Part 7

“What papers, Mr. Breen?” Mary was frightened at Breen’s tone.

“The bill of sale to the Lazy A,” growled Breen. “He’ll have it all made out, and all you’ll have to do is to sign ’em. You turn the whole works over to me.”

“I give you a bill of sale to the Lazy A ranch?”

“Yuh sure do, young lady. As soon as that’s done I’ll take you to Oreana City and send yuh back where yuh came from.”

Breen walked over to a front window and glanced out. He was just a little suspicious of Jones of Oklahoma. Suddenly he turned and glared at Mary, who stood beside the center table, looking at him.

“You and yore detective friend thought yuh was damn’ smart, didn’t yuh?” he said. “I happen to know that yo’re not the girl who was supposed to come here. What do you think of that?”

He came toward her, grin on his hard face. “Yeah, I know all about it. You think yo’re goin’ to get a thousand dollars for signin’ them papers. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! You poor little fool! Do you think you was foolin’ me?

“Set down! Scared, eh? You need to be. Do you think I’m goin’ to let you beat me out of a million dollars? No, I’m not goin’ to put my hands on yuh. Yore friend has gone to Welcome Creek, and he won’t be back until later; so yuh don’t need to look toward the window. You won’t be here when he comes back, and I’ll be here to welcome him. I don’t like detectives.”

Mary sat down in a chair beside the table, wondering what to do. She was afraid of Breen. From a window she had seen the cowboys ride away. Hop was in the kitchen, washing dishes, but she knew she could expect no help from him.

“Where are you going to send me?” she asked helplessly.

“Where?” Breen laughed shortly.

“_Quien sabe._ Understand Spanish? That’s Spanish for ‘who knows?’ Ha, ha, ha, ha! Who knows where we’ll send you. Why, a poor little fool, where can we send you where you can’t talk? And we can’t let you talk about this.”

“If I promise not to----”

“Promise! What’s a promise of that worth? Set still! You act sensible and sign those papers, and we’ll see about your promises--Mary Ault!” Breen laughed harshly. “Mary Ault! And you tried to fool me.”

* * * * *

Cultus and Shif’less rode away from the old mine, heading toward the Cross Arrow. Shif’less was still a little mystified as to why Cultus had helped him destroy the evidence. They had left nothing for the Lazy A to find as evidence, unless they were willing to search the two hundred foot level of the crumbling old shaft.

“I reckon Mr. Lane didn’t lose any time in tellin’ Breen what he saw back there,” observed Cultus.

Shif’less nodded gloomily. “Prob’ly not, Jones. I don’t sabe what Lane was doin’ there at that time in the mornin’.”

“I don’t know. Shif’less, I’ve heard that you kinda think a lot of Faith Keene.”

Shif’less turned in his saddle. “You heard it, did yuh?”

“That’s nothin’ ag’in yuh, cowboy. Why don’t yuh marry her?”

“Plenty of reasons, I reckon. In the first place, I dunno if she’d marry me if she could, and in the second place--she’s still got a husband.”

“Well,” smiled Cultus, “yuh can easy find out the first part of it, and in the second place, jist between me and you, her husband is dead.”

Shif’less stared at Cultus.

“How do yuh know, Jones?”

“I happened to be there when he was killed. I didn’t know it at the time, but I seen his picture later, and it was the face of a feller they called Loring, a cheap lawyer in Frisco.”

Shif’less nodded quickly. “There was two men killed--and a woman. Her name was Janice Lee.”

Cultus leaned closer to him. “How do you know that?”

It did not take Shif’less long to explain about finding it in the paper.

“I took it to Lane.” he said. “Lane was Keene’s friend, and I thought----”

“You took it to him last night?” Cultus jerked up his horse.

“Yeah.”

“Good gosh!” exploded Cultus. “And Lane has gone to meet Idaho Breen. Listen, Shif’less; you go to town. If Breen or Lane show up there with that girl--Mary Ault--stop ’em. No, I can’t tell yuh why. Just stop ’em, and then come out to the Lazy A.”

Cultus whirled his horse around, drew his hat down over his eyes, and sent the roan on a stiff gallop back toward the Lazy A. He realized that the newspaper clipping would prove to Lane and Breen that Mary Smith was an impostor. It was something unforeseen, and Cultus knew that Breen would stop at nothing now to get control of the Lazy A.

* * * * *

And about the time that Cultus had found out about the newspaper clipping, Miles Lane was riding back to the Lazy A with the papers for Mary to sign. He had had them prepared for days. They were snake-tight, and all they needed was the signature of Mary Ault, and his own, as notary public. He had made the imprint of his seal before he left the office.

Her signature would make Idaho Jim Breen owner of the Lazy A estate, and Idaho Breen would take Miles Lane in as a full partner in the holdings. Even the partnership papers were all prepared. Lane was very thorough in his crooked work.

He rode his lathering horse up to the ranch-house and went in. Mary was sitting beside the table, her face very white. On a chair against the wall sat Idaho Breen. He had been drinking from a bottle, and was just drunk enough to be alert.

“Got everythin’ ready?” he asked. Lane nodded and spread the papers on the table. “Get the pen and ink, Idaho.”

Mary stared at the typewritten sheets.

“Take a good look at ’em, sister,” laughed Breen, as he came, with the pen and ink and placed them on the table.

Lane dipped the pen in ink and handed it to her, placing his finger on the ruled line. “Put your name right there. Just write Mary Ault.”

Mary looked up at them, her hand trembling. “But that isn’t my name.”

“Nobody knows it better than we do,” laughed Breen. “Write it out, and we’ll take a chance on it. You wasn’t supposed to come here, yuh know.”

“Suppose I refuse to sign,” Mary shut her lips and looked defiantly at Breen. “You can’t make me sign.”

“Tryin’ a holdup, eh? No good, my dear. Everybody knows you are the owner of the Lazy A, and if yuh refuse to sign, we’ll fake a signature.”

“And I’ll swear it isn’t mine--and prove it.”

Breen’s jaw tightened and he leaned closer to Mary. “No, yuh won’t; you won’t prove anythin’. If you’ve got a lick of sense, you’ll sign that paper right now.”

Mary took the pen and signed the name of Mary Ault. There was nothing else for her to do. Breen laughed softly, as Lane handed him the paper, and reached for the bottle.

“Better go easy on that stuff,” advised Lane. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

Breen took a big drink and put the bottle on the floor. He turned to Mary, who still held the pen in her hand.

“Git dressed for travelin’,” he ordered. “Pack yore suitcase. In ten minutes we’re pullin’ out. _Poco tiempo!_”

He turned to Lane. “You stay here with her, while I hitch up a team to the buggy.”

Mary walked back to her room and packed her clothes. She put a few things in the suitcase, but did not bother to pack the trunk. She had not worn any of Janice Lee’s clothes, as she had not been out of the house since her arrival.

She was glad to leave the Lazy A, but down in her heart was a fear that these two men were not through with her yet. She had been living in sort of a daze ever since that night at the restaurant in San Francisco. And when she had asked Breen where he was going to send her, he had said, “Quien sabe”--who knows?

She carried the suitcase in to the living room and sat down in an old rocking-chair. Lane was helping himself to Breen’s bottle, and his hand trembled as he looked at Mary.

Breen was hitching up a pair of vicious-looking grays, a half broken team. He was obliged to tie them to the corral fence and drag the buggy around to them. As soon as they were hitched he went to the house and flung open the front door.

“You pull out ahead of us, Miles,” he growled. “Hit the grit, hombre, because we’ll need an open road.”

Lane placed the bottle on the table and walked out, going straight to his horse which he mounted and rode swiftly away. “What about my trunk?” asked Mary. Breen turned from watching Lane gallop out of sight.

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

Mary shivered slightly, as Breen emptied the bottle down his throat and threw the bottle viciously aside. He picked up her suitcase and pointed toward the door.

“Start goin’,” he growled. Mary preceded him from the house and they went down to the corral, where the gray team humped angrily under the feel of the harness.

Breen threw her suitcase in the back of the buggy and motioned her to get in. As she sat down and looked at him, he half turned and was staring past the end of the stable. Then he began running toward the front of the stable, which was near the main gate.

He was within twenty yards of the gate when Cultus came in sight, swinging his horse toward the gate. Mary saw Breen jerk to a stop, throwing up his right hand which held a six-shooter. She tried to cry out to Cultus, who was partly masked from Breen by the huge gate-post, but before she could utter any sound, Cultus turned to come through the gate, and Breen fired.

Cultus jerked sideways from the shock of the heavy bullet, and his tall roan whirled quickly, throwing Cultus heavily just inside the enclosure. The horse trotted a few yards away, whirled in against the fence and stopped, looking back at its rider.

Breen ran up to him and quickly turned him over. Evidently satisfied that Cultus was out of the game for good, he ran back to the buggy and untied the horses, which were still jerking nervously from the sound of the revolver shot.

He climbed in beside Mary, whirled the team around and went out through the gate at racing speed. The lurch of the buggy almost threw Mary out, and she did not get a look at Cultus as they raced past. Breen did not try to check the horses. His jaw was set tightly, and Mary could see that his lips were white. He did not speak to or look at her.

Mary had only been over the road once, but she knew it was even more dangerous than the one she had ridden over in the runaway the night she came to Oreana City. About a mile below the Lazy A the road looped around over some dizzy grades above a deep canyon, and she remembered that Cultus had remarked that it was a place where a driver was only allowed one mistake.

She looked at Breen, wondering why he did not make any attempt to check the running team. He was crouched on the edge of the seat, his feet drawn well under him, his eyes shut to mere slits, as the buggy lurched and bounded over the uneven road. They whirled down through a swale, where the mesquite ripped along the wheels and sides, like the sound of tearing silk.

A rock sent them skidding wildly, but the buggy did not upset. It threw Mary to her knees, but Breen, ripping out an oath, yanked her back in the seat, his elbow striking her in the mouth, as he recovered his balance. She threw up both hands to protect her face, and the next instant Breen had flung himself clear of the buggy. Mary whirled around, trying to see him, but he was blotted out in a swirl of dust.

She jerked around in the seat, and saw just ahead of her the beginning of the grades around the deep canyon. There was nothing she could do now. To attempt a jump from the buggy would mean that she would have to choose between falling into the canyon or being smashed against the rocky side of the grade.

The two horses were running at top speed, their bellies low to the ground, the lines whipping through the air, the buggy and its one occupant bounding along behind them. Mary tried to pray, but she was so dazed, so frightened that she could only hang on.

They whirled around the first turn on two wheels, straightened perilously near the outer edge, and headed for the next sharp curve. It was a sharp turn to the right, and on the left hand side was an old washout, filled with brush.

But the running team turned too late, and the inside wheels of the buggy smashed against the wall. Came a whirl of dust and gravel, a cataclysm of overturned buggy, flying hoofs, the scream of a horse, and the outfit hurtled over the edge, dropping straight down for fifty feet, where it struck the apex of a broken ledge, seemed to hang for a moment, and then went crashing and rolling into the bottom of the gorge a hundred feet below.

* * * * *

Cultus had seen Idaho Breen just before the shot was fired, and before the shock of the bullet had knocked him unconscious he knew that Breen had shot him. He was shocked back to consciousness by a deluge of cold water, and opened his eyes to see Hop, the Chinese cook, standing over him, bucket in hand.

“You hu’t pletty damn’ bad?” queried the Chinaman anxiously.

Cultus struggled to a sitting position, clamping his jaws to hold back the exclamation of pain which came to his lips. It seemed that a red-hot iron was searing deeply in his left shoulder. He panted for several moments, while cold perspiration dripped from his face.

But his mind cleared rapidly, and the Chinaman helped him to his feet. He wasn’t just sure why Breen had shot him. He felt for his gun and found it still in the holster.

“Why did he shoot me?” asked Cultus hoarsely.

The Chinaman shook his head. “Do’ know. I not see; I hea’.”

Cultus looked vaguely around, as though trying to see Breen.

“He go ’way,” said Hop. “He take li’l missie way in buggy. Mebbe go town. Go like hell. Team run ’way. Yo’ sabe?”

“Team run away?”

“Plitty bad team: not bloke yet.”

“For gosh sake!” Cultus wiped the back of a hand across his eyes. “Hop, was Miles Lane here today?”

“Yessa. He lide way jus’ befo’ you come. Lide damn’ fast.”

“That’s it,” muttered Cultus. “A runaway team--and those grades. Oh, Hop, I’ve been a fool.”

Cultus went gropingly out to his horse, which did not try to get away from him. He climbed into the saddle, forgetting to pick up his sombrero, and spurred the animal savagely through the gateway and down the road toward Oreana City. His shoulder was bleeding and he was racked with pain, but he shut his teeth against the hurt and weakness and drove the roan at racing speed, feeling down in his heart that nothing could save Mary Smith now.

The tall roan slowed down the moment they struck the grade, and Cultus, half blinded by pain and weakness, swayed in the saddle, as he peered over the edge of the grade, knowing that only a miracle could prevent the running team from disaster.

The first curve showed nothing, except that wheels had torn deeply into the outer edge of the grade. But at the next turn he found the left front wheel of the buggy, which had torn off from the impact against the rocky wall. Here was also plenty of evidence that something had gone off the edge, as the grade was sloughed off.

Cultus dismounted and leaned against his horse, trying to overcome the dizziness which caused his knees to sag. He tried to walk around the horse toward the edge of the grade, but he staggered like a drunken man and fell to his knees.

“Keep a-goin’, you quitter!” he muttered bitterly. “Are yuh goin’ to let yore own body lay down on yuh?” He stopped talking to himself and his eyes focused sharply on a spot in the brush on the left side of the road.

Then he lurched to his feet, staggered off the road and tore his way into the brush, where Mary Smith was half lying, half sitting in the brush, her eyes open, a smear of blood across her face. When the rig struck the rocky wall it had thrown her to the uphill side of the grade, and into the tangle of brush.

Cultus went to his knees beside her, trying to disentangle her from the brush while she looked at him dazedly. Summoning all of his strength he lifted her from the brush and carried her back to the road, where he went to his knees again.

“Mary Smith,” he said brokenly. “Mary Smith!”

Her eyes were open and she did not seem badly hurt, but she did not know him.

“I--I wanted to answer your note,” she told him. “But they watched me too closely. I wanted to see you again.”

She began crying softly, and Cultus pawed clumsily at her hair, trying to soothe her.

“Yeah, I know,” he whispered. She thought she was talking to Dude Wheeler. And Cultus knew.

“Where’s Idaho Breen?” he asked. Mary stared up at him. The question stirred something in her mind.

“He jumped,” she said simply.

Cultus nodded. “I thought he did.”

Cultus managed to catch his horse. It was a difficult job for him to get into the saddle with Mary Smith, but he did it. The tall roan went slowly, while Cultus reeled in the saddle, his arms locked around Mary Smith. Cultus forgot that he had been shot. It was a nightmare, he thought. Someone was coming down the grade toward him, and he laughed foolishly.

The man came up to him, shoving his horse in close. Now he was trying to take Mary Smith away from him. Cultus tried to prevent this. The man was talking to him imploring him to let him take the girl. Cultus wanted to draw his gun on the man but didn’t dare let loose of Mary with his right hand. It seemed to Cultus that he had lost his left hand.

The man’s voice seemed familiar, and Cultus tried to remember who he was. It suddenly dawned upon him that this man was Dude Wheeler, and he laughed aloud at the queer kinks of a nightmare.

“Let me have her, Jones,” begged Dude. “Man, you’re hurt!”

This statement seemed to drive the mists from Cultus’ brain. He could see Dude Wheeler plainly now, feel the surge of Dude’s sorrel against the roan.

“I want her, Jones,” said Dude.

“Aw-ri’,” Cultus nodded drunkenly.

“She wants you, I--I reckon.”

He released his hold on Mary and let Dude have her. He reeled in his saddle and grasped the horn for support.

“Got me pullin’ leather,” he grimaced painfully.

“Who shot yuh, Jones?”

“Who?” Cultus didn’t seem to remember. “Oh, that was a long time ago.”

“I met Idaho Breen. He’s headin’ to town for help. The team ran away, and he said Mary was at the bottom of the canyon.”

“Headin’ for town?” Cultus laughed weakly.

“But who shot you, Jones? You’ve been shot, ain’t yuh?”

“I s’pose I have. I don’t remember. Yeah, I do remember somethin’ about it.”

He stared at Dude. “Yuh say Idaho Breen is headin’ for town? Was that today, Dude?”

“Not ten minutes ago, Jones.”

“Well, that’s funny. It seems so long ago.”

“You’ve got to get a doctor, Jones. We’ll go to town, if yuh think you can ride.”

Cultus laughed. “Why not?” He rubbed a hand across his eyes. “There’s Mary Smith to think about,” he said slowly.

“Mary Smith?” said Dude. “Not Mary Ault?”

“Mary Elizabeth Smith. I’m Jones from Oklahoma. We’re both liars, Dude. No, she ain’t a liar--I lied for both. But I’ve got to lie to clean up a crooked game. They were lootin’ the Lazy A; stealin’ from a dead man and a widder. We got to go to town today.”

Dude was staring at him, wondering what he meant. Mary looked up at Dude, puzzled expression in her eyes.

“What was it?” she whispered. Dude looked down at her, his arms tightening.

“It’s all right, Mary,” he said. “Don’t you worry.”

“I’m not worrying,” she said. “I--I knew you’d come.”

Cultus swayed weakly, spurred his horse past Dude, who swung around, and they headed for Oreana City.

* * * * *

Miles Lane lost no time in getting back to Oreana City. He had no idea what Idaho Breen might have done, but Lane was just wise enough to absent himself to town, where he could have a good alibi.

He stabled his horse and headed for his office just as the three cowboys from the Lazy A rode in. He waited for them at the Oreana hitch-rack, and received a scowl from Pie Ide.

“You and yore derned evidence!” snorted Pie, as he turned from the rack. “We couldn’t find a thing at the old mine.”

“Did you look in the shaft?”

“Two hundred feet down?” Pie hooked his thumbs over his belt and glared at the attorney. “Every time I look at you, Lane, I wonder how much real brains it takes to git admitted to the bar. If yo’re capable of bein’ an attorney, any danged one of us punchers is capable of bein’ a supreme court judge.”

“You can’t talk to me like that!” Lane fairly bristled.

Little Mex Leone shoved Pie Ide aside and faced Lane.

“What he jist said goes double for me,” said Mex. “I’m the smallest one of the bunch, and I’m plumb willin’ to hear all the war-talk you can bring up.”

Lane turned on his heel and walked away, while the three cowpunchers guffawed loudly and went toward the Oreana, their spurs rasping belligerently. Shif’less Hill had ridden into town ahead of the Lazy A bunch, and they found him in the Oreana saloon.

A reckless spirit prompted Omaha Woods to call Shif’less aside, and he did not mince matters when he told him of the report Miles Lane had brought to Idaho Breen. Shif’less said nothing to affirm or deny Lane’s report.

“Breen sent us down there to investigate,” said Omaha. “But we didn’t find a thing. I’m jist tellin’ yuh this for yore own benefit, Shif’less; not try in’ to start anythin’ with yuh.”

“Much obliged, Omaha,” drawled Shif’less. “That’s shore kind of yuh.”

Shif’less moved slowly from the saloon and went across the street to the store, where he bought a bag of peanuts. Then he came out, crunching them between his strong teeth, and went to Miles Lane’s office. The attorney started slightly at sight of the big cowboy, but relaxed with a forced smile.

“You don’t look very well,” said Shif’less. “Kinda chalky around the gills.”

Lane swallowed heavily and shifted his position. “No. I’m all right.”

“Physically?”

“Why, yes, certainly. What did you mean, Shif’less?”

“Morally.” Shif’less crunched slowly on some peanuts. “You always pretended to be my best friend, and so yuh sneaked out to the old Suicide mine and tried to put the deadwood on me.”

“Why--uh--no, no! Shif’less, who told you that? I--I got lost last night, and--listen, I--I----”

Lane stopped to swallow. He didn’t like the expression in the eyes of the big cowboy.

“You’ve got the loop around yore feet,” said Shif’less. “You sent the Lazy A gang out to get me, Miles Lane.”

“But they didn’t find anything. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I knew they wouldn’t find--uh--listen, Shif’less; that was----”

“You was tryin’ to play a joke on me, eh?” Shif’less dusted his hands on the knees of his chaps. “You thought it would be awful funny for me to git hung. You’ve shore got a sense of humor.”

Lane was speechless, but his brain was working swiftly. He was in a precarious position, and he knew it well.

“I runs across Jones, the detective,” said Shif’less. “He knowed that Jack Keene was dead; so I told him about what I found in the paper, and he went whalin’ back toward the Lazy A. He’s a queer sort of a jigger. He saw you sneak away from the old mine this mornin’, Miles.”

“He knew about Jack Keene?”

“Shore did. Said he saw Jack git shot.”

“My God! Then that girl--” Lane stopped, realizing that he was talking too much. His hand shook, as he reached into a desk drawer, getting to his feet as he did so to mask the fact that he had taken a gun from the desk.

“What about the girl?” asked Shif’less.

“None of your business!” rasped Lane, and he turned and walked to the doorway, his mind in a whirl. He was afraid of Jones of Oklahoma, who had seen Jack Keene killed. He wanted to see Idaho Breen. If Idaho Breen was bringing that girl to Oreana City, he should be here by this time, he thought. What could be keeping him? Had Jones reached the Lazy A before Idaho and the girl were ready to leave, he wondered?

He saw Cleve Sears, the pudgy sheriff, coming up the street. Lane swung away from the office and hurried down to meet the sheriff, while Shif’less sauntered to the office door and saw them meet farther down the street.

“Hyah, Miles,” puffed the sheriff. “How are yuh t’day?”

“Don’t look toward my office,” cautioned Lane. “Shif’less Hill is watching us. I saw him butchering cattle at the old Suicide mine early this morning--in the shafthouse. The boys from the Lazy A went there to get him, but he had thrown all the evidence into the shaft. There must be a way to recover it, Cleve; so you better arrest Shif’less and put him in jail. But look out for him. He knows I saw him, and he probably knows I’m telling you about it now.”