The Heart of the Range

  CHAPTER XXX

  THE REGISTER

  "Mr. Pooley," said Racey Dawson, easing himself into the chair besidethe register's desk, "where is McFluke?"

  Mr. Pooley's features remained as wooden as they were fat. His small,wide-set eyes did not flicker. He placed the tips of his fingerstogether, leaned back in his chair, and stared at Racey between theeyebrows.

  "McFluke?" he repeated. "I don't know the name."

  "I mean the murderer Jack Harpe sent to you to be taken care of,"explained Racey.

  Mr. Pooley continued to stare. For a long moment he made no comment.Then he said, "Still, I don't know the name."

  "If you will lean back a li'l more," Racey told him, "you can look outof the window and see two chairs in front of the Kearney House. On theright we have Bill Riley, a Wells Fargo detective from Omaha, on theleft Tom Seemly from the Pinkerton Agency in San Francisco. They knowsomething but not everything. Suppose I should spin 'em _all_ my_li'l_ tale of grief--what then, Mr. Pooley?"

  "Still--I wouldn't know the name McFluke," maintained Mr. Pooley.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Pooley," said Racey, rising to his feet. "I shore am."

  "Don't strain yoreself," advised Mr. Pooley, making a brave rustleamong the papers on his desk.

  "I won't," Racey said, turning at the door to bestow a last! grin uponMr. Pooley. "So long. Glad I called."

  Mr. Pooley laughed outright. "G'by," he called after Racey as the doorclosed.

  Mr. Pooley leaned far back in his chair. He saw Racey Dawson stop onthe sidewalk in front of the two detectives. The three conversed amoment, then Racey entered the Kearney House. The two detectivesremained where they were.

  Mr. Pooley arose and left the room.

  * * * * *

  "You gotta get out of here!" It was Mr. Pooley speaking with greatasperity.

  "Why for?" countered our old friend McFluke, one-time proprietor of asaloon on the bank of the Lazy.

  "Because they're after you, that's why."

  "Who's they?"

  "Racey Dawson for one."

  McFluke sat upright in the bunk. "Him! That ----!"

  "Yes, him," sneered Pooley. "Scares you, don't it? And he's got twodetectives with him, so get a move on. I don't want you anywhere on myproperty if they do come sniffin' round."

  "I'm right comfortable here," declared McFluke, and lay down upon thebunk.

  "You'd better go," said Mr. Pooley, softly.

  "Not unless I get some money first."

  "So that's the game, is it? Think I'll pay you to drift, huh? Howmuch?"

  "Oh, about ten thousand."

  "Is that all?"

  "Well, say fifteen--and not a check, neither."

  "No," said Mr. Pooley, "it won't be a check. It won't be anything,you--worm."

  So saying Mr. Pooley laid violent hands on McFluke, yanked him out ofthe bunk, and flung him sprawling on the floor.

  "Not one cent do you get from me," declared Mr. Pooley. "I never paidblackmail yet and I ain't beginning now. I always told Harpe you'dupset the applecart with yo're bullheaded ways. You stinking murderer,it wasn't necessary to kill Old Man Dale! Suppose he did hit you, whatof it? You could have knocked him out with a bungstarter. But no, youhad to kill him, and get everybody suspicious, didn't you? Why--you,you make me feel like cutting your throat, to have you upset my plansthis way!"

  McFluke raised himself on an arm. "I didn't upset yore plans none," hedenied, sulkily. "Everythin's comin' out all right. Hell, he wouldn'tplay that day, anyway! Said he'd never touch a card or look at awheel again as long as he lived, and when I laughed at him he hit me.Whatell else could I do? I hadda shoot him. I--"

  "Shut up, you and your 'I's' and 'He wouldn't' and 'I hadda!' Ifyou've told me that tale once since you came here you've told me fortytimes. Get up and get out! Yore horse is tied at the corral gate. Iroped him on my way in. C'mon! Get up! or will I have to crawl yorehump again?"

  But McFluke did not get up. Instead he scrabbled sidewise to the walland shrank against it. His eyes were wide, staring. They were fixed onthe doorway behind Mr. Pooley.

  "I didn't do it, gents!" cried McFluke, thrusting out his hands beforehis face as though to ward off a blow. "I didn't kill him! I didn't!It's all a lie! I didn't kill him!"

  Fat Jacob Pooley whirled to face three guns. His right hand fell awayreluctantly from the butt of his sixshooter. Slowly his arms wentabove his head. Racey Dawson and his two companions entered theroom. The eldest of these companions was one of the Piegan Citytown marshals. He was a friend of Jacob Pooley's. But there was nofriendliness in his face as he approached the register, removed hisgun, and searched his person for other weapons. Jacob Pooley saidnothing. His face was a dark red. The marshal produced a pair ofhandcuffs. The register recoiled.

  "Not those!" he protested. "Don't put handcuffs on me!"

  "Put yore hands down," ordered the marshal.

  "Look here, I'll go quietly. I'll--"

  "Put yore hands _down_!" repeated the inexorable marshal.

  Jacob Pooley put his hands down.

  Racey and the other man were handcuffing McFluke, who was keeping upan incessant wail of, "I didn't do it! I didn't, gents, I didn't!"

  "Oh, shut up!" ordered Racey, jerking the prisoner to his feet. "Youtalk too much."

  "Where's yore Wells Fargo and Pinkerton detectives?" demanded Mr.Pooley.

  "This gent is the Wells Fargo detective," replied Racey, indicatingthe man who had helped him handcuff McFluke. "There ain't anyPinkerton within five hundred miles so far as I know.... Huh? Them?Oh, they were just drummers from Chicago I happened to speak tobecause I figured you'd be expectin' me to after I'd told you who theywere. The real Wells Fargo, Mr. Johnson here, was a-watchin' yorecorral alla time, so when you got a friend of yores to pull them twodrummers into a poker game and then saddled yore hoss and went bustin'off in the direction of yore claim we got the marshal and trailedyou."

  "You can't prove anything!" bluffed Mr. Pooley.

  "We were here beside the door listenin' from the time McFluke said hewas too comfortable to move out of here." Thus the marshal wearily.

  Mr. Pooley considered a moment. "Who snitched where Mac was?" heasked, finally.

  "Nobody," replied Racey, promptly.

  "Somebody must have. Who was it?"

  "Nobody, I tell you. McFluke had to go somewhere, didn't he? Hecouldn't hang around Farewell. Too dangerous. But the chances werehe wouldn't leave the country complete till he got his share. And asnothing had come off it wasn't any likely he'd got his share. So he'dwant to keep in touch with his friends till the deal was put through.It was only natural he'd drift to you. And when I come here to PieganCity and heard you had hired a man to live on yore claim and then gota look at him without him knowing it the rest was easy."

  "But what," inquired Mr. Pooley, perplexedly, "has Wells Fargo to dowith this business?"

  "Anybody that knows Bill Smith alias Jack Harpe as well as you do,"spoke up Mr. Johnson, grimly, "is bound to be of interest to WellsFargo."