"Could a flash flood have washed away the tracks?" Solo asked.
"Could have, if there'd been any flash flood," Carlos Maynard said. "But there wasn't any rain. Hasn't been none in weeks. No matter what Pete thinks."
Solo watched the young cowpuncher. "So what happened is, you rode looking for sign—"
"Right. Ought to be able to find sign of some kind of a thousand head—"
"And you fell, cracked your skull?" Solo said. "That's what happened?"
"Yes. I told you. I must have fallen."
"What time was it?" Solo said. "Morning? Afternoon? Late evening?"
Pete scowled, staring at him. He shook his head. "I swear to you, I don't know."
Maynard and Nichelson stared at each other.
Solo said to Pete, "You mind taking off your hat?"
Pete frowned, puzzled. "I don't mind, but why should I?"
Solo shrugged. "Let's just say you're being polite to Miss Finnish out there under that cottonwood tree. She hasn't taken her eyes off us."
Solo heard Maynard's intake of breath. "By golly, there she is. Hanging around. You reckon she can hear what we say?"
Solo shrugged. "She might have some kind of listening device, but it seems to me that she's reading lips."
Maynard swore. "Looks like we better check into her."
"We'll check her out," Solo agreed. "But we better take things in order of importance." He moved his fingers expertly across Pete's scalp.
"What you mean?" Maynard said, watching him check the cowboy's skull.
"We have more urgent matters," Solo said. "Like Pete's scalp."
"What about Pete's scalp?" Maynard whispered.
Even Mabel Finnish under the cottonwood tree appeared to be holding her breath.
"Yeah." Pete straightened. "What you looking for in my head, Solo?"
"If you fell from your horse, and struck your head hard enough to knock yourself out for three days, Pete," Solo said, "shouldn't there be some kind of knot on your skull?"
Pete Wasson stood up slowly. His eyes were thoughtful.
"How about that?" he whispered. "There ain't no knot on my head. Funny. Nobody thought about that."
"What's going on here?" Marty Nichelson said.
"That's what we've got to find out," Solo told him. "Can you tell me anything about your headache—and some of the things you did in Cripple Bend for three days?"
Marty frowned. "Well, nothing's clear, Solo. But that don't mean I'm lying!"
"Me either," Pete said. "Even if there ain't no knot on my head, I ain't lying."
"And I was in Cripple Bend. That ought to be easy enough to prove. People would of seen me there, wouldn't they?"
"Looks like it," Solo agreed. "Meantime, either one of you object to taking a polygraph test?"
"What's that?" Pete asked cautiously.
"A lie detector," Solo said. "I don't think either one of you is lying purposely, but a test might help you."
Marty and Pete stared at each other. Marty shrugged. "I got no objections. It all happened just like I said. It ain't clear to me, but I ain't lying."
"You got one of them lie detectors?" Pete said.
"We can have one by tomorrow," Solo said. "If neither one of you objects."
"Sure." Pete said. "Marty and me are willing. We ain't trying to hide nothing. If one of them things will help get at the truth, I want to know."
FIVE
Solo parked the Maynard Ranch station wagon outside the City Bar on the single street in the settlement at Cripple Bend. The town was the last lingering trace of the old west, but battered cars baked at the curbs instead of workhorses.
He walked into the bar, found it almost deserted in the middle of the morning.
"What can I do for you?" The voice was musical and warm.
Solo was mildly astonished but pleased to find that the cowtown bartender was a woman. She looked to be in her middle twenties, and enough to drive strong men to drink. Her blond hair was brushed upward on her head, piled there in rich waves. Her eyes were like a sparkling wine, glittering with promises. She wore a pastel dress and a fresh apron.
Solo ordered a beer and sat at the bar, turning it in his fingers.
"You're staying at the Maynard Dude Ranch," the bartender said. "Came from New York. Two suitcases—"
"You don't miss much, do you?"
"April. Name's April Caution." She smiled across the bar. "Small town like this, nobody misses much."
"Guess you'll know Marty Nichelson pretty well, then?
"Marty? Sure. Everybody knows him. Good kid. Been with Carlos Maynard a couple years. Used to take prize money in rodeos until he cracked his hip."
"Hear he was in here and tied on a real binge—"
"Who? Marty?" April straightened, frowning.
Solo nodded, watching her. "That's the talk," he said. "But it's no secret. Marty was talking about it himself. He was telling me about the tree days he spent here in Cripple Bend—most of it here in your place—on a bender. Now I've seen you, I can understand why he stayed for three days."
"There's something wrong here, mister," April Caution said, her face puzzled. She straightened when the door swung open at the street entrance.
Solo glance across his shoulder, but he was not even astonished to see that Mabel Finnish had entered the tavern.
Mabel didn't speak to him. She went to a table near the bar and sat down.
April said, "Just a minute. We'll kick this around, as soon as I wait on the lady."
"Why don't you come up to the bar, Miss Finnish?" Solo asked. "You won't be as comfortable, but you can hear better."
Mabel Finnish's lovely face flushed, but she did not answer. She ordered a daiquiri. April mixed the rum drink, delivered it and then came back to the bar, sat on a stool facing Solo.
"I been thinking this thing over, about Marty," she said. "When was he supposed to have tied one on in here?"
"About a week and a half ago," Solo said.
April shook her head. "Oh, no. Not in here. Marty hasn't been in here in over a month."
Solo sat a moment, staring at a wet place on the bar. "But there's been a lot of talk about Marty's being in here. Hasn't anybody from the ranch been in to check on it?"
April shrugged. "What's to check? I tell you Marty hasn't been in here in weeks."
Solo sighed. "Any other tavern in Cripple Bend where he could have been on a prolonged drunk?"
April smiled. "No other place in town to buy liquor. Nearest bar is in the next settlement, and that's over seventy miles away. No. If Marty was on a drunk, he'd have been in here—only I can tell you, he hasn't been in."
A few minutes later, Solo walked out of the City Bar. He paused on the board walk, stared both ways along the sleepy street. Then he glance over his shoulder at Mabel, drinking alone at the table inside the tavern.
He strode along the walk, going past the ranch station wagon. He walked beyond the feed store, then stepped around the corner, pressed himself against the adobe wall, waiting.
It was a short wait. He heard Mabel's bootheels clattering on the boards as she half ran in pursuit. She slowed, then stopped, looking around puzzled, a few feet from where Solo stood.
Solo stepped out upon the walk immediately behind Mabel. He caught her arm.
Mabel heeled around. Solo fixed her with an unyielding smile. "Looking for anyone we know, Mabel?"
"Let me go."
"I let you go, but you don't go. Why? Do you find me that fascinating, Miss Finnish?"
Mabel shivered slightly. "I don't find you fascinating at all."