The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

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      THE MISTAKE

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      The little man of the olive skin who faded so successfully into the background of Sundown sat on a bench by the Palace and smoked his black paper cigarette puff at a time. He looked up to the large stars, thinking whatever sly and secretive thoughts his little head permitted; and he looked again to the dusty, lamp-patterned street and saw Steve Steers enter town. Very carefully the little man pinched out his smoke, crouched back, and waited. Steers went directly to the bank, tapped on the window, and was let in; five minutes later Steers came out, teetered between the restaurant and Grogan's, and succumbed to obvious temptation. The little man rose, crossed the street by a dark lane, and followed into the saloon, slouching against a wall. Steers was drinking. Beside him stood Al Niland, another citizen the little man found time to watch. The two were talking. The little man sidled forward.

      "Can't I drink?" Steve was asking Niland.

      "Don't baptize yourself in it again," warned Niland.

      Grogan leaned over the bar in his striped silk shirt sleeves. "As a personal favor to me, Steers, go light on the liquor and I'll supply it free."

      "It ain't worth the price, even gratis," observed Steve and won for himself a black regard. "Money in the bank. I wonder who gets it all?"

      "What money?" asked Niland.

      "I'm a regular Wells-Fargo messenger," muttered Steve mysteriously. "I brought a telegram today from the Junction to Storm. Code, accordin' to the station agent. Money comin' to the bank."

      "Don't spend any of it here," warned Grogan. "That last jamboree won't bear repeatin'. I took all I ever will from you. We'll consider the slate clean. But don't try it no more. Just accept the advice of a kindly spirit. What money was you talkin' about?"

      "Fatherly," grunted Steve. "You'd put a knife in me if yuh could, Grogan. I know. But don't worry. I didn't say it was my money, did I? It's the bank's, or will be when it comes Saturday."

      Niland found a dozen interested listeners roundabout. He jogged Steve's elbow. "You've got no right peddlin' the contents of private telegrams, Steve. That applies double to bank affairs. Don't you know? Hush up and come get a steak."

      "What's the harm?" Steve wanted to know. "Bank's a public institution. Money's common currency."

      "Just so," agreed Niland. "Sometimes too commonly current. Ever hear the story about the man that held up the stage? Listen, are you coming after that steak or do I bring it to you in a sling shot?"

      There was some friendly wrangling between them. The little man drank his glass down to the last neat drop, paid for it, and slid out of Grogan's just as inconspicuously as he had entered. On the street he paused to relight his black paper cigarette. Impulse, or perhaps a cautious desire to check what he heard, turned him toward the bank. Passing it he squinted through the window and saw Ed Storm locking up; a little farther on he drifted against Steve's horse and tentatively rubbed the animal's chest, feeling the crust of sweat and dirt. With these gleanings he drifted down an alley, skirted the back of the Palace and ascended upon Langdell's stairway. He listened, applied his eye to the keyhole, tapped discreetly. Langdell didn't call but the little man entered anyhow, with one swift and sliding motion.

      Langdell looked up from his desk. The little man murmured, "You want me, Colonel?"

      "No. Get out. I'm busy."

      "Thought you wanted me."

      Langdell straightened, slipped off his eyeshade and motioned the little man to stand farther from the windows. "Well, if you've got something let's hear it."

      "Why should I?" parried the little man and fastened a hungry glance on Langdell's bottle locker. It seemed to be a ceremony Langdell had to endure. He nodded his head and the little man indulged himself in a full glass. "But I do know somethin'," he added. "Steers is in town."

      "Not worth the drink," said Langdell. "I'd found it out myself soon enough."

      "Him and Niland has got their heads together at Grogan's."

      "What of it?"

      "Steers is publishin' the fact he carried a telegram to Ed Storm. Money bein' shipped in Saturday."

      "That telegram," grunted Langdell, "is always in code. How does he know? What right's he got to talk about it if he does know? Blabbin' is a fool caper. It's the bank's business."

      "I thought I'd tell."

      "Well, don't keep runnin' to me with stuff I can't use."

      "You don't want me to see Redmain pretty soon?" persisted the little man.

      "No," said Langdell. "Get out." He swung his chair back to the desk and bent his head. His pen made a flourish and stopped in the air; kicking the chair around again he stared at the little man who stood like a shadow in the corner. "What put that in your mind?" snapped Langdell.

      "What?"

      "Don't bluff. You know Redmain very well, don't you?"

      "Not bein' allowed to talk much," said the little man, "I use my eyes and ears considerable."

      "You think he'd try that?"

      "He's et raw meat and likes the taste of it," averred the little man. "He might try this, if he was told to. Mebbe would anyhow, told to or not."

      "You're too cursed wise," said Langdell, frowning. "You know too much."

      "If you want him to, I had better go see him. If you don't want him to, I better see him also. What am I to do?"

      Langdell rose and poured himself a drink; when he lifted his face a cold, sea-green light flashed against the lamp rays. "He's eaten too much raw meat to be of much use to me these days. I'll have to talk to him. Say nothing about the money. Tell him I'll be at the Fish Creek crossing Friday. He's to be there."

      "I thought СКАЧАТЬ