Part 1

THE LOOT OF THE LAZY A

By W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Romance,” “Straight Shooting,” etc.

CULTUS COLLINS ONCE MORE STARTS OUT TO INVESTIGATE FOR THE CATTLE ASSOCIATION, AND FALLS INTO MORE ACTION THAN HE THOUGHT COULD BE FOUND IN THE WHOLE SOUTHWEST. AND THE END OF IT ALL WAS HIS OWN DISCOVERY THAT IT NEEDS MORE STRENGTH TO BE BEST MAN AT A WEDDING THAN TO BE BEST MAN IN A GUN-FIGHT--WITH WHICH ROLE CULTUS WAS ONLY TOO FAMILIAR

It was one of those foggy, raining, dismal nights, when all the world seemed one vast drip, drip of water; cold gusts of wind from the bay, where the fog warnings boomed dismally, boat whistles shrilled; while on the streets of San Francisco, little less wet than the bay itself, cable-car motormen danced jigs upon their gongs, seeking to clear the tracks, which they could hardly see in the dim glow of their own headlights.

Standing in the protection of a half lighted doorway, just outside the borders of Chinatown, was a girl. She was dressed in a black suit, black hat. Close inspection would have shown that both the suit and hat were slightly more than well worn, and were also very wet. She carried no umbrella. She was not beautiful, but perhaps it was because of the abject misery in her big, dark eyes, the utter helplessness of her expression.

She was of medium height, slender, white-faced. In fact, her face was so white against the gloom of the doorway, which blended with her black garb, that it seemed like a white mask suspended invisibly against a dark curtain. The wind swirled past the doorway, showering her with rain, but she did not draw back--only stared ahead, dumbly.

A policeman emerged out of the fog, peered at her, as he went slowly past, glanced up the street toward the clanging of a street car bell, and went on. Possibly he thought she was waiting for a car.

A man emerged from a doorway farther up the street, and came down past her. He was tall, rather slender, his head surmounted by a huge Stetson sombrero, which made him look gigantic in the dim light. His heels hit hard on the sidewalk, because of the fact that he was wearing high-heeled boots, and in one hand he carried a suitcase.

The street car clanged past before he could reach the corner; so he placed his baggage on the sidewalk, shoved his hands deep in his pockets and leaned against a post, almost directly in front of where the girl stood. He turned and looked directly at her, but turned back and drew his hat farther over his eyes. He shivered a little. He had no overcoat either.

A man came from the opposite direction, swathed in a heavy overcoat, whistling aimlessly. He was a big man, the collar of his coat touching the brim of his derby hat. He did not see the girl until he was almost past her. He stopped and came back to her. It is possible that he did not see the tall man, who leaned against the post.

“Hello, Kid,” he said ingratiatingly. “What are you doing out in the rain, all alone?”

The girl did not reply, but drew back against the wall. The tall man turned his head.

“No coat, no umbrella?” The man in the overcoat laughed. “Say, you must be up against it, Kid. You don’t look so bad. Snap out of it. Gee, you don’t need to shiver on a corner.”

“Will you please go away?” asked the girl. “I’m all right.”

“I’ll say you are, Kid--all right. I like you. Don’t be uppish. Come on, and I’ll show you a good time.”

“Please let me alone.” The girl spoke softly.

“Don’t try to kid me,” laughed the man. “You’re going with me and I’ll show you the best time----”

The tall man had stepped in behind him and a huge hand, which gripped like a vise, had fastened to his shoulder.

“The lady asked yuh to let her alone, yuh know.” The tall man’s voice seemed mild, apologetic.

The man squirmed quickly. “Who in hell are you?” he demanded.

“Names wouldn’t mean anythin’,” the other said mildly.

The man jerked loose. “Then keep your hands off me! This is none of your business! Now, trot along and let us alone.”

“Ma’am,” the tall man spoke softly, ignoring the threatening attitude of the other man, “do yuh want to go with this man?”

“I certainly do not.”

“I reckon that’s final, don’tcha think?” The big man in the overcoat possibly did not agree with this, and he was foolish enough to swing a right-handed blow at the head of the tall man. The overcoat was a serious handicap. His blow had only traveled half of its arc, when a thick, bony fist, seemingly weighted with lead, caught him under the chin, and he went backward into the street, where he went down in a heap.

The girl stifled a scream, but the tall man’s chuckle was reassuring.

“Did yuh know this man, ma’am?” he asked, caressing his right hand.

“No, I did not. I don’t know who he is.”

“Neither does he--right now. Ain’t it cold! I hate this kind of weather. I s’pose it’s because I live so much on the desert.”

“On the desert?” The girl spoke softly. “Where everything is clean and good--and the sunshine----”

“Have you lived there?”

“Ages and ages ago.”

The tall man peered closer at her. “Yuh don’t look old.”

“I’m twenty-two.”

The tall man laughed softly. “Yeah, yo’re sure ancient, ma’am. And yo’re all wet and shiverin’. Will yuh--? Say, that’s funny. I just knocked that feller into the street for askin’ yuh to go with him, and I was about to do the same thing. He’s gettin’ up.

“Yeah, and he’s goin’ the other way. He’s stoppin’ at the sidewalk, prob’ly wonderin’ what to do about it. Mebbe he don’t know what it’s all about.”

The man had staggered to the opposite sidewalk, where he stood, humped slightly in the rain. His derby hat was out in the street, but he did not seem to miss it. A policeman was coming down that side of the street, and they heard the man say something, which caused the officer to stop.

“C’mon,” said the tall man, grasping the girl by the arm. “Yuh never can tell what that jigger will tell the law.”

Shielding her as much as possible from the rain, the tall man picked up his suitcase and escorted the girl around the corner and down the block. She did not hold back. There was too much sincerity in the voice of this big cowboy for her to feel afraid.

“Where are we going?” she ventured to ask.

“I know a place,” he said jerkily. “It ain’t so much to look at, and lotsa ornery folks eat there, but they sure sabe how to cook a steak, and make soup. Do yuh like soup?”

“Soup?” The girl spoke the word queerly, as though it was something she had once known, but had forgotten.

“Yeah, that’s it. Lotsa onions and meat. Here we are.”

He led her up a rickety stairs, where the air was redolent with odors of frying meats, garlic; the hundred-and-one odors that make up the atmosphere of a bohemian chop-house, where no questions are asked.

No head waiter met them. In fact they were almost knocked down by a hurrying waiter, carrying a tray of dishes; a short-haired, broken-nosed individual; a one-time artist in the manly art of scrambling ears.

It was warm up there amid all those smells. The tall man led the girl to a vacant booth, which an anemic-looking waiter was cleaning up, and they sat down opposite each other. The tall man had placed his suitcase beside the entrance, where he could watch it. It was the first time they had had a good look at each other.

The girl’s face was slightly flushed now, and when she removed her dripping hat, she was really pretty. Her hair was a soft brown. The man’s face was long and bony, with a large nose, keen gray eyes and a big mouth. His cheek-bones were prominent, his hair of a neutral shade, neither blonde, brown nor red.

His hands were huge, bony-wristed, flecked with freckles. He was dressed in a cheap brown suit, flannel shirt, and his trousers were tucked in the tops of his high-heeled boots. The girl looked intently at him. There was no denying that he was homely. Then he smiled at her. She caught her breath for a moment--and smiled back at him.

He was not the same man when he smiled. She caught herself staring at him, while the waiter took their order, wondering that a smile should so absolutely change a man. The waiter went away, marveling at the appetites these two must have.

“Ma’am,” said the tall man gravely, “my name’s Collins. My friends call me ‘Cultus’; Cultus Collins, from Cuyamac.”

“And I am just Mary Smith,” she said simply. “They used to call me Mary Elizabeth--when I had friends.”

“When yuh did have, Mary Smith?”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh. Mary Smith, how long since yuh ate a meal?”

“Why--er--this noon.”

“Yuh don’t need to lie to me, Mary Elizabeth. Callin’ yuh that ought to prove me yore friend--and yuh hadn’t ought to lie to yore friends.”

Mary Smith looked into the gray eyes of Cultus Collins, and decided not to lie, because he seemed to know that she lied.

“It wasn’t a very big meal,” she said slowly.

“It wasn’t any meal at all, Mary Smith.”

“No, I guess it wasn’t.” And then Mary Smith bowed her head on her wet arms and cried, while Cultus Collins upset a bottle of catsup, trying to pat her on the shoulder and tell her to quit crying. Several diners looked curiously at them, but they were of the breed that mind their own business.

Mary Smith finally stopped crying, dabbled her eyes with a wet handkerchief, and tried to appear brave, while she choked over the first meal she had eaten in two days. Cultus did not question her, nor did she offer any explanation, until the steaks and baked potatoes and soup and salads were but memories, and they were eating huge slices of apple pie and cheese, for which the place was famous.

There were roses in Mary Smith’s cheeks now, even if her body was still wet from the rain. Bit by bit she told her story to Cultus Collins. It was not a new tale of woe. Mary Smith had come from a little town in New England; literally ran away, because she did not want to marry a certain man, greatly desired by her parents, and because she wanted to see some of the world. She had saved enough money to buy a ticket to the Middle West, and by selling a few pieces of jewelry she was able to stretch this ticket to San Francisco, where she had an aunt.

But the aunt was not there. Lack of a business education lost her several fairly good positions. Sickness cost her all her slender savings, and just now she was a week overdue on her room rent, and the room was locked against her. For three days she had haunted the stores, trying to get a position, but they merely looked at her shabby clothes and told her that there was nothing available just now.

Cultus Collins rubbed his chin and wondered what to do. He was not financially able to give her much assistance. He could give her enough money to square up her room rent and enough for a few days of square meals. But that would not remedy the clothes proposition--and without clothes she could not hope to get a paying position.

“Just what was yuh goin’ to do--standin’ there in the rain, Mary Smith?” he asked.

She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “I--I don’t know. My body was numb, and I guess my mind was not far from being in the same state. It was all so hopeless, don’t you see?”

“Uh-huh, I see. And yet yuh wouldn’t _go_ with that man.”

She shook her head. “I was going the other way.”

“Toward the bay?”

Mary Smith nodded dumbly. Cultus sighed and shook his head.

“It’s a queer old world, Mary Smith. I’ve been here two days, and I was roomin’ in a little place jist up the street from where we met. I was leavin’, yuh see. I had plenty of time, but I hurried. That’s fate, I reckon.”

“It was fate for me,” sighed the girl. “The bay seems a long way from here, Mr. Collins.”

Cultus smiled widely. “Nothin’ like a steak to make a person change their mind.”

Another couple had entered the restaurant, and came up to the next booth. The man was fairly young, sleek-haired, flashily dressed. The woman was wearing a brown traveling suit, trimmed with expensive furs, and was wearing a small hat. She was young and beautiful, in an artificial way, but just now her face was contorted with indignation, as she faced the young man.

“I suppose you think that was a smart thing to do!” she fairly snapped at him. “Is it any of your business if I want to take a little trip? Explain yourself!”

The man deposited a suitcase beside the one Cultus had placed near the booth entrance and took the girl by the arm.

“Don’t talk so damn’ loud,” he advised. “Get in there and sit down, Janice. I just wanted to be sure you wasn’t doin’ a runout on me. This don’t look right to me. I happen to know that your lawyer friend has been up to see you twice in two days, and I know you haven’t any need of legal advice. Sit down!”

They sat down in the next booth, but their voices were pitched loud enough for Cultus and Mary Smith to hear what was said.

“I’ll explain nothing,” declared the girl. “Let that pocketbook alone!-- Well, are you satisfied?”

It was evident that the man had investigated her bag.

“You’re not very well heeled, that’s true. But that don’t mean you won’t meet somebody at the Ferry Building. I heard you tell the taxi driver where to take you. Now, come clean, Janice. You were going to leave me flat. I’ve bought you clothes, diamonds, paid your rent, furnished you a car--and you run out on me.”

Came a few moments of inaudible conversation; the man’s voice was raised in anger.

“What do you care how I make my money? You’re getting rather prudish, it seems. I suppose you think that if the police get me, you’ll go along, because you spent my money, eh? Well, my money is as good as the money of that dirty bum of a lawyer! He’s as crooked as anybody in the district. Sa-a-ay! Are you giving me the gate for that welcher?”

“Your opinions do not interest me,” said the girl. “Call me a taxi. I’m sick of your insinuations.”

“Aw, pull that stuff and get a vaudeville contract! Why, you little bum, anybody would think you was Bernhardt! Snap out of it! Get away from me? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Fine chance. Na-a-aw! Sit still, or I’ll knock you for a loop!”

Cultus was not so interested that he failed to see two men come in. One was the big man he had knocked into the street, while the other was of the same type as the man with the girl. They halted midway of the room, ignoring the gestures of a waiter.

Then Cultus heard the man in the booth say, “There’s that dirty welcher now! Leggo me!”

A dish crashed to the floor, as the man jerked away from the girl and stepped out beyond the curtains of the booth. The two men had turned toward it, and the big man had stepped forward, his hand reaching inside his overcoat, as the woman’s companion emerged.

There were no preliminaries. It seemed to Cultus that both men knew what this meeting would mean. He saw the man at the booth whip out a snub-nosed gun. The other man was just as quick, and both guns spat rapidly, filling the room with short, snappy reports, both men shooting as fast as they could press the trigger. It was all done in the space of a few seconds. The man at the booth entrance dropped his gun, turned around, as though to re-enter the booth, but his grasping hands tore down the hanging curtains, pulling them down on top of him, as he fell.

The other man was on the floor, trying to stay on his hands and knees. A frightened waiter had dropped a filled tray, and was running toward the back of the room.

“My God, they hit that girl, too!” someone yelled.

And then somebody cut off the lights. Cultus and Mary had got to their feet and were at the booth entrance, when the lights went out, plunging the room in darkness. But Cultus had located the exit, and now he grasped his suitcase in one hand, while with the other he clung to Mary Smith, fairly dragging her to the top of the stairs, tearing a way through the frenzied mob.

At the top of the stairs he lifted her up with one arm, fending the strugglers away with his suitcase, and plunged down the rickety stairs and out into the rain, where he let her down. Cultus knew it would only be a minute or two until the police would be there; so he hurried Mary Smith down the street, around a corner, where they found a taxi.

Into this they went, and Cultus told the driver to take them to the Ferry Building. Mary had said nothing, and by the dim light of the cab, Cultus could see that she was very white. He patted her on the shoulder, and she tried to smile.

“Hang onto yore nerve,” he whispered, and then his eyes happened to fall upon the suitcase at their feet.

It was not Cultus’ bag at all; it was the other one!

Cultus looked at it closely. Only in the dark could it have been mistaken for the battered suitcase Cultus had owned. This one was of fine finish--an expensive thing--and was filled to capacity. But Cultus did not mention it to Mary Smith.

They got out at the Ferry Building and went inside. Cultus bought tickets to Oakland. It would be ten minutes before ferry time; so he led Mary Smith to a secluded seat, putting the suitcase on his lap. It was not locked. He unfastened the nickel buckles and opened the case, while Mary gasped with astonishment. It was filled with women’s clothes; dainty things which seemed to arise from the depths of the case, as they were released from pressure.

On the top were two envelopes. The first contained a ticket and Pullman accommodations to Oreana, Arizona and a hundred-dollar bill. The other was sealed in a plain envelope. Cultus ran the blade of his knife under the flap and opened the envelope without damaging it. Together he and Mary Smith read:

Dear M:

Introducing Janice Lee, alias anything you want to call her. She knows part of the game, and is a fair actress, if you can keep her sober.

Good luck to you. Yours, L.

P. S. I only gave her a hundred out of that five you sent; so you only owe me a hundred, if it pans out all right. Better see that she gets hers, because I won’t swear to her playing on the square, unless you do.

Cultus looked sideways at Mary Smith, as he sealed the letter and replaced it in the suitcase. He removed the envelope, containing the tickets and hundred-dollar bill, which he handed to Mary Smith.

“Why give it to me?” she asked, looking queerly at him.

“Does fate scare yuh, Mary Elizabeth?” he asked softly. “I was going to Arizona, when yuh made me miss my car. I wasn’t headin’ for Oreana, but it’s on my way.”

“But I’m not going to Arizona.”

“Listen to me, Mary Elizabeth Smith. Yuh can’t buck fate. If I’m any judge of things as they look, that big feller was the one that was sendin’ that girl, Janice Lee, out to Oreana, Arizona.

“The big feller is plumb full of lead, and I heard somebody say that the girl was hit. She was behind him, yuh remember. A lot of lead was used this night. You was headin’ for the bay, wasn’t yuh? Here’s a suitcase full of clothes, and I’m sure I seen a trunk check stickin’ down in a corner. There’s a hundred-dollar bill. From now on, yo’re Janice Lee, a pretty fair actress, as long as yuh stay sober. And they better pay yuh what’s comin’ to yuh, or you’ll yelp. Sabe what it means?”

“But--but wouldn’t it be wrong?” faltered Mary.

“It started wrong, Mary.”

As Cultus fastened up the shining buckles, the ferry-boat passengers came crowding out. He picked up the suitcase, held out his hand to Mary Smith, and they went out together.

And while they listened to the throb of the engines and the eery wail of the foghorns a police officer reported to a desk sergeant:

“It was all over when we got there, Sarge. Two dead men and a girl they say can’t live. They sure did a good job. Everyone else was out of there, but we got a suitcase, which one of the waiters said ‘Speed’ Evans brought in. Loring, the lawyer, was all shot to pieces.”

Another officer came in, carrying the battered suitcase, and the detective bureau assisted in its examination. They found two pairs of overalls, several socks, a red shirt, a lariat rope and several packages of tobacco.

“If that belonged to Speed Evans, it’s too bad he got killed,” observed a hard-bitten detective, grinning.

“Why?” asked the desk sergeant.

“Why? Because the blamed crook must have been starting out to do something useful in the world.”

“What do you know about Loring, the lawyer?”

“Enough,” said the detective, “to shed very few tears over his demise.”

“And the girl?”

“Speed’s girl, Searg. Maybe Loring tried to get her. She’s badly shot from liquor. Got two automatic bullets through her, besides. No use investigating. They cleaned up everything for themselves. My gosh, that dump is a wreck.”

“Somebody else took a wallop at Loring tonight,” said an officer, who had been at the restaurant. “He was all over mud, and his hat was in the street. He tried to tell me what it was all about, but I told him to go home and wash his face.”

And thus ended the incident, as far as the police were concerned. Cultus Collins’ suitcase was thrown on a shelf, along with a lot more derelict bundles, and the officers went back to their work.

* * * * *

Oreana City was a typical cattle town of the Southwest; an old place, where the original settlers had builded with adobe, and was still half adobe. Most of the houses were one-story, arranged along a single dusty street, and the alignment of the buildings would have driven an engineer frantic. In early days they had builded along a crooked road, and the crooked road was still the main street of Oreana City.

It was located at the end of a branch railroad line, which served thirty miles of cattle and mining country. An irregular freight and passenger train made daily round trips over the line, making little pretense of a schedule. Oreana City, like the majority of cattle towns, was more unmoral than immoral. The honkatonk was the main center of amusement, and gambling was taken as a matter of course.

A stage line ran from Oreana City to the gold mines of Welcome Creek, thirty miles away. Being an outfitting center for both cattlemen and miners made Oreana City somewhat the pivotal center of that little universe. It was also the county seat.

Three miles northwest of Oreana City was the ranch of the Lazy A: three miles southwest of Oreana City was the ranch of the Star X. Between these two outfits was a feud which had lasted so long that no one paid much attention to it any more.

That is, they hadn’t, until the funeral of old Jud Ault, owner of the Lazy A. Over a year previous to the funeral, Jud Ault had been shot from ambush, the bullet injuring his spine and causing partial paralysis. Since then he had never been able to walk. It was generally believed that the bullet was fired by one of Eph Wheeler’s Star X outfit, if not by old Eph himself. But there was no evidence to convict them.

The feud had started so long ago that no one seemed to know just what had caused it. Some said it started over a card game, in which whisky played a prominent part; others said it was over the woman who married Jud Ault and died when their little girl, Faith, was but a tiny slip of a child. At any rate, Jud Ault and Eph Wheeler had been bunkies before this trouble, but had not met, face to face, in over twenty years.

Jud Ault, even before his injury, which finally killed him, was a grim, sour-faced old man, quick of temper. He hated mankind, and did not hesitate to say it. The Lazy A made Ault rich. Mining engineers had urged the old man to lease or sell part of his ranch, which was rich enough to make him a millionaire. But he refused. He hated miners. They dug holes in the ground. He did not want to be rich.

Faith had grown up in awe of her parent, the prettiest girl in the country, but denied suitors. Woe unto the gay cowboy who tried to jingle his spurs across the threshold of the Lazy A ranch-house. And when she was eighteen she married Jack Keene, a gambler; ran away with him, spent a short honeymoon, and came back for the paternal blessing.

But what they found was a door closed against them. Never again did Jud Ault speak to his daughter. He drew back in his shell, like an old turtle, even refusing to go to town. And when it was definitely decided that Jud Ault had made his final decision, Jack Keene, gambler, former lawyer (according to Miles Lane, a local attorney, who had formed a friendship for Keene), disappeared from Oreana City--alone.

Not even then did Jud Ault relent and take back his daughter, who had no means of support. Men went to him and urged him to take care of her, even if he did not want to see her, and he cursed them out. There was no doubt in the minds of everyone that Jack Keene had had an eye on the Lazy A when he married Faith; but had sneaked away like a cur when he found that his marriage did not mean money.