The Sheriff's Son (Musaicum Western Mysteries). William MacLeod Raine

at Dave. "So you're expecting Sweeney, are you? Been having trouble with any one?"

      "Or expect to have any?" interjected Meldrum, insolence in his shifty pig eyes.

      "No, not looking for any," answered Dingwell amiably. "Fact is, I was prospecting around Lonesome Park and found a gold mine. Looks good, so I thought I'd tell Sweeney about it.… Up to me? I've got openers." He pushed chips to the center of the table.

      Rutherford also pushed chips forward. "I'll trail along.… You got an idea of taking in Sweeney as a partner? I'm looking for a good investment. It would pay you to take me in rather than Sweeney."

      Three of those at the table accepted this talk at its face value. They did not sense the tension underneath the apparently casual give-and-take. Two of them stayed and called for cards. But Dave understood that he had been offered a compromise. Rutherford had proposed to divide the gold stolen from the express car, and the proffer carried with it a threat in case of refusal.

      "Two when you get to me.… No, I reckon I'll stick to the sheriff. I've kinda arranged the deal."

      As Rutherford slid two cards across to him the eyes of the men met. "Call it off. Sweeney is not the kind of a partner to stay with you to the finish if your luck turns bad. When I give my word I go through."

      Dingwell looked at his cards. "Check to the pat hand.… Point is, Hal, that I don't expect my luck to turn bad."

      "Hmp! Go in with Sweeney and you'll have bad luck all right. I'll promise you that. Better talk this over with me and put a deal through." He rapped on the table to show that he too passed without betting.

      The curio dealer checked and entered a mild protest. "Is this a poker game or a conversazione, gentlemen? It's stuck with Meldrum. I reckon he's off in Lonesome Park gold-mining the way he's been listening."

      Meldrum brought his attention back to the game and bet his pat hand. Dave called. After a moment's hesitation Rutherford threw down his cards.

      "There's such a thing as pushing your luck too far," he commented. "Now, take old man Crawford. He was mightily tickled when his brother Jim left him the Frying Pan Ranch. But that wasn't good enough as it stood. He had to try to better it by marrying the Swede hash-slinger from Los Angeles. Later she fed him arsenic in his coffee. A man's a fool to overplay his luck."

      At the showdown Meldrum disclosed a four-card flush and the cattleman three jacks.

      As Dave raked in the pot he answered Rutherford casually. "Still, he hadn't ought to underplay it either. The other fellow may be out on a limb."

      "Say, is it any of your business how I play my cards?" demanded Meldrum, thrusting his chin toward Dingwell.

      "Absolutely none," replied Dave evenly.

      "Cut that out, Dan," ordered Rutherford curtly.

      The ex-convict mumbled something into his beard, but subsided.

      Two hours had slipped away before Dingwell commented on the fact that the sheriff had not arrived. He did not voice his suspicion that the Mexican had been intercepted by the Rutherfords.

      "Looks like Sweeney didn't get my message," he said lazily. "You never can tell when a Mexican is going to get too tired to travel farther."

      "Better hook up with me on that gold-mine proposition, Dave," Hal Rutherford suggested again.

      "No, I reckon not, Hal. Much obliged, just the same."

      Dave began to watch the game more closely. There were points about it worth noticing. For one thing, the two strangers had a habit of getting the others into a pot and cross-raising them exasperatingly. If Dave had kept even, it was only because he refused to be drawn into inviting pots when either of the strangers was dealing. He observed that though they claimed not to have met each other before there was team work in their play. Moreover, the yellow and blue chips were mostly piled up in front of them, while Meldrum, Rutherford, and the curio dealer had all bought several times. Dave waited until his doubts of crooked work became certainty before he moved.

      "The game's framed. Blair has rung in a cold deck on us. He and Smith are playing in cahoots."

      Dingwell had risen. His hands rested on the table as an assurance that he did not mean to back up his charge with a gunplay unless it became necessary.

      The man who called himself Blair wasted no words in denial. His right hand slid toward his hip pocket. Simultaneously the fingers of Dave's left hand knotted to a fist, his arm jolted forward, and the bony knuckles collided with the jaw of the tinhorn. The body of the cattleman had not moved. There seemed no special effort in the blow, but Blair went backward in his chair heels over head. The man writhed on the floor, turned over, and lay still.

      From the moment that he had launched his blow Dave wasted no more attention on Blair. His eyes fastened upon Smith. The man made a motion to rise.

      "Don't you," advised the cattleman gently. "Not till I say so, Mr. Smith. There's no manner of hurry a-tall. Meldrum, see what he's got in his right-hand pocket. Better not object, Smith, unless you want to ride at your own funeral."

      Meldrum drew from the man's pocket a pack of cards.

      "I thought so. They've been switching decks on us. The one we're playing with is marked. Run your finger over the ace of clubs there, Hal.… How about it?"

      "Pin-pricked," announced Rutherford. "And they've garnered in most of the chips. What do you think?"

      "That I'll beat both their heads off," cut in Meldrum, purple with rage.

      "Not necessary, Dan," vetoed Dingwell. "We'll shear the wolves. Each of you help yourself to chips equal to the amount you have lost.… Now, Mr. Smith, you and your partner will dig up one hundred and ninety-three dollars for these gentlemen."

      "Why?" sputtered Smith. "It's all a frame-up. We've been playing a straight game. But say we haven't. They have got their chips back. Let them cash in to the house. What more do you want?"

      "One hundred and ninety-three dollars. I thought I mentioned that already. You tried to rob these men of that amount, but you didn't get away with it. Now you'll rob yourself of just the same sum. Frisk yourself, Mr. Smith."

      "Not on your life I won't. It… it's an outrage. It's robbery. I'll not stand for it." His words were brave, but the voice of the man quavered. The bulbous, fishy eyes of the cheat wavered before the implacable ones of the cattleman.

      "Come through."

      The gambler's gaze passed around the table and found no help from the men he had been robbing. A crowd was beginning to gather. Swiftly he decided to pay forfeit and get out while there was still time. He drew a roll of bills from his pocket and with trembling fingers counted out the sum named. He shoved it across the table and rose.

      "Now, take your friend and both of you hit the trail out of town," ordered the cattleman.

      Blair had by this time got to his feet and was leaning stupidly on a chair. His companion helped him from the room. At the door he turned and glared at Dingwell.

      "You're going to pay for this—and pay big," he spat out, his voice shaking with rage.

      "Oh, that's all right," answered Dingwell easily.

      The game broke up. Rutherford nodded a good-night to the cattleman and left with Meldrum. Presently Dave noticed that Buck and the rest of the clan had also gone. Only Slim Sanders was left, and he was playing the wheel.

      "Time to hit the hay," Dave yawned.

      The bartender called "Good-night" as Dingwell went out of the swinging doors. He said afterward that he thought he heard the sound of scuffling and smothered voices outside. But his interest in the matter did not take him as far as the door to find out if anything was wrong.

      Chapter IV

       Royal Beaudry Hears a Call