Smoke of the .45. Harry Sinclair Drago

the boisterous Stuffy exclaimed, “and be damn glad you ain’t livin’ in Awregon where they really got rain.”

      “That’s him!” Scanlon snorted. “Always tellin’ what he does round here. Jest workin’ yerself to death, ain’t yuh? Humph! If it wasn’t fer my brains we wouldn’t have no hotel.” He turned back to his game. “Let ’er rain,” he roared. “I can swim.”

      This indifference to their mutual prosperity seared the Basque’s soul, but he rolled up his apron and started for the stairs, the air blue with his cursing. “By damn, I soon git my own hotel, you Irish gringo!” he hurled at his partner.

      The crowd tittered. Vin’s troubles were well understood. A moment later the Basque was back at the head of the stairs, white of face, hands shaking.

      “Socorro—help! Man ees keel heemself! I guess you come like hell now, Scanlon.”

      A hush fell upon the crowded barroom. Little noises were stilled until only the soft slip-slip of the cards running through Scanlon’s fingers broke the silence. Sudden, or mysterious, death was quite as chilling in Standing Rock as in more sophisticated circles.

      The tension held for a brief spell. Hobe Ferris was the first to move. A moment later the crowd was pouring up the stairs.

      Traynor lay as the killer had left him—half out of bed, his gun near his lifeless hand.

      Scanlon bent over and examined the powder marks on the man’s forehead. “Never seen him before,” said he as he straightened up. “This is Stuffy’s room, Vin. How’d he git up here?”

      “Man came ’fore supper. Say he only want to sleep till the rain ees past. I say take theese room. What diff’rence eet make? Stuffy not go to baid tonight.”

      “You said somethin’, Vinnie. I ain’t ever goin’ to sleep in that bed.”

      “Dry up,” Hobe ordered. “We’d better git Doc Ritter. The doc and the old man are playin’ pinochle in his office. I saw ’em across the street. Run over and git him, Stub.”

      “Ain’t no need gittin’ a doctor,” Scanlon said positively. “This is a job for the coroner. The man’s as dead as a man can git. Gallup is the only one that can be of any use here.”

      “Yeh, I guess yo’re right, Scanlon. Fine lookin’ man, that. Wonder where he came from? Ain’t none of y’u boys ever seen him?”

      The crowd edged closer to the dead man; but no one seemed to remember him.

      “I’ll go for Gallup,” Stub offered. “He’ll sure be riled, gittin’ out of bed this time of the night. He goes to the hay with the chickens.”

      Stub’s going seemed to unloosen the crowd’s tongue. A dozen conjectures were voiced, and either denied or affirmed. Hobe brought them up, standing, by his discovery that no one had heard the shot which had killed the man.

      Scanlon turned on his partner, his mouth sagging a trifle. This thing had a queer draw to it. “Vin,” he argued, “you ain’t been out of the house. Didn’t you hear nothin’?”

      “I don’ hear anyt’ing. But theese señor have foony look in hees eye. Mak’ me feel leetla chill in the back. I ask hees name; Caramba! He say he ees pretty well forget how to mak’ those writings in book.”

      “Sort of a mysterious gent, eh?” Scanlon asked, unpleasantly.

      “His name’s his own business,” Hobe flared back. “He might have been considerate enough to bump hisself off somewheres else; but I pretty well wouldn’t like to have anybody tellin’ me my name wa’n’t my own business.”

      The Diamond-Bar foreman rightly suspected that Scanlon’s annoyance was largely due to the fact that this affair would throw a wet blanket on the spending of money. He had been waiting some three months for this harvest.

      Gallup, the coroner, and Stub returned at this moment, and Scanlon was saved replying to the challenge in Hobe’s words.

      “What’s all the trouble?” Gallup demanded when he had entered the room.

      “It’s a job for you, Aaron,” Ferris replied. “Vin just found him a few minutes ago.”

      Gallup surveyed the dead man.

      “Humph! Did a good job, didn’t he? Guess he wouldn’t ’a’ been no deader in the mornin’. Gittin’ so I can’t git a good night’s sleep no more.”

      “Yo’re still drawin’ down yore wages reg’lar, ain’t yuh?”

      Old Aaron wiped his nose with the back of his hand at this query from Ferris.

      “Sorta reg’lar, Hobe,” Gallup answered with a wise little smile. “All due to me, though. Any man that can git fifteen hundred a year out of this county has earned it. If you folks ever start raisin’ my wages I’m goin’ to quit cold.”

      While he talked, Gallup had been examining the dead man’s clothes and his gun.

      “This bird sure knew what he was doin’,” he muttered. “Ain’t a mark on him to identify him. Queer old gun he used. Well, we got men enough here. I guess I’ll swear you in and git done right now.”

      “We’re shy one, Aaron,” said Hobe. “Where’s Johnny? Ought to have him, he’s so up on these things.”

      “Him and Tony’s over to the Bud. They’ll be comin’ soon as the news gits round.”

      “I got enough,” Aaron answered. “Johnny Dice ain’t law-abidin’ no more, anyhow.”

      Without further delay he began swearing them to the truth. Before he had finished the jingle of spur chains below caught Scanlon’s ear. “There’s someone now.” He went to the stairs and looked down. “Say, Johnny, you’re just in time. Need another man up here.”

      “Surest thing, old dear. What’s the limit?”

      “No limit. It’s a dead man. Gallup’s here.”

      “Do I know him?” demanded Johnny.

      “No one’s ever clapped eyes on him ’cept Vin. But he don’t know nothin’, either.”

      Johnny had stopped to shake the rain from his hat. He turned now to Madeiras. “Come on, Tony. What you grumblin’ about?”

      Tony smiled. “I t’ought Scanlon say Gallup ees daid.”

      “You sound disappointed. What you cookin’ up for old Aaron?”

      “You forget my name, Johnny. I am a Madeiras. There ees lots of Madeiras.”

      “Still thinkin’ ’bout that, eh? You best tell your people not to borrow no money from Aaron. He’s a money hound, boy. I tell yuh he knows those gents on the greenbacks personal.”

      Tony tapped his chest. “Somet’ings we don’t forget, Johnny.”

      They were upstairs by this time. Aaron scowled at the Basque, but he chose him in preference to Johnny.

      “One of you is all I need,” the old man muttered. Johnny was defeated, but not stilled.

      “They certainly keep you busy, don’t they, Aaron?” he asked provokingly.

      “That’ll be enough talk from you, Johnny,” Gallup snapped. “If you want to stay in the room you keep still.”

      “Serves me right. The idea of a loose character like me tryin’ to edge in on the law! Ain’t no hard feelin’s on my part, Aaron.”

      The old man ignored this sally.

      “Now, Vinnie, you tell us how you found this man,” he began in a more or less official manner.

      Vin explained how he had come up to close the windows, and so forth.

      “You