the fire bell and let everyone know where you are? For the love o' gosh, be quiet about it. Tim, see anything?"
"No, and it's a fool business."
"Well, he's skulking around these premises somewhere. Come this way. We'll drag along every building."
Several men came toward Clint Charterhouse, pinching him in from both sides. He was trapped in the small area. Crawling over the porch, he tested the knob of the back jail door; it gave to pressure and emitted the smell of musty leather and burlap sacks. More important, it also gave him the rumble of talk from some front room of the place. Momentarily the searchers approached. He even saw their dim outlines swaying forward.
"Try that jail yard. I'm telling you he's around somewhere. But don't wake the dead. We want to catch him off balance."
"Who is it?"
"Charterhouse, who'd you suppose? Didn't Haggerty—" Clint slid inside the room and softly closed the door against them. A shaft of light seeped below an inner portal, along with the aroma of tobacco smoke. A chair scraped. Immediately he recognized the sullen, surly tones of the Box M foreman. Haggerty himself!
"I'm taking a big chance in coming away from the ranch. It might mean my hide."
"You was sent, wasn't you? That's a fair excuse."
"Yeah, I was sent down to warn the bunch at Bowlus' place. But I ought to've hit right back instead of dallying into Angels. Seastrom and Charterhouse are both here. Fitz told me they was. Said Charterhouse had given orders for the bunch to stay put until they scouted this joint."
Studd's unmistakable rumble came through. "I call that gall. Seastrom's crazy enough to put his head in a trap, but this Charterhouse is a cool, hard number. I'm thinking we got a man to deal with as stiff as old John was himself. And the gal gave Charterhouse a free hand?"
"Absolutely," growled Haggerty.
"I'd sure like to know how Mister Buck Manners takes that," said Studd ironically. "Him expecting to marry Sherry Nickum and still nosed out by a total stranger. Hell, that's rich."
Charterhouse stood in the middle of the black little room, mind devouring every scrap of phrase that came to him. Haggerty was a traitor, yet the news somehow failed to surprise him much. His estimate of the man's character had not been high in the first place and this new revelation only bore out the judgment he had formed. But what did Haggerty mean in saying he had come from Box M to warn the men at the Bowlus place? Listening intently, Clint was disturbed by the nearing sounds of the search party outside. They were going around the area with a fine-tooth comb.
"It don't make things no easier for us," put in Haggerty.
"Nor harder," was Studd's reply. "If they start scrapping among themselves, for control of Box M, we get all the breaks."
The almost girlish voice of Curly cut in. "Quit shaking hands with yourself, Studd. I lost men tonight and I don't propose to sit around and grin about it. Get busy and give us some ideas."
"I ain't running this show, Curly."
"Well, by gosh, if somebody don't take a heavier hand in the situation, I'll crack Box M wide open. I been wanting to do it a long while. What's the use of fiddling? Everybody knows what we're trying to do anyhow. Why beat about the bush? Sock 'em hard and get it done. There ain't anybody in Casabella able to stop us."
"We had ought to be out looking for those two buzzards right now," stated Haggerty.
"The longer they stick here the more they hang themselves," said the unexcitable Studd. "You boys never have learned to play a patient game."
"Too much patience all around—"
Somebody came into the office. Studd spoke with a slightly more suave manner. "We had to send for you, Shander. Things is sort of moving to a point."
Curly interrupted, explaining the fight and its consequences. Shander stopped him. "I have already heard about it. Heard about the whole business. Know just where everybody is now."
"Well, then," snapped Curly, "do something, or I'll make a play of my own and pull out."
"What would that be?" demanded Shander coldly.
There was a short silence. Curly started speaking in a slightly lower tone. Charterhouse heard the beginning, "My idea is to use—" and the rest of it was erased by a more immediate distraction. The searchers back of the buildings were stubbornly returning to their first scent. They began to advance on the jail.
"He come 'round this way," said someone. "And he ain't had no chance to slip off." Boots crossed the porch, a hand fell on the doorknob. "He's hiding close by. You wait, I'm going through and see Studd." The door opened slowly as Charterhouse backed into a corner and slipped his gun free. Another moment and the man stood within five feet of him, breath rising and falling; and in still another breath he would be across, opening the inner portal and throwing a revealing ray upon the back room. Certain exposure. Rigid, mind flashing around to find a loophole of escape, Charterhouse heard Shander say, "Well, that's a good idea, Curly, and the one I came to offer myself. We'll act on it. Tomorrow. Fort Carson. Keep your men—"
The searcher crossed the room, stumbled over a discarded saddle and groped for the inner knob. Charter-house raised his gun, suddenly cold and nerveless. He was trapped before and behind.
CHAPTER IX
During the first half hour Seastrom had considerable stealthy excitement to stir his reckless blood. Knowing the town perfectly, he ranged behind the buildings with considerable confidence. Madame LeSeur's hotel was the last along the line; the kitchen door stood wide open and the dishwasher, a frowsy and rheumatic graduate of Box M, slammed cups and plates around his sink with tired petulance. The savor of cooked food actually brought pain to hungry Heck Seastrom's jaw hinges. From his covert position he saw a table six feet away on which stood leftovers from supper; a few cooked steaks, a bowl of potatoes, a platter of cabbage, and all the accessory garnishments. The thought of this food for Madame's crowd rankled, aroused his sense of injustice; and when so moved, Seastrom was of a nature that acted on impulse. Save for the dishwasher, who was more or less bound by the fraternal ties of the old ranch, the kitchen was empty. Seastrom looked into the darkness, skipped nimbly over the doorsill and had two robust, though stiffly cold steaks in his fist when the dishwasher turned. Being a tired and feeble man, he grunted mildly. Seastrom was back in the shadows before the former finally spoke.
"Ain't a safe place for you, Heck."
Seastrom chuckled. "I wish you'd keep my meat warm." He ate with subdued violence. "You ain't seen me, Pot. So forget it."
"I ain't seen you, but somebody will," said the sudsy Pot. "It's a damn tight town. Now sift before that walleyed cook—"
This designated personage entered from the dining room at the moment, a very obese fellow with pouched eyes and an unfavorable attitude. "Who you talking to, Pot?"
"Reciting Shakespeare to m'self," grunted the dishwasher.
The cook eyed the meat platter and detected the slimmer contents. "This Shakespeare another bum wanting a handout, huh? I told you plenty time to give no grub free." And the cook made for the door. Seastrom had stripped one T-bone down to an almost polished surface. Backing off into deeper protection, he took careful aim with it and threw. The bone struck the cook so hard that the gentleman's stomach reverberated like a drum. Seastrom chuckled and effected a falsetto voice. "Sorry I can't stay to chop wood, you inflated left-hand cousin to a weasel. So long." He ran down the line of buildings, paused to finish the other T- bone and to get his bearings. He felt better, he felt vigorously inclined.
An alley yawned upon him and he went along it until he stood indiscreetly beside a party of Curly's riders who had just come from the dining room. Their talk interested him, since it was the other side's version of the recent fight. But he gleaned nothing of importance