The Greatest Works of B. M. Bower - 51 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). B. M. Bower
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he'd see that driver again when no cops were by.
"Well, whenever you wanta start somethin', just let me know, willya?" grated the driver, and walked off, grinning impudently back at the Kid from the door. Oh, well, there was a whole week to settle with him—
Harlan's name, spoken by the man behind the desk, brought the Kid's full attention back to his present predicament. The name had been spoken into the telephone, and the sergeant—if that was his official rating—was evidently waiting until Harlan could be located. The Kid waited also, hot with resentment and shame. Why drag Harlan into it? What business was it of Harlan's if Montana Kid went to jail for fighting in a yellow cab? He didn't want Harlan to know anything about this; he might mention it to that darned girl, and then she would razz him the next time—but there wouldn't be any next time; he'd see to that.
The desk sergeant was talking into the 'phone, telling his name, which was Dugan, and the station—all Greek to the Kid. He wondered if Harlan was at the other end of the line. The cab driver who had brought them here was still hanging around, probably wanting to collect damage for that glass partition. Well, he could take it off the thief; the Kid would be darned if he'd pay it; not when this fellow had rammed his big foot through it—
The Kid started and gave another look at the fellow's feet. Since when had low shoes come into fashion with riders? Even if he had felt the need of stealing shirt and chaps and hat, a contest rider would have worn riding boots; old and run down at the heels, maybe, but boots of some sort.
This fellow was no rider, in spite of the fact that a contestant's badge dangled from the breast of the blue shirt. Now that his attention was called to it, the Kid was sure of it. His face, for instance, mean and pasty and untanned—certainly no range man, with that indoor pallor. He never had been tanned. Why, then, had he stolen these things? He wasn't even wearing the chaps; meant to sell them, maybe. The Kid decided within himself that the fellow was just a plain nut, though a hard one.
"Yeah, two of them," the man at the telephone was saying in a voice that carried distinctly to where the Kid sat. "What's that? . . . Yes—yes, both of them . . . Yes, that's—well, I didn't book 'em yet . . . Y'—yes, that's the idea. . . . Yeah. . . . Sure, I'll hold 'em here till you come. . . . Well, I didn't want to—yeah, that's right. Look bad for the rodeo. . . . Okay, Mr. Harlan—g'bye." He turned and fixed a speculative gaze upon the Kid, let his glance move slowly to the other and come to rest there. After a minute or so of staring he beckoned to one of the others and mumbled something. Both stared.
The shirt thief stirred, tried to lift himself from his slumped position. He opened his eyes, glanced around until he saw the chaps lying on the floor where one of the policemen had flung them. A peculiar, furtive look crept into his eyes; his thin mouth pinched in at the corners.
The Kid, watching him suspiciously, followed his glance to the chaps; clumsy, long-haired Angora, lying there almost as if they had legs in them. The Kid thrust out a long leg and pushed them with the toe of his boot, pushed them again, leaned forward and pulled them toward him by the buckle while the other snarled at him to leave them alone; a muttered oath and a threat which the officers would not hear.
"Mind your own business; you stole these too, and the hat. I know the fellow you took them from. The badge too, very likely. What are all these strings for?" The Kid's fingers were poking and prying. "What's the big idea here?" He lifted the chaps, pulled them across his knee, began to twitch at certain knotted thongs, crudely lacing the chap legs into bags.
"Damn you, leave 'em alone!" The thief lunged toward him, snatching at the chaps. But the Kid eluded his clutching fingers as the two policemen grappled with the fellow and snapped handcuffs on his wrists. The Kid was still busy with the strings. They loosened and he plunged his hand into the orifice thus opened.
"Well for the heck sake!" he ejaculated, and dragged the chaps toward the desk. "You better do something about this, Mr. Officer. This thing's full of money! Where do you suppose he got it? That drunken cow-puncher he robbed certainly didn't have it on him, and there certainly wasn't any money in my suitcase for him to steal." The Kid stared bewilderedly at the package of bank notes in his hand.
"Give it here, young feller," said the desk sergeant. "Mr. Harlan just reported that some cowboy held up the business office and robbed 'em. Looks like this is the bandit, eh? You grabbed more'n your shirt when you grabbed that guy."
"Well for the crying-out-loud!" gasped the Kid, unconsciously borrowing Boy's favorite expletive.
Harlan arrived, anxious-eyed and in a desperate hurry. His face cleared when they showed him the contents of the hairy chaps piled on the desk, and he almost hugged the Kid when they told him how the thief had been caught.
"I must call up the office—Cowboy, you certainly have saved us a big loss, and you may be sure you won't lose anything by it; nor you, Sergeant, for the splendid way you've handled the case."
The Kid could not see where he had done anything unusual, nor the sergeant either, who had merely sat there at the desk killing time. He wanted his shirt. When Harlan was through telephoning he told him so.
Harlan laughed.
"Take that boy's shirt off the crook and let him have it," he directed in the easy, authoritative tone he had used to his chauffeur. "He's earned it, don't you think? If he hadn't kept right after that shirt, there's no telling when we'd ever have caught this fellow. When you lock him up, Sergeant, I think you will find he has a criminal record already. The nerve and the cunning he displayed proves to my mind that he's a professional. How he managed to make that hole in the closet wall without being detected—it certainly looks to me as though he had planned this robbery away in advance. He must have been hiding in there for some time—"
A great light broke upon the Kid's mind. He looked so full of information that Harlan stopped and waited expectantly.
"I never told anybody I rated a spook the first night I stayed in the stadium," said the Kid. "I kept missing things out of the kitchen every night—some one always cooked a meal in there. I thought maybe it was some hobo, or else Norm was trying to kid me, perhaps. I used to try and catch him at it, but I never could, and anyway, I kept pretty close to the horses at night. A little grub wasn't so important; but with some one prowling around there nights, I couldn't take a chance. Those horses are about all I've got, and I couldn't contest without them. So—well, maybe that sounds pretty self-centered, but I can't help it. That's the way I felt about it."
"Just about as self-centered as going after your shirt the way you did, Cowboy! We can forgive that kind of self-centeredness, but I'd call it persistence, myself. Hope it wins you the championship—it certainly ought to, at least." Harlan laughed and patted his arm. Harlan could well afford to laugh and pat, with thirty thousand of the rodeo's dollars back in his possession.
"This is your spook, without a doubt," the desk sergeant declared. "We'd like your secretary to come and identify him, as a matter of form, of course. I've got an idea we'll find this man's finger prints and mug in our gallery, Mr. Harlan, and that will let him in for the limit. Could you bring your people over in the morning? Needn't bother to-night."
"I certainly shall. And, Sergeant, I want to thank you for the splendid way you have handled this matter. If you had simply booked these two men and locked them up, we'd have been put to no end of trouble and worry before we discovered the thief. We certainly are grateful to you for calling the office—"
"Oh, that's all right," grinned the sergeant. "Our boys are pretty easy on cowboys, right now. Can't expect 'em to know all the rules and regulations; we aim to give you all the coöperation we can, Mr. Harlan. Any of your boys get in trouble for small offences—like fighting in cabs—" he grinned slowly at the Kid "—and collecting shirts on the main thoroughfares, you can rest assured we'll do the best we can for 'em. This cab driver has got a claim for damages to his cab, by the way—"
"Oh, I'll take care of that, and glad to!" chuckled Harlan. "Our First Cowboy has been distinguishing himself in several events to-day, but personally I think he's won the trophy for thief-catching. Eh, Cowboy?"
"Thanks, Mr. Harlan. I was merely trying to