BUCKY FOLLOWS A HOT TRAIL

Wairarapa Times-Age, 30 March 1939, Page 12

BUCKY FOLLOWS A HOT TRAIL

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE.

CHAPTER IV. (Continued).

“What position did Buchmann hold in the bank? I don’t remember him very well. He hadn’t been here long when I left.”

“He was a bookkeeper, the head of the office. They say he was a swell hand at figures. Sometimes he helped at a teller’s window at lunch time . .'. Well, I couldn’t find Cliff. It seems he got a phone' call at the club about half past eleven, or a little later. He was playing poker. Fie excused himself, said he was going to the bank. After he left the club nobody has ever seen him since, except those mixed up in the robbery. He completely vanished.”

“Didn’t give any clue as to who wanted him when he left the club?” “Not. Just said he was needed.”

“When was the robbery discovered?” “About half past one. That real estate fellow Jud Richman noticed the bank was on fire. Haskell was with him. They called out the fire department. When the firemen broke in, the whole back part of the building was ablaze and pretty well gutted. They found Buchmann’s body just outside the vault: It was badly burned, but they could tell he had been shot in the back of the head. Cliff’s gun was found beside him, and the bullet that killed him had been fired from that gun.” “No doubt about its being Uncle Cliff's gun?” “None,” Murphy replied. “I identified it myself. It was the same one he used when he was a ranger captain.”

“Any fingerprints on the gun?” “No. It had been wiped clean. But there were prints on a gasoline can. The murderer had drenched the furniture and Max’s clothes with gasoline. Poor Buchmann was burned so badly the public wasn’t allowed to see the body. The fellow who killed him must have been some kind of a fiend. He had crushed the poor fellow’s' face in with some kind of blunt instrument.” “You didn’t see Buchmann then?”

“Sure I saw him. On the slab. You know he was completely bald. His wig had fallen off and was partly burned. So had some of his clothes. They buried him as he was, without even moving the high-built shoe he used for that crippled leg 'of his.” “Whose fingerprints on the gasoline can?”

“Cliff's.” The foreman added, fiercely. “Little as Cliff was, I’ll betcha it took three men to hold him while they made those prints.” “Unless he had been knocked unconscious first,” Bucky said. “Some one was thorough—(too thorough. He wanted to be sure suspicion would point to Uncle Cliff. Tell me this, Tim. Would Uncle Cliff have had himself and the whole bank staff fingerprinted, as a protection to depositors if he had intended to rob the First National himself?”

“His enemies claim he didn’t mean to do-it then. Their point is he got so hard up he didn’t know which wav to turn. Of course it’s true he had to mortgage the ranch two years ago, and we have had some bad cattle years. He was so doggoned goodhearted he hadn’t the heart to foreclose on his friends when they got into trouble.” - •

“All right. Getting back to the fingerprints, wouldn’t he have destroyed them after the crime? one more point that sticks out like a sore thumb. Would an old cattleman who knew he was in danger from that hour leave his gun instead of taking it with him? Why, he wouldn’t feel dressed without it.”

“If you’re trying to tell me Cliff didn't do it, you’re wasting your breath,” Murphy said. “I know damn well he didn’t.”

“I’m not. What I’m trying to do is to put myself in the place of the criminal. Maybe we can tell from the things he did what kind of fellow he is. He and his friends —if there were others in this with him—took Uncle Cliff away with them after they had killed Buchmann and robbed the bank. Is he still a prisoner? Or is he dead?” “Dead,” exploded the foreman. “The rats would have to kill and bury him to protect themselves.” “That’s likely,” Bucky admitted. “But not certain. It depends on who did this. Uncle Cliff was stubborn as a mule. Maybe they are holding him while they try to force him to sign a paper.” Tim slanted a curious look at. him. “Yore mind is running a different way from mine. I'm thinking of the Rod Rock crowd. Cliff didn’t live two hours after they took him from the bank.”

“They may have done it under orders from some one else,” Bucky said. "Or they may not have done it at all.” “Orders from whom?” Tim asked bluntly. "Clem Garside had served notice on me he means to take over-both the bank and the ranch. Don’t you think this business has been a lucky break for him?” “I’ll say so.” “It makes him top man in this county, with nobody left to dispute it.” “That’s right.” Tim stared at his friend so long that the car almost ran off a bank. “You think " “I think it's possible. If so. Uncle Cliff may still be alive.” Tim shook his head. "No use in foolin’ ourselves. Bucky,” he said gently. "Cliff has passed over the divide. Look at it sensibly. Clem is a smooth proposition. Ho has been inching forward for thirty years, all the time with his eye on the CC ranch, knowing you Camerons were a careless lot, and that your foot was likely to slip financially sometime. But Clem doesn’t step outride the law, not when anybody is looking. This was a brutal business, not the kind Clem would have pulled off On the other hand it’s right up the alley of the Red Rock gang. They hate the ground Cliff walked on. He has ridden them rough for a long time, even if they got away with a good manv of his cows now and again. Personally he shot down Gene Sturtevant in a fight when he caught him branding a CC calf. These nestors are the killer type. This is earmarked as their job. Look at what they did to faithful Max Buchmann. Hadn’t a thing against him, but he got in theii way or else was a witness of their deviltry. Why did they bushwhack you today? Because they are scared you will learn the truth. Mark my words, boy. If your uncle’s body is ever found it will

be under a pile of rocks up a gulch in the Red Rock country.” CHAPTER V.

“I’m not saying you are wrong, Tim” Bucky replied. “We’ve been fighting these thieves ever since I was a kid. If they could get either Uncle Cliff or me they wouldn’t hesitate a second. What I did say is that this isn’t quite their kind of job after all. They would have dry-gulched my uncle, but Dan West would never have thought of getting rid of him, and at the same time throwing the burden of this crime on him and me. That took brains. Whose?”

“You don’t hate Clem half as much as I do, but there’s no sense in letting some half-cocked idea lead us on the wrong trail. Guess somebody else.” “All right. What about that so-call-ed real estate man —that little grinning, gum-shoeing scoundrel Jud Richman. He has hated Uncle Cliff ever since he was slapped by him in the post office before a dozen people. The Red Rock crowd always have come to him to front for them. You can’t tell me he isn’t in on some .of their dirty deals.”

“Nor me. but you'll have a hell of a time proving it on him. And I don’t think he has the nerve for anything as big as this. His size is getting rid of rustled stock. I’d say.” “What were he and Haskell doing around the First National at half past one in the morning, just after it had beeh robbed?” Bucky wanted to know. Murphy squinted his sun-bleached eyes at the younger man. “For that matter, what were Cliff and Buchmann doing down at the bank in the middle of the night. Must have been a reason. Something got them there. Something they had heard—or knew.” “If we knew that, we’d probably have the answer to the whole mystery,” Bucky said. “One thing is reasonably sure. They were there because they thought the bank was in danger. But I’ll admit that doesn’t tie up with what we Know of Uncle Cliff. It would not be like him to be caught napping after he had been warned. Buchmann was different. Not much good in a fight, I would guess. This young fellow Ferrill, who helped put the pay roll money away—what about him?”

“He’s a bit of a high roller, I’ve heard. Spends a good deal for a hun-dred-fifty-dollar a month teller. But I don’t know anything against him.” “I’ll look him up . . It’s good to be back at the ranch.”

When the car stopped at the porch of the big house Julia came flying out to meet her cousin. She flung her arms around his neck.

“Oh. Neil, I’m so glad you've come!’’ she cried, a sob in her throat. “It’s been terrible —alone.”

Bucky knew what she meant. He held her soft body close for a moment after he had kissed her, then stroked her fair hair gently.- But there was no use feeding false hopes about her father. - .

The girl was rather small, like her father, and her tired blue eyes held the weariness of exhaustion after long fear. She was a pretty young thing, very feminine and clinging, as graceful as a butterfly.

“I’m going to stay here and look after you,” her cousin promised.

Bucky was busy trying to analyze the foreman’s elementary balance sh,eet for the CC when Bud Keller came to him with a message.

“Tim wants you should come down to the barns and meet a guy,” the/cowboy said. Bud was a lean lanky man whose overalls did not come down much more than halfway on the’ legs of his high-heeled boots. He was freckle-faced and brindle-thatched, and his unfinished face wore perpetually an amiable smile. “Has the guy got a name?” Bucky asked. Keller rubbed his unshaven chin. “I reckon he has, but I didn’t catch it.”

Bucky walked down to the barns with Bud. The foreman drew Cameron aside. “This Dutch Dieter here claims the Red Rock gang have a man cached in the hills, and are holding him prisoner.” “Great news, if it’s true,” Bucky said.

“If it’s true. I thought we could go to my cabin and you could talk with him.”

Bucky sat down in the foreman’s quarters opposite a heavyset man of Teutonic appearance. He was rough and unkempt, and he had shifty shallow yes. Young Cameron had seen him before. His small mountain ranch -was in the hills back of the CC. The ranchman told his story. He had been up with a sick cow one night, and had seen four men riding the ridge above his place. Three of the men were armed, the fourth was not. His hands were tied behind him. and one of the others was leading his horse. “Recognise any of them?” Bucky asked. Dieter hesitated. “I thought one of ’em looked like Brad Davis.” he said at last. “Couldn’t swear to him.” “Clear night?” “Pretty clear. There was a moon.” “But they weren’t very close. How far would you say?” “Maybe seventy-five yards—a hundred.” “What night was it?” The answer came pat. “Night of July 17.” (To be Continued).