what-for.” He laughed drunkenly and reached for the bottle.

  Pat shoved it back out of his reach. “You’ve had plenty for tonight,” he told him shortly. “One more drink an’ you’ll be worse’n a hootey owl.” He took him by the arm and led him toward the swinging doors firmly, saying, “Some outside air is what you need right now.”

  A snicker ran around the group of men behind them at the bar as they passed out into the night. Outside the door, Ezra jerked his arm from Pat’s grip and told him in an offended tone, “I ain’t as drunk as I was makin’ out back yonder. I didn’t wanta do no talkin’ outta turn so I jest pertended like.”

  “What’s Sam doing at the hotel?” Pat turned up the street in that direction.

  “Makin’ his stakeout on that Texas rannie like you tol’ him to.” Ezra lurched along unsteadily beside him. “Wasn’t no need fer both of us tuh tuck him in bed was there?”

  “So he put up at the hotel?” Pat mused. “Do any talking around town?”

  “Not much, I reckon. Tol’ some of thuh fellers he was ridin’ south from Denver an’ was sorta on thuh lookout fer a foreman’s job if he could find one hereabouts.” Ezra stumbled and clutched Pat’s arm to steady himself, and hiccoughed loudly. “You find out anything in Hopewell Junction?”

  “Not much. Nothin’ to talk about.” Pat led him in through the front doors of the hotel where Sam Sloan was morosely slouched in a chair that gave him a clear view of the stairway leading up to the hotel rooms on the upper floor.

  Sam grinned when he saw Ezra’s condition. “Drunk as a hootey owl, by God.”

  “I ain’t neither. Not by four drinks.” Ezra hiccoughed happily and lumbered over to collapse in a chair.

  There was no one else in the small front room of the hotel. Pat asked Sam, “Is Dilson upstairs?”

  “That’s right.” They both disregarded Ezra. “Room forty-two. Charley Dilson from Denver, he signed the hotel register. Had supper an’ a few drinks an’ went up to his room ’bout an hour ago. I bin settin’ here ever since watchin’ the stairs like a houn’ dawg with a treed coon.”

  Pat nodded his satisfaction. “You better take Ezra out home with you and put him to bed there. Sally an’ Kitty’ll be worried about us, and wanting to know about the stage accident.”

  Sam stood up and stretched. “Ain’t you comin’?”

  Pat shook his head. “Not tonight. I’m stickin’ around to have a talk with Charley Dilson. And I’m plumb int’rested to know how Miss Wilcox and her fiancy feel about things now that Winters is dead.”

  “I reckon they feel mighty bad about it. I seen ’em at supper an’ they looked plumb whipped. They were countin’ on him tuh prove her claim to thuh Four-V’s.”

  Pat nodded casually. “Tell Sally how things’re shaping up an’ that I’ll be home soon as things get cleared up a little. You better ride back in the morning and we’ll see where we stand.”

  Sam went over and shook Ezra who was leaning back in the chair with his one eye closed and his big mouth open. Pat stood and watched the two men go out together. He thought of something and followed them to the door, called to them as they moved down the street, “Put my hawse up in the livery stable for me, Sam.”

  “Shore will,” Sam called over his shoulder, and Pat went back to the hotel desk to turn the register about and see which of the upstairs rooms were vacant.

  He saw that Miss Joan Wilcox was in No. 36; and Mr. Paul Munson was assigned No. 39 across the hall from her. No. 41 was also taken, but 43 was vacant. Pat scrawled his name on the register, went behind the desk to get the key of No. 43, and climbed the stairs.

  Only one of the double row of rooms lining the upper hallway showed a light behind the closed door. That was No. 36, Miss Joan Wilcox’s room.

  Pat went quietly down the hall past 36 and heard the subdued murmur of voices inside. He kept going on to his room, unlocked the door and struck a match as he entered. He went across to a rickety dresser and took the globe from a kerosene lamp, put flame to the wick and set the globe back on. He turned the wick low, and then pulled off his hat and leather jacket and tossed them on the bed behind him. He hesitated a moment, then squared his shoulders and went out.

  He crossed the hall to No. 42 and knocked on the closed door. He got no answer, and knocked a second time before trying the door. The knob turned and the door opened. He struck a match and peered inside, saw the room was empty and the bed still neatly made up.

  Scowling, he pulled the door shut and moved along the hall to No. 36. The sound of voices inside the lighted room died suddenly as he knocked on the door. There was a short moment of silence before he heard someone coming toward the door. He dropped his hand to the butt of his holstered gun and loosened it in its leather.

  The door opened a crack and Paul Munson looked out at him. He was coatless, wearing a white shirt and stiff collar and black bow tie. His face was flushed and angry-looking. Through the partially open door he demanded harshly, “Yes? What is it?”

  Pat said, “I thought this was Miss Wilcox’s room. I’d like to see her a minute.”

  Munson turned his head and said, “It’s the sheriff.” He turned back to expostulate, “It’s late. I don’t think Miss Wilcox wants to be bothered.”

  Pat said, “She’s going to be whether she likes it or not.” He leaned his shoulder against the door and pushed.

  For a moment Paul Munson resisted the pressure. Then he stepped back out of the way with an angry imprecation. The door flew open and Pat saw Joan Wilcox seated on the edge of her bed staring at him with wide eyes. She wore a frilly shirtwaist that made her look small and childlike, and her hair was down in two long braids. She looked frightened, and her big eyes were inflamed from weeping.

  Beyond her, Charley Dilson rose slowly from a chair tipped back against the wall. He had removed his chaps and black hat, but otherwise was dressed as Pat had first seen him. The thumb of his right hand was hooked inside his gunbelt inches away from the black butt of his six-gun, and his dark eyes held a saturnine gleam. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with heavy shoulders and a beaked nose, thick lips and an aggressive jaw. He said, “So yo’re the Powder Valley sheriff, huh? Folks in these parts say yo’re purty tough.”

  “Plenty tough to handle a fancy gun-slinger like you.” Pat’s gun was half-drawn and his gray eyes bored into Dilson’s. “I’ll take that shootin’ iron of yours right now.” He pushed past Munson, disregarding the terrified girl seated on the bed, and advanced slowly with his left hand outthrust.

  Charley Dilson hesitated. The fingers of his right hand curled and jerked nervously. Then he gave a short laugh and said, “Yo’re mighty brave when you walk in with the draw on a man.”

  “I wouldn’t want any shootin’ to scare Miss Wilcox,” Pat said coldly. “Hand it over, butt first.”

  Dilson drew his gun slowly. He flipped it in the air and caught hold of it by the muzzle, handed it over to Pat with an ironic smile. “Is it ag’in the law tuh wear iron in Powder Valley?”

  Pat stepped back with Dilson’s .45 dangling from the fingers of his left hand. “Nope,” he said noncommittally. “You’ll get it back when I’m done talkin’.” He moved back toward the door and sat down in a straight chair. “This here is right cozy. How long have you-all knowed each other?”

  “What’s that to you?” blustered Munson, stepping forward to seat himself on the bed by Joan’s side.

  “Just wondered,” said Pat mildly. “Thought you might’ve met up in Denver.”

  There was a brief moment of silence. Dilson reseated himself and folded his arms across his chest.