The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)

The search went on. The shock-drugged troupe of cowboys and cowgirls, still kept prisoner in the arena, were lined up in seated rows. The Inspector questioned them en masse and individually; he might have been addressing a group of stalagmites for all the information he elicited. They were all stolidly on the defensive; they sensed the Inspector’s suspicion, and they closed their shells like the hardbacks they were — quiet, immobile, in a vague way dangerous.

“Now what I want to know from you people,” roared the Inspector, “is if any of you noticed a particularly suspicious action when you were ridin’ and whoopin’ round the track just before the shot?”

No answer. They did not even turn their heads. Shorty Downs, that monster of muscle and tight skin, spat carefully past the Inspector; the brownish stream shot within twelve inches of the old man and landed with a little spat! on the tanbark. It seemed to be a signal of defiance; a ripple passed through the crowd, and glances grew darker and sharper.

“Won’t talk, eh? Mr. Grant, come here a minute.” The showman detached himself from the small group standing to one side, and dutifully trudged up to the Inspector. Ellery noted with a little start of surprise that Major Kirby was a member of the group; still present! The Major, he reflected, was a more inquisitive gentleman than he appeared.

“Well?” sighed Grant.

“How well?” retorted the Inspector.

“No savvy.”

The old man waved his thin veined hand over the heads of the troupe. “How well d’ye know this bunch?”

Grant’s features settled like plastic mud, and something cold took possession of them. “Well enough to know that not one of ’em would ’a’ taken a pot-shot at ole Buck!”

“But that isn’t answering my question.”

“They’re all ole hands—” began Grant icily; and then the ice melted away and was replaced by impenetrable steel. Something uneasy flickered in his hard eyes. “They’re all ole hands,” he repeated.

“Now, now, Mr. Grant, you wouldn’t try to fool an old man, would you?” murmured the Inspector. “You began to say they’re all old hands, and then you stopped. Why? Clear as daylight that you suddenly remembered they’re all not old hands. Speak up!” he said sharply. “Who’s the new man, or men?”

A faint sigh ran through the troupe, and there were black glances frankly directed at the Inspector. Grant stood very still for an instant, and then shrugged his heavy shoulders.

“Just rec’llected,” he muttered. “Ain’t nothin’, Inspector. I did take on a new hand t’day—”

The man named Slim Hawes, who was squatting in the front row, growled something derisive and disgusted. Grant colored.

“Who?” demanded the Inspector.

Grant stepped up to the group. “You, Miller,” he said tonelessly. “Come outa that.”

The man with the purple-sided face rose from the center of the group, hesitated, and then shuffled out of line and shambled forward. The Inspector stared at him for a moment, and looked away. The hideous ravaged left cheek was revolting. He was plainly in a spasm of nervous fear; his lips trembled, showing the molasses-brown teeth, and he spat three times — long spears of tobacco juice — on his way forward... Boone had evidently outfitted him; he no longer wore shabby clothes but was dressed in a shiny new outfit.

“I’m here,” he mumbled, avoiding Grant’s gaze.

The showman licked his lips. “Inspector, this is Benjy Miller. I took ’im on before sundown. But I tell ya—”

“I’ll handle this. Well, Miller, what have you got to say for yourself?”

The man blinked. “Me? Say fer m’self? Why, noth-in’. I don’t know nothin’ ’bout poor ole Buck’s passin’, sir. Ter’ble thing to see, sir, all them hosses stompin’ on poor Buck, an’ me an ole bunkie o’ Buck’s—”

“Hmm! So you did know Horne, eh? Mr. Grant, how’d you come to take this man on so late?”

“He came to me from Buck himself, Inspector,” said Grant doggedly. “Buck wanted me to do somethin’ fer ’im. So I did.”

“I been off the trail, sir,” put in Miller eagerly. “Hard hit. Ain’t had a job fer months. Struck Noo Yawk — hearin’ Mr. Grant’s rodeo was here — hopin’ fer a job. Found out ’bout ole Buck’s bein’ with the show, an’ seein’ as he an’ me was waddies together in the ole days, I looked ’im up. He — he staked me, Buck did, to a couple o’ dollars, an’ he sent me over here t’see Mr. Grant. That’s all, sir; I can’t figger it, sir. It’s—”

The Inspector stared at the man’s slightly drooling mouth for a moment, thoughtfully, and then said: “All right, Miller. Go on back.”

Relief heaved through the ranks in visible waves. Miller stumbled hastily back to his place and sat down.

Then the Inspector said: “You, Woody, come here.”

The one-armed man sat very still for an instant; then rose and clumped forward, his high heels striking hollow sounds from the tanbark. A short cigaret dangled from his thin lips, and his arrogant mahogany features were twisted into a sneer.