Suppose one were to lead a starved beggar to a loaded banquet table and then give him ten dollars to persuade him to sit down. The mood of Sheriff Claney as he stared at the canvas sack was the mood of the beggar. He had his first clue to the whereabouts of a criminal whose apprehension would not only restore his vanished prestige, but would even raise him up on a higher pedestal than before. To try and fail is human; to try again and then succeed is glory.
Sheriff Claney felt that his lean strong hand was extending toward the green wreath.
This time there would be no question of escape. If he came in range of the outlaw again it would be a matter of lead and powder and buzzard food left behind. Dead, he was worth as much as he was worth alive.
But in addition to all this, to have a sack of five thousand dollars added for his personal use! He rubbed his hands; for the first time since the jailbreak the heart of the sheriff was warmed.
But as for going to the saloonkeeper and gambler and thrusting the five thousand into his hands, this was not at all to the liking of the sheriff. He had another idea which was fully as good. As long as the correct information were exacted from Carrol, there was no good reason why the money should not remain in hands which would use it to far better advantage.
He went straight to the saloon with the gold in a valise.
“What's in it?” was the gambler's first question.
“Something I can't get here. Good booze.”
The quip did not please Carrol. But he regarded the sheriff with a calm eye. If Claney had known parts of the gambler's past—certain parts which Jess Dreer, for instance, could have told him—he would have put a gun to his head before he would have taunted such a man.
But he ran on: “I've come on an unpleasant errand today, Carrol.”
“Mostly you don't come on no other kind of errands. What's on your mind?”
“To put it to you straight; your games are on my mind.”
“Of course you've got to say that.”
“I been hearing stories. Lemme see. There was a gent that blew through town—little squat, fat, half-breed sort he was. Said you was working something that looked like a brake on your wheel. What about it?”
“I had a fool working for me—that was six months ago. He come to me and showed me how he could fix up the wheel so it would make a pile of money for me. I told him I wasn't running that sort of a game. He thought I was kidding. I told him straight. But I took him on and give him a job; he was busted.
“Well, he was a snake. He knew how much I'd been used to making on the wheel. He fixes up a brake on the wheel, and of course he busts the boys for a great big percentage. He gives me what the house used to make right along, and he sneaks the rest of it into his pocket. In about a week I went over and watched the wheel one day. Seemed to me it was running queer. That night I looked it over and found the brake.
“I called in Tommy, gave him the licking of his life and a hundred dollars for luck, and sent him on his way.
“That's the only crooked thing that they's ever been about my house. I would of paid back the boys that lost their money. But how could I find 'em? And if they knew I was paying, would they of told me just how much they lost? No, they was nothing I could do. Besides, I didn't get the coin. It was the thief that done that. So there you are, Sheriff, and that's the truth.”
There was no escaping from the sincerity of the man.
“It's the first time that I've ever been even questioned,” he said gloomily.
“That's the point,” said the sheriff hastily. “You been going on so long that some of the boys are kind of suspicious.”
At this Carrol rose from his chair.
“Look here,” he said quietly, “what are you here for, trouble?”
“Sit down, Danny. Sit down. I'm a reasonable man, and I got your interests at heart. You'll see that I have in a minute. Right off, I'm going to tell you that what some folks is kind of riled about. They don't like the sort of gents that you bring in and put up at your rooms, Danny.”
“My friends is my friends,” declared the saloonkeeper grimly, “and if you and the rest of the town don't like 'em, you and the rest of the town can go to the devil. That's straight!”
“Is that fishing for trouble?” said the sheriff coldly.
“You know it ain't—but you can take it any way you want. Name some of the gents that ain't been liked?”
It shook Dan Carrol to his feet. Coming so smoothly, so unexpectedly, it was utterly impossible for him to control his expression, and his staring eyes had in a moment admitted everything.
He saw at once that he was exposed. The sheriff had tilted himself back in his chair and was grinning complacently at the other.
“It's a lie,” was all he could say, more angrily than effectively.
“Hush up, Danny. You done it smooth, all right, and I wouldn't never have guessed it if it hadn't been for one thing—Dreer himself.”
“Jess done that?” muttered the saloonkeeper. “He told?”
“I put him through the third degree, Danny, and he busted down and told.”
Slowly, as though the strength were gradually melting from his legs, Danny Carrol sank into the chair.
“He done that!” was all he could murmur.
“But I didn't want to ride you about it,” went on the sheriff smoothly. “I'll tell you why: I like you, Carrol. You look square to me, and I didn't see no good in making trouble for you for shielding an outlaw.”
He paused to let the words soak in, then went on: “But now things are different. Dreer is gone from jail; I've got to find him; and I come to you and say: 'Dan Carrol, you know where Jess Dreer is. Tell me!' “
As he spoke the last words, he leaned over and thrust his fingers under the nose of the other, Dan Carrol raised his eyes slowly from the floor.
“Sheriff,” he said, “I dunno. But—if Jess is a hound, then I'm worse'n a hound. And no matter what he's done to me, I still got to stand behind him. And if I knew where he was today, you couldn't drag it out of me.”
“Carrol, go easy. I could bust you. It'd be a black case agin' you. First, a charge of using a brake on the wheel.”
“Business is business. First the brake. Then this shielding of an outlaw.”
“I'll swear you've admitted it. Besides, I can prove anything on a gambler and saloonkeeper. You ain't got a chance.”
Perspiration broke out on the forehead of Carrol, but he shook his head stubbornly.
“Me and Jess has been pals. Go ahead with your dirty work. I won't blab on him. Besides—I'm tired of talk, Sheriff. I need a drink.”
“So do I,” admitted the sheriff. “But I'm not through.”
Carrol sighed and settled again into his chair. The strain had been great, and he was weary.
“They's one other thing I want to bring up in your mind, Danny. If you lose this place, you lose a lot. You wasn't no church-attending saint a few years back. But you reformed. You settled down. You played square. You got a place for yourself in Salt Springs and people trust you. You're willing to risk all that in order to shield Dreer. I'll tell you why. It's because you've had some bad luck, Danny, and you've blowed so much coin that now you ain't got any more than a fingernail grip on your saloon.”
Inspiration struck across the mind of the sheriff.
“Carrol, who brought you the bad luck? Who busted you, mighty near? It was Dreer playing with you every night!”
And the gambler nodded gloomily.
“Now listen to me, pardner. Will you talk turkey?”
“Not in a thousand years, Sheriff; I'm busted, anyways.”
The sheriff paused. He had worked hard to save the money for himself; but Dreer meant more than money to him.
“It's dust. Five thousand. Carrol, that coin belongs to you—if you talk!”
The big hand of the other tightened on the grip of the satchel.
“He's north,” he said huskily. “Windville.”
Then realization of what he had done rushed on him. He hurled the bribe to the floor.
“You skunk,” he cried. “Take the coin. I don't want it. Besides, I told you wrong. He ain't in a thousand miles of Windville!”
But the sheriff stood at the door smiling.
“Keep the money, Danny, and I'll keep my word. So long.”
He was gone, and Dan Carrol dropped into a chair.
“Jess,” he whispered. “It kind of busted out. I couldn't help it. Forgive me!”
