Twisted Trails (8 page)

"I love you, Paul," she breathed.

"But you can't quite believe me," he said bitterly. "I'm not asking you to. I'm not accepting your love until I can clear the slate, until I can prove that I have done no wrong."

In spite of his resolution, he held her, but he did not take her lips. Finally she lifted her face and stood away from him.

"You must be hungry," she said. "Come into the kitchen, and I'll get you some food."

Major Hornaby sat in the small office at one end of his quarters and re-read the note that had been slipped under the door. It would be difficult to say who had written the note without going to considerable trouble. This he did not propose to do. It was sufficient that he had the note.

There was a commotion outside, and he looked through the small window to see the morning patrol marching down the company street. Two men were carrying a stretcher on which lay the body of a man. McCune entered the office. His serious expression disturbed Hornaby.

Saluting, McCune said, "Sergeant McCune reporting, sir. The body of a man was found in the brush not five miles from the post."

Major Hornaby's back stiffened. "Who found him?"

"The morning patrol under Lieutenant Skaggs, sir."

"And how was he killed?"

"Arrow. Nice quiet job," McCune answered. "Straight into his heart from the back. I examined him."

"Since when are you doing the doctor's work for him, Mr. McCune? Take the body to the infirmary, have the doctor examine it, and then have him report to me."

"Yes, sir," McCune said.

Before long Dr. Cranny came in, his bloated face twitching. From the multiple folds that swaddled them, his eyes shone like fugitive mice.

"Well, Captain, what did you find?" Major Hornaby asked.

"The deceased had a hole in his back; his heart was pierced," the doctor reported.

It was a report the rawest recruit could have given. Cranny was either getting drunk again, or just sobering up from the last time. There was liquor in the medical stores. He exuded it.

"How long has he been dead?"

Cranny straightened his shoulders, and his face stopped twitching. For a moment professional pride, the almost forgotten will to be a man, shone in his eyes.

"I would say seven to eight hours, Major," the doctor said.

"Have you the arrow that killed him?"

"I have an arrow."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean I have the arrow that was in the wound. It didn't kill him."

"So what did kill him?"

"He was killed with a knife. The arrow was thrust into the wound to make it look like an Indian had done it."

Hornaby whistled softly and drummed on his desk.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"He showed signs of having been struck in the face, and there was a small cut on his throat."

"Have you examined the Indians in the guardhouse?" Hornaby inquired.

Cranny's face began to contort again. It was as though it were infested with invisible fleas.

"Why should I examine the filthy beggars? I can give you a report on them right now. Lice, dirt, bad diet. The biggest curse they carry is the white man. They're pushed and starved and robbed," Cranny said bitterly.

"All right, all right, Doctor. That'll be all. Tell McCune I want to see him."

For another brief interval, Cranny drummed up a few shreds of dignity.

"I'm not your striker, Major," he said.

Hornaby sighed. "Oh, go on; get out." He pounded his desk for his striker and sent him after McCune.

McCune entered, and because there was no one else about, he didn't pretend to salute. He pushed his hat to the back of his balding head and spat accurately into the polished brass cuspidor.

"Well, Major," McCune said, "you've got a murder to solve. Happy?"

"Do you think I should ignore it?"

"No. But it's going to be hard to find the hombre who did it."

"We'll decide on that after we've made a try, Sergeant. Was there any kind of positive evidence near where the body was found?"

"I wasn't there," McCune said. "Lieutenant Skaggs was in charge of the patrol. I just picked them up when they reached the post."

"Then why didn't Skaggs report the murder?"

"That, Major, you will have to ask Skaggs."

"Did you talk with him?"

"Yes, I did."

"Come on; don't make me drag it out of you. What did he say?"

"He said they found the man lying as though he had fallen from a horse. There were only the tracks of one horse. Skaggs followed the tracks some distance, and they merged with the tracks of two other horses. Farther on, the tracks of the horses diverged, two of them going toward the Lone Chance, the other toward the village."

"What do you make out of that story?"

"Why, I haven't tried to make anything out of it. It's your baby."

"Look, Mac, why don't you grow up? Your resentment of my authority is a bit childish. After all, it wasn't my fault you didn't get that commission."

"Major, I know you failed to recommend me, and I know why. You wouldn't get to first base without me. I've been pulling chestnuts for you for years."

"I don't care to discuss that now, Mac," Hornaby said evasively. "I want you to go out and release the Utes who were brought in drunk last night. I think they're sober enough to go home now."

"Release them? Why, they may be the murderers!" McCune said.

"The doctor said the man has been dead for eight hours. That means he was killed about midnight. The Utes were brought in not later than ten last night. They were already crazy drunk, whooping and hollering."

"You can't take Doc's word for it," McCune countered. "Suppose these Indians went out to meet the man, and he had hooch? Suppose they put an arrow in his back, then took the whiskey?"

"That's too many supposes for a night as dark as last night, Sergeant," Hornaby said. "Suppose you do as you're ordered and leave this to me. You told me it was my baby," Hornaby said.

"Some babies are born with teeth, Major. Be careful this one doesn't bite you."

"Release the Indians."

"So you're not going to question them?"

"What could they know about it? They were drunk."

"They might know a lot about it. You want to solve the case, don't you? Don't tell me that by some magic insight you've already discovered the murderer?"

"McCune," Hornaby snapped, "get out of here. When I want any more of your opinions, I'll ask for them."

McCune's impertinence always left Major Hornaby with a feeling of guilt and discontent.

His striker came in with a peculiar look on his face, a look that Hornaby resented. The young trooper made him feel guilty of some foul deed.

"What is it, Mr. Wagner?" Hornaby asked impatiently.

"There's a girl outside who wants to see you?"

"A girl?"

"Yes, sir. One of Addie's girls. Gladys."

"What does she want?"

"She won't say, sir," Wagner said. "She wants to see you personally."

"All right, Wagner. Get that look off your face. I didn't send for her. Let her come in."

Unconsciously, Hornaby straightened his tunic and ran his slim hand over his hair. When he went to Addie's, he went to see Addie. She was a woman a man could talk to without having to revert to banal vulgarities. He remembered Gladys, a nice-looking girl, but one with a chip on her shoulder. Then the door opened and Gladys Came in. In her hand she carried very carefully some object wrapped loosely in a cloth.

As Paul rode the load of leafy, sweet-smelling alfalfa toward the post, his mind was everywhere but on the road. He tried to straighten out the events of the night before and fit them into some kind of chronological order. When he had left Norah, glum and silent in the kitchen, he had found Eglund already asleep in the bunkhouse. This morning when he had gone into the kitchen for breakfast, Eglund had already eaten and left.

It was doubtful that Eglund had been the prowler at the ranch, but Eglund might know who the prowler was. There was even a chance that Sodek might know.

The horses were turning toward the stockade, and Paul frowned as he noticed the increase in activity. Troopers were talking in groups; others were going sullenly about their jobs. As the wagon lumbered through the gate, Paul greeted the sentry and warped the team into the hay yard. While he waited for MeCune to check him in, he saw a freighter unloading some miscellaneous supplies. Two sentries, fully armed, flanked the wagon. Paul tried to puzzle this out as he watched two other men examining everything being unloaded from the big freight wagon.

When McCune came over with the stub of a cigar in his mouth and his hat shading his eyes, Paul asked, "What's all this about, Sergeant? New regulations?"

"Major Hornaby's orders, Scott. It won't delay you very much longer," McCune said with more of a military bearing than he had previously assumed.

"What does he have—visions?" Paul grinned. "Shall I back up to the stack so the load can be pulled off?"

"No; pull up alongside this morning. We're unloading by hand," McCune answered.

Paul's curiosity was aroused.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

"Booze. The major took one of his sneak walks at sunup and found the sentry on Post One asleep drunk. He had men search the camp to find where the booze was coming from. One of the three bottles they found was in his quarters. Some joker managed to take the bottle out of my hut and plant it on the major. Nobody would confess, and that made Hornaby madder than ever. He says he's going to find the bootleggers and crack down on them."

Paul laughed shortly. "You're going to be wasting a lot of energy searching my load. I pitched that hay on myself."

McCune shrugged. "That may be true, but my men need the exercise."

The freight wagon, its end-gate banging and the chains dragging on the ground, lumbered away, and the two armed men approached as Paul drove the team alongside the stack. Two. scowling troopers with pitchforks climbed the load and began methodically to fork the hay onto the stack.

Indifferent to the hay pitchers, Paul climbed to the ground and spoke to McCune.

"Hey, Sergeant, you or your men didn't see Big-head Larson riding this way right after dark last night, did you?"

McCune answered very carefully, "No, I didn't see him riding around here. Why do you ask?"

"I had some trouble with him last night, and he got away from me."

From behind Paul came Hornaby's clipped voice.

"What sort of trouble did you have with him, Mr. Scott?" the major inquired.

"He tried to kill me," Paul said bluntly.

"With a rifle?"

Hornaby had come around and was looking Paul straight in the eye now. The major's face wore a mocking expression.

"Yes, with a rifle," Paul admitted.

"And he missed you?"

"That's apparent, isn't it?" Paul couldn't keep the scorn out of his voice.

"Have you ever seen Big-head Larson shoot a rifle?"

"Yes, but I happened to move, and he missed me."

Just then there was the distinct clink of metal against glass. Hornaby smiled without humor. "All right, men. Pull the hay apart and take it out."

Paul felt a hot flush warm him. Hornaby had never liked him, and he had never cared much for the major. Now Hornaby's manner was both insulting and triumphant. Unable to believe his eyes, Paul saw the two men on the load fish four bottles of whiskey from the hay.

"What do you say to that, Mr. Scott?" Hornaby asked with pure malice in his eyes.

Paul could find no immediate answer, because the whole frame-up was so preposterous. He had the feeling of a man in a nightmare. Again he thought of Alonzo Finch and of the man who had been prowling about the barn the night before.

"What do
you
make of it, Major?" Paul countered lamely.

"It's obvious," Hornaby snapped. "Don't tell me you didn't know the whiskey was there. This isn't the first whiskey you've brought in, I'm sure of that."

"Frankly," Paul said, calming down, "I didn't know it was there."

"I overheard you say you loaded the hay yourself."

"That's right. But the bottles could have been shoved under the hay with a forked stick after it was loaded."

"1 can't quite accept that. I'm looking for a whiskey smuggler. I catch you with the goods. Why should I look further?"

"Because, confound you," Paul gritted, "I'm no smuggler. This is a frame-up, and you're in on the frame."

"That I must deny," Hornaby said shortly.

"Then how did you know the booze was there?"

"I was in receipt of certain information, and I acted upon it. The information has proved correct. I must place you under arrest, Mr. Scott."

"Major," Paul said quietly, "it's obvious why you're out here in command of this rag-tag outfit. You've got no judgment. I'm afraid you'll find there is no law against whiskey in this territory. The rules you make for your men do not apply to civilians."

"Smuggling to the Indians is against the law. Sergeant," he turned to McCune, "place this man under arrest."

McCune said, "How about confining him to my quarters, sir? The guardhouse is probably crawling with vermin from those graves we had there last night."

Hornaby's mouth was tight and pinched. "Take him to my office. We'll continue the investigation there. And don't discuss the matter with the prisoner, understand?"

McCune shrugged. "Yes, sir." Aside he said, "I got to give you credit, Major. You sure do make it hard on yourself."

As they walked through the dust to the major's office, located at the front of his quarters and connected directly with them, Paul felt foolish. He realized that the major had to do something to uphold discipline on the post, but jailing a civilian for selling whiskey was making a mountain out of a molehill. Hornaby appeared too intelligent to go to all that trouble for such an offense. His proper action would have been to forbid Paul admission to the post, or refuse to buy more fodder from Uriah. A little worry stirred lazily in Paul's mind.