Deputy Marshal Winters.”
Horner’s eyebrows went up. Otherwise he did not move.
“Horner?” said Winters. “I’ve heard of him. My ma always called him little Jack. Way I heard it, he sat in a corner a heap. Would you have a drink with me, Mr. Horner?”
Scoby Horner considered it. “Maybe I would, and maybe I wouldn’t.”
That struck Winters as slightly peevish. It was slightly irritating, too. “Now, sir, I consider that remark right enlightenin’.” He put down his empty glass and laid a coin beside it.
Three strangers drifted in and took a table some distance back. They looked tough, but as far as Winters could see, none of them bore a “wanted” face. They carried heavy armament, but so did all men thereabouts. One of them signaled for liquor.
“Any news, Doc?” Winters asked as Doc loaded a tray.
“Nothing new,” said Doc. He glanced at Little Jack Horner, considered whether he was sufficiently unusual to be further pressed upon Winters, but shook his head. “No, Winters, nothing new.”
Winters told him goodnight and went out.
* * * *
Doc Bogannon delivered his tray of drinks and returned to tidy up before closing time. He turned as his batwings swung inward and a stranger walked confidently in.
And here was a character, if ever was, thought Doc. He was dressed like something out of a bandbox—black suit and boots, black silk hat, stiff-bosom white shirt, collar with wings turned down and snugged with a black bowtie. His hair was black and long, with burnsides that ran down on a level with his smooth, slightly puckered lips. His dark eyes had a luster like polished agate. “Good evening, sirs,” he said airily.
A jaunty voice came back from Bogie’s direction. “Good evening, Professor Boro; glad to see you.”
This airy newcomer glanced down at Scoby Horner. “And how are you, my excellent friend?” Scoby’s eyebrows arched. He replied noncommittally, “That would be hard to say.” Professor Boro laid an elbow on Doc’s shiny bar. He smiled at Doc. “It’s quite apparent that my diminutive friend here is in some sort of distress. Fortunately, it is a part of my mission in life to minister to troubled spirits. Let me have two glasses and a bottle of wine.”
Doc set them up and took Boro’s money. A voice fell gently from Bogie’s lips, “You’re a noble person, Professor Boro; we need more like you.” Doc rubbed a hand across his mouth. He didn’t quite get it. Maybe he ought to go and talk things over with Deputy Winters, a man who’d had experience with spooks. These ghosts that made a man talk, whether or no, had him stumped.
Professor Boro, bottle under his left arm and both glasses in his left hand, extended his right to Little Jack Horner. “My friend, let’s talk it over.” As Horner hesitated, he pulled gently. That was sufficient.
They sat at an isolated table and drank wine. “Now,” said Boro, “what is your problem?”
Horner, appreciative of Boro’s persuasive friendliness, confided in his benefactor. “I’m stranded, languishing in horse latitudes, so to speak.”
“You mean you can’t make up your mind about something?”
“That’s it.” Horner told his generous and honest friend all about it; of his rich and wise grandfather, of his own good fortune, of his journey, and of his present indecision. “And now,” he added sadly, “with ten thousand dollars in my pocket and a determination to invest it, I can’t decide which mining town to go to.”
Boro had put a hand over his mouth. He coughed gently. “You are right in seeking investments. And you actually have ten thousand dollars—on your person?”
“I do. I considered putting it in a bank, but could never make up my mind to do so.”
Boro leaned forward and became confidential. “I confess to a similar fault, only I carry slightly more than you do; namely, fifty thousand.”
Horner’s eyebrows arched. “That’s a lot of money.”
Professor Boro looked disconsolate. “But not enough.” He glanced warily about. “Horner, I’ve struck it rich—a quartz vein only a few miles from here that should yield millions. If two or three of us would pool our capital, in a year’s time we’d have gold by wagon loads.…”
Bogie saw them leave together. Being busy with a bar customer, he thought nothing of it, though afterwards he wondered if at last Little Jack Horner had made up his mind.
* * * *
Horner himself wasn’t sure. As he and Professor Boro rode toward Elkhorn Pass by moonlight, he had a most queer feeling. Possibly he’d drunk too much wine; he wasn’t habitually a drinker at all. But his queer feeling concerned Professor Boro. He was thinking of Boro not as a man, but as Old Scratch, dressed up as a man. He’d heard of things like that.
Then, when they were passing close to a cliff, Horner heard a short, toneless voice. “Going somewhere, strangers?”
Boro pulled his horse up sharply. “Did you hear something, Horner?”
“I most certainly did. A voice came right out of that cliff.”
“Extraordinary,” murmured Boro. “We’d better circle around this spot.”
Horner heard it again. “Yes, circle around. A good idea.”
Boro reined in close to Horner, who’d stopped just ahead. “Did you hear it again?”
“Most certainly did. What is more, I’m heading back; I’ve changed my mind.”
But he had a new strange feeling suddenly, a feeling of something hard against his back. Professor Boro was crowding him. “You’re riding into that small cove of pines by yon cliff, friend Horner. We were going into business together; remember? Not that I need a partner exactly; what I need is money.” Hidden by cove and pines, he nudged Horner’s back. “Hand it over, Mr. Horner.” Little Jack said over his shoulder, “But you have fifty thousand; isn’t that enough?”
“It would be, if I had it. As matters stand, I have nothing.”
“As matters stand, you will still have nothing.”
“What are you saying, Horner?”
“My yarn about having ten thousand was merely to catch crooks who fish for suckers; I’m practically penniless.”
Boro’s voice and manner were ferocious. “Then why did you ride with me?”
Horner’s voice disclosed an unsuspected ferocity of his own. “To get your fifty thousand.” His actions were as quick as his words. His horse leaped against that of Boro, a six-gun appeared in his hand, and cove and pines filled with gun-roar and acrid black smoke.
* * * *
Deputy Lee Winters regarded himself as a lucky man. For one thing, he’d married a beautiful widow, and she’d turned out to be a gentle, loving wife. He’d received as a dowry a mining claim
