chair. On the plank wall there was a large calendar for the year 1882, an advertisement for Dr. J. J. Simpson's Electric Bitters. Beside the calendar, dangling from a length of bit chain, was a North Texas Stock Raisers' Brand Book. There was no sign of stock detective Del Torgason.
A handyman from the bath house came up the stairway with an armload of cowchips and dumped them into the firebox beneath the hot water tank. Gault stepped out to the landing and asked, 'Can you tell me where to find Torgason?'
The handyman looked him over. 'Who's askin'?'
'My name's Frank Gault.'
That was all the handyman needed to know. 'Nope,' he said shortly, and stumped back down the stairs. It was clear that the sheriff had not been pleased by Gault's return to New Boston, and it hadn't taken long for the word to get around. Gault picked up the buckskin and moved on to the wagon yard.
The hostler, Abe Tricer, was waiting for him with a vindictive grin. 'Sorry, Gault, I just rented out the last of my camp shacks.'
The shacks stood against the livery barn with their doors wide open and obviously vacant. 'How about I throw my bed in the loft.'
'Town passed an ordinance against that.'
'Ordinance?'
'Drifters sleepin' in the loft like to burn the place down.'
Gault knew it would be useless to argue the matter. 'Do you think you could feed and water the buckskin?'
The hostler shrugged. 'Price of oats has gone up since the last time you was through here.'
'Somehow,' Gault told him, 'I figgered it would.' He stripped the buckskin and put the animal in a stall. Then he returned to the Day and Night.
Wompler was at the same table, staring into space. Only after Gault set a full bottle in front of him did he begin to look alive. 'Torgason ain't in his office,' Gault said. 'I tried askin' some New Boston citizens about him, but it didn't get me anywhere.'
Wompler downed a drink and chuckled. 'They know the sheriff wouldn't like it. And what Sheriff Olsen don't like we don't get much of here in Standard County.'
'You know where I might find Torgason?'
The former deputy closed his eyes, and for a moment Gault was afraid he'd fallen asleep. At last he said, 'This mornin' I was down at the livery corral. Torgason came by to get his horse. There was somethin' said about the Circle-R.'
The name had a familiar ring. The oldtime cowhand, Elbert Yorty, rode line for the Circle-R. Also it had been an injured Circle-R hand that Doc Doolie had been tending the night of the thunderstorm—according to Doc Doolie. 'Is there anything queer about the Circle-R? Or about Torgason heading that way today?'
Wompler looked at him blearily. 'Nothin' I can think of.'
'You ever have any trouble with the outfit, when you was deputy?'
The ex-lawman shook his head. 'Nope. What you lookin' for?'
It was a reasonable question, but Gault didn't have a reasonable answer. What was he looking for? Gault only knew that the fire in his gut wouldn't let him rest until something was done. 'What I'm lookin' for is not something I can put a finger on. It's a feelin'.'
'About the sheriff?'
Gault nodded. 'That's part of it.'
'Is it true what they're sayin'? That Wolf Garnett killed your wife?'
The former deputy, Gault decided, was more alert than he appeared to be. 'It's true.' He waited a full minute for Wompler to go on, but the ex-lawman only shrugged and let the matter drop. Gault said, 'What's the best way for me to get to the Circle-R? I want to talk to Torgason.'
'He's close-mouthed. You won't get much out of him, even if he knowed somethin' to tell.' Wompler brightened slightly as a thought occurred to him. 'Have you got the money to pay for a rent animal over at the livery corral?'
'I guess so. Why?'
'If there's a chance of puttin' somethin' over on Olsen, I'd like to deal myself in. You pay for the rent animal and I'll ride with you to the Circle-R.' Gault hesitated, and Wompler added flatly, 'I ain't as useless as I might look. I can use a gun, if I have to.'
Gault was vaguely disturbed by the way he said it. 'Do you expect to have to?'
'Don't expect nothin' but tricks and slick dealin' when doin' business with Grady Olsen. Will you pay for the horse?'
Wompler was not the kind of man that Gault would have chosen to ride with. But he found himself nodding, reluctantly.
Wompler sighed, smiled crookedly, and with considerable effort pushed himself to his feet. 'One more thing,' he said, tucking the bottle of liquor under his arm. 'You might pay the barkeep for this.'
Against his better judgment, Gault paid for the whiskey. They left the Day and Night and walked the short distance to the wagon yard. The exertion left Wompler winded, but his watery eyes had cleared a bit and his speech was not so slurred. 'Of course,' the former deputy said, 'I don't aim to drink this down all at once.' He fondly caressed the bottle. 'It's just that I've been promisin' myself for a long time that I'd kill Grady Olsen if I ever got the chance. And I might just do it if I was to catch myself completely sober.'
Headquarters for the Circle-R was a scattering of sheds and branding pens and corrals, an hour's ride from New Boston. There was no owner's 'big house,' as the owner rarely visited the place. The manager lived with the hands in a split-pole bunkhouse.
Such a spread was not impressive, but there were a number of them on the plains below the Cap Rock. When well managed they were efficient and productive and made money for the owner who might live as far away as England or Scotland and never get within five thousand miles of his holdings. An aging wrangler appeared from behind a brush-covered shed and met them as they headed for the main buildings. The old man glared at Gault with distrust, but his reaction to Wompler was undisguised anger.
Wompler smiled his meaningless smile and said, 'Seth here is Colton's headquarters wrangler and cook. This is Frank Gault, Seth. We're lookin' for Del Torgason.'
The old man glared at Wompler and suddenly spat at the ground in disgust. 'I don't make it a habit to socialize with cow thieves!'
'Seth,' Wompler went on with a disinterested air, 'firmly believes that up to a year ago I headed a rustlin' operation here in Standard County. That's what most folks believe, I guess.' He spread his hands and smiled benignly down at the old man. 'Well, it was never proved, and anyhow it's water over the dam. Just tell us where to find Torgason.'
The wrangler jutted his jaw defiantly. 'Torgason went out with the boss, Mr. Colton. I don't know where.'
Wompler's tone turned menacing. 'Mr. Gault here is a beef buyer for the Kiowa-Comanche agency. Mr. Colton won't like it, missin' a big beef sale, just because he's got a stubborn old wrangler on the place.'
The old man paled. He knew very well that a missed sale could mean his job. And for men his age even wrangler jobs were next to impossible to come by. 'Last I seen of Mr. Colton,' he said shakily, 'him and two hands and Torgason was headed toward north camp, brandin' strays they missed in the roundup.'
'We're much obliged for all your help, Seth,' Wompler said with heavy sarcasm. He reined his rented black gelding around the old man and headed north. Gault, after an instant's hesitation, followed on the buckskin.
'Was it necessary,' Gault asked angrily, 'to scare the old man like that?'
'Yes,' Wompler said. 'As you'll learn, Gault, it's the only way to get anywheres in Standard County. Fear. It's a little lesson I learned when I was deputyin' for Grady Olsen.'
