American Gun Mystery Read Online Free PDF

exits, many rigged with special chute gates for the equine events, dotted the concrete wall. High above—and yet not so high as that immensely distant roof of steel girders—the tiny figures of workmen crept along the tiers, manicuring the stadium for the evening’s performance, which would officially open the New York stand of Wild Bill Grant’s Rodeo.
    In the hard-packed earth of the arena core a number of men in Western regalia lounged, smoking and talking.
    Boone staggered forward into the arena, turning his woeful little eyes on his companion. “Reg’lar rodeo man, Miller?”
    “Nope.”
    “Down on yore luck, hey?”
    “It’s hard times, cowboy.”
    “Shore is! Well, you gladhand the gang an’ you’ll perk up. Got boys here come all the way from the Rio.”
    Boone and his charge were greeted hilariously by the chapped and sombreroed men in the group. The ugly little fellow seemed a favorite with them; he was instantly the butt of friendly jeers and jibes. In the hubbub Miller was forgotten; he stood silently by, waiting.
    “Uh—damn if I ain’t gone an’ fergot my manners!” cried Boone, after a moment. “Waddies, meet an ole bunkie o’ Buck Horne’s. Benjy Miller is his handle, an’ he’s joinin’ up with the outfit.”
    Dozens of steady eyes took in the newcomer, and the talk and laughter died away. They surveyed his shabby clothes, his crooked heels, his frightfully mutilated face.
    “Jock Ramsey,” said Boone soberly, introducing a tall dour cowboy with a cleft upper lip.
    “Meetya.” They shook hands.
    “Texas Joe Halliwell.” Halliwell nodded briefly and began to roll a cigaret. “Tex is God’s gift to the workin’ gals, Miller. Here’s Slim Hawes.” Hawes was a dumpy, jolly-faced cowboy with unsmiling eyes. “Lafe Brown. Shorty Downs.” Boone went on and on. Famous rodeo names, these; of men who followed the big circle with their well-worn gear, hopping from rodeo to rodeo, working for prize-money, paying their own expenses, most of them penniless, many scarred by the hazards of their profession.
    There was an interval of silence. Then Lafe Brown, a powerful man in colorful costume, smiled and dipped his fingers into his pocket. “Roll yore own, Miller?” He proffered a little sack of tobacco.
    Miller flushed. “Recken I will.” He accepted the “makin’s” and slowly, with unconscious facility, rolled a cigaret.
    At once they broke into speech; Miller was accepted. Someone scratched a match on the thigh of his trousers and held it to Miller’s cigaret; he lit up and puffed silently away. They closed in about him and he merged with them, disappearing into the group.
    “Now you take this here c’yote,” said Shorty Downs, a vast stalwart, as he crooked a horny finger at Boone. “You want to cinch tight when he’s bellyin’ aroun’. Steal the pants offen you, Dan’l will. His ole man was a horsethief.”
    Miller smiled rather tremulously; they were trying to make him feel at home.
    “How,” said Slim Hawes gravely, “how d’ya stand on the plumb earth-shakin’ question of the hackamore versus the snaffle-bit, Miller? Gotta know that first off. Hey?”
    “Always used the hackamore in bustin’ raw broncs,” grinned Miller.
    “He ain’t no pilgrim!” someone guffawed.
    “Totes his weepens low, too, I bet!”
    “Gittin’ down to cases,” began a third voice, when Downs held up his hand.
    “Pull up,” he drawled. “Somethin’s wrong with Dan’l. Look sorta down in the mouth, Dan’l. Off yore feed?”
    “Do I?” sighed the little cowboy. “Ain’t no wonder, Shorty. Busted my Injun arrowhead this mornin’.” Silent fell at once; smiles faded; like children’s their eyes grew round. “Damn squealin’ palomino stepped on ’er. Bad med’cine, boys. Somethin’s primed to happen powerful quick!”
    “My Gawd,” breathed three of them in unison; and Downs with a swift look of concern fumbled for something beneath his shirt. Other hands dipped