W. C. Tuttle

“ The man I seen you standing outside my window with last night. The man you were talking to, darn you! Cloudy McGee!”
“The bank examiner!” exploded Amos. “He—he said he was.”
“He is,” said the sheriff. “He’s examined a lot of ’em.”
The real bank examiner and the marshal walked outside, halting on the edge of the sidewalk, where they grinned at each other.
“You ought to take something for that cold,” said the examiner. “The first thing you know you’ll be having pneumonia.”
“Dod be.” The officer shook his head. “You can’t scare be do more. All by life I’be been scared of pneumonia. ”

“ Cloudy McGee nodded indifferently, and Amos mentally decided that the killing of an editor was merely an incident in the life of such a man as Cloudy McGee.
“You are a man of action,” said Putney, looking upon McGee with considerable favor. “What would you do for a thousand dollars?”
McGee grinned. “All depends.”
“I’m going to lay my cards on the table,” said Putney. “A man of your caliber appreciates honesty.”
“Such is my reputation,” nodded McGee.
“All right.” Putney stretched out his legs and squinted at Amos, who was not at ease. “Our friend here, is cashier of the Lost Hills bank. ”

“ Eyton was the president of the bank, a big, bluff sort of a person, who trusted Amos implicitly.
“Not yet,” moaned Amos.
“Hm-m-m-m,” said Ferdinand judiciously. He rested his head on one hand, thinking deeply.
And as he racked his brain for a solution out of the difficulty, a man came down the wooden sidewalk, bareheaded, his sleeves rolled to his elbow. It was Miles Rooney, the editor of the Lost Hills Clarion, a weekly effort, seven-eighths syndicate matter and one-eighth sarcastic editorial. ”

“ You might make him a gambling proposition, Rooney.”
“Bet him that he can’t hit me three times out of four eh?” retorted Rooney, as he picked up his letter and went away. Putney knitted his brows, as in deep thought, while Amos Weed gnawed a finger-nail. Suddenly the lawyer got an inspiration. He leaned across the desk so suddenly that Amos almost bit his entire nail off.
“Watch for McGee!” snapped Putney. “You’re in a bad fix, Amos. You might as well die for a goat as a lamb. You say there is ten thousand dollars left in the bank—in cash. All right. What do I get for my scheme?” ”

“ I took your advice once—and lost.”
“This is a cinch,” assured Putney. “Just let me get at McGee.”
Twenty miles south of Lost Hills was the town of Salt Wells, from which place a stage line ran to Lost Hills. In a dingy little room at Salt Wells’ only hotel, two men sat at a table playing poker. It was early in the evening, and both men were too interested in the game to light a lamp.
One man was tall and lean, with deep-set eyes and a long, damp-looking nose. He breathed through his mouth, and regularly he wiped a long, gnarled finger across his nose, in lieu of a handkerchief. ”

“ Amos fell back in his chair, the world reeling around him. He opened his eyes. The stranger with the cold had crouched back against the wall, a gun in his hand, as Cloudy McGee came in through the doorway. Slim Caldwell, the deputy sheriff, was running across the street, almost to the door, when the stranger behind it flung up his gun, covering McGee. ”

“ Amos was coming toward them, holding out the telegram.
“I’ll deed it to the bank,” he quavered. “It’s a gusher, and they’re worth more than fifty thousand dollars. Just so they don’t hang me, I’ll agree to anything.”
The bank examiner shook his head. “That’s between you and the bank officials, you cheap little crook.”
“Cheap?” muttered Ferdinand P. Putney. “That man must deal in big money, if he calls a fifty-thousand steal cheap.”
The bank examiner took a roll of bills from his pocket and handed them to the sheriff. ”

“ If the sheriff does kill Cloudy McGee, he won’t squeal on us, Putney.”
“He better not,” grinned Putney. “But the deal ain’t all finished, Amos. You go down to the bank and take out every cent of that ten thousand dollars. Nobody is goin’ to wonder if you go in there this time of night, because you often work late.” ”

“ Rooney. “But when Cloudy McGee meets me, will he wait long enough to let me do it? The man has a terrible reputation. Why, there’s a thousand dollars reward for him. Will a man of his type be satisfied with an apology?” ”

“ I’ve tried id all.” He shivered, and poured out another drink.
“Had it long?”
“Nod this wod. Sobe day I’ll ged pneumodia and die—dab id.”
“A feller don’t last long when he gets that,” declared the bartender hollowly. ”