The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Part 56

"I reckon you're right." And his dark eyes grew moody again.

"There's a man in the reception-room waiting to see you," said Doris.

"I told him you were having your dinner."

"Another one, eh? Oh, I was forgittin'. I got a letter from Jim Bailey"--Pete fumbled in his s.h.i.+rt--"and I thought mebby--"

"I hope it's good news."

"It sure is! Would you mind readin' it--to yourself--sometime?"

"I--think I'd rather not," said Doris hesitatingly.

Pete's face showed so plainly that he was hurt that Doris regretted her refusal to read the letter. To make matters worse--for himself--Pete asked that exceedingly irritating and youthful question, "Why?" which elicits that distinctly unsatisfactory feminine answer, "Because."

That lively team "Why" and "Because" have run away with more chariots of romance, upset more matrimonial bandwagons, and spilled more beans than all the other questions and answers men and women have uttered since that immemorial hour when Adam made the mistake of asking Eve why she insisted upon his eating an apple right after breakfast.

Doris was not indifferent to his request that she read the letter, but she was unwilling to let Pete know it, and a little fearful that he might interpret her interest for just what it was--the evidence of a greater solicitude for his welfare than she cared to have him know.

Pete, like most l.u.s.ty sons of saddle-leather, s.h.i.+ed at even the shadow of sentiment--in this instance shying at his own shadow. He rode wide of the issue, turning from the pleasant vista of who knows what imaginings, to face the imperative challenge of immediate necessity, which was, first, to eat something, and then to meet the man who waited for him downstairs who, Pete surmised, was the sheriff of Sanborn County.

"If you don't mind tellin' him I'll come down as soon as I eat," said Pete as he pulled up a chair.

Doris nodded and turned to leave. Pete glanced up. She had not gone.

"Your letter,"--and Doris proffered the letter which he had left on the cot. Pete was about to take it when he glanced up at her. She was smiling at him. "You don't know how funny you look when you frown and act--like--like a spoiled child," she laughed. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"I--I reckon I am," said Pete, grinning boyishly.

"Ashamed of yourself?"

"Nope! A spoiled kid, like you said. And I ain't forgittin' who spoiled me."

The letter, the man downstairs and all that his presence implied, past and future possibilities, were forgotten in the brief glance that Doris gave him as she turned in the doorway. And glory-be, she had taken the letter with her! Pete gazed about the room to make sure that he was not dreaming. No, the letter had disappeared--and but a moment ago Doris had had it. And she still had it. "Well, she'll know I got one or two friends, anyhow," reflected Pete as he ate his dinner. "When she sees how Jim talks--and what he said Ma Bailey has to say to me--mebby she'll--mebby--Doggone it! Most like she'll just hand it back and smile and say she's mighty glad--and--but that ain't no sign that I'm the only guy that ever got shot up, and fixed up, and turned loose by a sure-enough angel . . . Nope! She ain't a angel--she's real folks, like Ma Bailey and Andy and Jim. If I ain't darned careful I'm like to find I done rid my hoss into a gopher-hole and got throwed bad."

Meanwhile "the man downstairs" was doing some thinking himself. That morning he had visited police headquarters and inspected Pete's gun and belongings--noting especially the hand-carved holster and the heavy-caliber gun, the factory number of which he jotted down in his notebook. Incidentally he had borrowed a Luger automatic from the miscellaneous collection of weapons taken from criminals, a.s.sured himself that it was not loaded, and slipped it into his coat-pocket.

Later he had talked with the officials, visited the Mexican lodging-house, where he had obtained a description of the man who had occupied the room with Pete, and stopping at a restaurant for coffee and doughnuts, had finally arrived at the hospital prepared to hear what young Annersley had to say for himself.

Sheriff Jim Owen, unofficially designated as "Sunny Jim" because of an amiable disposition, which in no way affected his official responsibilities, was a dyed-in-the-wool, hair-cinched, range-branded, double-fisted official, who scorned nickel-plated firearms, hard-boiled hats, fancy drinks, and smiled his contempt for the rubber-heeled methods of the city police. Sheriff Owen had no rubber-heeled tendencies. He was frankness itself, both in peace and in war. It was once said of him, by a lank humorist of Sanborn, that Jim Owen never wasted any time palaverin' when _he_ was flirtin' with death. That he just met you with a gun in one hand and a smile in the other, and you could take your choice--or both, if you was wishful.

The sheriff was thinking, his hands crossed upon his rotund stomach and his bowed legs as near crossed as they could ever be without an operation. He was pretty well satisfied that the man upstairs, who that pretty little nurse had said would be down in a few minutes, had not killed Sam Brent. He had a few pertinent reasons for this conclusion. First, Brent had been killed by a thirty-caliber, soft-nosed bullet, which the sheriff had in his vest-pocket. Then, from what he had been told, he judged that the man who actually killed Brent would not have remained in plain sight in the lodging-house window while his companion made his get-away. This act alone seemed to indicate that of the two the man who had escaped was in the greater danger if apprehended, and that young Annersley had generously offered to cover his retreat so far as possible. Then, from the lodging-house keeper's description of the other man, Jim Owen concluded that he was either Ed Brevoort or Slim Harper, both of whom were known to have been riding for the Olla. And the sheriff knew something of Brevoort's record.

Incidentally Sheriff Owen also looked up Pete's record. He determined to get Pete's story and compare it with what the newspapers said and see how close this combined evidence came to his own theory of the killing of Brent. He was mentally piecing together possibilities and probabilities, and the exact evidence he had, when Pete walked into the reception-room.

"Have a chair," said Sheriff Owen. "I got one."

"I'm Pete Annersley," said Pete. "Did you want to see me?"

"Thought I'd call and introduce myself. I'm Jim Owen to my friends.

I'm sheriff of Sanborn County to others."

"All right, Mr. Owen," said Pete, smiling in spite of himself.

"That's the idea--only make it Jim. Did you ever use one of these?"

And suddenly Sheriff Owen had a Luger automatic in his hand. Pete wondered that a man as fat as the little sheriff could pull a gun so quickly.

"Why--no. I ain't got no use for one of them doggone stutterin'

smoke-wagons."

"Here, too," said Owen, slipping the Luger back into his pocket.

"Never shot one of 'em in my life. Ever try one?"

"I--" Pete caught himself on the verge of saying that he had tried Ed Brevoort's Luger once. He realized in a flash how close the sheriff had come to trapping him. "I never took to them automatics," he a.s.serted lamely.

Pete had dodged the question. On the face of it this looked as though Pete might have been trying to s.h.i.+eld himself by disclaiming any knowledge of that kind of weapon. But Owen knew the type of man he was talking to--knew that he would s.h.i.+eld a companion even more quickly than he would s.h.i.+eld himself.

"Sam Brent was killed by a bullet from a Luger," stated Owen.

Pete's face expressed just the faintest shade of relief, but he said nothing.

"I got the bullet here in my pocket. Want to see it?" And before Pete could reply, the sheriff fished out the flattened and twisted bullet and handed it to Pete, who turned it over and over, gazing at it curiously.

"Spreads out most as big as a forty-five," said Pete, handing it back.

"Yes--but it acts different. Travels faster--and takes more along with it. Lot of 'em used in Texas and across the line. Ever have words with Sam Brent?"

"No. Got along with him all right."

"Did he pay your wages reg'lar?"

"Yes."

"Ever have any trouble with a man named Steve Gary?"

"Yes, but he's--"

"I know. Used to know the man that got him. Wizard with a gun.

Meaner than dirt--"

"Hold on!" said Pete. "He was my friend."

"--to most folks," continued the rotund sheriff. "But I've heard said he'd do anything for a man he liked. Trouble with him was he didn't like anybody."

"Mebby he didn't," said Pete indifferently.

"Because he couldn't trust anybody. Ever eat ice-cream?"

"Who--me?"

The sheriff smiled and nodded.

"Nope. Ma Bailey made some onct, but--"