The Quirt

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A DEATH "BY ACCIDENT"

  Lone Morgan was a Virginian by birth, though few of his acquaintancesknew it. Lone never talked of himself except as his personal historytouched a common interest with his fellows. But until he was seventeenhe had lived very close to the center of one of the deadliest feuds ofthe Blue Ridge. That he had been neutral was merely an accident ofbirth, perhaps. And that he had not become involved in the quarrel thatraged among his neighbors was the direct result of a genius for holdinghis tongue. He had attended the funerals of men shot down in their owndooryards, he had witnessed the trials of the killers. He had grown upwith the settled conviction that other men's quarrels did not concernhim so long as he was not directly involved, and that what did notconcern him he had no right to discuss. If he stood aside and letviolence stalk by unhindered, he was merely doing what he had beentaught to do from the time he could walk. "Mind your own business andlet other folks do the same," had been the family slogan in Lone's home.There had been nothing in Lone's later life to convince him that mindinghis own business was not a very good habit. It had grown to be secondnature,--and it had made him a good man for the Sawtooth Cattle Companyto have on its pay roll.

  Just now Lone was stirred beyond his usual depth of emotion, and it wasnot altogether the sight of Fred Thurman's battered body that unnervedhim. He wanted to believe that Thurman's death was purely anaccident,--the accident it appeared. But Lorraine and the telltalehoofprints by the rock compelled him to believe that it was not anaccident. He knew that if he examined carefully enough Fred Thurman'sbody he would find the mark of a bullet. He was tempted to look, and yethe did not want to know. It was no business of his; it would be foolishto let it become his business.

  "He's too dead to care now how it happened--and it would only stir uptrouble," he finally decided and turned his eyes away.

  He pulled the twisted foot from the stirrup, left the body where it lay,and led the blaze-faced horse to a tree and tied it securely. He tookoff his coat and spread it over the head and shoulders of the dead man,weighted the edges with rocks and rode away.

  Halfway up the hill he left the road and took a narrow trail through thesage, a short-cut that would save him a couple of miles.

  The trail crossed the ridge half a mile beyond Rock City, dipping intothe lower end of the small gulch where he had overtaken the girl. Theplace recalled with fresh vividness, her first words to him: "Are _you_the man I saw shoot that other man and fasten his foot in the stirrup?"Lone shivered and threw away the cigarette he had just lighted.

  "My God, that girl mustn't tell that to any one else!" he exclaimedapprehensively. "No matter who she is or what she is, she mustn't tellthat!"

  "Hello! Who you talking to? I heard somebody talking----" The bushesparted above a low, rocky ledge and a face peered out, smilinggood-humoredly. Lone started a little and pulled up.

  "Oh, hello, Swan. I was just telling this horse of mine all I was goingto do to him. Say, you're a chancey bird, Swan, yelling from the brush,like that. Some folks woulda taken a shot at you."

  "Then they'd hit me, sure," Swan observed, letting himself down into thetrail. He, too, was wet from his hat crown to his shoes, that squelchedwhen he landed lightly on his toes. "Anybody would be ashamed to shootat a mark so large as I am. I'd say they're poor shooters." And he addedirrelevantly, as he held up a grayish pelt, "I got that coyote I beenchasing for two weeks. He was sure smart. He had me guessing. But I madehim guess some, maybe. He guessed wrong this time."

  Lone's eyes narrowed while he looked Swan over. "You must have been outall night," he said. "You're crazier about hunting than I am."

  "Wet bushes," Swan corrected carelessly. "I been tramping sincedaylight. It's my work to hunt, like it's your work to ride." He hadswung into the trail ahead of John Doe and was walking with longstrides,--the tallest, straightest, limberest young Swede in all thecountry. He had the bluest eyes, the readiest smile, the healthiestcolor, the sunniest hair and disposition the Sawtooth country had seenfor many a day. He had homesteaded an eighty-acre claim on the southside of Bear Top and had by that means gained possession of two livingsprings and the only accessible portion of Wilder Creek where it crossedthe meadow called Skyline before it plunged into a gulch too narrow forcattle to water with any safety.

  The Sawtooth Cattle Company had for years "covered" that eighty-acrepatch of government land, never dreaming that any one would ever file onit. Swan Vjolmar was there and had his log cabin roofed and ready forthe door and windows before the Sawtooth discovered his presence. Now,nearly a year afterwards, he was accepted in a tolerant, half-friendlyspirit. He had not objected to the Sawtooth cattle which still wateredat Skyline Meadow. He was a "Government hunter" and he had killed manycoyotes and lynx and even a mountain lion or two. Lone wonderedsometimes what the Sawtooth meant to do about the Swede, but so far theSawtooth seemed inclined to do nothing at all, evidently thinking hiswar on animal pests more than atoned for his effrontery in takingSkyline as a homestead. When he had proven up on his claim they wouldprobably buy him out and have the water still.

  "Well, what do you know?" Swan turned his head to inquire abruptly."You're pretty quiet."

  Lone roused himself. "Fred Thurman's been dragged to death by thatdamned flighty horse of his," he said. "I found him in the brush thisside of Granite Creek. Had his foot caught in the stirrup. I thought I'dbest leave him there till the coroner can view him."

  Swan stopped short in the trail and turned facing Lone. "Last night mydog Yack whines to go out. He went and sat in a place where he looksdown on the walley, and he howled for half an hour. I said then thatsomebody in the walley has died. That dog is something queer about it.He knows things."

  "I'm going to the Sawtooth," Lone told him. "I can telephone to thecoroner from there. Anybody at Thurman's place, do you know?"

  Swan shook his head and started again down the winding, steep trail. "Idon't hunt over that way for maybe a week. That's too bad he's killed. Ilike Fred Thurman. He's a fine man, you bet."

  "He was," said Lone soberly. "It's a damn shame he had to go--likethat."

  Swan glanced back at him, studied Lone's face for an instant and turnedinto a tributary gully where a stream trickled down over water-wornrocks. "Here I leave you," he volunteered, as Lone came abreast of him."A coyote's crossed up there, and I maybe find his tracks. I could go dochores for Fred Thurman if nobody's there. Should I do that? What yousay, Lone?"

  "You might drift around by there if it ain't too much out of your way,and see if he's got a man on the ranch," Lone suggested. "But you betternot touch anything in the house, Swan. The coroner'll likely appointsomebody to look around and see if he's got any folks to send his stuffto. Just feed any stock that's kept up, if nobody's there."

  "All right," Swan agreed readily. "I'll do that, Lone. Good-by."

  Lone nodded and watched him climb the steep slope of the gulch on theside toward Thurman's ranch. Swan climbed swiftly, seeming to take nothought of where he put his feet, yet never once slipping or slowing. Intwo minutes he was out of sight, and Lone rode on moodily, trying notto think of Fred Thurman, trying to shut from his mind the things thatwild-eyed, hoarse-voiced girl had told him.

  "Lone, you mind your own business," he advised himself once. "You don'tknow anything that's going to do any one any good, and what you don'tknow there's no good guessing. But that girl--she mustn't talk likethat!"

  Of Swan he scarcely gave a thought after the Swede had disappeared, yetSwan was worth a thought or two, even from a man who was bent on mindinghis own business. Swan had no sooner climbed the gulch toward Thurman'sclaim than he proceeded to descend rather carefully to the bottom again,walk along on the rocks for some distance and climb to the ridge whosefarther slope led down to Granite Creek. He did not follow the trail,but struck straight across an outcropping ledge, descended to GraniteCreek and strode along next the hill where the soil was gravelly andbarren. When he had gone some distance, he sat down and took
from underhis coat two huge, crudely made moccasins of coyote skin. These hepulled on over his shoes, tied them around his ankles and went on, stillkeeping close under the hill.

  He reached the place where Fred Thurman lay, stood well away from thebody and studied every detail closely. Then, stepping carefully ontrampled brush and rocks, he approached and cautiously lifted Lone'scoat. It was not a pretty sight, but Swan's interest held him there forperhaps ten minutes, his eyes leaving the body only when the blaze-facedhorse moved. Then Swan would look up quickly at the horse, seemreassured when he saw that the animal was not watching anything at adistance, and return to his curious task. Finally he drew the coat backover the head and shoulders, placed each stone exactly as he had foundit and went up to the horse, examining the saddle rather closely. Afterthat he retreated as carefully as he had approached. When he had gonehalf a mile or so upstream he found a place where he could wash hishands without wetting his moccasins, returned to the rocky hillside andtook off the clumsy footgear and stowed them away under his coat. Thenwith long strides that covered the ground as fast as a horse could dowithout loping, Swan headed as straight as might be for the Thurmanranch.

  About noon Swan approached the crowd of men and a few women who stoodat a little distance and whispered together, with their faces avertedfrom the body around which the men stood grouped. The news had spread assuch news will, even in a country so sparsely settled as the Sawtooth.Swan counted forty men,--he did not bother with the women. Fred Thurmanhad been known to every one of them. Some one had spread a piece ofcanvas over the corpse, and Swan did not go very near. The blaze-facedhorse had been led farther away and tied to a cottonwood, where some onehad thrown down a bundle of hay. The Sawtooth country was ratherpunctilious in its duty toward the law, and it was generally believedthat the coroner would want to see the horse that had caused thetragedy.

  Half an hour after Swan arrived, the coroner came in a machine, and withhim came the sheriff. The coroner, an important little man, examined thebody, the horse and the saddle, and there was the usual formula ofswearing in a jury. The inquest was rather short, since there was onlyone witness to testify, and Lone merely told how he had discovered thehorse there by the creek, and that the body had not been moved fromwhere he found it.

  Swan went over to where Lone, anxious to get away from the place, wasuntying his horse after the jury had officially named the death anaccident.

  "I guess those horses could be turned loose," he began without prelude."What you think, Lone? I been to Thurman's ranch, and I don't findanybody. Some horses in a corral, and pigs in a pen, and chickens. Iguess Thurman was living alone. Should I tell the coroner that?"

  "I dunno," Lone replied shortly. "You might speak to the sheriff. Ireckon he's the man to take charge of things."

  "It's bad business, getting killed," Swan said vaguely. "It makes mefeel damn sorry when I go to that ranch. There's the horses waiting forbreakfast--and Thurman, he's dead over here and can't feed his pigs andhis chickens. It's a white cat over there that comes to meet me and rubsmy leg and purrs like it's lonesome. That's a nice ranch he's got, too.Now what becomes of that ranch? What you think, Lone?"

  "Hell, how should I know?" Lone scowled at him from the saddle and rodeaway, leaving Swan standing there staring after him. He turned away tofind the sheriff and almost collided with Brit Hunter, who was glancingspeculatively from him to Lone Morgan. Swan stopped and put out his handto shake.

  "Lone says I should tell the sheriff I could look after Fred Thurman'sranch. What you think, Mr. Hunter?"

  "Good idea, I guess. Somebody'll have to. They can't----" He checkedhimself. "You got a horse? I'll ride over with yuh, maybe."

  "I got legs," Swan returned laconically. "They don't get scared, Mr.Hunter, and maybe kill me sometime. You could tell the sheriff I'mgovernment hunter and honest man, and I take good care of things. Youcould do that, please?"

  "Sure," said Brit and rode over to where the sheriff was standing.

  The sheriff listened, nodded, beckoned to Swan. "The court'll have tosettle up the estate and find his heirs, if he's got any. But you lookafter things--what's your name? Vjolmar--how yuh spell it? I'll swearyou in as a deputy. Good Lord, you're a husky son-of-a-gun!" Thesheriff's eyes went up to Swan's hat crown, descended to his shouldersand lingered there admiringly for a moment, traveled down his flat,hard-muscled body and his straight legs. "I'll bet you could put upsome fight, if you had to," he commented.

  Swan grinned good-humoredly, glanced conscience-stricken at the coveredfigure on the ground and straightened his face decorously.

  "I could lick you good," he admitted in a stage whisper. "I'm ason-off-a-gun all right--only I don't never get mad at somebody."

  Brit Hunter smiled at that, it was so like Swan Vjolmar. But when theywere halfway to Thurman's ranch--Brit on horseback and Swan stridingeasily along beside him, leading the blaze-faced horse, he glanced downat Swan's face and wondered if Swan had not lied a little.

  "What's on your mind, Swan?" he asked abruptly.

  Swan started and looked up at him, glanced at the empty hills on eitherside, and stopped still in the trail.

  "Mr. Hunter, you been longer in the country than I have been. You seensome good riding, I bet. Maybe you see some men ride backwards on ahorse?"

  Brit looked at him uncomprehendingly. "Backwards?"

  Swan led up the blaze-faced horse and pointed to the right stirrup."Spurs would scratch like that if you jerk your foot, maybe. You're agood rider, Mr. Hunter, you can tell. That's a right stirrup, ain't it?Fred Thurman, he's got his left foot twist around, all broke fromjerking in his stirrup. Left foot in right stirrup----" He pushed backhis hat and rumpled his yellow hair, looking up into Brit's faceinquiringly. "Left foot in right stirrup is riding backwards. That's adamn good rider to ride like that--what you think, Mr. Hunter?"