Chapter X

57

STRANGE FISH

They've got a fuss started after all, Doc reflected. They weren't shouting insults at each other. They usually did. This row was going to be a quiet, bitter, polite affair, apparently. Doc snorted his exasperation. For years he had been trying to persuade Monk and Ham to get along together amiably.

DOC was sitting on the porch—it must have been an hour later—thinking about the mystery of the pretty WAC and the fighting fish, and getting nowhere, when one of the cowboys came striding up.

“Somebody coming,” the cowhand reported. “One guy. In a taxicab. Tulsa cab.”

Doc listened, heard no sound of a car, and asked, “Where?”

“About five miles down the road by now, I reckon.”

“How,” Doc demanded, “did you find this out?”

The cowboy chuckled. “Oh, we fixed up a little flashlight code. Little Toe Jackson and me used to be Boy Scouts, and we still remember the Morse code. So Little Toe went to watch the road to town, figuring the Sheriff would come that way if he came back unexpectedly.”

“This isn't the sheriff?”

“No. This is a stranger.” The cowboy frowned at Doc. “What you going to do, stick around?”

Doc was undecided what he should do. “I'll stick around,” he said. “But I'll stay out of sight.” He went in to arouse Monk and Ham. Both of them were asleep. Ham was making mumbling noises, angry ones. He awakened, and all three of them stood inside an open window and waited. They could hear the car now. Monk aroused Paris Stevens.

The cab arrived shortly, a black shape chasing its own headlight glare. They saw a dark figure alight, and stand beside the front door, evidently paying off the cab. The taxi then left. The figure came toward the ranch house.

“Hello, there,” he called. “Anybody home?”

The cowboy said, “Who're you?”

“Is this the Stevens ranch?”

“Yeah.”

“Is Paris here?”

“Who are you?” repeated the cowboy.

“Listen, fellow, I asked you a question,” the newcomer said sharply. “Answer it!”

The cowhand wasn't impressed.

“Nuts to you, city slicker,” he said.