The taking of Cloudy McGee

by W. C. Tuttle Author of “On the Prod,” “The Sundown Prodigal,” etc.

It was easy to see that fate had been kind to Ferdinand P. Putney, because he was not in jail. In fact, he never had been in jail. But he was comparatively a young man yet. He was six feet three inches tall, would weigh about a hundred and forty, and wore a size eleven shoe.

His face was very long, his eyes pouched, rather inclined to redness, which gave him the mien of a very old and very wise bloodhound. His almost yellow hair grew without much opposition from the barber, and he wore a derby hat of a decided green tinge.

Ferdinand P. Putney was the lawyer of Lost Hills town. The folks of Lost Hills were not given to carrying their troubles to the law; so one lawyer was enough. Ferdinand had been many things in his forty years of life, but that has nothing to do with the fact that he had studied law--a little.

And there was another rather prominent man in Lost Hills, whose name was Amos K. Weed. Amos was the cashier of the Lost Hills bank, mate of his own soul, (Ferdinand P. Putney was the captain) and a bottle-drinker after working hours.

Amos was a scrawny individual, five feet six inches tall, with a high, wide forehead, pinched nose, beady eyes and long, slender fingers. His shoulders were slightly stooped and he shuffled when he walked. Amos’ life consisted mostly of looking up and down a column of figures.

But for many years Amos had dreamed of being a great criminal, a master mind; of smashing through things like a Springfield bullet. But his .22 caliber soul had held him back. Amos usually figured out a perfect crime, dreamed that he was about to be hung, and discarded the plan.

On this certain day Amos closed the bank at a few minutes after three o’clock. He carried his hat in his hand, and his breathing was slightly irregular. He fairly slunk away from the bank, shuffling his feet softly, as though afraid his departure might be heard.

He covered the half-block to Ferdinand P. Putney’s office in record time, and found the lawyer at his desk, tilted back in a chair, his big feet atop a pile of dusty books on the desk. Amos slammed the door behind him and stood there, panting heavily. Ferdinand shifted his gaze from the book, which he had been reading, and looked reprovingly upon Amos.

“Well?” queried Ferdinand softly.

“Well!” squeaked Amos. It is likely he intended to thunder, but Amos’ vocal cords were all of the E-string variety. He came closer to the lawyer, his Adam’s-apple doing a series of convulsive leaps, as though trying to break its bounds.

Ferdinand closed the book and waited expectantly for Amos to go further in his conversation, which he did as soon as he had calmed his jerking throat.

“Putney!” he squeaked. “We’re ruined!”

Ferdinand Putney slowly lowered his big feet, placed the book on the table and stood up.

“This?” he said huskily, “is terrible. Just how are we ruined, Amos?”

“They--they didn’t strike oil!”

“Oh!” Ferdinand stared at Amos.

“You mean--_you_ didn’t strike oil?”

“Us! You got me into it, Putney! You know darn well you did. You advised me to soak every cent I could get my hands onto in that Panhandle oil field. You did! You did! You did! You----”

Ferdinand got into the spirit of the chant and began beating time on the desk-top.

“And so you did, eh?” said Ferdinand. “How much, Amos?”

“Fuf--forty thousand dollars!”

“I didn’t know you had that much.”

“I--I didn’t!” Amos’ voice went so high it almost failed to register. Then he whispered, running back down the scale. “It was the bank money.”

“Mm-m-m-hah,” Ferdinand nodded slowly, wisely. “I’m going to have a hell of a time keeping you out of jail, Amos.”

“You’re as guilty as I am,” shrilled Amos.

Ferdinand shook his head. “No lawyer was ever put in jail for giving wrong advice, Amos. But I’ll do my best to defend you as soon as they put you in jail.”

“You--you wanted your cut out of it,” choked Amos. “That was the agreement. You hinted that I might take a few dollars from the bank. I bought a third interest in a well, and they never struck oil. I’ll tell ’em--the law--that you helped me; that you advised me to steal from the bank; that you--you----”

“If you keep on talking that way, Amos, I won’t defend you.”

“Defend me? You talk like I was already arrested.”

“It probably won’t be long, Amos. Are you sure they’ll miss it?”

“Miss it? There’s only ten thousand in the bank right now, and the bank examiner is due almost any day.”

“‘We are lost, the captain shouted, as he staggered down the stairs,’” quoted Ferdinand. “That’s worse than I anticipated, Amos. You have practically looted the organization, and the Lost Hills depositors are not the kind that----”

“I know that all by heart!” wailed Amos. “They’ll hang me.”

“But there is still ten thousand dollars in the bank,” mused Ferdinand. “Does Jim Eyton suspect you?”

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.

He was a living example of the fact that the Lost Hills Clarion was not a paying proposition. His sparse hair stood straight up in the breeze and in one bony hand he clutched a piece of paper.