Beadle's Dime Library No. 317 — page 14: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

" o hi $ **Though this is not my office, tramp to enter. Walk rbaps it will answer our purpose, D. Uncle Fuller entered, and followed Frederick Lyon toa comfortably furnished room, where a seat was placed for him, é ‘*T am wholly at your service, Mr.—Mr.—” ‘*Uncle Fuller, the boys call me,” said the tramp, gaining spirit from the mildness of his intended victim. ‘ But it ain’t my name that I come to talk about, this time.” ‘*May I ask what itis you wish to talk about, then?” ‘* About the Courtright murder an’ burnin’!” CHAPTER XII, AND PROCEEDS TO TWIST ITS TAIL. Wirh a grin that was half-insolent, half- vicious, Uncle Fuller watched the effect of this, his first ** hot shot,” at the same time hoiding himself in readiness to beat a hasty retreat or to guard his life against any flerce outburst on the part of the man whom he believed hopeless- ly cornered, But the result did not equal his expectations. Instead of turning gracty pale and cowering before his new-found master, Frederick Lyon showed not the slightest trace of uneasiness, smiling blandly, an inquiring light in his bril- liant black eyes. His voice was smooth and even, marked only by the slightest possible amount of curiosity as he said: ‘*l am wholly at your service, my dear sir, whether you come as one demanding justice or as a fellow-citizen.” ** Tt's jestice I’m a’ter—jestice with the bark on, an’ pure business writ’ in every wrinkle!” added Uncle Fuller, taking on fresh courage by the unexpected mildness displayed by the mine- owner. ‘‘ They’s bin bloody murder done, an’ nobody fetched to jestice yit. The ’sassinator hes kivered his gory han’s up with fine kid gloves, and washed the smell o’ burnin’ flesh away with gold, ontel he holds his bead as proud an’ high as the mightiest in the land o’ liberty! Bat thar was one—pore, parsecuted,mis’ably bad off when it comes to reckonin’ ducats, but kivered over with oncorruptible honesty as with a buffler- hide overcoat, who never ’lowed the golden dust to git into his eyes, but who tuck fer bis motter, ‘Do jestice though the skies tumble to thunder!’ They was one who let his own chainces to git rich go to blazes, keepin’ a eye single onto that glorious motter, feelin’ that he would ketch onto his pay ef them cold an’ lonesome stiffs on’y was giv’ a chaince fer to say ‘ Well done, pard; you saved the p’izen critter, didn’t ye?” Quietly the mine-owner listened to this bom- bastic speech of the unsavory bummer, a steady light in bis black eyes, sometbing like a smile hovering around his lips. As Uncle Fuller paused to catch his breath, Lyon gravely in- quired: ‘““Why saved, if I may ask? Surely you would not try to cheat justics by shielding such a monstrous villain?” The tramp tossed his head with a sbort sniff of contempt at the obtuseness of one who could not understand plain English; but he made no effort to define the doubtful phrase. “That’s the kind of a hairpia J be, honey! I’ve got this thing down mighty fine, as you'll diskiver.” He paused abruptly as the mayor made asud- den movement, starting from his seat and in- stinctively throwing up one arm asa guard, but the anticipated assault did not occur. Instead, Frederick Lyon changed his seat for another which stood in front of a small desk, opening his ink-bottle, placing paper, and speaking briskly while selecting a pen for use. “Tf you are ready, Mr. Fuller, I will take down your account of this lamentable affair. Murder and arson, I believe you said?” ** Waal, I ber-durned!” With puffy hands resting on uis knees, with elbows turned out at an awkward angle, his bleared eyes protruding until they seemed to rest on his bruised cheeks, Uncle Fuller stared at the mine-owner as though unable to believe the evidence of his own senses. With ready pen, the mayor waited for his guest to begin, then turned an inquiring gazo toward him. ‘*T am ready if you are, Mr. Fuller.” Uncle Faller licked his thick lips, fidgeted a little as though the game was a more difficult one to play than he had fancied. Surely he could not be mistaken in hisman? And if this honorable gentleman who was known here in Independence City as Frederick Lyon, its mayor, was not William Courtright, the man branded as a vile assassin, years ago, why had he shown such strong and peculiar agitation when that name was burled at him? ““T was a pesky idjit fer to give him a hint ontel I was all ready fer to put the twitch onto his nose,” the tramp mentally muttered. ‘‘ It giv" him time fer to lay bis plans an’ freezo a nlse-face oyer the one he showed your Uncle Fuller back onto the slobberation groun’s. But jt won't work—be ain’t goin’ fer to cheat your Uncle Fuller out o’ his hard-airned bonanza— not much he ain’t, now!” The tramp mustered up bis courage and star- ine Caden tly into the calm, business-like counte- n of the official, said: | **Mebbe you didn’t quite ketch onto what I whispered, a bit ago. It was William Court- right I was talking about.” ‘* William Courtright—as the criminal or the one killed? Pray be a little more explicit, Mr. Fuller! Not that I wish to hurry you, my dear sir,” with a bland smile and bow, ‘‘but the sooner we get through with the preliminaries and take the trail of this murderous villain—or villains, if more there be—the less likelihood there will be of bis escaping.” ‘Waal, you be a cool one, an’ no gittin’ ’round that /” the tramp ejaculated, staring dubiously at his intended victim, slowly rubbing his brist- ling chin with one hand as was his wont when comin by anything he did not fully under- stand. ‘* It is not the man, but the officer of the law who is try’ng to get at the bottom facts of this case, Mr. ruller, and so far I have seen no occasion for excitement or anything but cool- ness in an official capacity. Will you proceed?” **Durned ef [ don’t, an’ we'll see ef your Uncle Fuller cain’t kick over that ice-house o’ yourn afore he hes to take his heels to the shop fer repa’rs!” retorted the tramp, with a husky, forced laugh. ‘‘As I said afore, they’s bin bloody murder done, an’ ars’nic piled on top o’ that! An’ the p’izen critter what done it all was named Bill Courtright, Mebbe you mought happen to hev some ’quaintance with the crit- ter?” The mayor was rapidly taking notes, his face fully exposed to the keen scrutiny of the tramp: but look as closely as Uncle Fuller might, he could detect no change of countenance, no signs of confusion or fear, If really the criminal he believed, then Frederick Lyon was a man of rare nerve. ‘*Murder and arson, against one William Courtright. I donot recognize the name, but of course be must be one of our new-comers. Whom did he murder, and when?” ‘‘His brother an’ his brother’s wife, in ’64, down nigh—” With a sharp, pettish exclamation, Frederick Lyon threw down his pen and gezed half- angrily atthe tramp. And his voice was stern as e spoke quickly: *‘Nearly a score yearsago! What haveI to do with it, then? How does it concern me?” ‘* Jest as nigbly as it does me—an’I reckon I wouldn’t sell out my sheer o’ the case short o’ five big fat figgers! But it’s a powerful long time atween aritke. an’ you'll raaly hev to ’scuse me, boss, ef I take a jump over to the nighest whisky-shop, fer "bout fo’ fingers o’ nose-paint. ’Nd a prime seegar wouldn’t go bad on top o’ it, nuther. Go ’long?” Frederick Lyon took the hint without a smile, rising and placing both liquor and cigars on the little table between them, Then, when Uncle Fuller had fairly moistened his parched coppers and was pulling away at a cigar, the mayor spoke: ‘*T cannot imagine how I can possibly have an interest in a tragedy that dates back twenty vears, but since you are so positive, pray en- lighten me. Who was this William Courtright? Whom did he murder? And why?’ Uncle Fuller parched with thirst, and Uncle Fuller with a throat wet by whisky as prime as that which now stood before him in abund- ance, were two entirely different persons; and there was more of friendliness than of enmity in his dancing eyez as he stared at the mine- owner, nodded, and drank again, then opened his lips to speak: ‘*It does go back a heap long time, don’t it? Younger, then, we both was—younger an’ bet- ter-lookin’ the gals would say. A pesky shame, too! Fer who shouldn't live youug ferever, ef not them as ’preciates good whisky?” ‘* No doubt you are right, Mr. Fuller,” polite- ly interposed the mine-owner, ‘‘ But pardon meif { ask you again to come to the point. When I fancied I might be officially interest- ed in the case you spoke of, I could do no less than listen to all you had to say, giving up my time without reserve; but since it is simply im- ible for so old a crime to interest me in the east, even politeness cannot excuse my further neglecting the important business which awaits me. Pray be brief.” “°Twas down Denver-way, an’ close onto twenty yearago, They was two brothers named Courtright; one was Tom an’ the t’other was called Bill. Folks say they didn’t git along well together. That Bill was a ugly cuss, take him at bis best; that he hed a powerful lip fer whisky, an’ besides bein’ one o’ the cross-grained critters what never gits drunk but what itisa fightin’-drunk, bis fingers was so sticky he’d tote off a red-hot stove ef he wasn’t watched mon- strous cluss!” While speaking, Uncle Fuller was closely watching his host, for he chose his words ex- pressly in order to make him break cover; but not even a frown or gleam of the eye betrayed the mine-owner, if indeed he was the long-miss- ing criminal. In cold politeness he bowed when he saw the tramp pause with the evident pur- pn of awaiting an answer. And with a barder ook settling over bis bruised face, the tramp emptied anotber glass, then spoke rapidly: ‘* They wasn’t no love lost ’mong the brothers, J ee Frank Lightfoot, the Miner Detective. They bed a bone atween ’em at which the dark one—Bill—kep’ a-pickin’ all the time. An’ one day that bone come down to set the brothers still wuss by the ears, ‘* Of course that bone was a petticut, with a migkty nice little bunch o’ woman done up in- side of it, She was Tom’s wife, but Bill swore sbe’d orter be his’n ef the geme’d bin a squar’ one. They was jest on the p’int o’ carvin’ each other ’bout it when I come onto ’em fer the fu’st time. ‘ ‘*] wasina streak o’ mighty rough luck jest then, an’ I didn’t think much 0’ anythin’ ’cept gittin’ some p’izen fer to kill the rats in my boots. Bill give me some when Laxed bim fer it, an’ I’ve al'ays toted the black-eyed critter in a soft corner o’ my gizzard ever sence, jest fer that!” ‘* Yet you accuse him of murder?” It was the first time Frederick Lyon had suf- fered a word or look to escape him by which he could possibly be identified by the tramp; and even now Uncle Fuller could not swear that he had seen the one or heard the other, as he gazed into that proud, handsome, cold face. ‘Tt was writ down s0, an’ how could I holp it?” he muttered. ‘I was shook all to pieces, an’ hed a bull mevadgery tryin’ to crawl up my breeches-laigs. J didn't know what I was doin’ hafe the time, ur mebbe 1—” ‘* Are you sure you are not suffering from a slight touch of the same disease just now?’ laughed Frederick Lyon. ‘‘ Not that I wish to give offense, but really, unless that is the case, I do not understand how you can imagine I feel any ioterest in this old story.” ““Mebbe the scales’!l fall from afore your eyes as we git a little nearder to the funny pint,’ grinned the tramp, pouring out another glass of the generous liquor and swallowing it as so much water. ‘““Then pray cut it as short as maybe,” the mine-owner said, covering a yawn with one hand as he Jeaned back in bis seat, a weary ex- pression creeping over bis handsome face. ‘* Bill Courtright give me a bottle, an’ told me to toddle as fast as the law’d allow me; which your Uncle Fuller done. But that one bottle was on’y a flea-bite to one fixed as your Uncle Fuller was, so what comes irto his ole noggin’ but to go back to the little log shack au’ strike Bill fer ’nother o’ the same caliber!” ‘* When he discovered that the brothers had quarreled, the one you call Bill killing the one you called Tom, of course.” ‘**Partly-wise yes, an’ partly-wise no,” was the deliberate retort. ‘‘ Don’t try to burry your Uncle Fuller, boney. Ef you git bim oft his nat’ral gait, he’ll stum’le an’ whallop aroun’ like a duck with ons wing broke an’ bis tail pulled out. ‘*He got towhar he could see a light in the winder—your Uncle Fuller did. But afore he went any furder, he hearn a woman squeal out like she was mortal bad skeered, when—” ‘You turned tail and run, of course!” ‘Not your Uncle Fuller—no he didn't! Leave the tail part out, an’ she kin go, fer run the ole man did—down to the shack, jest in time fer to hear the shootin’ an’ the woman squealin’ fer dear life. Not for long. She stopped, an’ then it was so still inside the shack the ole man could hear his own beart thumpin’ like a bull-fiddle, But he didn’t run. He jest lay low tosee what he could see. An’ be did—” ‘““Well?’? quietly uttered Frederick Lyon, with a look of mild inquiry, as Uncle Fuller paused with a meaning leer. ‘“ You saw some- thing wonderful, no doubt.” “Never mind whether I did or not!’ snapped the tramp, angry at being so repeatedly fotled in bis expectations. ‘‘When the right time comes, I'll know how to tell what I saw then, an’ to take Bible oath onto it, too, don’t you fer- get that!” ‘Then you did not tell all at the examination? For, of course, there was an inquest held. In- deed, if I am not mistaken I either heard or read something about the case, at the time, Near Denver, you say?’ The mine-owner spoke rapidly, like one who is seeking to cover upa slip of the tongue, and the faintest possible bit of scarlet marked his cheek as Uncle Fuller grinned and nodded, knowingly. But this lasted only a moment. Then he lit a cigar and carelessly leaning against the table, slowly puffed rings of smoke from bis lips idly watcbing them ascend to- ward the ceiling as he waited for the bummer to finish his story. ‘Deed they was, though how you come to make sech a slick guess, seein’ as the murder tuck place in a lone an’ oncivilized part o’ the kentry, beats cock-fightin’. But let that go fer abit. Your Uncle Fuller bain’t emptied his bull budget o’ fac’s yit. ‘Waal, they was a scrt o’ ‘quest over tho a’fa’r, fer your Uncle Fuller toted the news to Cherry Crick as fast as his Jaigs’d kerry bim. But while he was makin’ tracks, he ketched sight of a red light that come up from the gulch whar the log shack stood, an’ it didn't s’prise the ole man much when they wasn’t no cabin foun’—on’y a heap o’ ashes an’ part burned logs, still a-smokin’ when we got back thar, ‘‘They was somethin’ more diskivered by eom ehbooks.com