Back Aa

Gunsight Pass: How Oil Came to the Cattle Country and Brought a New West

Close

<h2 id="id00767">CHAPTER XII</h2><h5 id="id00768">THE LAW PUZZLES DAVE</h5> Dave knew he was stubborn. Not many men would have come on such a wild-goose chase to Denver in the hope of getting back a favorite horse worth so little in actual cash. But he meant to move to his end intelligently. If Miller and Doble were in the city they would be hanging out at some saloon or gambling-house. Once or twice Dave dropped in to Chuck Weaver's place, where the sporting men from all over the continent inevitably drifted when in Denver. But he had little expectation of finding the men he wanted there. These two rats of the underworld would not attempt to fleece keen-eyed professionals. They would prey on the unsophisticated. His knowledge of their habits took him to that part of town below Lawrence Street. While he chatted with his foot on the rail, a glass of beer in front of him, he made inconspicuous inquiries of bartenders. It did not take him long to strike the trail. "Two fellows I knew in the cattle country said they were comin' to Denver. Wonder if they did. One of 'em's a big fat guy name o' Miller—kinda rolls when he walks. Other's small and has a glass eye. Called himself George Doble when I knew him." "Come in here 'most every day—both of 'em. Waitin' for the Festival of Mountain and Plain to open up. Got some kinda concession. They look to yours truly like—" The bartender pulled himself up short and began polishing the top of the bar vigorously. He was a gossipy soul, and more than once his tongue had got him into trouble. "You was sayin'—" suggested the cowboy. "—that they're good spenders, as the fellow says," amended the bartender, to be on the safe side. "When I usta know 'em they had a mighty cute little trick pony—name was Chiquito, seems to me. Ever hear 'em mention it?" "They was fussin' about that horse to-day. Seems they got an offer for him and Doble wants to sell. Miller he says no." "Yes?" "I'll tell 'em a friend asked for 'em. What name?" "Yes, do. Jim Smith." "The fat old gobbler's liable to drop in any time now." This seemed a good reason to Mr. Jim Smith, alias David Sanders, for dropping out. He did not care to have Miller know just yet who the kind friend was that had inquired for him. But just as he was turning away a word held him for a moment. The discretion of the man in the apron was not quite proof against his habit of talk. "They been quarrelin' a good deal together. I expect the combination is about ready to bust up," he whispered confidentially. "Quarrelin'? What about?" "Oh, I dunno. They act like they're sore as a boil at each other. Honest, I thought they was goin' to mix it yesterday. I breezed up wit' a bottle an' they kinda cooled off." "Doble drunk?" "Nope. Fact is, they'd trimmed a Greeley boob and was rowin' about the split. Miller he claimed Doble held out on him. I'll bet he did too." Dave did not care how much they quarreled or how soon they parted after he had got back his horse. Until that time he preferred that they would give him only one trail to follow instead of two. The cowpuncher made it his business to loaf on Larimer Street for the rest of the day. His beat was between Fifteenth and Sixteenth Streets, usually on the other side of the road from the Klondike Saloon. About four o'clock his patience was rewarded. Miller came rolling along in a sort of sailor fashion characteristic of him. Dave had just time to dive into a pawnbroker's shop unnoticed. A black-haired, black-eyed salesman came forward to wait on him. The puncher cast an eye helplessly about him. It fell on a suitcase. "How much?" he asked. "Seven dollars. Dirt sheap, my frient." "Got any telescope grips?" The salesman produced one. Dave bought it because he did not know how to escape without. He carried it with him while he lounged up and down the sidewalk waiting for Miller to come out of the Klondike. When the fat gambler reappeared, the range-rider fell in behind him unobserved and followed uptown past the Tabor Opera House as far as California Street. Here they swung to the left to Fourteenth, where Miller disappeared into a rooming-house. The amateur detective turned back toward the business section. On the way he dropped guiltily the telescope grip into a delivery wagon standing in front of a grocery. He had no use for it, and he had already come to feel it a white elephant on his hands. With the aid of a city directory Dave located the livery stables within walking distance of the house where Miller was staying. Inspired perhaps by the nickel detective stories he had read, the cowboy bought a pair of blue goggles and a "store" collar. In this last, substituted for the handkerchief he usually wore loosely round his throat, the sleuth nearly strangled himself for lack of air. His inquiries at such stables as he found brought no satisfaction. Neither Miller nor the pinto had been seen at any of them. Later in the evening he met Henry B. West at the St. James Hotel. "How's that business of yore's gettin' along, boy?" asked the cattleman with a smile. "Don' know yet. Say, Mr. West, if I find a hawss that's been stole from me, how can I get it back?" "Some one steal a hawss from you?" Dave told his story. West listened to a finish. "I know a lawyer here. We'll ask him what to do," the ranchman said. They found the lawyer at the Athletic Club. West stated the case. "Your remedy is to replevin. If they fight, you'll have to bring witnesses to prove ownership." "Bring witnesses from Malapi! Why, I can't do that," said Dave, staggered. "I ain't got the money. Why can't I just take the hawss? It's mine." "The law doesn't know it's yours." Dave left much depressed. Of course the thieves would go to a lawyer, and of course he would tell them to fight. The law was a darned queer thing. It made the recovery of his property so costly that the crooks who stole it could laugh at him. "Looks like the law's made to protect scalawags instead of honest folks," Dave told West. "I don't reckon it is, but it acts that way sometimes," admitted the cattleman. "You can see yoreself it wouldn't do for the law to say a fellow could get property from another man by just sayin' it was his. Sorry, Sanders. After all, a bronc's only a bronc. I'll give you yore pick of two hundred if you come back with me to the ranch." "Much obliged, seh. Maybe I will later." The cowpuncher walked the streets while he thought it over. He had no intention whatever of giving up Chiquito if he could find the horse. So far as the law went he was in a blind alley. He was tied hand and foot. That possession was nine points before the courts he had heard before. The way to recover flashed to his brain like a wave of light. He must get possession. All he had to do was to steal his own horse and make for the hills. If the thieves found him later—and the chances were that they would not even attempt pursuit if he let them know who he was—he would force them to the expense of going to law for Chiquito. What was sauce for the goose must be for the gander too. Dave's tramp had carried him across the Platte into North Denver. On his way back he passed a corral close to the railroad tracks. He turned in to look over the horses. The first one his eyes fell on was Chiquito. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2