CHAPTER XVII
IN DRY VALLEY
If Kirby had been a properly authenticated detective of fiction hewould have gone to his uncle's apartment, locked the door, measured therooms with a tape-line, found imprints of fingers on a door panel, andcarefully gathered into an envelope the ashes from the cigar his unclehad been smoking. The data obtained would have proved conclusivelythat Cunningham had come to his death at the hands of a Brahmin of highcaste on account of priceless gems stolen from a temple in India. Ananalysis of the cigar ashes would have shown that a subtle poison,unknown to the Western world, had caused the victim's heart to stopbeating exactly two minutes and twelve seconds after taking the firstpuff at the cigar. Thus the fictional ethics of the situation wouldhave been correctly met.
But Kirby was only a plain, outdoors Westerner. He did not know theconventional method of procedure. It did not even occur to him atfirst that Apartment 12 might still have secrets to tell him after thepolice and the reporters had pawed over it for several days. But hissteps turned back several times to the Paradox as the center from whichall clues must emanate. He found himself wandering around in thatvicinity trying to pick up some of the pieces of the Chinese puzzlethat made up the mystery of his uncle's death.
It was on one of these occasions that he and Rose met his cousin Jamescoming out of the apartment house. Cunningham was a man of admirableself-control, but he looked shaken this morning. His hand trembled asit met that of his cousin. In his eyes was the look of a man who hassuffered a shock.
"I've been sitting alone for an hour in the room where Uncle James methis death--been arranging his papers," he explained. "It began to getmy nerve. I couldn't stand it any longer. The horrible thing keptjumping to my mind." He drew his right hand heavily across his eyes,as though to shut out and brush away the sight his imagination conjured.
His left arm hung limp. Kirby's quick eyes noticed it.
"You've hurt yourself," Lane said.
"Yes," admitted James. "My heel caught on the top step as I started towalk down. I've wrenched my arm badly. Maybe I've broken it."
"Oh, I hope not," Rose said quickly, a warm sympathy in her vibrantyoung voice. "A broken arm's no fun. I find it an awful nuisance."
The janitor of the Paradox came out and joined them. He was a littleJapanese well on toward middle life, a small-featured man with small,neat feet.
"You feelum all right yes now?" he asked, directing his slant, ovaleyes toward Cunningham.
"Yes, I've got over the nausea, thanks, Shibo." James turned to theothers. "Shibo was at the foot of the stairs when I caught my heel.He gathered up the pieces. I guess I was all in, wasn't I, Shibo?"
The Japanese nodded agreement. "You heap sick for minute."
"I've been worrying a good deal about this business of Uncle James, Isuppose. Anyhow, I've had two or three dizzy spells lately. Nothingserious, though."
"I don't wonder. You sit at a desk too much, James. What you need isexercise. If you'd get in the saddle a couple o' hours a day an' dosome stiff ridin' you'd quit havin' dizzy spells. Sorry you're hurt,old man. I'll trail along with you to a doctor's."
"Not necessary. I'll be all right. It's only a few blocks to hisoffice. Fact is, I'm feeling quite myself again."
"Well, if you're sure. Prob'ly you've only sprained your arm. By theway, I'd kinda like to go over Uncle's apartment again. Mind if I do?I don't reckon the police missed anything, but you can never tell."
James hesitated. "I promised the Chief of Police not to let anybodyelse in. Tell you what I'll do. I'll see him about it and get apermit for you. Say, Kirby, I've been thinking one of us ought to goup to Dry Valley and check things up there. We might find out whowrote that note to Uncle. Maybe some one has been making threats inpublic. We could see who was in town from there last week. Could yougo? To-day? Train leaves in half an hour."
Kirby could and would. He left Rose to talk with the tenants of theParadox Apartments, entrained for Dry Valley at once, and by noon waswinding over the hilltops far up in the Rockies.
He left the train at Summit, a small town which was the center ofactivities for Dry Valley. Here the farmers bought their supplies andhere they marketed their butter and eggs. In the fall they drove intheir cattle and loaded them for Denver at the chutes in the railroadyard.
There had been times in the past when Summit ebbed and flowed with arip-roaring tide of turbulent life. This had been after the round-upsin the golden yesterday when every other store building had beenoccupied by a saloon and the rattle of chips lasted far into the smallhours of night. Now Colorado was dry and the roulette wheel had goneto join memories of the past. Summit was quiet as a Sunday afternoonon a farm. Its busiest inhabitant was a dog which lay in the sun andlazily poked over its own anatomy for fleas.
Kirby registered at the office of the frame building which carried onits false front the word HOTEL. This done, he wandered down to theshack which bore the inscription, "Dry Valley Enterprise." The ownerof the paper, who was also editor, reporter, pressman, businessmanager, and circulator, chanced to be in printing some dodgersannouncing a dance at Odd Fellows' Hall. He desisted from his laborsto chat with the stranger.
The editor was a fat, talkative little man. Kirby found it no troubleat all to set him going on the subject of James Cunningham, Senior. Infact, during his stay in the valley the Wyoming man could always usethat name as an "Open Sesame." It unlocked all tongues. Cunninghamand his mysterious death were absorbing topics. The man was hated byscores who had been brought close to ruin by his chicanery. Dry Valleyrejoiced openly in the retribution that had fallen upon him.
"Who killed him?" the editor asked rhetorically.
"Well, sir, I'll be dawged if I know. But if I was guessin' I'd say itwas this fellow Hull, the slicker that helped him put through the DryValley steal. 'Course it might 'a' been the Jap, or it might 'a' beenthe nephew from Wyoming, but I'll say it was Hull. We know that cussHull up here. He's one bad package, that fat man is, believe me.Cunningham held out on him, an' he laid for the old crook an' got him.Don't that look reasonable to you? It sure does to me. Put a roperound Hull's neck an' you'll hang the man that killed old J. C."
Lane put in an hour making himself _persona grata_, then read thelatest issue of the "Enterprise" while the editor pulled off the restof the dodgers. In the local news column he found several items thatinterested him. These were:
Jim Harkins is down in Denver on business and won't be home tillMonday. Have a good time, Jim.
T. J. Lupton is enjoying a few days vacation in the Queen City. Heexpects to buy some fancy stock at the yards for breeding purposes.Dry Valley is right in the van of progress.
Art Jelks and Brad Mosely returned from Denver today after a threedays' visit in the capital. A good time was had by both. You want towatch them, girls. The boys are both live ones.
Oscar Olson spent a few days in Denver this week. Oscar owns a placethree miles out of town on the Spring Creek road.
Casually Kirby gathered information. He learned that Jim Harkins wasthe town constable and not interested in land; that Lupton was a veryprosperous cattleman whose ranch was nowhere near the district promotedby Cunningham; and that Jelks and Mosely were young fellows more orless connected with the garage. The editor knew Olson only slightly.
"He's a Swede--big, fair fellow--got caught in that irrigation fake ofHull and Cunningham. Don't know what he was doin' in Denver," thenewspaperman said.
Lane decided that he would see Olson and have a talk with him.Incidentally, he meant to see all the Dry Valley men who had been inDenver at the time Cunningham was killed. But the others he saw onlyto eliminate them from suspicion. One glance at each of them wasenough to give them a clean bill so far as the mystery went. They knewnothing whatever about it.
Lane rode out to Olson's place and found him burning brush. Thecattleman explained that he was from Wyoming and wanted to sell someregistere
d Herefords.
Olson looked over his dry, parched crops with sardonic bitterness. "DoI look like I could buy registered stock?" he asked sourly.
Kirby made a remark that set the ranchman off. He said that the cropslooked as though they needed water. Inside of five minutes he hadheard the story of the Dry Valley irrigation swindle. Olson was not aforeigner. He had been born in Minnesota and attended the publicschools. He spoke English idiomatically and without an accent. Theman was a tall, gaunt, broad-shouldered Scandinavian of more thanaverage intelligence.
The death of Cunningham had not apparently assuaged his intense hatredof the man or the bitterness which welled out of him toward Hull.
"Cunningham got his! Suits me fine! Now all I ask is that they hangHull for it!" he cried vindictively.
"Seems to be some doubt whether Hull did it," suggested Kirby, to drawhim on.
"That so? Mebbe there's evidence you don't know about." The words hadcome out in the heat of impulse, shot at Kirby tensely andbreathlessly. Olson looked at the man on the horse and Lane could seecaution grow on him. A film of suspicion spread over the pupilsbeneath the heavy, ragged eyebrows. "I ain't sayin' so. All I'm deadsure of is that Hull did it."
Kirby fired a shot point-blank at him. "Nobody can be dead sure ofthat unless he saw him do it."
"Mebbe some one saw him do it. Folks don't tell all they know." Olsonlooked across the desert beyond the palpitating heat waves to themountains in the distance.
"No. That's tough sometimes on innocent people, too."
"Meanin' this nephew of old Cunningham. He'll get out all right."
"Will he? There's a girl under suspicion, too. She had no more to dowith it than I had, but she's likely to get into mighty serious troublejust the same."
"I ain't read anything in the papers about any girl," Olson answeredsullenly.
"No, it hasn't got to the papers yet. But it will. It's up to everyman who knows anything about this to come clean."
"Is it?" The farmer looked bleakly at his visitor. "Seems to me youtake a lot of interest in this. Who are you, anyhow?"
"My name is Kirby Lane."
"Nephew of the old man?"
"Yes."
Olson gave a snort of dry, splenetic laughter. "And you're out heresellin' registered Herefords."
"I have some for sale. But that's not why I came to see you."
"Why did you come, then?" asked the Scandinavian, his blue eyes hardand defiant.
"I wanted to have a look at the man who wrote the note to JamesCunningham threatenin' to dry-gulch him if he ever came to Dry Valleyagain."
It was a center shot. Kirby was sure of it. He read it in the man'sface before anger began to gather in it.
"I'm the man who wrote that letter, am I?" The lips of Olson weredrawn back in a vicious snarl.
"You're the man."
"You can prove that, o' course."
"Yes."
"How?"
"By your handwritin'. I've seen three specimens of it to-day."
"Where?"
"One at the court-house, one at the bank that holds your note, an' thethird at the office of the 'Enterprise.' You wrote an article urgin'the Dry Valley people to fight Cunningham. That article, in your ownhandwritin', is in my pocket right now."
"I didn't tell them to gun him, did I?"
"That's not the point. What I'm gettin' at is that the same man wrotethe article that wrote the letter to Cunningham."
"Prove it! Prove it!"
"The paper used in both cases was torn from the same tablet. Thewritin' is the same."
"You've got a nerve to come out here an' tell me I'm the man thatkilled Cunningham," Olson flung out, his face flushing darkly.
"I'm not sayin' that."
"What are you sayin', then? Shoot it at me straight."
"If I thought you had killed Cunningham I wouldn't be here now. What Ithought when I came was that you might know somethin' about it. Ididn't come out here to trap you. My idea is that Hull did it. ButI've made up my mind you're hidin' somethin'. I'm sure of it. You asgood as told me so. What is it?" Kirby, resting easy in the saddlewith his weight on one stirrup, looked straight into the rancher's eyesas he asked the question.
"I'd be likely to tell you if I was, wouldn't I?" jeered Olson.
"Why not? Better tell me than wait for the police to third-degree you.If you're not in this killin' why not tell what you know? I've told mystory."
"After they spotted you in the court-room," the farmer retorted. "An'how do I know you told all you know? Mebbe you're keepin' secrets,too."
Kirby took this without batting an eye. "An innocent man hasn'tanything to fear," he said.
"Hasn't he?" Olson picked up a stone and flung it at a pile of rockshe had gathered fifty yards away. He was left-handed. "How do youknow he hasn't? Say, just for argument, I do know somethin'. Say Ipractically saw Cunningham killed an' hadn't a thing to do with it.Could I get away with a story like that? You know darned well Icouldn't. Wouldn't the lawyers want to know howcome I to be so handyto the place where the killin' was, right at the very time it tookplace, me who is supposed to have threatened to bump him off myself?Sure they would. I'd be tyin' a noose round my own neck."
"Do you know who killed my uncle?" demanded Lane point-blank. "Did yousee it done?"
Olson's eyes narrowed. A crafty light shone through the slitted lids."Hold yore hawsses. I ain't said I knew a thing. Not a thing. I wasstringin' you."
Kirby knew he had overshot the mark. He had been too eager and hadalarmed the man. He was annoyed at himself. It would take time andpatience and finesse to recover lost ground. Shrewdly he guessed atthe rancher's state of mind. The man wanted to tell something, wasdivided in mind whether to come forward as a witness or keep silent.His evidence, it was clear enough, would implicate Hull; but, perhapsindirectly, it would involve himself, too.
"Well, whatever it is you know, I hope you'll tell it," the cattlemansaid. "But that's up to you, not me. If Hull is the murderer, I wantthe crime fastened on him. I don't want him to get off scot free. An'that's about what's goin' to happen. The fellow's guilty, I believe,but we can't prove it."
"Can't we? I ain't sure o' that." Again, through the narrowed lids,wary guile glittered. "Mebbe we can when the right time comes."
"I doubt it." Lane spoke casually and carelessly. "Any testimonyagainst him loses force if it's held out too long. The question comesup, why didn't the witness come right forward at once. No, I reckonHull will get away with it--if he really did it."
"Don't you think it," Olson snapped out. "They've pretty nearly gotenough now to convict him."
The rough rider laughed cynically. "Convict him! They haven't enoughagainst him even to make an arrest. They've got a dozen times as muchagainst me an' they turned me loose. He's quite safe if he keeps hismouth shut--an' he will."
Olson flung a greasewood shrub on a pile of brush. His mind, Kirbycould see, was busy with the problem before it. The man's caution andhis vindictive desire for vengeance were at war. He knew something,evidence that would tend to incriminate Hull, and he was afraid tobring it to the light of day. He worked automatically, and the man onhorseback watched him. On that sullen face Kirby could read fury,hatred, circumspection, suspicion, the lust for revenge.
The man's anger barked at Lane. "Well, what you waitin' for?" he askedharshly.
"Nothin'. I'm goin' now." He wrote his Denver address on a card. "Ifyou find there is any evidence against Hull an' want to talk it over,perhaps you'd rather come to me than the police. I'm like you. IfHull did it I want him found guilty. So long."
He handed Olson his card. The man tossed it away. Kirby turned hishorse toward town. Five minutes later he looked back. The settler hadwalked across to the place where he had thrown the card and wasapparently picking it up.
The man from Wyoming smiled. He had a very strong hunch that Olsonwould call on him wi
thin a week or ten days. Of course he wasdisappointed, but he knew the game had to be played with patience. Atleast he had learned something. The man had in his possession evidencevitally important. Kirby meant to get that evidence from him somehowby hook or crook.
What was it the man knew? Was it possible he could have killedCunningham himself and be trying to throw the blame of it on Hull? Wasthat why he was afraid to come out in the open with what testimony hehad? Kirby could not forget the bitter hatred of Cunningham the farmercherished. That hatred extended to Hull. What a sweet revenge to killone enemy and let the other one hang for the crime!
A detail jumped to his mind. Olson had picked up a stone and thrown itto the rock pile--with his left hand.