The Desert Moon Mystery by Kay Cleaver Strahan

Canneziano did not come down for breakfast the following morning. I thought that a little strange, for meals were the one thing he had been real polite to ever since he had been on the Desert Moon.

As soon as breakfast was over, Miss MacDonald spoke to Sam and asked him, as she had asked him that first morning, if she might detain him. "You, also, Mrs. Magin," she smiled at me.

"I wonder," she said, as soon as we three were alone together, "if Mr. Canneziano could have given us the slip, last night?"

"Not likely, with ten of the boys all drawing wages for watching the place, and him in particular, is it? " Sam questioned.

"Not at all likely. Still. Will you go and see whether or not he is in his room, now, Mr. Stanley?"

Sam went. When he came back he had to drawl a lot more than usual to keep his voice steady. "His door is locked. He doesn't answer when I pound on it."

Miss MacDonald said, "I have an excellent pass key. Let's go up and try it."

Curiosity dragged me along with her and Sam, though every bone in my body protested.

Miss MacDonald's key unlocked the door. The three of us went into the room.

The blinds were tightly drawn. The electric fan was whirring and buzzing away in the gray gloom.

Miss MacDonald crossed the room, quickly, and snapped up the blinds. There was one long, hard, dusty shaft of yellow sunlight. Sam walked through it to the bed where Canneziano was lying, huddled up under the covers. I looked the other way.

I heard the rattle of Sam's pipe as it fell on the floor. I heard the rustle of Miss MacDonald's quick movement. I heard a queer, throaty note that she uttered. Something dragged my hot, aching eyes open. I looked toward the bed. I saw Canneziano's swollen, discolored face. I saw the deep yellow throat, with great brutal bruises at its base. The shaft of sunlight moved up and down, up and down, carving through the swaying blackness like a long sharp knife.

I felt Sam's strong hands on my shoulders, pressing me down into a chair. I heard myself saying, shrilly, over and over, "What are we going to do? What are we going to do?"

It was Miss MacDonald's voice, cold and clear as spring water that brought me to my senses. "We are going to find the murderer on the Desert Moon Ranch."

Sam said, "You're damn right we are. And we are going to have half a dozen he-men detectives on this place by to-morrow night."

"Very well," Miss MacDonald answered. "Will you telephone, at once, for the coroner, Mr. Stanley?"

"Hell! " Sam said.

I had my face covered; but there was a hollowness in that oath of Sam's that told me, plainer than any looking at him could have told me, that he was frightened; scared to the marrow of his bones.

It took Miss MacDonald, though, to understand the reason for his fear.

"Yes, Mr. Stanley," she said, "these men, when they come this time, in spite of their friendship for you, are not going to be as easily satisfied as they were last time. They were able to blink at one murder. They can't keep on blinking. They dare not-even in Nevada."