with sweat and powdered with dust. However, he, too, showed no other signs of an exhaustive trek and a nerve shattering race with death.
In front of a weatherbeaten building, Slade pulled to a halt. Across the large window was legended, SHERIFF’S OFFICE—Clem Baxter, Sheriff.
As Slade looked at the building, which was unlighted and the door closed, a voice spoke pleasantly behind him, “Looking for somebody, cowboy?”
The sheriff’s front window, with darkness behind it, provided a fair simulacrum of a mirror. In it Slade had watched the speaker approach, noting with interest that he wore a badge on his shirt front and that his holster was “tied down.” He was a fairly tall man with a frank-looking face marked by keen eyes that were, like his hair, dark in contrast to his otherwise blond coloring.
Slade turned in his saddle and glanced down at the man as if seeing him for the first time. “Why, yes,” he replied. “I was looking for the sheriff.”
“He’s not here,” said the other. “Rode out of town a little while ago, over to one of the ranches west of here, I suppose. He didn’t mention where he was going. Perhaps I’ll do. I’m Clifton Yates, one of his deputies.”
“Yes, I suppose you will,” Slade conceded. “I just wanted to report that there are three dead men lying at the foot of the east wall of the big canyon about sixteen miles southeast of here on the Mojo Trail. And another one at the foot of the west wall right opposite.”
The deputy’s eyes widened. He recoiled a step and stared at Slade. “How’s that again?” he asked, a bit dazedly it seemed to Slade. “Four dead men? How do you know they’re dead?”
“Well, for one thing, if they aren’t, they sure grew wings on the way down,” Slade replied drily. “The wagon the three were riding is down there, too, smashed to flinders, and the horses to a pulp. They went over that five-hundred foot cliff.”
“Good God!” gasped the deputy. “Horses ran away, I suppose.”
“Yes, they ran away, all right,” Slade conceded. “The horses were alive when they went over the cliff. The men were not.”
Deputy Yates appeared utterly bewildered, which, Slade was forced to admit, was not unreasonable under the circumstances.
“Listen, cowboy, will you please explain what you’re talking about?” he said.
Slade gave him the details of the tragedy on the Mojo. Yates listened with rigid attention. He licked his lips with a nervous tongue. “And you downed the one on top of the cliff?” he said. “Of course he was dead when you found him.”
“I’d estimate it to be close to a thousand feet from that cliff top to the canyon floor,” Slade replied obliquely.
Yates nodded. “And the wagon—did you notice what it was packing?”
“Flour and beans and grain scattered all over the canyon floor,” Slade answered. “Appeared to be a provision wagon if one was to judge from the load.”
“Uh-huh, but it might have been packing something else besides flour and beans,” muttered the deputy. “That all you saw?”
“Yes, that’s all, except a smashed rifle and an equally smashed sawed-off shotgun,” Slade returned. “Do they guard flour and beans with scatterguns and Winchesters in this section?”
“No, they don’t,” grunted the deputy. “Uh-huh, you get the idea, all right I’m willing to bet a hatful of pesos that somebody had gold in that wagon. Blast it! I wish the sheriff was here. He’d be pretty apt to know for sure, but he’s close-mouthed and don’t talk much to anybody. He sure didn’t mention anything about a gold-packing wagon to me. Well, I suppose I’d better get a couple of the boys and ride down there. You coiling your twine here for a spell? ’Pears you’re the only one who saw even part of what happened. We’ll want you for the inquest.” He hesitated, eyeing Slade speculatively.
Slade smiled down at him. “Remember, you don’t know there are any bodies in that canyon,” he said.
The deputy’s eyes widened again. “What!” he exclaimed. “Why, you just told me there are!”
“Yes, but I could have been joking,” Slade smiled. “You want to know before you think about locking me up.”
The deputy flushed a little. “I didn’t say anything about locking you up,” he growled.
“No, but that’s what you were turning over in your mind,” Slade stated.
Deputy Yates stared at him, then grinned, showing good teeth. “I told you I’m sort of new on this job,” he said apologetically. “I don’t know what to think. I’ll look up Tom Horrel, he’s been a deputy a long time, and see what he has to say.”
Slade nodded. “A good notion,” he answered. “Could you direct me to a livery stable and a place to sleep?”
“If you ride right around the next corner, just the other side of the Dun Cow saloon, you’ll find a stable. Frank Nance, an old-timer, runs it and he’s okay. Across from the stable is a rooming-house that I reckon is as good as any. Cowhands favor it. Nance runs it, too.”
“Thanks,” Slade said and gathered up his reins.
Again Yates seemed to hesitate. “By the way,” he said, “did you happen to get a good look at those hellions down in the canyon? Think you’d know them if you saw them again?”
Slade shook his head. “At five-hundred feet, especially looking down into the shadows, faces are just a whitish blur,” he explained. “Besides, I got just a glance at them before I had other things to think about, and when I next saw them they were riding up the canyon and several-hundred yards distant.”
Yates nodded his understanding. “Be seeing you,” he said and hurried away. Slade followed him with his gaze, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the tied down holster.
Slade knew old-timers ’lowed that a man who wore the bottom of his holster strapped to his thigh never lived overly long after he began packing a gun. They insisted it was the trade mark of the professional gunfighter who sooner or later got his comeuppance, usually sooner.
Walt Slade, however, had his own theory. He had known peace officers who favored the arrangement. He held that the tie-down was a quick-draw man who was never quite sure of himself. A sure steady hand would pull a gun from its sheath without fear of dragging the sight against the leather, which was what the tie-down was supposed to guard against. The corollary, to Slade’s way of thinking, was that the tie-down man still wasn’t sure of himself after he cleared leather, which was the reason why he often fell victim to the man with greater confidence. Just a theory, he had to admit, but personal experience had proven him right on more than one occasion.
Slade located the livery stable without difficulty. Shadow was provided with comfortable quarters and all his wants cared for.
“Sure you can have a room,” said the proprietor, who was a grizzled old-timer with a twinkle in his faded eyes. “Come on across and I’ll fix you up.”
Slade was satisfied with the plainly-furnished but clean room old Frank Nance showed him. He deposited his saddle pouches and rifle in a corner.
“Lock
