Watching the gunhand reach up and finger the bullet-scar, Ella Watson felt relieved. A man did not soon forget the feller who marked him in such a manner and licked him to the draw—Ella discounted Wren’s story that Dusty Fog shot him from behind—and it came as a relief to know the newcomer was not the Rio Hondo gun wizard.
“I hope that fool Simmonds handles things better than his nephew did,” she said. “I’d like to know more about that cowhand. If he’s safe, he’s just what we want, brash, looks like he needs money—and not too good with a gun.”
Clyde Bucksteed did not speak to Danny and Tommy as they walked toward the sheriff’s office, nor did he follow them as would a deputy taking in a couple of suspects. Instead he walked before them, conscious that most of the folks who saw the procession knew where he should be if bringing the two in and not merely running a message for his uncle. Already the bodies had been taken from the street, but a few folks hung around in the hope of fresh developments, enough to make sure the story of Clyde’s failure to control the cowhands be broadcast around the town.
“Who-all’s this Dean Soskice?” Danny asked of Tommy.
“A law wrangler. Not a bad jasper though. Talks real fancy and gets us boys out of trouble should we take on too wild and rowdy comes pay day. He sure has old Farley Simmonds buffaloed. Wouldn’t be surprised if Dean’s not in there right now.”
Knowing the cowhands’ usual contempt for law wranglers, Danny looked forward to meeting this Dean Soskice who buffaloed the county sheriff. On entering the sheriff’s office, Danny found his wish granted. Not only was the sheriff-buffaloing law wrangler present, but Danny also found himself face to face with the remainder of the Caspar County law.
Simmonds proved to be a florid-featured, sullen-looking man, run to fat and with an air of lassitude about him. For all that he dressed well and looked a whole heap more prosperous than he should. Unlike his range-dressed nephew, Simmonds wore town-style clothing and sported a gunbelt from which he must be able to draw the fancy-looking Prescott Navy revolver in no less than three seconds starting with a hand on its butt.
Although not one to judge by first appearances, Danny decided that he did not care for Caspar County’s law-enforcement officers. With Simmonds and his nephew running the sheriff’s office, Danny could well imagine that the county would be full of cow thieves. In fact, he felt considerably surprised that Caspar County did not serve as a haven for more types of outlaws. From what Danny could see, any help he might require locally would not come from the sheriff’s office and he doubted if the secret of his identity would remain a secret for long should he take either Simmonds or the deputy into his confidence.
From Simmonds, Danny turned his attention to the other two occupants of the room. Jerome sat by the sheriff’s desk, chewing on the end of a thick black cigar and looking mean as hell. The other man caught Danny’s main attention, being the lawyer who buffaloed sheriffs.
Even with the type of man Danny figured the sheriff to be, the young Ranger could hardly believe that he would allow Dean Soskice to bother him. Soskice proved to be a tall, slim young man with long, shaggy brown hair, a pallid, slightly surly face and an air of condescending superiority about him; dressed in an Eastern-style suit, shirt and necktie, none of which showed any signs of lavish attention having been spent on them. As far as Danny could see, Soskice did not wear a gun and in Texas at that period seeing an unarmed man was even rarer than finding one walking the street without his pants. Nothing about the lawyer told Danny how he managed to buffalo Sheriff Simmonds and Danny reckoned it might be worthwhile to try to find out the reason.
“You’re the young feller as found the bodies,” Simmonds stated in a ripe, woolly politician’s voice, then he turned his eyes to his nephew. “Say, Clyde, boy, how come you’re all wet?”
“He threw beer over me,” Clyde answered sullenly.
“Now why’d he do a thing like that?” asked the sheriff and swivelled his gaze back to Danny. “You hear me, boy. Why for’d you do that?”
“Feller caught me arm, pulled me around,” Danny answered. “Next dang thing I knowed, there he was with my beer all down his fancy shirt front.”
Low mutters left Clyde’s lips and Soskice moved forward. “If there’s a complaint being sworn out against you, cowboy, I’d advise you to tell the truth,” the lawyer said, his voice that of an educated Northerner.
“You got a complaint against the feller, Clyde?” the sheriff inquired. “I only telled you to fetch him down here for a talk.”
Anger and resentment smoldered in Clyde’s eyes as he studied the lawyer’s mocking face. However, Clyde recalled other occasions when he had tangled with Soskice on a legal matter and been sadly beaten in verbal exchanges. Soskice knew every aspect of the law as it pertained to working to the advantage of the one Clyde figured on arresting and used that knowledge to build a sizeable following among the cowhands, most of whom had a hefty antipathy toward the peace officers who often interfered with their fun.
“I got no complaint,” Clyde finally muttered, knowing Soskice would worm the cowhand out of trouble should he try to make a complaint stick. “The cowhand got me all wrong.”
“You’d best tell the sheriff your side of this business, Danny,” Jerome remarked. “I’ve told him the way I saw things and he wants to hear what you’ve got to say about it.”
Just in time Danny prevented himself from delivering the story like a lawman making his report. Instead he told what led up to his discovery of the bodies and left out his own conclusions on the affair.
“Just come on ’em, huh?” grunted Simmonds at last. “Where’d you come from and why’d you come here?”
“Come up from Austin last and happened by this way looking for work.”
“Been working in Austin?”
“Nope. Just wanted to see what the big city looked like.”
“Where’d you work last?” Clyde asked.
“That’s a good question,” drawled Simmonds. “Only let me ask ’em, Clyde.”
“Sure, Uncle Farley,” was the sullen reply.
“Boy’s a mite eager, but he’s got a good point,” the sheriff went on. “Where did you work last?”
“For the Tumbling D, that’s Joe Dudley’s place down to Ysaleta,” Danny answered, giving one of the places Murat named as references.
“And your name’s Danny Forgrave?”
“Allus has been,” Danny answered.
“It’s not a summer name then?” Clyde remarked.
When a man did not wish to give his correct name out West, folks rarely pressed the matter. About the closest one came to doubting the speaker’s claim was to inquire whether the title given be a summer name, one taken on the spur of the moment and as a temporary measure.
“Summer and winter both, hombre!” Danny growled.
“Danny’s working for me,” Jerome put in. “You’ll find him around the spread if you’re not satisfied with his story. Now what’re you fixing to do about this cow stealing, Farley?”
“Doing all I can, Buck. Only the county don’t pay me well enough to hire more help.”
“Then send for the Rangers.”
“I wrote a couple of weeks back, but I never heard nothing back,” answered the sheriff.
Which, although he did not intend to mention the fact, Danny knew to be a lie. No request for aid sent by a sheriff was ever passed up by the Rangers and his company had received no letter from Simmonds.
“Well, you’d best do something,” growled Jerome, “otherwise I’m going to.”
“I thought this business today showed you what happened when folk take the law into their own hands,” remarked Soskice. “Crither’s attempt hasn’t been any too successful, has it?”