Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

When a murder suspect joins in the hunt for clews a sheriff must uncover his evidence carefully...

I

Sheriff Rutherford sprawled in his chair with his feet on his desk, mopping his beaded brow every few minutes with a large bandanna. The first sultry day of early summer was sending shimmering heat waves upward from the row of tin roofs across the street just beyond which the purpling Cumberlands towered majestically. Staring at them speculatively, Rutherford shivered. Somewhere in the depths of those wooded shadows lurked the deadly, stalking figure of Hook-Dave Hall, that ghostly, enigmatical killer of the Devil’s Apron country whom all men feared.

Bart Cantrell, youngest deputy of the sheriff’s staff, was leaning across the table, tense and eager, watching Rutherford’s face expectantly. A lithe, tawny youth, his steel-gray eyes narrowed, his muscles corded with the excitement under which he labored, courage and determination were delineated in his every feature, confidence seemed to ooze from every pore.

“Reckon I’m goin’ to have to refuse ye, Barr,” declared Rutherford after a long silence, during which he had been tugging fiercely at his drooping melancholy mustaches. “Sendin’ ye out alone after Hook-Dave’d be nothin’ short o’ murder. I wouldn’t tackle him ’less’n I had a dependable posse with me.”

Young Bart relaxed, disappointment creeping into his eyes.

“Then let me spot his still an’ get the lay of the land so’s we can take a posse in there an’ get him,” pleaded the deputy. “He’s runnin’ a thumper-keg outfit up there on Bear Pen Creek — I got that straight. I’ll just locate him an’ won’t try to arrest him.”

For a long minute the sheriff pondered that request, his fingers drumming softly upon the desk. Then he let his feet fall heavily to the floor as he reached into a box for a long stogie.

“All right!” he agreed with a shrug. “Onderstand, I’m not orderin’ ye to go, an’ ’tis ag’inst my advice. Still if ye’re bound to go, I Agger ’twould be best to do yore spottin’ from the top of a high mountain som’ers through a pair of field glasses.”

Bart chuckled and came to his feet.

“I promise to try to steer clear of Hook-Dave,” he declared with a grin, “but in case I do happen upon him sorta accidental-like, it might be best if l had some papers to serve on him.”

“Got none,” cut in Rutherford shortly. “We both know he killed that State prohibition enforcement officer, but we ain’t got no proof that’ll hold five seconds in court. If we can catch him moonshinin’, he’ll get a stiff term in the Federal penitentiary.”

“Thought he was wanted over in Kentucky,” suggested Bart.

“Yeah,” drawled the sheriff. “He killed three-four men over thar, but Kaintucky is like us — they ain’t got enough evidence to convict him or even to arrest him. Hook-Dave don’t leave evidence scattered about.”

Bart hitched his belt into a more comfortable position and reached for his hat.

“Afore ye go,” said Rutherford, “mind tellin’ me what plans ye’ve made about goin’ in that Bear Pen country?”

“Sorta figgered on slippin’ in there durin’ the night an’ locatin’ a likely spot from which I can watch the headwaters of the creek. I reckon I ought to locate the smoke of his still without much trouble.”

“Ye know that section?”

“Squirrel hunted over ever’ foot of it.”

“Even so, ye’ve got to be durned careful,” cautioned Rutherford so-licitiously. “Sometimes I think that Hook-Dave ain’t human. He’s a born killer, but he’s slick enough to cover his tracks. He can get through the woods faster an’ without makin’ any noise than any man in the hills, an’ I reckon he’s the best shot in the county. So ye can’t be too careful.”

“I’ll keep my eyes skinned,” declared Bart, and took his departure.

II

For a full minute Rutherford sat motionless at his desk, and then, aroused by the clatter of hoof-beats upon the street outside, he moved lumberingly but silently to the window where he stood watching the retreating form of the deputy until he vanished in the direction of the looming Cumberlands.

A premonition of lurking danger for Bart stirred Rutherford and for an instant he debated saddling his horse and setting out after the youth. Then with a shrug he dismissed that thought. Bart was well able to take care of himself.

Shortly after noon on the following day Ranse Moore, a shambling, apologetic figure, appeared in the door of the sheriff’s office and stood fumbling his battered old hat. Rutherford recognized him and realized with a start that he was from the Bear Pen Creek country.

“Well?” demanded the sheriff sharply.

“I jes’ drapped in to tell ye,” replied the hilhnan uncertainly, “that yore deppity, Bart Cantrell, was killed.”

“Killed?” Rutherford came quickly to his feet. “How?”

“Looks as though he fell off’n a cliff.”

“Fell off?”

“Looks as though.”

“Who found his body?”

“Hook-Dave Hall, ’Lige Honeycutt an’ me.”

Rutherford’s drooping mustaches fairly bristled at the mention of Hook-Dave.

“When?”

“ ’Bout ten o’clock or a leetle atter,” guessed the visitor with an apologetic shrug.

“Any bullet holes?”

“Not that I seen. I didn’t look dost — jes’ come straight on in to tell ye about it.”

“Think he fell off’n that cliff durin’ the night?”

“Done told ye all I know, sheriff,” said the hillman, twisting his old hat out of shape.

“Where’d this happen?” demanded Rutherford, buckling his belt and guns about his waist.

“Up thar on the head of Bear Pen, ’bout three mile from hyeh.”

“All right, Ranse! Much obliged for comin’. Wait till I saddle my boss an’ get one of the boys an’ we’ll ride back with ye.”

Ten minutes later Rutherford with Crit Randall, a lanky deputy of indeterminate age and a startlingly long neck, rode out of town. A few paces in the rear jogged the hillman who had brought the news. Little was said during that forty-five minutes ride until they reached the mouth of Bear Pen Creek, where Rutherford and his deputy reined to a halt and permitted their guide to pass them.

The trail up the creek was nothing more than a sheep path, and the three horsemen were continually swaying and bending, stooping and dodging the thick undergrowth that at times made progress difficult. Here and there the sheriff caught sight of the tracks of a horse in the soft mold, but they had palpably been made by Ranse’s horse as he had ridden out with his news, and not a trace could he find of young Bart Cantrell’s horse. Undoubtedly the latter had left his mount near the mouth of the creek and followed that trail afoot.

Coming out of a dense bed of rhododendron they found themselves in a little clearing in the center of which sat a log cabin.

“Who lives here?” demanded Rutherford of their guide.

“I do.” He dismounted and laid down a panel of the rail fence. “Reckon we’d best leave our hosses hyeh. Can’t go further on hossback.”

Despite his huge proportions Rutherford set a pace into the headwaters of the creek which taxed the strength and energy of his two companions, and brought a twinkle of admiration into the eyes of the deputy. It was quite apparent that the sheriff was a woodsman of no mean order. Nor did he pause for rest until a rim of precipices towered high above them.

At a gesture from Ranse he turned off at right angles and swung up a sharp incline for a matter of something like a hundred yards before reaching the bench behind which reared that line of cliffs. Seated upon mossy bowlders at the base of the nearest precipice were two motionless men, and Rutherford with a start recognized one of them as Hook-Dave, that enigma of the Cumberlands. The other was ’Lige Honeycutt, an uncle to the deputy whom the sheriff had brought with him.

As they drew near the sheriff saw that the two men were talking in a low tone as if awed by the presence of death, and just beyond them he caught sight of a motionless, shapeless form wedged between two great bowlders. In single file the three newcomers drew near.

“Howdy, men!” drawled Rutherford, removing his hat and fanning his perspiring face. Slowly he let his eyes sweep over the scene, missing no detail. Then he turned his gaze to ’Lige Honeycutt.

“Bad business, eh?” he ejaculated.

Honeycutt grunted an affirmative.

Rutherford knew and trusted ’Lige Honeycutt. A pillar in the Primitive Baptist Church and a law-abiding citizen, he could have had no part in the crime, neither would he aid in the capture or prosecution of the perpetrator. It had been a “hands-off” policy which had enabled him to live in peaceful and successful proximity to the lawless elements along the State line, and he was unlikely to change that attitude.

After shaking hands with Honeycutt the sheriff turned to Hook-Dave and met the latter’s expressionless gaze. He was a heavy, squat man in direct contrast to the average gangling hillman, and there was that about his mouth and eyes that set him apart from his people as a dangerous and menacing figure. His gray eyes were flinty, and his lips thin and straight, giving him a grim appearance at all times, which the heavy stubble of beard failed to efface.

In a fight with a rival faction across the State line some several years earlier he had lost his right arm near the elbow — had it literally shot away — and in its place he wore a sharp steel hook which dangled from his sleeve in such a manner that it gave the casual observer the creeps. And manifestly that steel arm could be a dangerous weapon in close quarters. Indeed, if rumor could be believed, it had done deadly havoc more than once.

Rutherford knew that there was open hostility in the glance he gave Hook-Dave, but he found it utterly impossible to mask his malice.’ He had warmly liked his young deputy and the sight of that shapeless figure at the base of the precipice had sent a surge of uncontrollable anger rippling through his veins. Not for a single instant did he believe that Bart’s fall had been accidental, but to connect that crime with Hook-Dave would be another thing. But of one thing he was positive — he would bring Hook-Dave Hall to justice for that act if he never did anything else.

III

With a common impulse the five men gathered in a semi-circle about the body while the sheriff made a superficial examination. It was apparent that Bart had met death instantly and that he had fallen from the top of the precipice at least two hundred feet above. As far as he was able to ascertain there were no other marks of violence except those which could have been made by the fall. Hook-Dave had covered his crime well.

Rutherford straightened and tugged thoughtfully at his mustaches, staring through half-closed eyes at the wild morning glory vines which covered the two bowlders between which the victim was wedged. Then he turned to ’Lige Honeycutt.

“Who first located the body, ’Lige?” he demanded softly.

“I did,” replied the hillman. “Me an’ Ranse an’ Hook-Dave hyeh was passin’ an’ I seen it — lyin’ thar.”

“What time was that?”

“Ten o’clock — mebbe a little atter.”

“How ye happen to be up hyeh, ’Lige?” demanded Rutherford.

“We was goin’ up thar on that upper bench atter them curly-walnut stumps,” explained Honeycutt. “Feller offered me a good price fo’ stumps like that an’ I’d made arrangements for Hook-Dave hyeh to go along with us an’ blow ’em up. He knows how to handle dynamite. We was comin’ along that sheep path past this cliff when I jes’ happened to see the — body.”

“What time did ye first see Dave this mo’nin’?”

“ ’Bout seven o’clock, I reckon. Atter he come we waited a leetle while on Ranse hyeh, an’ then we had to wait till my boy got in with the dynamite. Must ’a’ been nigh onto ten o’clock when we got started.”

“On a guess, ’Lige,” continued Rutherford thoughtfully, “what time would ye say that this — happened?”

“Couldn’t say, sheriff. Might ’a’ been a hour — might ’a’ been half a day. To tell the truth I didn’t get dost. Thought I’d leave ever’thing jes’ as it is fo’ ye to examine.”

Rutherford nodded his approbation, and then stooped over and raised slightly the deputy’s body, extracting a silver, hunting-case watch. The rear of that watch was dented and battered, but the crystal, strangely enough, was intact. But the force of the fall had shattered the jewels and ruined the works.

The four spectators crowded about Rutherford and watched him as he tried to wind the timepiece. Then he shook his head.

“Looks like it happened at four minutes to nine o’clock,” declared ’Lige softly. “She stopped then. Is she bad broke, sheriff?”

“Plumb ruined.”

Rutherford shot a quick glance at Hook-Dave, but the latter’s expression was masked in indifference. His alibi was perfect. He had been with ’Lige and Ranse at that hour and could not have had a part in the murder.

“What do ye reckon he was doin’ up thar on top, sheriff?” queried ’Lige curiously.

“He was tryin’ to spot Hook-Dave’s still,” replied Rutherford bluntly.

With one accord the little knot wheeled and watched Dave, but the latter’s enigmatical smile could have meant anything. Me offered no denial of the charge of moonshining, but shrugged and resumed his seat upon the moss-covered bowlder.

“Let’s go up on top an’ see what we can see,” suggested Rutherford. “He must ’a’ been on that ledge up thar near the top.”

Up a precipitous path on the right of the cliff they toiled, the sheriff and Deputy Randall leading the way with the other three men following a few paces in the rear. Watching his chance Rutherford leaned close to the deputy and whispered:

“Keep yore eye on Hook-Dave, an’ if he makes a break for it, stop him — with a bullet.”

“Huh!” The deputy grunted his surprise. “His alibi—”

Rutherford’s gesture was one of warning and the deputy grew silent. A few minutes later they were on top of the precipice and gingerly advancing along a narrow ledge from which it was palpable that Bart Cantrell had fallen. At a point directly over the scene of the tragedy Rutherford halted and motioned to the others to remain where they were. Then inch by inch he went over the ground, seeking signs of a struggle, footprints — anything that might throw light on the mystery.

The surface of the ledge was bare stone, relieved here and there by tiny patches of moss and crevices. At its broadest point the ledge was not more than six feet wide and at the rear arose a wall of granite some twenty to thirty feet high. Just a few paces ahead of Rutherford the shelf narrowed and became sheer wall.

On hands and knees Rutherford examined the entire surroundings, keeping his back to the watchers as much as possible. Three times he found scratches upon the stone surface — four parallel marks about an eighth of an inch apart, and once he located a fresh cut along the jagged surface of the rear wall. Manifestly there had been a struggle, but the evidences of it were meager and vague.

At last he arose to his feet and stood tugging at his mustaches. Then with a deep sigh he drew near his companions.

“We’ll finish up this work down — there,” he announced.

“Find anything, sheriff?” demanded ’Lige, whose curiosity had overcome his natural reticence.

“Nothin’ I didn’t already know,” replied Rutherford enigmatically, leading the way down the sharp incline to the base of the precipice.

IV

Upon reaching the bowlders Rutherford motioned his deputy forward.

“Let’s move the body over in the shade, Crit,” he suggested, and gently they placed it upon a bed of leaves and Rutherford removed his coat and spread it over Bart’s face. Then he came back and stared long and thoughtfully at the bed of wild morning glory vines, crushed and flattened by the deputy’s crumpled weight.

“Strange thing about that watch, ’Lige,” observed Rutherford at last. “Ye know, when a man puts his watch in his pocket he allus puts it in with the crystal next to his body so’s it won’t get broke. But Bart had stuck his’n in until the crystal out.”

Hook-Dave’s eyes narrowed and one of his hands crept toward his inside coat pocket. Out of the corner of his eye the sheriff saw his deputy’s hand close upon the butt of his forty-five, and at the same time Hook-Dave’s left hand dropped to his side.

“Another thing about that watch,” continued the sheriff, never taking his eyes off Hook-Dave, “is that not only was the crystal outside, but it wasn’t even cracked — while the back side of that watch was mashed up.”

“What do ye make o’ that, sheriff?” asked old ’Lige softly, but it was apparent that he had caught the drift of Rutherford’s monologue.

“I figger that somebody took that watch outta Bart’s pocket — after he was dead.”

Complete silence greeted the statement.

“Another thing, ’Lige!” resumed Rutherford in even tones which seemed to carry a hint of steel. “Bart wa’n’t killed at nine o’clock. I’d say that whoeveh took his watch outta his pocket set it at four minutes to nine o’clock to prove him an alibi. Bart was throwed off’n that cliff afore sun-up.”

“Eh?” ’Lige’s glance shot toward Hook-Dave, but the latter’s expressionless face gave no indication of the thoughts that were seething behind it.

“Yeah,” drawled Rutherford. “What time was sunrise this mo’nin’?”

“ ’Bout six, I reckon.”

“Then Bart was murdered afore six thirty. Look thar!” Rutherford pointed dramatically toward the bed of wild morning glory vines upon which the body had been lying.

“The sun,” resumed the sheriff, his eyes on Hook-Dave, “would strike this place a few minutes after it come up. By six thirty these mo’nin’ glory flowers would all be closed up like they are now. But them flowers which was under the body ain’t closed up yet. See.”

’Lige peered intently in the direction in which Rutherford’s accusing finger was pointed and saw the scattered full-blown petals which were beginning to wilt. Rutherford’s reasoning was irrefutable. The morning glory vines established the time of the tragedy to be not later than six thirty that morning.

“Mebbe he lost his footin’ in the oncertain light of early mornin’,” suggested ’Lige.

“Bart was murdered,” declared the sheriff in a tone of finality, and in the same instant he whipped out a heavy calibered revolver and covered Hook-Dave.

“Stick up yore left foot, Dave,” he ordered sharply, “so’s we can see yore heel.”

Not a hint of changed expression showed on Hook-Dave’s face as he coolly sat down upon a bowlder and thrust out his left foot.

“Lost yore heel-tap, Dave,” murmured Rutherford. “Mighty careless of ye. Ye left the marks of them four tacks which are stickin’ outta yore heel up thar on that shelf when ye was strugglin’ with Bart afore ye hit him in the head with that steel hook. Give me that shoe, Dave, ’cause it’ll be the evidence which is goin’ to send ye to the chair. Also ye left the mark of that steel hook in a crack in the rock up thar when ye anchored yoreself to keep from bein’ thro wed oveh yoreself. Ye’ve alius covered yore tracks mighty well, Dave, but this is one time ye slipped up. Take his shoe an’ put the handcuffs on him, Crit,” he ordered turning to his deputy.

The latter stepped forward with alacrity and as he reached for the shoe which the accused held out in his left hand, Dave swung that steel hook upward viciously with such power that it would have crushed Crit’s skull. Rutherford’s gun barked once, and with a look of utter surprise Hook-Dave recoiled and that terrible steel hand dropped uselessly at his side. A split second later the deputy had disarmed him and had linked the left arm of his prisoner to his own right arm.

“Good shootin’, sheriff!” complimented ’Lige. “Ye caught him in that arm neat.”

“Accident,” grunted Rutherford. “I was aimin’ at his durned head.”