Twisted Trails (10 page)

Hornaby snapped, "I'll run this investigation, Mr. Scott."

"Look, Major," Paul retorted, "I'm not going to sit here and be pushed around. This isn't a court of law, and nobody's under oath. You're going about this like a man who'd like to see a lynching. You know Miles and Stebbins hate my guts. What authority on the character of wounds are they?"

"All right," Hornaby said agreeably; "we'll get expert testimony. Dr. Cranny, will you give us your opinion on how Larson died?"

Cranny stood up, harrumphing to clear his throat. A blast of liquor-laden air came from his thick lips and filled the room. Somebody opened the door wide to let in more air.

"The deceased came to his end from a stab wound in the back. An arrow had been thrust into the wound after death. This was evident by the nature of the wound and the condition of the arrowhead. If the man had been killed by an arrow, the blood would have been clotted thickly about the arrowhead, and also would have run back along the shaft of the arrow."

"At what time would you say the crime had been committed?" Hornaby asked, leaning forward over the table.

"I examined the body around eight o'clock this morning. In my opinion, judging from the condition of the deceased, the crime had been committed about midnight."

Paul did not see Norah and Finch arrive. He was watching the doctor, and the next time he switched his eyes to the door, Norah and Finch were standing in the opening. Norah's eyes were wide as she listened intently to the doctor's testimony.

"Could you, Doctor, describe the kind of knife that would make such a wound?" Hornaby asked.

"That would be difficult. The knife had been twisted, and the wound was enlarged by the arrowhead."

"Could a knife such as this have killed Larson?" The major held up Paul's knife.

"It would be possible if the blade was driven in all the way."

"Could you give us any kind of an analysis which would prove that the blood on this knife and the blood of Larson are one and the same?"

Paul broke in fiercely, "Of course it's the same. You don't need an analysis. I've told you what happened. If that stock knife killed Larson, there'd be blood all over it, even on the handle."

"Perhaps." Hornaby nodded. "Some of it could have been wiped off."

"Larson couldn't have run from his room out into the brush with such a wound in his back, you know that."

"Who said he did? Who said you killed him in his room? You haven't explained just where you were at midnight last night."

Here it was, the question Paul wanted to avoid. Decent people seldom remained up until after midnight. Norah was a girl, a young, desirable girl, and for her to keep such hours with a man—well, Paul could imagine how Stebbins or Miles or even Gladys could tell about it with sly smirks.

"I was in my bunk asleep," Paul said.

"How can you prove that?" Hornaby insisted. "You admitted you were after Larson, that you assaulted him. What was to keep you from following him out into the brush and killing him?"

Norah's voice from the doorway, clear and firm, caused every head to turn. Her chin was up and her hazel eyes blazing.

"I was with Paul when he was shot at, Major," she said evenly. "I met him when he came back from the Lone Chance. That was early, about eight o'clock. He had left without supper, so I fixed him something to eat. He was with me in the kitchen until midnight or after!" she finished defiantly.

There was a murmur in the room, and eyes took on sly, calculating expressions. Major Hornaby looked around with a smug expression and turned his eyes back to Norah.

"And what, may I ask, were you two doing there all that time?"

Paul felt anger explode in him. He covered the floor in two steps, his face white and set. His long body bent over the table, and he slapped Hornaby across the teeth.

"Major," he cried, "that's no affair of yours!"

Hornaby froze in his chair, fire flooding his lean face. It was as though he had turned to stone. Paul's eyes pinioned him, and Paul saw the man's immense pride fighting his vacillating courage. At last Hornaby's hand moved and picked up a pencil. He scribbled on a piece of paper and shoved it toward Paul. Without reading it, Paul shoved the paper into his pocket.

"You came here, Mr. Scott," Hornaby said, "with a bad reputation."

"What do you know about my reputation? You've listened to Alonzo Finch mouth his lies."

"I haven't heard you deny them."

Then Finch was pushing in through the doorway, a cocksure twist to his lips and an eager light in his eyes.

"Can you deny, Paul, that your brother Pete was lynched for murder?"

"You helped lead the mob that lynched him, Finch," Paul said accusingly. "He was lynched, but he was no murderer. He died in another man's place."

"And Larry wasn't run out of town?"

"Look, my brothers got in bad company, I'll admit that. It's useless for me to declare that you were the one who badgered them into what crimes they committed. Let's tell it all. I'm a crook in the minds of my friends and neighbors back home, sure, but I was framed, and I've come here to take back the man who is guilty."

There was a jumble of voices in the room until Major Hornaby slapped on the table for order.

"Mr. Scott, you're a disturbing influence here. You spawn trouble."

"Major, I think you'll find most of that trouble stems from the same source."

"Why don't you take your man and go home?"

"Because I am going to do it legal, and that takes time—not like this kangaroo court of yours."

Hornaby slumped as though some of the starch had gone out of him.

"Everybody clear out of here but Mr. Scott," he ordered. "Go on; get out and close the door. Stebbins, get them out and keep them out."

When the room was quiet once more, Major Hornaby spoke, keeping his eyes on the table.

"It's going to take a lot more evidence than I have to stick this murder on anybody. You had a motive, but Norah's testimony is in your favor. If you feel I insulted her in any way, I'm sorry, but I don't like being slapped in public. My advice to you is to get out of the valley, Scott."

"When I go, Finch goes with me."

Hornaby shook his head. "You stay around here at your own risk, Scott. I don't want you to set foot on the post again and shall give orders to that effect. I'm of the opinion that Finch will either kill you or get out of the country before your warrant arrives. You're free to go."

"Do me a favor, Major," Scott said. "In a way it's your duty. Send the doctor to see Sodek. It was your men who laid him low."

"That much I can do," Hornaby said.

Scott left without another word. He had to find Norah. But when he arrived at the gate, he was told that Norah had ridden away with Finch.

A trooper rode up, leading a saddled horse which he turned over to Paul.

"The major says to loan you a mount, mister. We'll pick it up at the ranch later."

Accepting the loan of a horse from the trooper, Paul was about to mount when Sergeant McCune tapped him on the shoulder. Some of the stiffness had gone out of McCune, and he wore a friendly grin.

"The major's had his fun; you'd better stay and have mess with us. It's late."

"I've been ordered off the post, with instructions to stay off. Don't you think I'd better travel?" Paul asked.

"You're not off the post yet. Come on; eat with me. Hornaby won't dare say anything; he's made enough of an ass of himself," McCune urged.

"He does have a murder to solve," Paul reminded him.

"Yeah, but there's darned little solvin' he can do sitting on his rump in an office. If he catches the murderer, somebody else will have to stake the man out for him."

Paul yielded to the invitation and followed MeCune into the mess shack. The troopers gave him a curious once-over and forgot him. Hornaby was not there, as he usually had a light lunch brought to his quarters.

As he ate the savory beans, pork and turnips, washed down with great gulps of coffee, Paul asked:

"Just where was Larson killed, Mac?"

"About two miles southwest of the post, near as I could make out. That's toward the Indian village, but not in a direct line with it. You saw the cross on the map," McCune said.

Mess over, Paul said, "Thanks for everything, Mac." He mounted the borrowed horse, but instead of heading toward the ranch, he turned down into the valley. It was not difficult to follow the trail left by the morning patrol, but when Paul reached the place where Big-head had been found, he discovered a disheartening confusion of tracks. The ground was pounded and scored with them. Patiently, Paul attempted to unravel the tracks and isolate those of the dead man and his murderer.

He finally found the trail he was looking for. Out of the confusion of hoof prints, he traced one horse without shoes, which was undoubtedly Indian, and one with a peculiarly narrow shoe. Eventually the tracks led beyond Lieutenant Skaggs' and traveled on alone. It had taken a long time on foot to find what he wanted, but now he mounted.

Riding carefully to one side of the tracks he followed, Paul came to the place where the two tracks had joined. He followed the Indian tracks until he was convinced they had come from the Indian village. Then he backtracked the horse with the narrow shoes until it was evident that it had come from the direction of the Lone Chance. The horse had not traveled fast, he could tell that. Who had been on that horse, riding to the fatal spot where Big-head had been found and murdered?

He didn't stay with the trail. There were gullies there, cutbacks that could hide and protect a man. If the killer found him following a trail, he might make another, successful attempt to kill him. He felt the weight of Big-head's purse in his pocket. He had forgotten he had it until now. He took it out and, opening it, counted the five gold pieces it contained.

The price of a life, he thought, my life. This could be but a down payment. A bought killer is a continual menace. He can go on bleeding his buyer for life in payment for silence. Gladys had testified that Big-head had run down the stairs and through the saloon. The man who had paid him to do murder could have seen him and realized suddenly that Big-head might be forced to talk. Therefore the man must have followed Big-head and killed him. But the tracks of the Indian pony clouded the issue. There had been drunken Indians last night.

Paul saw the ranch just ahead of him, and as he rode into the yard, he looked about eagerly, hoping Norah would be there. Then he saw that the buggy was gone. So Norah had gone with Finch again, even after declaring her love. Had Finch's reiteration of the charges against him made her regret her declaration?

Paul went into the barn and saddled his own horse. Then he went to the bunkhouse to roll up his blankets. He stopped in the middle of the floor, a perplexed frown furrowing his forehead. Five gold coins lay yellow and gleaming on Eglund's bunk. How had they come there? Why? Had they been put there in plain sight as a warning to him?

Paul picked up a sack of makings from the shelf over his bunk and stuffed them into his pocket. Not until then did he remember the note Major Hornaby had scribbled and handed him during the kangaroo court trial. Now he pulled out the note, and read:

Paul's lips formed a tight, straight line. Another fight. How many more fights would it take before they let him alone? He tore the note up into little pieces and threw them out the window. Then he picked up his blanket roll and went outside. The house was quiet. He supposed Helen was napping, and he didn't much care to face her just then. Fastening his bedroll to his saddle, he mounted his horse and, leading the army horse, headed for the trading post.

The low-ceilinged trading post smelled of bacon and hides, coffee and spices. Flour made a white pyramid in the middle of the floor. There were beans in an open sack, and brown, raw sugar. Smoked meat hung from hooks suspended from the ceiling, and on one side, in back of a plank counter, there was a gaudy array of cloth. Paul found Uriah working over his ledger at a high counter in the rear.

"What's the trouble, son?" Uriah asked, looking over the glasses he wore only for accounting.

"Uriah," Paul began slowly, feeling for words, "I've had nothing but trouble since I got here."

"I wouldn't say that. What trouble you did have, you handled right smart. If you think you'd rather take a ridin' job, back in the hills—"

"No, it isn't that. I can't leave here, because if I did Finch would get away from me again. I spent too much time hunting for him to let him slip out now. It can't take much more time for the marshal to arrive with the warrant I sent for. Reckon I'll make out all right."

"Did Norah give you the letter that came in the mail yesterday?" Uriah asked.

Paul thought he had not heard right. "What did you say?"

"I said, did Norah give you the letter that came in the mail for you?"

"A letter? She didn't mention it. Are you sure she had it?"

Paul saw a curious expression come over Uriah's face.

"I gave it to her. She put it in the pocket of her jacket. I reckon she must've forgot to give it to you. Don't make much sense, though. With mail as scarce as it is, ain't likely anybody would forget a letter."

"That shot frightened her," Paul said, trying to find an explanation. He was disturbed, too. There had been plenty of time for her to tell him about a letter when they were sitting up the night before.

"I didn't give the letter to her until after the shot. I wasn't home then. Reckon I could've taken care—"

"She could have forgotten," Paul said, trying not to sound dubious. "Tell her I'll come down in the morning for it."

"What's wrong with tonight at supper?" Uriah asked, his gray eyes questing.

"I'm quitting my job, Uriah," Paul said. He went on to explain how Hornaby had ruled him off the post. "If I can't enter the post, I can't deliver hay. It's that simple. Hornaby would still like to pin the murder on me."