Stepsons of Light

Johnny cocked his head impishly and looked sidelong at the jailer.

“Just what was the big idea for sending one man to arrest me?”

“They didn’t say.”

“And why were they all crosswise with each other, like jackstraws?”

“They didn’t tell me that either.”

“You’re allowed three guesses.”

Gwinne puffed unhurriedly at his pipe, and after some meditation delivered himself of a leisurely statement between puffs.

“About a year ago, near as I can remember, this man Caney – Big Ed Caney – deputy sheriff in Dona Ana – did you know that? Thought not. Well, he went out beyond Hatch with a warrant for a fellow. He found another man – old Mexican sheep herder – cut down on him with a rifle and ordered him to throw ’em up. The old Mexican was scared or else he remembered something, I don’t know which; he was perfectly innocent of this particular charge, whatever it was; they caught the other man later. Anyhow the old gentleman made a dash for his gun – it was leaning up against a tree not far away. And Caney killed him.”

“So you think maybe Caney wanted to start something. Ambush, maybe? So I’d go after my gun?”

“I don’t know anything about what Caney wanted to do or didn’t want to do. All I know is – he didn’t.”

“And the Garfield boys wouldn’t stand for it?” persisted Johnny.

“Lull and Charlie See won’t stand for any crooked work – if it’s them you mean. Lull was the only Garfield man. Charlie See is from Dona Ana, where they grow good and bad, same as they do here.”

“Yes. I see. I know Jody and Toad Hales, myself. I met Lull and See yesterday evenin’, just out of Garfield. Say, Mr. Gwinne, could you rustle me a razor?”

“I can too. Anything else on your mind?”

“Why, no. Only I wish I knew where the John Cross outfit is holding forth, and when they are likely to get word about me being in a tight. They may hear to-day, and it may be a week.”

“They’re up beyond Hermosa, somewhere at the head of Cuchillo Creek. And I shouldn’t much wonder if they heard about you to-day sometime.” Mr. Gwinne looked through the window at the visible wedge of Hillsboro, wavy low hills and winding streets; looked with long and lingering interest, and added irrelevantly: “I knew your father.”

Late that afternoon a heavy knock came at the outer door of the jail. Gwinne hustled his prisoner into a cell and answered the call.

He was greeted at the door by Aloys Preisser, the assayer, a gay-hearted old Bavarian – the same for whom, in his youth, Preisser Hill was named – and by Hobby Lull. Hobby’s face was haggard and drawn; there were dark circles under his eyes.

“We want to settle a bet,” announced Hobby, “and we’re leaving it to you. I say that Robin Hood knocked out the Proud Sheriff of Nottingham, and Preisser claims it was a draw. How about it?”

“Hood got the decision on points,” said Gwinne soberly.

“There! What did I tell you, you old hunk of Limburger?” Hobby Lull laid hands delicately upon his adversary’s short gray beard and tugged it with deferential gentleness. The unresisting head wagged sedately to and fro. “Take that, you old bug hunter!” said Hobby, and stood back, waiting.

The assayer became statuesque.

“You see, Mister Deputy? He has assauldt gommitted, and you a witness are. With abusive language!”

“The wienerwurst is yet to come,” observed Lull, in a voice sepulchral and ominous.

“With threats also, and insults – abandoned ruffian! Desperate! Catiline! Officer – do your duty! I make demand of you. Dake dot mon into gustody!” Preisser’s eyes were dancing as he fought down a grin.

Mr. Gwinne regarded the impassioned disputants with grave eyes.

“You are under arrest, Mr. Lull,” he said with somber official severity. “Can you give bail?”

“Not one red cent.”

“Come in, then.”

Lull followed through the door. Turning, he smiled back at the little assayer. Preisser winked.

“I’ll have to lock you up, you know,” said Gwinne. “District attorney particularly desired that no one should hold communication with Dines, over yonder.” He locked Lull in a cell; forgetfully leaving the key in the lock. “Don’t try to shout across to Dines, now,” he warned. “I’ll hear you. Well, I’ll be meanderin’ along to the kitchen and starting supper.”

Hobby reached through the bars and turned the key. He went over to Johnny’s cell.

“Well, Dines, how goes it? You don’t look much downhearted.”

“I’m not,” said Johnny. “I’m sorry about the dead man, of course. But I didn’t know him, and you can’t expect me to feel like you do. I’m right as rain – but I can’t say as much for you. You look like you’d been dragged through a knothole.”

“No sleep. I went back to Garfield, made medicine, and hurried back here. Seventy-five miles now, after a day’s work and not much sleep the night before. I thought you’d be having your prelim, you see, or I’d have waited over. Didn’t know that Judge Hinkle was out of town.”

“Any news?”

“Yes,” said Hobby, “there is.”

He held out his hand. Johnny took it, through the bars.

“You don’t think I killed your friend, then?”

“I know you didn’t. But, man – we can’t prove it. Not one scrap of evidence to bring into court. Just a sensing and a hunch – against a plain, straight, reasonable story, with three witnesses. You are It.”

“Now you can’t sometimes most always ever tell,” said Johnny. “Besides, you’re tired out. Get you a chair and tell it to me. I’ve been asleep. Also, you and I have had some few experiences not in common before our trails crossed yesterday. I may do a little sensing myself. Tell it to me.”

“Well, after Caney’s crowd told us Adam was killed in Redgate, Uncle Pete and a bunch went up there hotfoot. They found everything just about as Caney told it. There was your track, with one shoe gone, and Adam’s horse with the bridle dragging – till he broke it off – ”

“And where those two tracks crossed,” interrupted Johnny, “those fellows had ridden over the trail till you couldn’t tell which was on top.”

Hobby stared.

“How did you know that? Uncle Pete was all worked up over it. I never heard him so powerful before, on any subject.”

“You’re tired out, so you can’t see straight,” said Johnny. “Also, I know that when I came down Redgate there were no fresh tracks heading this way. If those three men killed Forbes and want to saw it off on me – then they confused that trail on purpose. If they didn’t kill Forbes, and muddled the tracks that way, they’re half-wits. And they’re not half-wits. Go on.”

“They found poor old Adam and your fire. They pushed on ahead to read all the sign they could before dark. Up in the park there’d been a heap of riding back and forth. Just at dark they found where a bunch of cattle had been headed and had gone over the divide into Deadman and gone on down. Then the rain came – and the rest is mud.”

“Yes. It rained. There was a little low gap to the north from where I branded my calf. If anybody had been there making tracks – those cattle would blot ’em out.” Johnny began to laugh. “Look, amigo– all this dope seems fairly reasonable and nightmareish, turn about, as we see it across thirty miles and twenty-four hours – but it is a safe guess that some folks didn’t sleep much last night. They know all about it, and I reckon when they got to thinking it over it seemed to them like the whole story was printed in letters a mile high. Scared? I guess yes. I’d hate to trade places with ’em right now. And before it rained – oh, mamma! I bet they was tickled to see that rain! Well, go on. Proceed. Give us some more.”

“The further I go the less you’ll like it,” said Lull. “Pete and his hand-picked posse stayed up there and scattered out at daylight, for general results. They found one of Adam’s cows with a big fresh-branded calf – branded yesterday. Dines, you’re up against it – hard! It’s going to look black to any jury. That calf carried your brand – T-Tumble-T!”

“’Hellfire and damnation – make my bed soon!’” said Johnny. “The boy stood on the burning deck, With neither high nor low! The Sons of Zeruiah!.. Ho, warder! Pull up the drawstring! Let the portcrayon fall! Melt down the largess, fling out the pendulum to the breeze, and howl the battle cry of Dines!”

Hobby’s gaunt features relaxed to a laugh.

“You silly ass! And the rope on your very neck! And what is the battle cry of Dines, if I may ask?”

“Only two out!” said Johnny Dines. He flung up his head; his hawk’s face was beautiful.

“Good boy!” said Hobby Lull. “Good boy! You never shot Adam Forbes – not in the back. You hold your mouth right. It isn’t so bad, Dines. I wanted to see how you’d take it. I know you now. There’s more to come. You live a long way from here, with roughs and the river between. We’ve never seen any of your cattle. But we looked you up in the brand book. Your earmark is sharp the right, underslope the left. That yearling’s ears are marked sharp the left, underslope the right.

“Yes. And I knew that without looking at the brand book,” said Johnny. “They’ve overplayed their hand. Any more?”

“One thing more. Nothing to put before a jury – but it fits with a frame-up. This morning, Uncle Pete scouted round beyond where they quit the trail at dark. He found locations where Weir and Caney and Hales struck rich placer yesterday. A big thing – coarse gold. It was natural enough that they didn’t tell us. For that matter, they mentioned prospecting along with their saddle-thieves’ hunt. You heard ’em tell Gwinne about the saddle thieves last night. But – Adam Forbes was prospecting too. That’s what he went up there for. Caney, Weir and Hales – any one of them has just the face of a man to turn lead into gold. There’s a motive for you – a possible motive.”

“More than possible. Let me think!” Johnny nursed his knee. He saw again the cool dark windings of Redgate, the little branding fire, the brushy pass low above him – where a foe might lurk – himself and Forbes, clear outlined on the hillside, the letter Forbes had given him.

“H’m!” he said. “H’m! Exactly!” With a thoughtful face, he chanted a merry little stave:

 
The soapweed rules over the plain,
And the brakeman is lord of the train,
The prairie dog kneels
On the back of his heels,
Still patiently praying for rain.
 

“Say, Mr. Lull, isn’t it a queer lay to have the county seat inland, not on the railroad at all, like Hillsboro?”

“That’s easy. Hillsboro was the county seat before there was any railroad.”

“Oh – that way? And how do you get your mail at Garfield? Does that come from Hillsboro?”

“No. Hillsboro is the closest post office, but our mail goes to Rincon. There’s the river, you see, and no bridge. A letter takes two days and a hundred miles to get from Garfield to Hillsboro – and it’s only twenty-five miles straight across in low water.”

“I see,” said Johnny.

Again he visioned the scene on the hillside, the fire, Adam Forbes, the location papers he was to mail; he remembered Toad Hales and his attempted betrayal of the horse camp guest; he remembered Jody Weir’s letter to Hillsboro, and how it was to be delivered. Jody Weir – and the girl in Hillsboro post office – steady, Johnny – steady, boy! Even so, Jody Weir could keep those location papers from reaching the recorder!

The whole black business became clear and sure to him. And in that same flaming moment he knew that he could not clear himself by shaming this light lady – that he had never seen or known. To shield her fault or folly, he must take his chance. He looked up and spread out his hands.

“No go, Mr. Lull!” he said cheerfully. “Much obliged to you – and here is gear enough for a cuckoo clock, but I can’t make it tick. Surmise and suspicion. Not one fact to lay hands on. Something may come out in the trial, of course. Looks like both ends against the middle, don’t it? When dry weather keeps you poor and a rain hangs you? Tough luck! Alas, poor Johnny! I knew him well!”

So far his iron fortunes had brought him – to the shadow of the gallows. There, beset with death and shame, with neck and name on the venture, he held his head high, and kept his honor spotless. Well done, Johnny Dines! Well played, our side!

There is somewhat which must be said here. Doubtless it is bad Art – whatever that means – but it is a thing to be done. It is charged to me that I suppress certain sorry and unsavory truths when I put remembered faces to paper – that I pick the best at their best, and shield with silence their hours of shame and weakness – these men I loved. Well – it is true. I take my own risk by that; but for them, it is what they have deserved. It is what Johnny Dines did for Kitty Seiber.

“Well, that’s about all,” said Hobby. “Uncle Pete is still skirmishing round. Adam had a tame tank somewhere close by, and Pete thinks he may find some more light on the case, there or somewheres else. If you don’t think of anything more I guess I’ll go down to the Gans Hotel and sleep a day or two. Nobody knows where See is. He may be asleep – and then again he may be up to some devilment.”

“From what I could hear a while ago,” said Johnny, grinning hugely, “I thought you were a prisoner.”

“I am,” said Hobby.

He went to a window at the end of the big hall and looked out. Hillsboro is generously planned, and spreads luxuriously over more hills than Rome. This is for two reasons: First, there was plenty of room, no need to crowd; second, and with more of the causative element, those hills were rich in mineral, and were dotted thick with shaft and tunnel between the scattered homes.

Several shafts were near the jail. On the nearest one Mr. Preisser diligently examined the ore dump. Hobby whistled. Mr. Preisser looked up. Hobby waved his hat. Preisser waved back and started toward the jail. Hobby returned to his cell and locked himself in. Mr. Preisser thundered at the jail door.

“Well?” said Gwinne, answering the summons.

“I have been thinking about the criminal, Lull,” said Mr. Preisser, beaming. “Considering his tender years and that he is nod fully gompetent and responsible mentally – I have decided nod to bress the charge against him. You may let him go, now.”

“Oh, very well,” said Gwinne.

He went to the cell – without remark concerning the key in the lock – and set the prisoner free. His face kept a heavy seriousness; there was no twinkle in his eye. Assailant and victim went arm in arm down the hill.

Mr. Charlie See came softly to Hillsboro jail through the velvet night. He did not come the front way; he came over the hill after a wearisome detour. He approached the building on the blind side, cautiously as any cat, and crouched to listen in the shadow of the wall. After a little he began a slow voyage of discovery. At the rear of the building a broad shaft of light swept out across the hill. This was the kitchen. See heard Gwinne’s heavy tread, and the cheerful splutterings of beefsteak. Then he heard a dog within; a dog that scratched at the door with mutter and whine.

“Down, Diogenes!” growled Gwinne; and raised his voice in a roaring chorus:

 
“And he sunk her in the lonesome lowland low —
And he sunk her in the lowland sea!”
 

Charlie retraced his steps to the corner and the friendly shadows. He crept down the long blank side of the jail, pausing from time to time to listen; hearing nothing. He turned the corner to the other end. A dim light showed from an unwindowed grating. The investigator stood on a slope and the window place was high. Reaching up at full stretch, he seized the bars with both hands, stepped his foot on an uneven stone of the foundation, and so pulled himself up to peer in – and found himself nose to nose with Johnny Dines.

The prisoner regarded his visitor without surprise.

“Good evening,” he observed politely.

“Good eve – Oh, hell! Say, I ought to bite your nose off – you and your good evening! Look here, fellow – are you loose in there?”

“Oh, yes. But the outer door’s locked.”

“Well, by gracious, you’d better be getting to thunder out of this! You haven’t a chance. You’re a gone goose. You ought to hear the talk I’ve heard round town. They’re going to hang you by the neck!”

“Well, why not – if I did that?” inquired Johnny, reasonably enough. They spoke in subdued undertones.

“But I know damn well you didn’t do it.”

The rescuer spoke with some irritation; he was still startled. Johnny shook his head thoughtfully.

“The evidence was pretty strong – what I heard of it, anyhow.”

“I guess, by heck, I know a frame-up when I see it. Say, what the hell are you talking about? You wild ass of the desert! Think I got nothing to do but hang on here by my eyelashes and argue with you? One more break like that and down goes your meat house – infernal fool! Listen! There’s a mining shaft right over here – windlass with a ratchet wheel and a pawl. I can hook that windlass rope on these bars and yank ’em out in a jiffy. If the bars are too stubborn I’ll strain the rope tight as ever I can and then pour water on it. That’ll fetch ’em; won’t make much noise, either, I judge. Not now – your jailer man will be calling you to supper in a minute. Maybe we’d better wait till he goes to sleep – or will he lock you up? Fellow, what you want to do is go. You can make Old Mexico to-morrow. I’ll side you if you say so. I’ve got nothing to keep me here.”

“Now ain’t that too bad – and I always wanted to go to Mexico, too,” said Johnny wistfully. “But I reckon I can’t make it this riffle. You see, this old rooster has treated me pretty white – not locked me up, and everything. I wouldn’t like to take advantage of it. Come to think of it, I told him I wouldn’t.”

“Well, say!” Charlie stopped, at loss for words. “I get your idea – but man, they’ll hang you!”

“I’m sorry for that, too,” said Johnny regretfully. “But you see how it is. I haven’t any choice. Much obliged, just the same.” Then his face brightened. “Wait! Wait a minute. Let me think. Look now – if Gwinne locks me up in a cell, bimeby – why, you might come round and have another try, later on. That will be different.”

“I’ll go you once on that,” returned the rescuer eagerly. “Which is your cell?”

“Why, under the circumstances it wouldn’t be just right to tell you – would it, now?” said the prisoner, doubtfully. “I reckon you’ll have to project round and find that out for yourself.”

“Huh!” snorted Charlie See.

“Of course if I make a get-away it looks bad – like admitting the murder. On the other hand, if I’m hanged, my friends would always hate it. So there we are. On the whole, I judge it would be best to go. Say, Gwinne’ll be calling me to chuck. Reckon I better beat him to it. You run on, now, and roll your hoop. I’ll be thinking it over. G’night!”

His face disappeared from the embrasure. Charlie See retired Indian-fashion to the nearest cover, straightened up, and wandered discontentedly down the hill to Hillsboro’s great white way.

XI

“We retired to a strategic position prepared in advance.”

– Communiqués of the Crown Prince.

Charlie See was little known in the county seat. It was not his county, to begin with, and his orbit met Hillsboro’s only at the intersection of their planes. Hillsboro was a mining town, first, last and at all intervening periods. Hillsboro’s “seaport,” Lake Valley, was the cowman’s town; skyward terminus of the High Line, twig from a branch railroad which was itself a feeder for an inconsiderable spur. The great tides of traffic surged far to north and south. This was a remote and sheltered backwater, and Hillsboro lay yet twelve miles inland from Lake Valley. Here, if anywhere, you found peace and quiet; Hillsboro was as far from the tumult and hurly-burly as a corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street.

Along the winding way, where lights of business glowed warm and mellow, feverish knots and clusters of men made a low-voiced buzzing; a buzzing which at See’s approach either ceased or grew suddenly clear to discussion of crossroads trivialities. From one of these confidential knots, before the Gans Hotel, a unit detached itself and strolled down the street.

“Howdy, Mr. See,” said the unit as Charlie overtook it. “Which way now?”

“Oh, just going round to the hardware store to get a collar button.”

“You don’t know me,” said the sauntering unit. “My name is Maginnis.”

“I withdraw the collar button,” said Charlie. He slowed his step and shot a glance at the grizzled face beside him. Who’s Who in Cowland has a well-thumbed page for Spinal Maginnis. “What’s your will?”

“You arrested young Dines?”

“In a way, yes. I was with the bunch.”

“It is told of you by camp fires,” said Maginnis, “that you’ll do to take along. Will you come?”

“With you, yes. Spill it.”

“For me. To do what I can’t do for myself. You arrested Johnny Dines, or helped; so you can go where I’m not wanted. Notice anything back yonder?” He jerked his head toward the main street.

“Well, I’m not walking in my sleep this bright beautiful evening. Whispering fools, you mean?”

“Exactly. Some knaves, too. But fools are worse always, and more dangerous. This town is all fussed up and hectic about the Forbes killing. Ugly rumors – Dines did this, Dines did that, Dines is a red hellion. I don’t like the way things shape up. There’s a lot of offscourings and riffraff here – and someone is putting up free whisky. It’s known that I was a friend of this boy’s father, and it is suspected that I may be interested in his father’s son. But you – can’t you find out – Oh, hell, you know what I want!”

“Sure I do. You’re afraid of a mob, with a scoundrel back of it. Excuse me for wasting words. You’re afraid of a mob. I’m your man. Free whisky is where I live. Me for the gilded haunts of sin. Any particular haunt you have in mind?”

“Sure I have. No need to go to The Bank. Joe is a pretty decent old scout. You skip Joe’s place and drop in at The Mermaid. Where they love money most is where trouble starts.”

“Where will I report to you?”

“You know Perrault’s house?”

“With trees all round, and a little vineyard? Just below the jail? Yes.”

“You’ll find me there, and a couple more old residenters. Hop along, now.”

The Mermaid saloon squatted in a low, dark corner of Hillsboro – even if the words were used in the most literal sense.

Waywardly careless, Hillsboro checkered with alternate homes and mines the undulations of a dozen low hills; an amphitheater girdled by high mountain walls, with a central arena for commercial gladiators. Stamp mills hung along the scarred hillsides, stamp mills exhibiting every known variety of size and battery. In quite the Athenian manner, courthouse, church and school crowned each a hill of its own, and doubtless proved what has been so often and so well said of our civilization. At any rate the courthouse cost more than the school – about as much more as it was used less; and the church steeple was such as to attract comment from any god. The school was less imposing.

This was a high, rainy country. The frontier of the pines lay just behind and just above the town, on the first upward slopes. The desert levels were far below. Shade trees, then, can grow in Hillsboro; do grow there by Nature and by artifice, making a joyous riot of visible song – in the residential section. Industrial Hillsboro, however, held – or was held? – to the flintier hills, bleak and bare and brown, where the big smelter overhung and dominated the north. The steep narrow valley of the Percha divided Hillsboro rather equally between the good and the goats.

There was also the inevitable Mexican quarter – here, as ever, Chihuahua. But if Hillsboro could claim no originality of naming, she could boast of something unique in map making. The Mexican suburb ran directly through the heart of the town. Then the Mexican town was the old town? A good guess, but not the right one. The effective cause was that the lordly white man scorned to garden – cowmen and miners holding an equally foolish tradition on this head; while the humble paisano has gardened since Scipio and Hasdrubal; would garden in hell. So the narrow bottom lands of the creek were given over to truck patches and brown gardeners; tiny empires between loop and loop of twisting water; black loam, pay dirt. It is curious to consider that this pay dirt will be fruitful still, these homes will still be homes, a thousand years after the last yellow dross has been sifted from the hills.

So much for the town proper. A small outlying fringe lay below the broad white wagon road twisting away between the hills in long curves or terraced zigzags to the railhead. Here a flat black level of glassy obsidian shouldered across the valley and forced the little river to an unexpected whirling plunge where the dark box of the Percha led wandering through the eastern barrier of hills; and on that black cheerless level huddled the wide, low length of The Mermaid, paintless, forbidding, shunning and shunned. Most odd to contemplate; this glassy barren, nonproducing, uncultivated and unmined, waste and sterile, was yet a better money-maker than the best placer or the richest loam land of all Hillsboro. Tellurian papers please copy.

The Mermaid boasted no Jonson, and differed in other respects from The Mermaid of Broad Street. Nor might it be reproached with any insidious allure, though one of the seven deadly arts had been invoked. Facing the bar, a startled sea maid turned her head, ever about to plunge to the safety of green seas. The result was not convincing; she did not look startled enough to dive. But perhaps the artist had a model. Legend says the canvas was painted to liquidate a liquor bill, which would explain much; it is hard paying for a dead horse. It had once been signed, but some kindly hand had scraped the name away. In moments of irritation Hillsboro spoke of The Mermaid as “The Dive.”

“Johnny Dines – yah! Thought he could pull that stuff and get away with it,” said Jody Weir loudly. “Fine bluff, but it got called. Bankin’ on the cowmen to stick with him and get him out of it.”

The Mermaid bar was crowded. It was a dingy place and a dingy crew. The barkeeper had need for all his craft and swiftness to give service. The barkeeper was also the owner – a tall man with a white bloodless face, whiter for black brows like scars. The gambling hall behind was lit up but deserted. The crowd was in too ugly a mood for gambling. They had been drinking bad liquor, much too much for most of them; headed by Weir, Caney and Hales, seconded by any chance buyer, and followed up by the Merman, who served a round on the house with unwonted frequency.

Jody pounded on the bar.

“Yes, that’s his little scheme – intimidation. He’s countin’ on the cowboys to scare Hillsboro out – him playin’ plumb innocent of course – knowin’ nothin’, victim of circumstances. Sure! ‘Turn this poor persecuted boy loose!’ they’ll say. ‘You got nothin’ on him.’ Oh, them bold bad men!”

“That don’t sound reasonable, Jody,” objected Shaky Akins. “Forbes was a cowman. You’re a cowman yourself.”

“Yes – but I saw. These fellers’ll hear, and then they’ll shoot off their mouths on general principles, not knowing straight up about it; then they’ll stick to what they first said, out of plumb pig-headedness. One thing I’m glad of: I sure hope Cole Ralston likes the way his new man turned out.”

“Dines and Charlie See favor each other a heap. Not in looks so much,” said Shaky, “but in their ways. I used to know Charlie See right well, over on the Pecos. He was shortstop on the Roswell nine. He couldn’t hit, and he couldn’t field, and he couldn’t run bases – but oh, people, how that man could play ball!”

“Nonsense. They’re not a bit alike. You think so, just because they’re both little.”

“I don’t either. I think so because they’re both – oh my!”

“I don’t like this man See, either,” said Caney. “I don’t like a hair of his head. Too damn smart. Somebody’s going to break him in two before he’s much older.”

“Now listen!” said Shaky Akins, without heat. “When you go to break Charlie See you’ll find he is a right flexible citizen – any man, any time, anywhere.”

“Well,” said Hales, “all this talking is dry work. Come up, boys. This one is on me.”

“What will it be, gentlemen?” inquired the suave Merman. “One Scotch. Yes. Three straights. A highball. Three rums. One gin sling. Make it two? Right. Next? Whisky straight. And the same. What’s yours, Mr. Akins?”

“Another blond bland blend,” said Shaky. “But you haven’t answered my question, Jody. Why should cowmen see this killing any different from anyone else? Just clannishness, you think?”

“Because cowmen can read sign,” said Charlie See. He stood framed in the front door: he stepped inside.

The startled room turned to the door. There were nudges and whispers. Talking ceased. There had been a dozen noisy conversations besides the one recorded.

“Reading tracks is harder to learn than Greek, and more interesting,” said Charlie. “Cattlemen have always had to read sign, and they’ve always had to read it right – ever since they was six years old. What you begin learning at six years old is the only thing you ever learn good. So cowmen don’t just look and talk. They see and think.”

He moved easily across the room in a vast silence. Caney’s eyes met those of the Merman barkeeper. The Merman’s bloodless and sinister face made no change, but he made a change in the order.

“Step up, Mr. See,” said the Merman. “This one’s on me. What will it be?”

“Beer,” said Charlie. He nodded to the crowd. “Howdy, boys! Hello, Shaky – that you?”

He lined up beside Shaky; he noted sly sidelong glances and furtive faces reflected in the blistered mirror behind the bar.

“Sure is. Play you a game of pool – what?”

“All set?” demanded Caney from the other end of the bar. “Drink her down, fellers! Here’s to the gallows tree!”

“Looks like a good season for fruit,” said Charlie. A miner laughed.

Shaky drained his glass. “Come on, pool shark.” He hooked his arm in Charlie’s and they went back to the big hall. Part of the crowd drifted after them.

There was only one pool table, just beyond the door. Down one side were ranged tables for monte, faro, senate and stud. On the other side the bar extended beyond the partition and took up twenty feet of the hall, opposite the pool table. On the end of the bar were ranged generous platters of free lunch – shrimps, pretzels, strips of toasted bread, sausages, mustard, pickles, olives, crackers and cheese. Behind it was a large quick-lunch oil stove, darkened now. Beyond that was a vast oak refrigerator with a high ornamental top reaching almost to the ceiling. Next in order was a crap table and another for seven-and-a-half. A big heater, unused now, shared the central space with the pool table. Between these last two was a small table littered with papers and magazines. Two or three men sat there reading.