The Range Detectives Page 6

  “Now, maybe you’re gettin’ somewhere,” said Stovepipe. “Go on.”

  A look of excitement appeared on Dan’s face as he gripped the bars of his cell.

  “One of the Tomlinson brothers, they own the Leaning T, was shot from ambush and killed a while back. And the body of Jack Hogan, the owner of the Big Nine spread, was found at the bottom of a ravine not long ago. Everybody thought his horse bucked him off and he happened to fall in the ravine, but somebody could’ve maybe roped him out of the saddle and then thrown him in there so he broke his neck.”

  “Or broke it some other way and tossed him in the ravine to make it look like the fall killed him,” Stovepipe suggested.

  “Sure, it could have happened that way,” Dan agreed. “If the rustlers killed Dempsey, it could be because they’re getting the ranchers out of the way so they can clean out the whole basin.”

  Wilbur said, “I don’t think the sheriff will put much stock in that theory. If you tell him about it, it’ll just sound like you’re trying to shift the blame for Dempsey’s murder to these mysterious rustlers.”

  “But they really could have killed him!”

  “There’s a little matter of provin’ it,” said Stovepipe. “And it ain’t likely you’ll get a chance to do that while you’re locked up in here.”

  “We could poke around and see what we could find out,” said Wilbur. “Stovepipe’s biggest weakness is that curiosity of his. But . . .”

  The redhead spread his hands and nodded gloomily at their surroundings.

  “Yeah, we’re all pretty much in the same boat,” said Stovepipe, “and it’s takin’ on water. We’ll have to figure some way of gettin’ out before we sink.”

  A key rattled in the cell block door. Deputy Purdue opened it, and a slender figure shuffled unsteadily through the door. Purdue had a big grin on his horsey face as he said, “Your lawyer’s here, boys.”

  Wilbur looked at the newcomer and muttered, “That water’s gettin’ deeper in the bottom of the boat.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Simon McGilvray looked like he was in his seventies, but he might have been younger than that. Whiskey aged a man, and judging by the tracery of broken veins across his nose and gaunt cheeks, he had imbibed plenty of it in his time.

  The black suit he wore had once been a good one, but like its owner, the years had taken their toll on the suit. A string tie was draped around McGilvray’s neck, but the grimy collar of his shirt was open and the tie hung loose. He had wispy white hair and watery, pale blue eyes, and his hands trembled. The skin on those hands was like thin parchment, with a network of blue veins showing through it.

  He was not a figure to inspire confidence.

  His voice sounded a little like the squeaking of a rusty gate as he said, “I’m told you men need legal repre—” He made it that far before his apparent resolve to sound sober and dignified lost its steam. “Repre . . . represen . . . representation!”

  Getting the word out made him stagger a little. He reached out with a shaky hand to grasp one of the bars of the empty cell between Stovepipe and Wilbur.

  “Take it easy there, old-timer,” Stovepipe advised him. He looked at Purdue, who still stood in the open door. “You reckon we could get a chair or a stool in here for Mr. McGilvray, Deputy?”

  Purdue was still grinning, but his voice was surly as he said, “I’ll see what I can do.” He disappeared into the jail office and came back a moment later with a short, three-legged stool. He set it on the floor and gave it a shove with his foot.

  Stovepipe leaned down and reached a long arm through the bars to snag the stool before it could slide past. He said, “Have a seat there, Mr. McGilvray.”

  “I . . . I’m obliged to you, young man,” the lawyer said as he sank onto the stool. He swayed a little, as if he might topple off it, then seemed to steady himself. “That’s better.”

  Stovepipe looked along the aisle to the open door where Purdue still stood.

  “You can’t be listenin’ while prisoners talk to their lawyer, Deputy,” he said.

  “I reckon I can do anything I want to in this jail,” blustered Purdue.

  “Well, not exactly. The law’s got rules to it.”

  Purdue sneered and said, “And a saddle tramp like you would know those rules?”

  “You can’t always tell what a fella knows just by lookin’ at him. If you don’t believe me, I reckon you can go find the sheriff and ask him about it.”

  McGilvray raised a finger and said, “The gentleman is . . . is correct. The accused has a right to con . . . to consult with counsel in private.”

  The deputy made a disgusted noise, turned away, and slammed the door behind him. The key rattled in the lock again.

  Dan said, “He could still be listening just on the other side.”

  “He could be,” Stovepipe said. “Best be careful what you say. Right now, why don’t you just tell Mr. McGilvray about what happened yesterday. Just what happened yesterday.”

  Dan’s eyes narrowed as he frowned, then his expression cleared as he seemed to realize what Stovepipe was trying to tell him. Having met Stovepipe only a couple of hours earlier, Dan had no real reason to take his advice about anything, but the young cowboy seemed sharp enough to realize that the two drifting range riders were on his side.

  “They say I shot Abel Dempsey,” Dan began, “but it’s not true. I was out riding yesterday near Apache Bluff when I heard a shot, and when I went to investigate it, I found Dempsey’s body. He’d been dry-gulched. Whoever ambushed him was hidden in some rocks nearby and took a shot at me, too. I fired back at them, and then some of the Box D riders came galloping up from the other direction.” Dan shrugged. “That’s the whole story, Mr. McGilvray.”

  Wilbur frowned and said, “You didn’t—”

  Stovepipe caught his friend’s eye and silenced him with a tiny shake of the head. Dan had his own reasons for not mentioning Laura Dempsey and the fact that the two of them had been together when Abel Dempsey was murdered.

  McGilvray rubbed a hand over his face and said, “That’s . . . that’s a very weak story, young man. I doubt that a jury would . . . would believe it. I’m a bit in my cups, to be honest, and I’m not sure I believe it. And I’m your lawyer.”

  “I can’t help that,” Dan said stiffly. “That’s what happened.”

  “Is there anyone who can corrob . . . corrobor . . . corroborate your testimony? Someone who saw you before the . . . before the shooting took place?”

  “No. I was alone.”

  Dan looked across the aisle at Stovepipe and Wilbur as if asking them to keep quiet about what he had told them earlier. Wilbur looked like he wanted to say something, but he tightened his lips and remained silent.

  “Well, that’s unfor . . . unfortunate. Can’t build a defense . . . solely around the word of the accused. Need something to back it up.” McGilvray frowned in what appeared to be intense thought. “I remember hearing something . . . about a fight between you and Abel Dempsey.”

  “We had our differences,” said Dan.

  “You used to ride for him.”

  “He fired me.”

  “Then what were you doing . . . on his range? There’s talk around town . . . that you’re in with those rustlers.”

  “That’s a lie. I don’t have anything to do with any rustlers.”

  “But can you prove it?”

  Stovepipe muttered, “It’s a lot harder to prove you ain’t somethin’ than to prove you are.”

  “I’ve told you everything there is to tell,” Dan insisted. “What do you think, Mr. McGilvray? Can you help me?”

  The elderly lawyer thought it over for a long moment and then finally nodded.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’m sure I can help you.”

  “You can?”

  “Certainly. But I’ll need a list of all your worldly possessions.”

  “What in the world for?” asked Dan.

  “If I’m going to prepare your
last will and testament, young man, I need to know what you’re going to be leaving behind when they hang you.”

  * * *

  Dan refused to talk to the drunken old attorney after that. McGilvray stood up, tottered over to the cell block door, and called for Deputy Purdue to let him out.

  “That was a waste of time,” Dan said bitterly once the lawyer was gone and the door was closed again.

  “Why didn’t you tell him about Mrs. Dempsey?” asked Wilbur. “She can prove you didn’t shoot her husband. You were with her when he was killed.”

  “She’s already gone through enough,” Dan said. “I’m not going to ruin her reputation, to boot. If word got around that she was meeting some no-account cowboy her husband had fired . . . well, you know what people would think about her. You know what they’d say.”

  “So you’ll let them stretch your neck just to protect her feelings? You must really love her!”

  Stovepipe said, “I reckon that’s what started this whole mess, Wilbur.”

  Dan sat down on his bunk again and said, “I shouldn’t have told the two of you. I’m not sure why I did.”

  “I got what folks say is a trustworthy face,” said Stovepipe with a smile.

  “I’m going to have to trust you, all right. Trust you not to say anything about Laura. I’ll take my chances without bringing her into this.”

  “What about our chances?” asked Wilbur.

  “The two of you didn’t even ride into the basin until today. Nobody can blame you for Dempsey’s killing, even indirectly.”

  “I dunno that I’d go so far as to say that. The deputy was already makin’ noises about how we must be part of that gang o’ rustlers. We can’t prove we just got into these parts today.”

  “Sure we can,” said Wilbur. “We stayed in a hotel in that settlement over west of here last night, and our horses spent the night in the livery stable there. Plenty of folks saw us.”

  “They don’t know where we were before that,” Stovepipe pointed out. “We could’ve been right here in the basin, wide-loopin’ cows.”

  “Blast it! Whose side are you on, anyway?” Wilbur said in exasperation.

  “Just playin’ devil’s advocate.”

  “Well, let ol’ Beelzebub find his own damn advocate!”

  “All you did was try to help me get away,” said Dan. “They won’t hang you for that.”

  “No, but they might put us in prison, and I don’t have a hankerin’ to wind up behind bars.” Wilbur shuddered. “Just the thought of being locked up, of not being able to drift on over the next hill when the time came, gives me the fantods!”

  “You’re right,” Dan said. “I can’t ask you two to give up your freedom just to protect Laura. If she clears me of killing her husband, then chances are the law will go a lot easier on you.”

  “Well, it might not be that easy,” Stovepipe said. “You got to remember, even if you tell the truth about what happened and so does Mrs. Dempsey, a jury might not believe her. They might think that if you and her have a romance goin’ on, she’d lie for you.” He paused. “After all, I reckon as of yesterday, she’s the owner of one of the biggest, most successful spreads in the basin. A smart prosecutor might even argue that it was her idea for you to ambush her husband—”

  Dan came up off the bunk and lunged at the bars, gripping them tightly as he glared at Stovepipe.

  “Shut your lying mouth!” he exclaimed. “You can’t say things like that about Laura! She wasn’t happy being married to Dempsey, but she didn’t . . . she would never . . .”

  “That devil’s advocate stuff again, eh, Stovepipe?” said Wilbur.

  “That’s right. Take it easy, Dan. For what it’s worth, I believe the story you told us earlier. I think you’re tellin’ the truth about what happened, and I got my brain to percolatin’ on ways to maybe prove it.”

  The anger went out of Dan, causing his shoulders to sag again.

  “There’s no way to prove it,” he said, “not without ruining Laura’s reputation, and maybe not even then—”

  The cell block door opened. Sheriff Olsen strode in. Stovepipe knew as soon as he saw the triumphant look on the lawman’s face that things had just gotten worse.

  “I don’t know what all the yelling is about in here,” Olsen said, “but I don’t suppose it matters. There’s an old saying about how thieves fall out.”

  “None of us are thieves,” Dan said tightly. “I know you don’t want to believe that, but it’s the truth.”

  “I got the truth right here,” said Olsen as he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded piece of yellow paper. Stovepipe recognized it as a telegraph flimsy, and he grew even more worried.

  The sheriff went on, “I got to wondering if maybe there was some connection between you and Dempsey before you ever came to the basin, Hartford. You know, bad blood between the two of you. I recalled hearing that Dempsey and his father-in-law were old friends from the war. His name was in the story printed in the Hat Creek Gazette when Dempsey brought his new bride home with him. So I sent Mr. Lawrence Tyson a wire in Saint Louis and asked him if he recognized your name.”

  “Well, that kicked a hole in the bucket,” muttered Stovepipe.

  Olsen didn’t pay any attention to him. The sheriff was too busy grinning at a stunned Dan Hartford.

  “I was mighty surprised to find out that you and Mrs. Dempsey were old friends,” Olsen went on. “More than friends, from what her father said. Seems you had your sights set on marrying her, and then she up and married Abel Dempsey instead. That would give you a mighty good reason to come out here to Arizona and put a bullet in the man’s back!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sheriff Olsen seemed to be waiting for Dan to respond. Dan was still holding the cell door. His hands tightened on the bars as he said, “You just leave Mrs. Dempsey out of this, Sheriff. She had nothing to do with anything.”

  “Are you denying that you and her were sweethearts?”

  “Damn right I am! It’s true, I was acquainted with her back in Missouri, but that’s all there is to it. There’s no need to drag her into this mess. She’s already gone through enough, what with her husband being murdered.”

  “That’s real considerate of you, seeing as how you’re probably the one who put that bullet in Abel Dempsey’s back.” Olsen refolded the telegram and tucked it into his pocket. “I reckon I’ll take the word of a successful businessman over that of a shiftless cowboy.”

  Dan let go of the bars and turned away with a sigh. He looked utterly defeated as he sat down on the bunk. His head drooped forward and his hands hung limply between his knees.

  “I’ll confess,” he said. “Leave Laura out of it, and I’ll say anything you want me to say, Sheriff.”

  Olsen let out an offended snort.

  “All I want is the truth,” he said. “That’s all the law ever wants.”

  Stovepipe wasn’t so sure about that. Olsen had already made up his mind what the truth was, and so had Deputy Purdue. Probably most of the other folks in Hat Creek had done the same. In their minds, Dan Hartford was just as guilty as if a jury had already proclaimed it so.

  At this moment, Stovepipe knew there was a good chance he and Wilbur were the only ones who believed the boy . . . and he wasn’t that sure about Wilbur.

  “Hang on, Dan. I don’t think you should be sayin’ anything else until you’ve had a chance to talk to your lawyer again.”

  “That old sot?” Dan shook his head. “He’s not going to do me any good.”

  “Still, you don’t need to be confessin’ to anything that ain’t true.”

  Olsen glared at Stovepipe and said, “You stay out of this, mister. It doesn’t concern you.”

  Stovepipe waved a hand at the cell around him.

  “I reckon it does,” he said. “What are we bein’ charged with?”

  “Right now, attempted murder of a duly deputized peace officer and aiding and abetting a fugitive.”

  “B
last it!” Wilbur burst out. “We didn’t mean to hurt anybody, and the fella who got shot isn’t even dead!”

  “That’s why it’s attempted murder,” said Olsen. “If it turns out you fellas knew anything about Abel Dempsey’s killing, you’ll be an accessory to that, too. Once it’s all said and done, I don’t expect you’ll see the outside of those prison walls at Yuma for at least twenty years, probably more.”

  “Yuma,” Wilbur said in a hushed voice. Everybody in these parts knew what a hellhole the territorial prison was.

  Quietly, Stovepipe asked, “When do we go before the judge to be arraigned?”

  “First thing tomorrow morning,” the sheriff said.

  Wilbur looked at his old friend and said, “Stovepipe, we gotta—”

  Stovepipe raised a hand to stop the redhead from going on.

  “I reckon you’re right, Wilbur,” he said. “We’ve gotta play out this hand and see what happens.”

  “That’s not what I was gonna say,” growled Wilbur.

  Stovepipe ignored him and told Olsen, “We’ll need to see Lawyer McGilvray again, Sheriff. That’s our right. And it would sure help if you’d pour a pot of black coffee down his gullet first to sober him up.”

  “Sobering up the old souse isn’t my job,” Olsen snapped. “I’ll send word to him. Whether or not he comes—and what condition he’s in—is up to him. I can’t force him to represent you.” He looked at Dan. “You can still just confess, like you said a few minutes ago. It would sure make things simpler.”

  Stovepipe looked hard at Dan. The young cowboy returned the stare for a second, then shook his head.

  “I’ve said all I’m going to say, Sheriff.”

  “Your decision,” Olsen said with a shrug. “I reckon you’ll swing either way. A confession would save the county some time, trouble, and expense, but with the outcome the same . . .”

  His voice trailed off grimly. He turned, walked out of the cell block, and slammed the door behind him.

  Dan looked across the aisle at Stovepipe and said, “You heard him. They’re going to hang me either way, so what difference does it make? I’ll make a deal with the district attorney and the judge. I’ll confess to killing Dempsey because of the trouble that happened at the birthday party, but other than that, nothing about Laura will be said in court. I’ll testify that I never saw you fellas before today, and that you didn’t know anything about Dempsey’s murder. Maybe I can talk the judge into taking it easy on you in return for my cooperation.”