The She Boss Part 39

Totally unarmed, Hiram grinned and slowly elevated his hands.

Watching him closely, Drummond and Pete dismounted, and, still keeping their sixes trained on Hiram's stomach, approached him.

"Well, Hooker," Drummond said sneeringly, "we meet again, don't we?

You see, we've showed our hand at last--and it's a pretty good one, too. You're onto us, anyway, I guess, so from now on we'll fight in the open. Did you get the sheepskin?"

Hiram reverted to his provincial drawl, as was his habit in moments of great stress.

"No, she got plumb away from me," he said. "She got outa the whirlwind back there somewheres, or else she's gone on with what's left o' the twister."

"I was afraid you wasn't going to say that, Hooker," Drummond said.

"Well, let me show you something. Do you recognize this gat?"

Hiram looked uneasily at a third big six-shooter, which Drummond had produced as he spoke.

"I reckon she was mine a while back," he said with a gulp.

"Exactly. And what you left it to hold down, Hooker, has gone up in smoke."

"You got---- You burned----"

"Got and burned is right, Hooker. But I don't just like your tone. If you were on the stage, Brother Hiram, I think you'd get the hook.

'Hook Hooker!' the audience might yell. Don't you think I'm funny at times, Gentle Wild Cat? It's just my pleasant little way of informing you that I consider you a poor actor. 'You got--you burned' was pretty fair, Hi-ram, but not quite good enough. So we're going to search you and make sure you didn't get the sheepskin out of the whirlwind."

"I didn't get it," Hiram said sulkily. "She's gone forever."

"She is in any event, Hooker. But we have a copy at Ragtown--don't forget that. Now let go these reins and step over here. And be mighty careful, Hi-ram--mighty careful. My friend here is a nervous man with a six-gun."

Obediently Hiram dropped the mare's reins and stepped away from her head. Drummond laid the two revolvers at some distance away from them on the ground, so that, while he was searching Hiram, the latter would have no opportunity to grab one from him and turn the tables.

"Keep 'em up," he ordered; and, while Pete trained his gun on Hiram, Drummond searched his prisoner from head to foot.

"Guess you told the truth," he said. "Still, a fellow never can tell.

You're a pretty foxy guy at times. Strip, Hooker.

"I guess you did tell the truth," Drummond said a few minutes later after a thorough search had been made. "Still I'm not through yet.

You saw us coming and had time to hide it, if you found it."

He stepped to the mare and went over her saddle, even turning the cheek straps of the bridle inside out, and pawing through her heavy mane and tail. He looked and felt in her ears. He held her nostrils with his fingers until she jerked up her head and snorted out a blast of held-in air.

"Guess that would have shot out any paper in her nostrils," he remarked.

"They say this Jo's a hoss trainer," suggested Pete. "Maybe the mare's a trick hoss. Look in her mouth Drummond."

Drummond did this, but found it empty. He studied a minute, his eyes closed thoughtfully, then threw off the saddle and examined the sheepskin lining, _tapaderos_, jockeys, skirts.

Now for fifteen minutes he walked about over the ground. It was hard and firm here--almost as smooth as the surface of a dry lake, with no loose sand in which the paper might be concealed and little desert growth.

Returning he lifted the mare's feet one by one, then faced Hiram again.

"Open your mouth," he commanded; and Hiram obeyed, displaying an empty cavity.

"Well, ole hoss, I guess the game's up for you folks," Drummond said chuckling. "I never thought we'd be lucky enough to get rid of the original. So now we'll leave you to put on your clothes and go your way. You may see Jerkline Jo and tell her your little story; and you two can discuss what's best to do. When you've decided, come to me and we'll d.i.c.ker with you."

"How 'bout takin' 'im into the mountains?" asked Pete in a low voice.

"No, that won't be necessary now. We need him to put the case before Jerkline Jo. I'm against violence, anyway, in the main. And I'm not a hog, like a certain person I might mention if it weren't for Hooker's overhearing it. We'll let him go, and d.i.c.ker later. Half suits me."

Drummond climbed into the saddle, and the two wheeled their horses and rode away.

Hiram began to dress.

"Look, Hooker!" called Drummond from a distance. "I'll drop your gun right here."

Hiram nodded and continued putting on his clothes, then resaddled the mare.

Then when the departing riders were mere specks in the distance he stepped to Babe's head, reached his fingers up one of her nostrils, and pulled out the wadded sheepskin doc.u.ment.

"A heap o' fellas call themselves hossmen that don't know about that little pocket in a hoss' nose," came his whimsical Mendocino drawl.

"She could snort all day, but the pocket ain't connected with her nostrils." He patted Babe's glossy neck. "Li'l' black mare," he crooned into her furry ear, "le's go find Jo!"

CHAPTER x.x.xIV

WHILE SPRING APPROACHED

At a late hour in the evening of the day that Hiram Hooker set out to ride with the sheepskin to Jerkline Jo, on her way to Julia, a strange figure presented itself at the door of the lighted commissary tent of Demarest, Spruce & Tillou's Camp Number Two.

"Well, who in thunder are you?" exclaimed the young commissary clerk, as his eyes fell upon a set of s.h.a.ggy gray brows and a dusty, bewhiskered face.

"I'm Basil Filer--ole Filer," was the croaking reply. "I jest stopped in to see if ye got a' automobile, or a hoss an' buggy, or somethin'

here."

"Well, what if we have?"

"Thought maybe ye'd give Tehachapi Hank a ride," came the answer.

"He's too heavy for Muta--that's my biggest burro. His feet drags and ketches in the greasewood, and Muta she gets provoked at him. He won't bother you none--Hank won't. He's peaceable. But he oughta be got to a constable or somethin'. You see, Hank he's dead."

This brought the clerk out into the night; and there in the light streaming from the tent door lay the figure of a man crosswise and face down on a burro's back.

"Ye see, I know Hank some time," explained Basil Filer simply. "And jest last night a friend o' mine he camped with me, and said Hank was up to his old devilment ag'in. So I was camped on the desert out there this evenin', and Hank he drifts in. And--well, I'm watchin', you see; and so when Hank he sidles round and I see somethin' heavylike in his hand, why, I ups and goes for my cannon. Then Hank he goes for his, and I have to let him have it from the hip. Got any ca'tridges, pardner? Hank he wasted the last one I had."

"You--you killed this man?" faltered the clerk.

"I hadn't only one ca'tridge, pardner," Filer said patiently. "And Hank he's accounted a pretty clever gunman. Well, maybe he was. Ole Filer he shoots ole jack rabbits in the eye at twenty paces with a six, they'll tell ye. Anyway ye can figger that out, here's Hank. And he oughta see a coroner er somethin'. I don't want 'im. Besides, time Muta'd packed him to Ragtown, Hank he'd spoil. Muta she never did like Tehachapi Hank, nohow."

The following day the mortal remains of Tehachapi Hank were brought into Ragtown, together with his self-confessed killer Basil Filer. The constable--for Ragtown had one now--took Filer in charge and hurried him to the county seat in Twitter-or-Tweet's machine. The burros had been loosed to pick their living on the desert.