The Rider of Golden Bar Part 65

"Try me," urged Dawson.

"The man who killed Tuckleton is a man named Dan Slike, who broke out of jail just before he was going to be tried for another murder. The only way you can help me is by telling me where he is, and I expect you can't do that."

"Not right off the reel," admitted Dawson. "Ain't you picked up any trail of this sport?"

"I've cut his trail five different places, Bow Bells, Gunsight, Dragoon, Shadyside, and the Rafter L. I figured he'd come here after leavin' the Rafter L--it's only thirty miles. But I guess he didn't.

Leastwise n.o.body seems to have noticed anybody of his description."

"You haven't described him to me yet," pointed out Dawson.

Billy began. "--and maybe a black beard by now," he concluded.

"Bow Bells, Gunsight, Dragoon, Shadyside and the Rafter L," repeated Dawson, rasping a hand across his stubbly chin.

"South, y'understand, till he reached Shadyside, and then he headed northeast to the Rafter L. What I'd like to know is what made him change direction thataway?"

"He ain't in any hurry to leave the territory, that's a cinch."

"Not after he left Shadyside, anyway."

"Something happened there to head him."

"Sure. But whatever it was it wasn't visible to the naked eye. Rafter L, the same way. He stopped there for dinner and rode away without spending the night."

"He may have gone to Marquis."

Billy nodded. "He may. But Marquis is more north than east. That's why I came here first. Anyway, to-morrow morning I'm riding to Marquis, and if he ain't there I'll sift through the country between Marquis and Dorothy. There are several ranches in between those two towns."

"I'll go with you," announced Dawson.

Billy surveyed his neighbor in surprise. "You. What for?"

"For him--exercise--any old thing you like, that is, if it ain't a private party."

"You can sit in if you want to," said Billy slowly, more glad to accept an ally than he cared to admit. "But you've got a job."

"The job can wait. Round up's over, so it won't hurt the ranch to lose my valuable services for a spell. To-morrow we go to Marquis, huh?"

By mid-afternoon the following day Billy Wingo was riding into Marquis from one direction and Dawson was riding in from another. As apparent strangers they believed they could do better work. Before six o'clock Billy had judiciously canva.s.sed every saloon in the place and had learned absolutely nothing. Either Slike had not entered Marquis, or else he was wearing a disguise. In the twilight, in the brush beyond the far-flung skirmishline of empty tin cans and bottles that surrounds every cow-country town, he met his friend Dawson. The latter had worked the stores and the dance hall, but he had nothing to report.

The following day Billy journeyed by the one road to Dorothy, while Dawson traveled by a more circuitous route that would take him past two ranch houses where there might be information to be picked up. Billy Wingo, without pus.h.i.+ng his horse, reached Dorothy too late for the regular dinner at the hotel. Adjoining the Carnation Saloon was a two-by-four restaurant. He entered the place, sat down at the oilcloth-covered table and gave his order to the good-looking young woman who was evidently cook, hasher and washer combined.

In one corner of the restaurant an eight-year-old girl was squatting on the floor and bathing two wooden dollies in a tin wash-basin. A small dog waggled in from the street, sniffed respectfully at Billy's boots, then hunted along a crack in the floor with his nose till he came within reach of the eight-year-old, who promptly seized him by his short tail and dragged him, ki-yiing his protests, to her bosom.

"You need a bath," said the eight-year-old. "I'll wash you."

Gripping her victim firmly by one ear and his tail she plumped him splash into the washbasin. To the dog's eternal credit he made no attempt to bite her, but he wriggled and squirmed and threw his body about, and ever he lamented loudly.

The good-looking young woman poked her head in from the kitchen.

"Winnie, you leave Towler be. You know he doesn't like to be teased.

Why don't you go on giving Emmaline and Sally Jane their baths. There!

Now, see what's happened--basin upset and water all over the floor.

That's the third time to-day I've had to mop up after you."

Little Winnie was a damsel of parts. "I'm sorry, auntie. I'll mop up.

Towler, you git."

Towler got. Winnie began to sop up the water with a floor rag which she wrung out in the washbasin.

"I'll finish giving you your bath, Sally Jane, soon as I get fresh water. Emmaline is nice and clean, but you're a dirty, dirty girl, Sally Jane."

Sally Jane! There it was again. Merely a coincidence, of course, but it was odd to run across this combination of proper names. Billy began to take more than a pa.s.sing interest in the eight-year-old.

The little girl resumed her animated monologue. "I tell you what, Sally Jane, if you don't keep yourself cleaner, I'm gonna go back to calling you Maria again."

Then it was that the hunch came to Billy Wingo.

"Winnie," he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and wearing his most engaging smile, "Winnie, that Sally Jane dolly is sure one fine-looking lady."

Winnie regarded him with an indulgent eye. "She's my favorite, Sally Jane is."

"Sally Jane is a pretty name too."

"I like it."

"You haven't always called her Sally Jane, have you?"

"Not always. I used to call her Mariar. My auntie says Mariar sounds like a cat talking, but I liked it till I heard Sally Jane, then I liked Sally Jane best."

"And when did you hear the name Sally Jane?"

"Long, long ago."

"Oh!" Disappointment on the part of Billy Wingo. Farewell, hunch.

Nevertheless he essayed a forlorn hope. "How long?"

"Most a week."

Most a week! Billy had forgotten that child-time runs faster than grown-up time. The hunch p.r.i.c.ked up its little ears and began to return. "Where did you hear that name?"

"Man in the Carnation. He was drunk, and he went round talking to G.o.d in the saloon. I heard him through the window. Lots of men do that.

My Auntie says they'll frizzle when they die."

"They ought to," p.r.o.nounced the righteously indignant Bill. "Did this man say anything, about Sally Jane?"

"Lots."

"In the saloon?"

"At the woodpile out back. I was making a li'l doll-house behind it, and he came and lay down beside the woodpile to sleep it off."