The Shadow of the Greenback Page #5

"The Shadow of the Greenback" by Robert Barr is a gripping detective novel that explores themes of crime, greed, and moral ambiguity. Set against the backdrop of a bustling financial landscape, the story follows a cunning detective who investigates a series of mysterious events linked to counterfeit currency and corruption. As he delves deeper, he uncovers a web of intrigue that challenges his understanding of justice and loyalty. With Barr's trademark wit and sharp storytelling, this novel offers a captivating blend of suspense and social commentary.

• Short story

								

lives, and there is no lie in that, as you know. Tell him you've fallen
in with my plans, and that we'll go over there and hold him up. Tell
him the only chance of catching me is by a trick. He's to open the door
of the place where the money is, and you're to shove me in and lock me
up. But when he opens the door I'll send a bullet through him, and you
and me will divide the money. Nobody will suspect you, for nobody'll
know you were there but the bank man, and he'll be dead. But if you
make one move except as I tell you the first bullet goes through you.
See?"

Mike's eyes opened wider and wider as the scheme was disclosed. "Lord,
what a head you have, Sam!" he said. "Why didn't you think of that
before? The bank manager is in Austin."

"What the blazes is he doing there?"

"He took the money with him to put it in the Austin Bank. He left the
day after you did, for he said the only chance you had, was to get that
money. You might have done this the night you left, but not since."

"That's straight, is it?" said Sam suspiciously.

"It's God's truth I'm speaking," asserted Mike earnestly. "You can find
that out for yourself in the morning. Nobody'll molest ye. Yer jus'
dead beat for want o' sleep, I can see that. Go upstairs and go to bed.
I'll keep watch, and not a soul'll know you're here."

Hickory Sam's shoulders sank when he heard the money was gone, and a
look of despair came into his half closed eyes. He sat thus for a few
moments unheeding the other's advice, then with an effort shook off his
lethargy.

"No," he said at last, "I won't go to bed. I'd like to enrich you,
Mike, but that would be too easy. Cut me off some slices of this cold
meat and put them between chunks of bread. I want a three days' supply,
and a bottle of whiskey."

Mike did as requested, and at Sam's orders attended to his horse. It
was still dark, but there was a suggestion of the coming day in the
eastern sky. Buller's horse was as jaded and as fagged out as its
rider. As Sam, stooping like an old man, rode away, Mike hurried to his
bedroom, noiselessly opened the window, and pointed at the back of the
dim retreating man a shot-gun, loaded with slugs. He could hardly have
missed killing both horse and man if he had had the courage to fire,
but his hand trembled, and the drops of perspiration stood on his brow.
He knew that if he missed this time, there would be no question in
Sam's mind about who fired the shot. Resting the gun on the ledge and
keeping his eye along the barrel, he had not the nerve to pull the
trigger. At last the retreating figure disappeared, and with it Mike's
chance of a fortune. He drew in the gun, and softly closed the window,
with a long quivering sigh of regret.

Sidney Buller went west from Detroit when he received the telegram that
announced his uncle's death and told him he was heir to the ranch. He
was thirty years younger than his uncle had been at the time of his
tragic death, and he bore a remarkable likeness to the old man; that
is, a likeness more than striking, when it was remembered that one had
lived all his life in a city, while the other had spent most of his
days on the plains. The young man had seen the Sheriff on his arrival,
expecting to find that active steps had been taken towards the arrest
of the murderer. The Sheriff assured him that nothing more effective
could be done than what had been done by the dead man himself in
leaving fifty thousand dollars to the killer of Hickory Sam. The
Sheriff had made no move himself, for he had been confidently expecting
every day to hear that Sam was shot.

Meanwhile, nothing had been heard or seen of the desperado since he
left Salt Lick on the back of the murdered man's horse. Sidney thought
this was rather a slipshod way of administering justice, but he said
nothing, and went back to his ranch. But if the Sheriff had been
indifferent, his own cowboys had been embarrassingly active. They had
deserted the ranch in a body, and were scouring the plains searching
for the murderer, making the mistake of going too far afield. They,
like Mike, had expected Sam would strike for the Bad Lands, and they
rode far and fast to intercept him. Whether they were actuated by a
desire to share the money, a liking for their old "boss," or hatred of
Hickory Sam himself, they themselves would have found it difficult to
tell. Anyhow, it was a man-chase, and their hunting instincts were
keen.

In the early morning Sidney Buller walked forth from the buildings of
the ranch and struck for the open prairie. The sun was up, but the
morning was still cool. Before he had gone far he saw, approaching the
ranch, a single riderless horse. As the animal came nearer and nearer
it whinnied on seeing him, and finally changed its course and came
directly toward him. Then he saw that there was a man on its back; a
man either dead or asleep. His hand hung down nerveless by the horse's
shoulder, and swung helplessly to and fro as the animal walked on; the
man's head rested on the horse's mane. The horse came up to Sidney,
thrusting its nose out to him, whinnying gently, as if it knew him.

"Hello?" cried Sidney, shaking the man by the shoulder, "what's the
matter? Are you hurt?"

Instantly the desperado was wide awake, sitting bolt upright, and
staring at Sidney with terrified recognition in his eyes. He raised his
right hand, but the pistol had evidently dropped from it when he,
overcome by fatigue, and drowsy after his enormous meal, had fallen
asleep. He flung himself off, keeping the animal between himself and
his supposed enemy, pulled the other revolver and fired at Sidney
across the plunging horse. Before he could fire again, Sidney, who was
an athlete, brought down the loaded head of his cane on the pistol
wrist of the ruffian, crying--

"Don't fire, you fool, I'm not going to hurt you!"

As the revolver fell to the ground Sam sprang savagely at the throat of
the young man, who, stepping back, struck his assailant a much heavier
blow than he intended. The leaden knob of the stick fell on Sam's
temple, and he dropped as if shot. Alarmed at the effect of his blow,
Sidney tore open the unconscious man's shirt, and tried to get him to
swallow some whiskey from the bottle he found in his pocket. Appalled
to find all his efforts unavailing, he sprang on the horse and rode to
the stables for help.

The foreman coming out, cried: "Good heavens, Mr. Buller, that's the
old man's horse. Where did you get him? Well, Jerry, old fellow," he
continued, patting the horse, who whinnied affectionately, "they've
been using you badly, and you've come home to be taken care of. Where
did you find him, Mr. Buller?"

"Out on the prairie, and I'm afraid I've killed the man who was riding
him. God knows, I didn't intend to, but he fired at me, and I hit
harder than I thought."
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