Range Ghost by Bradford Scott Page B

closed and locked it.
    “Can hold an inquest over him tomorrow with the other two,” he said. “Let’s see what’s in his pockets.”
    “Just another pretty good haul for the county treasury,” he observed a little later. Nothing else of significance.” Turning the pockets inside out, he carefully examined the seams.
    “Thought so,” he said. “This hellion has been out on the desert—alkali dust in the pocket seams. One of the widelooping bunch, all right, and added confirmation that they do run the cows across the desert.”
    “Is there anything you don’t notice!” marveled the sheriff.
    “Plenty,” Slade answered, “but this was fairly obvious.”
    “Dadblast it, looks like no place is safe anymore!” snorted Carter.
    “And it might be a good notion for you to sort of avoid my company,” Slade said. “I don’t think theyare after you personally, but as you told Jerry Norman, flying lead plays no favorites.”
    “Like the blankety-blank so-and-so I will!” the sheriff bawled indignantly. “Only next time give me a chance to get in on the fun, instead of hoggin’ it all yourself.”
    “Didn’t have time to notify you,” Slade replied cheerfully. “Figured you were better on the floor with the light out.”
    “Like to busted my neck over that blankety-blank chair,” Carter growled, giving the remains a kick.
    Voices sounded outside, then a tentative knock on the front door. Standing to one side, Slade opened to admit two men, both of whom the sheriff called by name.
    “Did you hear it, Sheriff?” asked the one addressed as Bruff. “We thought we heard shootin’ over this way.”
    “Guess you did,” replied Carter, “A gent ambled in the back door without an invite and caught himself a dose of lead pizening.”
    The two men stared. “You mean he tried to gun the sheriff’s office?” he asked incredulously.
    “Sure ’peared that way,” said Carter. “Anyhow him and one or two more sure burned a heap of powder. Look at the wall over there, and there’s blood on Slade’s hand. Take a look at that devil, maybe you’ve seen him before.”
    The pair studied the body, then shook their heads. “Never saw him before, or the other two hellions either,” said Bruff.
    “Now I am going to call it a night,” declared the sheriff. “And I need two snorts, not just one. Outside! Outside! And let’s head for the Trail End.”
    When they reached the saloon, Slade and thesheriff occupied a table, the latter ordering a double snort, Slade a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Bruff and his companion hustled to the bar and began talking excitedly to associates there. Soon the table was surrounded by the curious demanding details. The sheriff supplied them.
    High indignation was expressed over the attempt at snake-blooded murder, and Slade warmly praised for frustrating it.
    “And I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if one of those blabbermouths was the hellion who ordered it done,” Carter observed cynically when they were alone. “Blast it! I’m looking sideways at everybody!”
    “We are sort of in the same corral,” Slade replied, with a smile. “I don’t know which way to look; appears I’m getting exactly nowhere.”
    “Oh, you’re doing all right,” Carter said. “You’re thinning ’em out, and that helps. Just a matter of time till you have the whole nest of scorpions on the run.”
    Slade hoped the sheriff was right, but personally he was not inclined to view the matter in so thoroughly an optimistic light; he felt that he had made but little real progress. His plan to bring the outlaws to him had worked out, to an extent, but so far he had only been able to knock off a few rather incompetent hired hands. The main problem still confronted him, for he had not the slightest idea of who was the brains of the outfit; the hellion was keeping well in the background. And until his identity was definitely established and he was eliminated, the problem remained unsolved.
    Getting John