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Title: Henry goes prehistoric
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Illustrator: Kuhlhoff
Release date: January 22, 2025 [eBook #75176]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Short Stories, Inc, 1948
Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HENRY GOES PREHISTORIC ***
HENRY GOES PREHISTORIC
By W. C. Tuttle
The Sheriff of Tonto City Could Expect Anything to Come
Out of the Night in Wild Horse Valley--Even an Idea
“Judge” Van Treece was mad; so mad that he deliberately threw his
beloved, and badly dog-eared copy of Shakespeare, across the office,
where it fluttered to the floor, like a wounded duck. He didn’t even
look at the poor thing, as he sat, tilted back in an old chair, his high
heels hooked around a rung of his chair, which brought his bony,
overall-clad knees, almost up to his chin. Judge had the features of a
tragedian, and just now he glared his hate at nobody in particular.
Henry Harrison Conroy, the sheriff of Tonto City, got up from his
creaking desk chair, retrieved the dog-eared copy and placed it on his
desk. While Judge was inches over six feet in height, and as skinny as a
sand-hill crane, Henry Harrison Conroy was barely five feet, seven
inches in his high-heel boots. However, Henry was fashioned after the
specifications of the well-known Humpty Dumpty. Henry had very little
hair, a face like a full moon, small eyes and the biggest nose that ever
gleamed above the footlights in vaudeville. That nose had been known
from one end of most vaudeville chains to the other, featured, in fact.
He looked quizzically at Judge, as he sat down.
“After all, Judge,” he said, “you can not blame William Shakespeare.”
“I have,” declared Judge hollowly, looking straight ahead, “a notion of
resigning. I still have my pride, sir. My body may belong to Wild Horse
Valley, but my soul is still my own.”
“Ah, yes--pride and soul; resignation--no!” mumbled Henry. “No, that is
not the solution, Judge. There must be some other way to handle the
situation. We’ll fight this out to the bitter end.”
“So you think there will be a bitter end, Henry?”
“Let us look calmly upon the matter at hand,” suggested Henry. “I must
admit that those Commissioners are irksome. They did decry our lack of
ability in coping with the crime wave, which seems to be washing upon
our shores. It is very unfortunate that recent gold strikes have filled
Tonto City to overflowing with some damnable riff-raff, which always
drifts in with new gold strikes, like buzzards after a dead animal. Our
once-peaceful pueblo of Tonto is filled with covetous folk, who work
not, neither do they spin. And we, you and I, Judge, are the Keepers of
the Peace--such as it is.”
“Keepers of the Peace,” repeated Judge. “I like that, sir. But that is
not what the _Clarion_ called us. Isn’t bad enough to read such
damnable, scurrilous, infamous--er--”
“Enlightening,” suggested Henry calmly.
“Well,” sighed Judge, “I was about to indicate that I did not relish the
reading of the editorial by the Commissioners. Damme, they didn’t have
to read it aloud to us! We had read it. It is deplorable that a
chuckleheaded nincompoop like James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly can
influence public opinion. He suggests that we resign at once. And damme,
that Board of Commissioners agreed with him. In fact, they--well, were
you going to say something?”
“No,” replied Henry calmly, “I merely opened my mouth for air.”
“Well, do you not resent the attitude of the three Commissioners, Henry?
Are you a man or a mouse, sir?”
“Biology,” sighed Henry, “is in my favor; I have but two legs.”
“Will you please hand me that book?” asked Judge. “I hate to ask it, but
my damn legs are so cramped that I would never be able to regain this
position again. Thank you, sir--you are kind.”
* * * * *
Judging from appearances there was little wonder that the Scorpion Bend
_Clarion_ called these two men, plus Oscar Johnson, their jailer, the
Shame of Arizona. Oscar was a giant Swede of tremendous strength, but
low IQ.
When vaudeville waned and faded from American stages, Henry Harrison
Conroy, like thousands of other vaudevillians, was out of work. An
uncle, whom he had never heard about before, died in Wild Horse Valley,
leaving Henry as sole owner of the JHC cattle ranch. Henry knew nothing
about the cattle country, but he accepted his inheritance, came to Tonto
City, wearing tailored clothes, spats, pearl-colored derby hat, and
twirling a gold-headed cane.
Arizona loved Henry at once. His courtly manner, sense of ridiculous
humor, and enormous thirst intrigued them. He took over the JHC, much to
their delight, and really went Arizona himself. Shortly after he became
acclimated an election came along, and, as a good joke, the cowboys got
together and wrote Henry’s name on their ballots. The next morning he
found that he was sheriff of Wild Horse County. A cowboy summed it up in
his statement that, “We’ve shore played a joke on this county.”
Henry saw the humor of the situation clearly. In Tonto City lived Judge
Van Treece, who had never been a judge, but a really fine attorney,
until an insatiable thirst made him a derelict. Henry, as a humorous
gesture, and also because he liked Judge, appointed Judge as his deputy.
And as an extra gesture, he appointed Oscar Johnson, a horse-wrangler,
as jailer. It completed as queer a trio of peace officers as any county
ever had. Men laughed and made fun of them, but, as a matter of fact,
they had managed to keep crime at a rather low ebb in Wild Horse Valley,
until now, when things were getting out of hand, due to an influx of
rather unsavory characters, lured by new gold strikes.
Judge had barely settled in his chair, thumbing the pages of his old
book, when John Campbell, the big, prosecuting attorney came in.
Campbell had been present with the Commissioners, when Henry and his
staff had been severely taken to task.
“One gloat out of you, John, and I shall cram this copy of the Bard of
Avon down your gullet,” declared Judge soberly.
John Campbell laughed shortly. “I don’t blame you, Judge. No, I came not
to gloat, gentlemen.”
“To bury Caesar?” queried Henry quietly.
“No, Henry. I talked with those men after we left here. They are merely
barking, not biting--as yet. As a matter of fact, Henry, this Mr. Thomas
Akers, the gentleman from Scorpion Bend, has an axe to grind. He is
stumping for his cousin, Pete Gonyer. If you can be induced to resign,
or if he can talk the others into forcing you out of office for cause,
he hopes to have Pete Gonyer appointed as sheriff of Wild Horse Valley.”
“That broken-nosed high-pockets!” snorted Judge. “Why, that--”
“So Pete Gonyer, owner of the Circle G, is a cousin of our esteemed
Commissioner from Scorpion Bend, eh?” remarked Henry. “Now I see the
light. And Mr. Thomas Akers is a friend of James Wadsworth Longfellow
Pelly, ye editor of ye _Clarion_.”
“In fact,” added Campbell, “Mr. Akers rents the _Clarion_ building to
Mr. Pelly.”
“Astoundingly simple,” snorted Judge. “Back-scratching!”
John Campbell laughed. “All you have to do now, Henry,” he said, “is to
put a halt to all this high-grading and gold stealing in Wild Horse
Valley. Personally, I don’t envy you the job.”
John Campbell went back up the street, leaving Henry and Judge, looking
at each other. A team and vehicle drew up in front of the office, and
two men got out. One of them was of featherweight size, with a
murderous-looking mustache, bow-legs--and a gallon jug. The other was
tall and thin, tired-eyed, buck-teeth and inquiring eyebrows. The
smaller one was Frijole Bill Cullison, the cook at Henry’s JHC ranch,
and the other was Slim Pickins, Henry’s lone cowpoke.
* * * * *
They went slowly into the office, with Frijole in the lead, carrying the
jug in front of him in both hands, like a man bearing a valuable
gift--or something dangerous. Both Henry and Judge turned quickly,
looking at the procession, which came to a halt in front of the desk,
where Frijole carefully set the jug. Then they both backed away and
stood at attention.
“Damnable mumbo-jumbo!” snorted Judge.
Frijole winced. “Don’t say that, Judge,” he pleaded. “You are now in the
presence of the finest batch ever made. Twelve hours of age, and as
prime as anythin’ that ever come out of a pot. That, gentlemen, is m’
masterpiece. Put yore ear agin that jug, and yuh can hear her hum, like
a wire in the wind.”
Slim just stood there, grinning foolishly, eyebrows arched.
“Well done, thou good and faithful servant. What is in it this time?”
Henry asked quietly.
“The soul of a great distiller,” replied Frijole gravely. “M’ life’s
work is done. If the world knew what I know--”
“We would all be half-witted,” added Judge soberly.
The jug looked innocent enough. Henry touched it with his finger.
Frijole said, “Slim, you tell ’em what happened to Bill Shakespeare.”
“Have done!” exclaimed Judge. “Not that, Frijole. I can swallow your
prune whiskey, but not the fantastic tales of that damnable rooster. I
do not believe a word of it--even from Slim.”
“I cain’t tell it,” whispered Slim. “You go ahead, Frijole.”
“The two biggest liars in Arizona,” sighed Judge.
“I believe,” stated Henry soberly. “Go ahead, Frijole.”
“Well, this ain’t no lie,” declared Frijole. “I seen it with m’ own
eyes. Yuh see, Henry, I’ve been ’sperimentin’ on a new mash. I fermented
some maguey, like they make tequila, mixed it with some spuds, and a
batch of Indian corn.”
“Don’t leave out the horse liniment,” suggested Judge.
“No, I didn’t, Judge. When that batch of mash got to the whistlin’
point, I put in the liniment and then I--”
“No one is interested in a recipe,” interrupted Judge. “Get down to the
distorted facts.”
Frijole grinned slowly. “Well, yeah--I shouldn’t expose my formula. I
won’t tell yuh how me and Slim had that mash in a keg, with a anvil on
top of it, and it blowed the anvil plumb through the kitchen roof, and
when it hit--” Frijole whispered huskily, “that anvil was shrunk to the
size of a tack-hammer. I won’t tell that part of it, ’cause it’s hard to
believe. Anyway, you know how fond Bill Shakespeare, the rooster, is of
mash. I was so scared of him a-gettin’ this mash and killin’ himself
that I put it in a sack and hung it in a tree, aimin’ to dry it out and
burn it. But do you know what happened? It leaked--and there was Bill,
settin’ on his hind-end under the tree, bill open, drinkin’ in the
drippin’s.
“By the time I seen him, Bill was swelled up like a balloon. His crop
was plumb filled with mash-drippin’s, and he was as loaded as a
lumber-jack on pay-day. He staggered away from the sack, with joy in his
soul and rubber in his legs. The hens all kept away from Bill--them
a-settin’ on the corral fence in executive session, while Bill goes
lookin’ for what he may devour.
“Well, sir, there’s a old diamond-back, which lives in the day-wash, and
I suspect he’s livin’ partly off baby chickens. He’s a old sockdolager,
with about twenty rattles. Bill finds him out in the weeds behind the
little chicken house, and the first thing I know, here’s that big
rattler, all cocked and primed, buzzin’ his tail, a-warnin’ Bill
Shakespeare to stay back.
“I know that Bill don’t like that rattler, but he ain’t never been able
to figure out jist how to whip the crippled crawler. I just says to
m’self, ‘Bill, yo’re a goner this time, if yuh don’t back-track real
pronto.’ But Bill don’t back-track. He staggers in close, and that
dog-gone rattler hits him square in the crop. Then he rears back and
socks poor old Bill another. I kinda shut m’ eyes and turns away. I--I
love that old featherless son-of-a-gun.” Frijole choked a little.
Henry was leaning across the desk. “So Bill died, eh?” he said.
“Nossir,” replied Frijole, “he didn’t. Bill walked away, kinda
proud-like and went down to the corral--and yuh don’t have to believe
me, Henry, but a few moments later that big rattler went into
convulsions, and died on the spot.”
“Slim!” exclaimed Judge sharply. Slim jerked convulsively.
“Slim, did you see all this?” asked Judge.
“No, I didn’t exactly see it, Judge,” replied Slim soberly. “Yuh see, I
was out in the blacksmith shop, tryin’ to make a couple new iron lids
for the cook-stove. When we was makin’ this mash, it kinda boiled over
on the stove and et up two lids, jist like a Piute eats hotcakes. Why, I
jist got in the steam of that batch, and it et all the rivets out of m’
overalls.”
Henry put one hand on the jug and shut his eyes. “I can see it all,” he
said soberly. “A wonderful tale--and well told, Frijole. Thanks to you,
Slim, for the additions. Judge, if you will be kind enough to procure
the cups--”
The testing of a new batch of Frijole’s distillation was a ceremony.
They drank from tin cups which held almost a half-pint. Sometimes Henry
or Judge offered a toast, but usually they merely nodded to each other,
held the cups high, and drank swiftly. This was no liquor to be sipped.
For several moments after the drink no one spoke. In fact, it was a
physical impossibility. Slim’s whisper came first--“Don’t anybody light
a match!”
Gradually as they recovered speech and action, Henry said, “That is
proof positive, gentlemen.”
“What does it prove?” husked Judge.
“It proves the story of Bill Shakespeare and the snake, sir.”
“And I,” said Judge soberly, “feel sorry for the snake.”
“And why, may I ask, sir?”
“For wasting its efforts. One strike would have been enough.”
* * * * *
Rumors of new, rich strikes were common in Tonto City, most of them were
false, but a man brought a story of a rich strike to the sheriff’s
office. Old Ben Todd, a veteran prospector of Wild Horse Valley, had
struck a bonanza. He was spending raw gold in the saloons; not the
washed nuggets of a placer mine, but chunks of gold from a quartz vein.
Henry tried to find Old Ben. He liked the eccentric old-timer, and had
done favors for him. Not that Henry wanted any part of Old Ben’s find,
but did consider that the old man might need protection.
However, he was unable to locate Ben. He talked with a bartender in the
King’s Castle Saloon, who had seen Ben’s gold, and the bartender said it
was true. Old Ben had his pockets full of the stuff, and was drinking
heavily.
The Yellow Warrior mine had been the hardest hit by thieves. It was the
oldest mine in the valley, and had been once virtually abandoned as
through, but a small syndicate of eastern men had purchased it and
struck a new vein, which was so rich that high-graders had managed to
steal the bulk of the output. Not only had they swiped the jewelry-ore
piecemeal, but had broken in and got away with twelve sacks of selected
stuff, ready to ship.
An organized bandit gang had made it difficult to send gold or payrolls
over the regular channels, and the sheriff’s office had not been able to
cope with all the various crimes against the law. Bob Stickler, manager
of the Yellow Warrior, was one of the leading agitators against the
present regime of Henry Harrison Conroy. Stickler wanted protection--not
a comedy trio.
The Three Partners and the Smoke Tree mine were not complaining
vociferously. They had little high-grade stuff to steal, but they were
concerned over the robbery of the Yellow Warrior payroll.
The Yellow Warrior syndicate had also purchased the King’s Castle
Saloon, which was being operated by Mack Greer, a newcomer to Tonto
City. Henry sighed over the changes in Tonto. He told Judge, “When a man
complains about changes in his community, he must be getting old.”
“You are,” nodded Judge soberly.
“I am not!” Henry was emphatic, and added quietly, “I love peace and
quiet. This damnable town clatters like a tin-pan shivaree for
twenty-four hours, on end. Let us go out to the ranch and put our feet
on the porch-railing, Judge. I would enjoy the song of a little bird.”
They were an incongruous couple on horseback. Judge rode a short-coupled
roan, and his long feet almost reached the ground, while Henry perched
high on a leggy sorrel, his legs reaching only to the middle of the
lanky animal. Judge hated a saddle. In fact, he rarely used the
stirrups, preferring to let his legs dangle loosely, and instead of the
high-heel boots he wore what was known as Congress-gaiters, well-worn
and the elastic sides gaping.
* * * * *
Oscar Johnson was left in charge. The giant Swede, who dwarfed that
little office, nodded solemnly when Henry said they were going to the
ranch.
“Ay vill run it, Hanry,” he said, “and Ay hope Tames Vadsworth
Longfeller Telly comes ha’ar. Ay have bone to pick vit him.”
“What bone is that, Oscar?” asked Henry.
“His,” replied Oscar blandly.
There was nothing ornate about the JHC ranchhouse. The old frame house
tilted west, while the front porch tilted east, and the railing around
the porch sagged to the north. Frijole had a mulligan stew on the stove,
and more of his devil’s brew in a jug.
Thunder and Lightning Mendoza, two of Henry’s general helpers, sprawled
on the shady side of the house. “Henry don’t need those two any more
than he needs shoe-laces for a boot,” Judge had said.
“I love every bit of ivory in their unused heads,” declared Henry. “They
amuse me.”
Henry looked them over soberly. He loved to question them as to just
what they had done for the past week. Lightning seemed to be the more
intelligent of the two.
“Oh, we feex the corral,” he said expansively. “Put out ol’ fence-pos’,
leave een a new ones. Cut leetle wood. Ver’ busy pippil.”
“Sure,” agreed Thunder. “Ver’ nice jobs--I theenk. You know Profeezil?”
Henry scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Profeezil?” he asked.
“Sure,” grinned Lightning. “Profeezil. Got the long leg, glass on hees
eye.”
“Aw, he means Professor Fossil,” informed Slim Pickins.
“Sure,” grinned Thunder. “We see heem.”
“He came past here a while ago,” said Slim, “packin’ a short pick and a
sack of rocks.”
“Oh, yes,” murmured Henry. “Professor Fossil.”
His right name was Charles Winston Norbert, Archaeologist. He was tall,
thin and slightly stooped, possibly from carrying rock specimens. He had
been in Wild Horse Valley for weeks, and had taken up his temporary
abode at the Circle G ranch, from where he sampled the country. Even
Pete Gonyer considered the man slightly touched in the head. Nearly
every day he brought in a sack of samples, which he studied carefully,
making voluminous notes in his book.
“Except for eddication,” declared Frijole, “he’d make a first-class
shepherd. He’s got the legs for it.”
“_Mucho loco_,” declared Lightning. “Rock too damn h’avy.”
“Ver’ seely pippil,” added Thunder. “He theenk feesh leeve on rock.”
“Fossil fish,” explained Henry.
“Sure--weeth a peek--not weeth a hooks,” said Lightning.
“I think it is about time to surrender,” sighed Judge.
* * * * *
They were in bed that night, when Oscar Johnson came out there, knocking
so hard on the front door that the whole house shook. Frijole opened the
door, and said Oscar, “Val, hallo dere, Freeholey. Ay yust come out.”
“That’s what I thought, when I heard yuh knock. What’s wrong? Have the
Norwegians taken Tonto City?”
“Norvegians! Ay can lick any Norvegian Ay ever--oh, hallo, Hanry!”
Henry had stepped from his room, clad only in his full-length underwear,
which had been made full-length for a full-length man. Henry was one
succession of wrinkles.
“What is wrong, Oscar?” he asked.
“Oh, Ay forgot,” said Oscar, “Ol’ Ben Todd is dead.”
Henry paddled out a little closer. “Ben Todd?” he asked. “You mean to
say that Ben Todd is dead?”
“Ay have de opinion of Doctor Bogart”
“What killed him?”
“Buckshot--t’rough a vindow.”
“My goodness! Judge! Oh, Judge! Frijole, saddle our horses! Judge! Wake
up! We have a murder!”
Judge mumbled something about not being a Recording Angel, as he
struggled into his clothes. Frijole had gone to saddle their two horses.
“Ben Todd vars in his little shack,” said Oscar, “and somebody shoots
bockshot t’rough de vindow at him. Ay t’ink he vars dronk, but yust de
same, he died.”
“That’s queer!” declared Henry, struggling with his boots.
“Nothing queer about murder,” said Judge. “Sordid, I’d say.”
“Possibly, Judge. But why kill Old Ben? He was--oh, I forgot about the
new strike they say he made!”
“He vars spending gold,” said Oscar.
“Ay saw it.”
“Chunks of raw gold,” remarked Judge. “I saw some of it. Crushed out of
gray quartz. And now he’s dead.”
“You have your shoes on the wrong feet, Judge,” said Henry.
“It might change our luck,” said Judge. “Let ’em stay.”
* * * * *
The body of the old prospector had not been moved. Doctor Bogart, the
coroner, was waiting for them. Ben Todd had a little, old shack a short
distance off the main street, where he batched, when in town. A load of
buckshot had blown out one of the windows, and Ben Todd was sprawled on
his bed. Evidently he had been killed, just as he was about to retire.
His pockets still held several chunks of gold, possibly worth twenty
dollars, but he had no money. On a shelf was an old, tin tobacco box, in
which were some odds and ends, and in it was a folded paper. Henry
unfolded it on the table. It was Ben Todd’s will, written in an inky
sprawl, and said:
I hereby give every thing I own to Violet La Verne because
she grub-staked me. I ain’t got no relatives.
--Ben Todd.
“Violet La Verne?” queried Doctor Bogart.
“One of the King’s Castle damsels,” said Henry grimly. “You know her,
Judge.”
“Why me?” asked Judge testily. “Everybody knows her.”
“So she staked Ben Todd,” muttered Henry.
“The will isn’t dated,” remarked the doctor.
“No, that is true, Doc--but, still, it is a will.”
“And Ben Todd was murdered,” pointed out Judge. “Just one more incentive
for a _Clarion_ editorial.”
“I read that last one,” said the doctor. “Something should be done to
muzzle Mr. Pelly. We better get some help to move the body. You take
charge of that will, Henry.”
“Probably worthless,” said Judge. “He had nothing to leave.”
“You forget his rich strike,” said Henry. “He may have plenty.”
“Yes, I forgot,” admitted Judge. “At least he had enough to get himself
blasted off this mortal coil--or presumed to have.”
There was no use going back to the ranch, so they went up to their room
at the Tonto Hotel. It was miserably hot up there. Judge kicked off his
gaiters, flung his hat in a corner and sat down, a miserable specimen of
the genus _homo_.
Henry said nothing, sitting there on the edge of the bed, deep in
thought. Judge got up slowly and went over to a small closet, where he
picked up a jug and shook it carefully. Henry said slowly:
“‘And lately, by the tavern door agape,
Came shining through the dusk an Angel
Shape bearing a vessel on his shoulder;
And he bid me taste of it; and ’twas the Grape.’”
“Omar,” said Judge, “had the right idea, but in our case it was
prune-juice and horse liniment. Have a small portion, sir.”
“About three inches in a bath-tub,” nodded Henry soberly.
* * * * *
Tonto City was not greatly perturbed over the murder of Old Ben Todd.
Henry gave the will to John Campbell, the prosecutor, who said that if
Ben left anything of value it must be given to Violet La Verne. Henry
went to the county recorder’s office and looked over the records, but
Ben Todd had not recorded a mining claim for over a year.
* * * * *
Later in the day he found the girl in the honkatonk at the King’s
Castle, and sat down with her. Violet had little resemblance to her
namesake. She was of undeterminate age, blonde, by choice, with dark
roots showing.
“Did you call me over to buy me a drink?” she asked curiously.
“I have no objections, my dear,” said Henry soberly, “but alcohol was
not my main reason. You knew Old Ben Todd, I believe.”
“Yes. I grub-staked him. Gave him fifty dollars. He said he’d cut me in
on any strike he made.”
“You knew he was killed last night, did you not?”
Her eyes narrowed a little. “I heard he was,” she nodded.
“It is true, my dear--he was murdered. But evidently Ben Todd was as
good as his word--he--that is, you are his sole heir. He wrote a will,
in which you get everything he had.”
“He did, eh?” Violet leaned across the table. “What?”
“Who knows? I understand that he made a rich strike.”
“He was throwing money around. That is, he was throwing gold. It must
have been a rich strike--don’t you think?”
“Didn’t he tell you where it was?” asked Henry.
Violet shook her head. “He didn’t tell me anything. But if he made a
strike, he must have--I don’t know what you call it--”
“Recorded it?” asked Henry, and she nodded quickly.
“That’s what I meant,” she said. “He must have done that.”
“Unfortunately--no,” said Henry quietly. “I examined the record book,
and Ben Todd did not record his location notice--if he ever made one
out. My dear lady, I’m afraid that it will go down in history as the
Lost Todd mine, along with many more.”
Violet La Verne looked bleakly at Henry.
“Then I don’t get anything for my fifty bucks, eh?”
“The clothes he had on, a pocket-knife, a six-shooter, very old and very
battered, a mule--I believe. I’m not sure of the mule--but who is? Oh,
yes, about twenty .45 caliber cartridges, somewhat corroded. I believe
that covers his assets.”
Violet La Verne got up from the table. “What about that drink?” said
Henry.
But Violet La Verne walked away, not even looking back. Mack Greer, the
new manager of the place, came over and sat on the edge of the table.
Greer was rather handsome, tall, slender.
“What about Ben Todd? I heard he was murdered,” he remarked.
Henry nodded thoughtfully. “That is true, Mr. Greer. You see, he left
his entire estate to Violet La Verne.”
“Yea-a-a-ah?” whispered the gambler. “That’s fine. I heard that she
grub-staked him.”
“It mentioned that in the will.”
“It did, eh? Well, he had plenty of raw gold, and he said there was
plenty more where that came from.”
“It must have been rich,” said Henry, “if all the tales are true. He had
only a few nuggets left, and no money.”
“That grub-stake was a lucky hunch for Violet,” said Greer.
“That’s what she thought,” said Henry.
“What do you mean, Sheriff--thought?”
“Yuh see, Mr. Greer,” explained Henry carefully, “Ben Todd forgot to
record his claim. There isn’t even a location notice to prove that he
ever located a gold claim.”
The gambler looked keenly at Henry. “You mean--he never put his claim on
record at all; that nobody knows where it is located?”
“That seems to be a fact, sir. Unless Ben Todd imparted the knowledge
verbally to someone--the secret died with him. That man with the shotgun
was premature.”
“It would seem so,” agreed Greer.
* * * * *
Henry was crossing the street to his office, when he saw two men just
entering the place. Henry groaned quietly. One of the men was Thomas
Akers, merchant of Scorpion Bend, and a member of the Board of
Commissioners, while the other was James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly,
editor of the Scorpion Bend _Clarion_, and the pet obsession of the
sheriff’s office. Judge and Oscar were both in the office.
Henry came up to the doorway as quietly as possible, and heard Judge
say:
“We are not allowed to announce the name of the murderer of Ben Todd,
until Sheriff Conroy gives his permission, sir.”
“You mean--you--er--know?” asked Pelly in a whisper.
“Ay know von t’ing--” rumbled Oscar’s voice, and the creak of a chair
indicated that the giant Swede was getting up.
Henry had started to enter the office, when a flying Pelly hit him
squarely in the middle. Pelly was more or less of a lightweight, but
with a distinct muzzle-velocity. He caromed off the bosom of Henry
Harrison Conroy, landed on the seat of his pants, from where he turned
over twice and sprawled flat on his back in the dusty street.
Henry was knocked speechless for the moment. Thomas Akers came out
swiftly, skidded a heel on the threshold, and came down to a sitting
position with rather a dull thud. It knocked his hat down over his eyes,
and he just sat there, wheezing audibly. It was all rather embarrassing.
Judge and Oscar came to the doorway. Judge had tears in his eyes, but
they were not from sympathy.
“All Ay done vars get up,” declared Oscar stolidly.
James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly sat up in the dust, looking dazedly
around, until his eyes centered on Thomas Akers. Then he said
accusingly, “I told you it wouldn’t do any good.”
Akers got up, too. He braced one hand against a side of the doorway and
felt behind him, his hat still over his eyes. Then he took off his hat,
fanned himself a little and stared at J. W. L. Pelly, who was trying to
brush off the dust.
“Gentlemen,” said Henry huskily, “I believe I am entitled to an
explanation.”
“A what?” husked Pelly. “Explanation of what?”
“Of your attack on me, sir. Do not deny it! I start to enter my own
office, and you fly at me--actually fly, sir! You are not satisfied with
slanderous attacks on me in your filthy newspaper--you attack me
physically. And you, Mr. Akers! Why did you jump up and down in the
doorway of my office, blocking me from entering? Damnable discourteous,
to say the least.”
Thomas Akers opened and shut his mouth several times, but no explanation
came forth. He seemed in pain.
“As I told you before, it didn’t do any good, Mr. Akers,” Pelly said.
After Pelly delivered his “I told you so,” he started back up the
street, flexing his knees, like a place-kicker getting ready to boot a
football. After a moment of indecision, Mr. Akers followed him.
Henry stepped into the office, leaned against his desk and gave way to
his emotions. Judge sat down, bent over as though in prayer, and groaned
painfully, “I--I can’t stand it! As long as I live, I shall never forget
what I just witnessed.”
Henry managed to fall into his deskchair, his moon-like face glistening
with tears.
“Ay vill be dorned! Did somet’ng go wrong, Hanry,” said Oscar Johnson
soberly.
“Something,” choked Henry, “went just right, Oscar.”
“Das is gude,” said Oscar. “Ay vill get de yug.”
They had finished their drink, when John Campbell came in. The big,
good-natured prosecutor, looked at the tin-cups and smiled but shook his
head. He had experienced a drink of Frijole’s brew, and wanted none of
it.
“I just came up from Doctor Bogart’s place, where Mr. Akers and Mr.
Pelly were consulting medical science,” he said.
“O-o-o-oh!” said the surprised Henry. “And what ails them?”
“That seems problematical, Henry,” laughed the lawyer. “Their testimony
is contradictory. Mr. Akers is of the opinion that he must have slipped,
while Mr. Pelly favors an attack theory. However, Mr. Akers does not
remember any attack.”
“And what was Doctor Bogart’s diagnosis, John?”
“He advised a pillow for Mr. Akers and a sense of humor for Mr. Telly.”
“Oil Ay did vars get oop,” declared Oscar soberly.
“Well,” laughed Campbell, “I guess the incident is closed. By the way,
Telly hinted that you know the name of the murderer of Ben Todd.”
“That,” said Judge, “is as far-fetched as his attack theory. I merely
told them I was not allowed to name the killer, until the sheriff gave
his permission.”
“And I,” smiled Henry, “am very close-mouthed, John.”
* * * * *
It was late that afternoon, and Henry and Judge were standing in front
of the general store, when Pete Gonyer and Professor Fossil came to town
in a buckboard. Pete Gonyer was of medium size, swarthy, possibly forty
years of age. Professor Charles Winston Norbert, jokingly called
Professor Fossil, was well over six feet in height, bony and angular,
with a deeply-lined face, and wearing thick-lense glasses.
Pete Gonyer went over to the King’s Castle Saloon, while the Professor
came to the store. Henry had never met the man, but Judge had, and he
introduced Henry.
“And how are the fossils coming, Professor?” asked Henry.
“I beg pardon, sir--but fossils do not come--they have been here for
aeons.”
“Sorry--my mistake,” said Henry.
“I presume that you meant to ask if I had been successful. Yes, I
believe I have, thank you.”
“The fossil fish of this valley--are they of the upper Palaeozoic or of
the Mesozoic rocks, Professor?”
Professor Fossil looked keenly at Henry Harrison Conroy.
“That I shall have to determine,” he replied. “I have them classified as
to location and depth, and I can assure you that I have some wonderful
specimens.”
“Perhaps I am foolish to ask you, sir,” said Henry, “but have you found
a specimen of the _Ichtus Fillari_?”
“No, I haven’t, sir--much to my regret. I doubt if any exists in this
local formation. However, I am still searching.”
“I wish you luck, sir,” said Henry soberly.
“Yes--thank you, gentlemen. Well, I must do a little shopping.”
Henry and Judge went on over to the hotel porch, where they sat down to
wait for the supper bell to ring.
“Henry, what in the name of all that is holy, is an _Ichtus Fillari_?”
asked Judge.
“I am not exactly sure myself,” replied Henry soberly. “It must have
been a fish.”
“Have you ever seen one, Henry?”
“Judge, I give you my word, I never even heard of one before.”
“You--you made that name up, sir?”
“I believe I did, Judge. I feel that it is possible to create a fossil
fish that even an archaeologist hasn’t found yet.”
“Hm-m-m-m,” hummed Judge thoughtfully. “I had no idea you had ever
studied such things. Palaeozoic and Mesozoic rocks. Your knowledge
amazes me, Henry. I wonder what Professor Fossil thinks of your--shall
we say, knowledge of archaeology?”
“It might be rather interesting to know,” said Henry quietly.
“Somewhere, sometime I read an article on prehistoric rocks. The names
of the Palaeozoic and the Mesozoic came to mind, and I used them in the
right spot, it seems. Hm-m-m-m-m. I seem to remember something--”
“It is my opinion,” remarked Judge, “that if you have any urge of
concentration, you might well try thinking of something that will clear
up the local crime situation. What happened a million years ago will
have little bearing on high-grading and murder.”
“Perhaps you are right, Judge. Ah, there is the dinner-bell. I jump from
the Palaeozoic to--well, to hash.”
* * * * *
The inquest over the body of Ben Todd attracted few people. Violet La
Verne was called as a witness, because of the fact that she had been the
sole heir to Ben Todd’s estate. She was defiant, tight-lipped, but
stated that she had grub-staked Ben Todd about a month ago.
“Did Ben Todd tell you he had made a rich strike?” Doctor Bogart asked
her.
“He never talked to me,” she replied.
“How much money did you give Ben Todd, Miss La Verne?”
“I don’t know--hundred dollars, I guess.”
“You told the sheriff that you gave him fifty dollars.”
“Did I? Maybe I did. What’s the difference?”
“Mathematically--fifty dollars,” said the doctor dryly.
“All right,” she said angrily, “it don’t make any difference. I
lose--and the amount is my business.”
“Did you know that Ben Todd had made you his sole heir?”
“No!” emphatically. “He said he’d split with me--if he found a mine. Why
should I be a witness in this--I don’t know who shot the old coot.”
They excused Violet La Verne, and she swept out of the courtroom. The
six-man jury grinned and brought in the usual verdict, killed by a
person, or persons, unknown.
“That woman knows something,” declared Judge quietly.
“At her age--and occupation--she should,” agreed Henry.
As they walked back to the office Judge said:
“If that La Verne woman knew that Ben Todd had willed everything he
owned to her--”
“But she says she didn’t, Judge.”
“My dear, Henry, you are a trusting soul. What is her word worth? She
lied about the amount she gave Ben Todd.”
“Only a matter of fifty dollars, Judge. It is possible that the woman is
poor in mathematics.”
“We are all entitled to our theories, sir,” said Judge, “and mine is
that somebody was greatly surprised and pained when they discovered that
Ben Todd did not locate and record that gold mine.”
“It would, I believe,” said Henry soberly, “have added to his estate.”
“As Shakespeare said,” smiled Judge, “there is something rotten in
Denmark.”
“At least, it is worth a sniff or two,” said Henry.
In the afternoon mail came a notice from the express company that a new
buckboard, consigned to the JHC ranch, had arrived in Scorpion Bend, and
was ready for delivery.
“Something more for those half-wits to destroy, Henry,” remarked Judge.
“I hope they will be careful, Judge. This one has yellow wheels, red
body, and is appropriately decorated.”
“I shudder to think what it will have after Frijole, Slim or Oscar have
a try at it. We should keep it here in the livery-stable, and only use
it on state occasions.”
“Such as?” queried Henry.
“Well--going between here and the ranch, for instance. You know how I
hate to ride a horse. Possibly we could use it for a trip to Scorpion
Bend.”
“It might give Mr. Pelly an idea for a new editorial,” laughed Henry.
“The Shame of Arizona on Yellow Wheels.”
“Anyway,” sighed Judge, “it is money wasted. Those prune-juicers at the
JHC have no regard for property. I shudder to think what that buckboard
will look like in a week.”
“Well,” said Henry soberly, “when I told Frijole what I had ordered, he
said that he would protect it with his life. Frijole, I believe, likes
nice things. Slim also has a feeling for art. Why, I’ve seen him stand
for long periods of time in front of that picture in the King’s Castle,
studying it intently.”
“What picture?” asked Judge curiously.
“The one at the end of the bar-room, Judge. A beer advertisement, I
believe. It depicts a member of the female sex, leaning over a rock,
peering into a spring. Rather nicely done, too.”
“Oh, that!” snorted Judge. “I happened to note Slim Pickins studying the
print at close range, and I asked him if he was interested in the
technique of the artist, and he said, ‘Hell, no! I’m tryin’ to see what
she’s a-lookin’ at.’”
Henry grinned slowly. “Maybe Slim is a realist, Judge.”
John Campbell dropped in and they discussed the inquest for a while, but
finally Campbell said:
“You probably don’t know it yet, Henry, but the Commissioners are
holding a special meeting tomorrow afternoon at Scorpion Bend. I have
not been asked to attend.”
Henry looked at the big lawyer thoughtfully, but did not comment. The
implication was plain. They were going to decide to ask for his
resignation.
After a long pause, the lawyer went on. “I hear that James Wadsworth
Longfellow Pelly is spending a few days at the Circle G, where Mr.
Thomas Akers has also been the guest of Peter Gonyer. I heard that they
bought a case of bourbon from the King’s Castle.”
“Mr. Akers,” remarked Henry, “is the chairman. But will the others vote
with him, John?”
“I don’t know, Henry--but I’m afraid they will.”
* * * * *
Frijole, Slim and Oscar came in from the ranch, driving a young team to
a battered old buckboard. Judge said, “You can look at that equipage and
know what that new buckboard will look like in a few days.”
They met the three men on the sidewalk and Henry said to Frijole, “You
take the team over to the livery-stable and hitch them to a
spring-wagon. We are going to Scorpion Bend to bring back our new
buckboard.”
“Vit yellow veels?” asked Oscar. “Yudas, Ay von’t to see it.”
“Who is going?” asked Judge quickly.
“Don’t you want to go, Judge?” asked Frijole.
“Ride over Lobo Canyon grades with any of you three doing the
driving--at night?”
“I shall do the driving, Judge,” assured Henry soberly. “We shall be
back before morning.”
“In that event,” said Judge firmly. “I shall stay right here in Tonto
City. You drive! And how on earth will you bring that pristine vehicle
back, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
“Tie her on behind and trail her home,” said Slim.
Judge shrugged. “I still shall stay here,” he decided.
They secured the two-seated spring-wagon, and with Henry at the lines,
seated with Frijole, they rode away, with Oscar and Slim Pickins on the
back seat, holding a gallon jug between them.
“Ay am crazy to see a bockboard vit yellow veels,” declared Oscar.
“Yo’re crazy,” agreed Slim soberly. “The rest is superfluous.”
“This is not a pleasure trip,” informed Henry. “For your information,
Oscar, the Commissioners are meeting tomorrow in Scorpion Bend to decide
to ask me to resign as sheriff of Tonto. It will mean that you are out
of a job, along with Judge and me.”
“Ay vill now open de yug,” stated Oscar.
“No,” said Henry, “we will not do any drinking--yet.”
“Ay vant to be yoyous, ven Ay get to Scorpion Bend, Henry. Ay am going
to have a vord vit Mr. Pelly.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Pelly is at the Circle G ranch, Oscar.”
“Ya-a-a-ah! Das son-of-a-gon! Vaal, Ay am so downhorted that Ay must
have drink.”
“Oh, go ahead,” said Henry. “You’d do it sooner or later.”
They were able to travel the Lobo Grades in daylight, on their way to
Scorpion Bend, a picturesque but dangerous road, which wound around the
cliffs above Loco Canyon, only wide enough for one vehicle, except at
rare intervals, where there was barely room for two-wheeled vehicles to
pass each other. Jack-knife turns, where the road ahead was blocked from
view, until completely around the turn, increased the hazard, even in
daylight. Sheer cliffs blocked the inside, but there was no guardrail on
the other side.
It was after dark, when they arrived at Scorpion Bend. Frijole, Slim and
Oscar were rather mellow, but Henry did not take a drink. He declared,
“I am going to make this trip in safety, if it is the last thing I ever
do.”
“Tha’s a good idea,” agreed Slim. “I admire any man who is wishful to
get back alive.”
They ate supper, and Henry tried to get the boys to go up to the depot,
but they didn’t want to go back too early.
“Man, when we go back,” said Frijole, “we don’t want nothin’ else on the
grade.”
So Henry waited. There was a dance in Scorpion Bend, and it was after
ten o’clock when Henry managed to gather his brood and go to the depot
after the new buckboard. A peevish depot agent accepted the money from
Henry, and unlocked the storeroom. The whole buckboard was crated,
wheels separate, and Henry’s helpers were in no condition to do
mechanical labor.
They managed to move everything outside, borrowed the agent’s lantern
and hammer. There was a monkey-wrench in the spring-wagon, and, after an
infinite lot of argumentative labor, they got the wheels and tongue on
the buckboard. It glistened like a circus wagon in the lamplight. With a
section of chain they fastened the tongue to the rear axle of the wagon,
and were all ready for the trip to Tonto City.
Slim and Oscar declared that they were going to ride in the buckboard,
and Henry was too weary to argue.
“It’s all right, Henry. If the blamed thing busts loose, they can take
care of it--until found,” said Frijole.
“I believe you are right, Frijole.”
* * * * *
They drove slowly, until satisfied that the coupling was sufficient, and
then headed for Tonto City at their usual pace, which was a cross
between a harness race and a runaway. They heard Slim yelling to Henry
to stay on the road, but paid no attention. At the foot of the grade
they stopped for inspection. Slim said wearily, “I’m shore glad yuh
stopped. Every time we tried to take a drink out of the jug--we can’t.
Man, I never rode in anything as rough as this buckboard. Oscar’s very
sick.”
“Ay am sea-sick,” gasped Oscar. “Some-t’ing is wrong vit us.”
The buckboard seemed intact, unmarked. Henry and Frijole lighted matches
and looked things over. Slim asked, “What’s wrong with it, Frijole?”
“Not a blamed thing. Cork up that jug--we’re travelin’.”
“I dunno,” said Slim. “I’ve rode a lot of things in m’ life, but this’n
has got em all beat. How are yuh, Oscar?”
“Viggly,” whispered Oscar.
They drove on. Frijole was chuckling, and Henry said, “What is so
funny?”
“That buckboard,” choked the little cook. “We got a hind wheel and a
front wheel on each end. No wonder Oscar feels viggly!”
“My goodness!” exclaimed Henry. “Hadn’t we better remedy that?”
“No. It can’t hurt anythin’--except their feelin’s. Keep goin’.”
There was no moon, and a slight overcast ruined the starlight for
illumination. Henry had to trust to the team entirely. On the first
sharp turn they felt a decided jerk, and heard a crash. The team stopped
short, when Henry applied the brake.
“W’ere de ha’al do you t’ink you are going?” wailed Oscar.
“I see!” grunted Henry. “Sharp turn, and the buckboard did not make it
in time. Hm-m-m-m!”
Oscar and Slim were scratching matches at the buckboard, and Slim came
up to report, “You almost knocked the hubs off both wheels, scratched
the body and some of the spokes pretty bad.”
“I shall try and do better on the next one,” promised Henry.
“Yeah,” said Slim, “you do that. Yuh can roll when ready.”
As they started on Henry said, “I shall swing wider on the next curve,
Frijole.”
“Could yuh see where yuh swung?” asked Frijole.
“No, I could not, but I’ll swing wider next time.”
“Not with me on this side--yuh won’t. Even in the dark I could look
straight down into that canyon, and I seen a eagle’s nest with six aigs
in it.”
“Well, I don’t want to knock _all_ the paint off that vehicle.”
Frijole had taken the jug from the buckboard, and now he drew out the
cork. They were on an upgrade, and at the top was the worst jack-knife
curve on the whole road. Frijole said,
“Have a snort, Henry--it might cushion yore fall.”
Henry shoved on the brake very tight and stopped the team.
“Cushion my fall!” he snorted. “The idea!”
“The idea is good,” said Frijole. “That curve ain’t twenty feet ahead,
and I don’t believe we’ll make it--not in this dark. That buckboard
won’t swing far enough. Mebbe we better untie it and take it around by
hand.”
“I believe I can make it, Frijole,” said Henry, but there was doubt in
his voice. Frijole said, “Anyway, I’ll get out--until yuh do. After all,
there should be one survivor of the tragedy.”
“What’sa delay?” yelled Slim. “This ain’t no place to stop.”
“We’re figgerin’!” yelled Frijole.
“Git out, Oscar, and hug the rock--they’re a-figgerin’!” exclaimed Slim.
“Ay vill help dem,” declared Oscar. “Ay am gude from figures.”
“He-e-ey!” howled Slim. “Where-at is the jug, Oscar? We’ve done lost
it!”
“Hang onto yore seat!” yelled Frijole. “We’re goin’.”
Henry kicked off the brake and they started ahead, but just at that
moment something loomed out of the darkness just ahead of them. They
heard the rattle of a wagon, the rasp of shod tires, skidding on rock,
and the yell of warning. Henry swung heavy on his left line, throwing
his team in against the cliffs. It was a violation of driving rules,
trying to pass on the left, but Henry had no liking for that outside
edge. A moment later came the crash, a babel of excited yelps.
Henry jumped ahead of the crash, tripped over a front wheel and dived
headfirst into a bushy manzanita against the foot of the cliff, breaking
his fall, but taking great toll of his clothes. He had a dim idea of
horses rearing over him, but he was helpless to do anything about it. He
heard a man yelling:
“Help! Help! Help!” and suddenly realized that it was himself. He heard
Frijole’s voice calling, “Whoa, you buzzard-heads! Whoa, whoa! Where are
yuh, Henry?”
Slim said, “Stop yellin’ and help me git this horse back on his feet,
Frijole!”
“That ain’t no horse--that’s Oscar.”
“It is, huh? How can yuh tell, in the dark?”
“He’s got on high-heel boots. What happened? Didn’t I tell yuh that
buckboard wouldn’t make the turn? Didn’t I--huh?”
Henry managed to extricate himself from the manzanita and staggered
around the end of the wagon, where he almost fell over somebody. He
grabbed the end-gate of the wagon and felt for some matches.
“Henry must have got killed, Slim,” came Frijole’s voice.
“Yeah,” said Slim vacantly. “We lost the jug, too.”
“Well, what happened?” asked Frijole. “I seen somethin’--Slim! It was a
wagon and team! I ’member now. But where did they go?”
Henry managed to light the match and look down. He was standing astride
of James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly, and the vitrolic editor of the
_Clarion_ was staring up at him, blinking slowly. Frijole and Slim came
over and lighted more matches. Pelly was fast recovering. Slim said, “We
have to take the bitter with the sweet--he ain’t dead.”
“Henry ain’t dead, too,” said Frijole in amazement. “Henry, what
happened to you?”
“Never mind me,” replied Henry. “What happened to that other team and
wagon?”
“You saw it, too, huh?” asked Slim. “I didn’t. I was huntin’ for that
jug in the back of the buckboard.”
“Did you find it?” asked Oscar’s voice, very weakly. “Ay could use it.”
“I had it before the crash,” said Frijole.
“Vait a minute!” snorted Oscar. “Ve must check up. Slim, are you and
Hanry and Freeholey oil right?”
“No,” replied Henry, “but we’ll do, I suppose. Why?”
“Ay have found somebody else.”
Oscar scratched a match, and yelled, “Yudas Priest! Das is Professor
Fossil!”
They all stumbled over and made a match-light examination of Professor
Charles Winston Norbert. He was all dressed up in a black suit, white
shirt and very high, starched collar. Slim said, “From the way he’s
dressed, he must have knowed--”
James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly managed to get up and stagger over
toward them.
“I--I can’t get this straight,” he said huskily.
“You never got anythin’ straight--so don’t worry,” said Frijole. “Stop
teeterin’ --that aidge is too close.”
“Let him weave,” said Slim quickly. Henry took hold of the editor’s arm
and steadied him. “How did you get here Pelly?” he asked.
“In a wagon,” whispered Pelly. “I--I was at the Circle G--visiting. The
professor was going home; so I decided to ride back with them. Cooler at
night, you know.”
“How many of you on that wagon?” asked Henry anxiously.
“Th-three,” stammered Pelly. “The professor, Jud Bailey and myself. But
what happened--anyway? Don’t you know?”
“I hate to say this, gentlemen,” remarked Henry slowly, “but I’m very
much afraid that Jud Bailey and his equipage went into Lobo Canyon.”
No one said anything for a while, and then Slim remarked, “Well, they
ain’t here now, they didn’t go past that buckboard, and I’m fairly sure
that they never backed up, Henry.”
“I remember a little,” said Pelly shakily. “I--I thought we were going a
little too fast for that curve. Then it happened.”
“Well,” said Slim dryly, “all I can say is that you and Professor Fossil
was lucky to get off on the right side. It was shorter that way. Shucks,
you could be a-fallin’ yet.”
* * * * *
But the professor was not dead. He sat up, took a few wheezing breaths,
but was unable to talk. An examination showed that their two horses were
still intact, but the right front wheel of the wagon was gone and the
body badly ditched on that side. They took the team, hitched it to the
buckboard, piled everybody aboard, and headed for Tonto City, with
Frijole and Slim taking care of the speechless professor.
“Don’t talk with yore hands,” said Slim, “’cause we can’t read no
hand-talk in the dark.”
“Das is the lousiest deal Ay ever had,” declared Oscar sadly.
“What was that?” asked Henry.
“Losin’ de yug,” replied Oscar.
They finally arrived at Tonto City and routed Doctor Bogart out of bed.
Professor Fossil was able, with some help, to walk into the doctor’s
office. He had only spoken a few words on the way home, but he was able
to tell the doctor that he was all right. He had a cut scalp, numerous
bruises, and the doctor decided that he was suffering from shock. Pelly
shrugged off any medical attention, although he had an egg-sized lump on
the side of his head. Henry had numerous cuts and bruises, most of them
from the sharp limbs of that manzanita, and also declined any assistance
from the doctor. Slim had brought Judge down there to hear what
happened. The doctor put the professor to bed and came back to the
office.
“The professor required a sedative,” said the doctor. “He has suffered
considerable shock, and is very nervous.”
“You can’t blame him,” said Pelly. “After all his work in this valley,
all his samples and trophies have gone into Lobo Canyon.”
“Oh, that’s too bad!” exclaimed Henry. “I didn’t realize--”
“Mr. Gonyer wanted him to ship them out on the stage,” said Pelly, “but
he decided to handle them himself.”
“Quite a collection, I suppose,” said Henry.
“Two large boxes,” said Pelly. “At least five hundred pounds of
fossil-bearing rocks. And his trunk and valises, too.”
“They might be recovered,” suggested Henry. “Lobo Canyon is a difficult
place to get in and out, but perhaps we can--”
“I must get to Scorpion Bend,” interrupted Pelly. “My paper must be
published. I almost forgot about it.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Judge soberly. “I’m sure that the public would
thoroughly admire your negligence.”
Although Pelly was not in physical shape to flare-up--he made an
attempt. He turned on Henry and declared, “I am announcing your
resignation, Conroy.”
“My goodness! But what if I do not resign, sir?”
“You will--or get fired. By resigning you escape the stigma of being
ousted bodily. I have it on such good authority that I have the story
all written. And after what happened tonight--”
“You are blaming me for that?” queried Henry soberly.
“You deliberately turned the wrong way, Conroy. You forced the wagon
over into the canyon.”
“Instead of going down there ourselves,” said Henry. “Yes, I did that,
Mr. Pelly. You have admitted that your driver was traveling too fast for
that dangerous road, and you must admit that he was crowding the outer
edge, making it impossible for me to have stayed on that side. I have
the evidence of your own words, spoken before witnesses. One word of
accusation against me in your paper, and I shall sue you for criminal
libel, my boy.”
James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly looked around the room. Oscar Johnson,
Slim Pickins, Frijole Cullison, Henry Conroy, Judge Van Treece, all
looking at him.
“You can’t scare me,” he said weakly.
“Not any worse than you are now, Pelly,” assured Henry.
“It’s a wonder Professor Norbert and I were not killed, too,” said Pelly
huskily.
“We can’t have everything our way,” sighed Judge.
* * * * *
Slim, Frijole and Oscar took the buckboard and headed for the JHC, while
Henry and Judge went up to their room. It was almost morning. Henry’s
face was scratched, his clothes badly torn. He took off his boots and
sank down in a chair.
“Well, my friend, it looks as though _finis_ has been written for the
Shame of Arizona,” remarked Judge.
Henry drew a deep breath, flexed his tired hands, and said, “Judge, a
Conroy always goes down fighting.”
“Against whom--if I may ask, sir?”
“My opponent has not been selected yet.”
“And today--they hold that meeting. The time is short, sir.”
“Aye, my friend--but not too short. We must sleep on it.”
Someone knocked timidly on their door, and Henry said, “Come in.”
It was Slim Pickins, who announced, “We’ve decided to stay here t’night,
Henry.”
“You have? And why, if I may ask, Slim?”
“Yuh see,” explained Slim, “Oscar was drivin’, and he knocked the left
front wheel off the buckboard against the sidewalk.”
They were barely asleep, when another knock sounded.
“Don’t bother lighting a lamp, Henry. The professor is gone,” came
Doctor Bogart’s voice.
“You mean--he died already, Doc?” asked Henry huskily.
“No, I mean he pulled out. Opened a window in the bedroom and left it
open. Took all his clothes.”
“My goodness, Doc! Why, the man must be out of his head!”
“I wouldn’t swear to that, Henry--but he is out of my house.”
“Should we make a search for him--do you think--I hope you do not?”
“No, I don’t believe that would do any good, Henry. I just thought you’d
like to know about it. Good-night.”
“Good-night, Doc.”
Doctor Bogart closed the door and Henry sank back.
“The professor must be wandering in his mind,” commented Judge.
“With brains enough left to dress himself and crawl through a window? He
may be wandering, Judge--but not in his mind.”
Henry slid out of bed and lighted the lamp. Judge sat up in amazement
and saw the sheriff starting to dress. Judge ran his bony fingers
through his mop of tousled hair, shut his eyes tightly and then looked
at Henry again. The fat man was struggling with a rather tight pair of
overalls.
“You must have been hit rather hard, too, Henry,” said Judge.
“I suspect that some of my sense of balance has been disrupted,” agreed
Henry, “but I am normal again--thank you. Get into your clothes, Judge;
and I would advise boots, instead of those disreputable slippers you
have been wearing. And chaps, too, if you do not mind.”
“Have you gone mad?” gasped Judge. “We haven’t been to sleep yet.”
“Oh, get dressed and do not quibble. You must realize that a man died in
the depths of Lobo Canyon tonight, and, in spite of Mr. Pelly’s
diagnosis, we are still the peace officers of Wild Horse Valley, and it
is our duty to remove that body.”
“Heavens above!” snorted Judge. “You mean--no, you can’t mean that,
Henry-- at this time of the night!”
“Explain, Judge.”
“Well, I--Henry, you do not intend going into Lobo Canyon at this
ungodly hour --or do you?”
“I do, my dear deputy--and you will be at my side--except where we are
obliged to ride single-file. Stop moaning, and dress.”
“I wish I could contact Doctor Bogart about this,” whispered Judge. “He
would know what to do about it.”
“I suppose we should take rifles along,” muttered Henry, yanking at his
boot.
“Rifles?” Judge sat on the edge of the bed and stared at Henry.
“Why--uh--the man is dead, isn’t he, Henry?”
“Get dressed,” said Henry. “It is almost daylight.”
“What you need is a sedative, sir,” declared Judge.
“What I need is a deputy, I’m afraid.”
Judge grabbed a boot and glared at Henry. “Indeed? Until you fall on
your head--I am satisfactory. Do not blame _me_, Henry--you do not
realize your condition.” Henry selected an old, leather coat and drew it
on, saying, “I’d advise that you wear a leather jacket, Judge--that
brush tears cloth badly. I’ll meet you at the office--with the horses.
Do not keep me waiting, my boy.”
“You have your boots on the wrong feet, Henry.”
“I have not, sir; I am toeing-out--to keep my balance. It has been a
hard night.”
Henry walked out and shut the door. Judge stared at the boot in his hand
for several moments, before putting it on. He said aloud, “The man is as
mad as a hatter--and I must humor him.” Then he donned the rest of his
clothes and left the hotel.
* * * * *
It was about nine o’clock when Oscar, Slim and Frijole came down to
breakfast. They were all limping, more or less. They found James
Wadsworth Longfellow in the restaurant. He flinched, but did not speak.
The three were subdued, having little to say. Doctor Bogart came in and
asked them if they had seen Henry or Judge. He had been up to their
room, but they were not in, nor were they at the sheriff’s office.
“Henry hit on his head,” said Slim soberly, “and Judge ain’t too
intelligent to wander off with him.”
“You boys don’t look too good this morning,” remarked the doctor.
“Pers’nally, Doc,” said Frijole flexing a sore shoulder, “I think I’m in
the sere and yaller leaf, as yuh might say. I ain’t as flexible as I was
last night, I know that much. Slim slept on the floor. He said that the
bed was too soft, after what he’d been through. Sa-a-ay!” Frijole’s
eyebrows lifted suddenly. “Yuh don’t suppose them two old galoots have
gone into Lobo Canyon, do yuh, Doc?”
“That’s possible, Frijole. Better see if their horses are gone.”
They finished their breakfast first. The horses and saddles were not in
the stable.
“Looks at it thisaway, fellers,” said Slim soberly. “Them two galoots
ain’t got no more right in Lobo Canyon than David had in the lion’s den.
That’s one awful tough spot. I’ve been there and I know. What’s to be
done about ’em?”
“Our best bet,” said Frijole, “is for one of us to get a horse at the
livery-stable, go out to the ranch and bring back enough rollin’-stock
for all three of us. And make it quick. We’ll match coins--odd man
goes.”
“You ve got a head on yuh,” said Slim soberly. “All right, get out yore
money.”
Slim and Frijole’s coin showed heads--so Oscar went to get the horses at
the ranch. It always worked--and Oscar never got wise to their scheme.
* * * * *
Slim and Frijole met James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly on the street.
Pelly had talked with Doctor Bogart, and found that the professor was
missing. Pelly wasn’t in perfect physical condition, and he had lost his
glasses.
“Somebody should go out and tell Mr. Gonyer,” said Pelly. “He don’t know
what happened last night.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Slim Pickins gravely, “it’s too late for
Pete Gonyer to do anythin’ about it, Pelly. He’s shy one team and
wagon--and a squint-eyed cowpoke.”
“Yes, I’m afraid that Jud Bailey is dead.”
“If he ain’t, he’s the most durable cowpoke that ever lived. It’s three,
four hundred feet to the bottom at that place, and he shore got a divin’
start.”
“You knew that the professor is missing, didn’t you?”
“Missin’?” gasped Frijole. “Missin’ what--his valise?”
“No--he’s gone,” said Pelly. “Doctor Bogart went in to look at him,
after we had left there last night--or this morning--and the professor
had dressed and went out the window.”
“Lovely dove!” snorted Slim. “Let’s go to the office and find the jug--I
need medical assistance.”
“Thank you,” said Pelly, “I do not need that stuff. I feel bad enough,
as it is.”
Slim had a key to the office, and they located the supply. They were
enjoying their third cupful, when Bob Stickler, manager of the Yellow
Warrior, came into the office, looking for Henry.
“What was this about the accident on the grade last night?” he asked.
“I’ve heard two or three versions.”
“What did yuh hear?” asked Frijole soberly. “We don’t want ours to be
the same. Yuh see, we was there, and maybe we saw it all wrong.”
“Oh, I see--trying to make it sound funny, eh?”
“It wasn’t funny,” said Slim. “The Circle G team and wagon went into the
canyon, along with Jud Bailey, who was drivin’. He came around a
jack-knife bend too blamed fast, shoved us in against the wall, and went
off the edge.”
“I see. Yes, I heard all that. How badly was the professor hurt?”
“_Quien sabe?_ Doc put him to bed, but he dressed and sneaked out a
winder.”
“Probably didn’t know what he was doing.”
“Yuh mean--before or after he fell?”
“So you don’t know where the sheriff went, eh?”
“Just between me and you--and I want this held in strictest confidence,
Mr. Stickler--I don’t. All we know is that he’s gone, Judge is gone and
so are their two horses.”
“I might add to the confusion,” said Frijole owlishly, “by sayin’ that
they’ve prob’ly gone to find the body.”
“Jud Bailey’s body?” asked Stickler.
“Well, yeah--that seems to be the only one we have on hand at the
present time. Have a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
Stickler left the office, and they filled the cups again.
“Lizzen,” said Slim, “if we drink two more cups of this stuff we won’t
even be able to find Lobo Canyon.”
“Don’tcha think we ort to drink this’n, Schlimmie?”
“Well, I wouldn’t shay that--but I will shay that we ort to drink it a
little slower, par’ner.”
* * * * *
Henry and Judge, shivering in the false dawn, rode off the main highway
and followed an old trail, which led to the lower end of Lobo Canyon.
The trail was little used, because only on rare occasions did anybody go
into the canyon. Cattle kept away from it. There were a few pools of
water down there, where quail, bobcats and an occasional lion slaked
their thirsts, but the bottom of the gulch was a tangle of brush and
rocks, making it very difficult to travel. The main canyon was about
nine miles in length, and in most of it the sun never shone.
Judge had spent most of the trip complaining. His boots hurt, he hated
leather chaps, and his rheumatism was acting up again.
“Here we are,” he stated dismally, “poking into an ungodly spot, risking
our lives, while those damnable Commissioners are meeting to throw us
out of our jobs. We may come out alive, but without visible means of
support. Henry, what on earth shall we do for a living?”
“Let us get out of Lobo Canyon with our lives, before we do too much
worrying about the future, Judge.”
“You admit that it is hazardous?”
“Yes, I believe it has its dangers. Rocks do let loose and come down
here, they say. Slim swears that he saw a rattler as long as a lariat
and as big as a stove-pipe. Well, here is the trail into it, Judge. Just
let the horse pick its own way, and we’ll be down there in a jiffy.”
The entrance to Lobo Canyon was not too difficult nor dangerous, but the
trail ended at the bottom. From there on it was a case of work out your
own salvation.
“At least seven miles to where the wagon went over--and if we make a
mile an hour we shall be going mighty fast,” groaned Judge.
“One thing,” said Henry soberly, “there is no danger of us getting
separated.”
They started up the canyon, seeking places where their horses could
travel, but after about a mile Henry said:
“It gets worse every foot of the way, Judge. New slides have blocked us
ahead, I believe.”
“In a way, I am glad,” said Judge. “We can go back now.”
“Go back?” asked Henry in amazement “And admit defeat? I’ll have you
know that a Conroy is never conquered, sir.”
“You admitted defeat.”
“I admitted defeat--on horseback, sir. We will leave our noble steeds
here and proceed on foot.”
“Well,” said Judge resignedly, “I suppose that is what I get for playing
Sancho Panza to an addle-pated Don Quixote. But I may assure you that
these high-heel boots were never made for this sort of usage. We will
never get out alive--unless somebody carries us out, Henry.”
“I hope we are alive--when carried,” remarked Henry soberly.
* * * * *
They started ahead, crawling through brush, over rocks, keeping alert
for rattlers, which abounded in Lobo Canyon. Henry was so stiff and sore
that it was difficult for him to keep going. They rested often, but were
making fair progress. They struck about a mile of fairly open traveling,
but ran into another slide, which halted them for a while.
“Isn’t there another way to get into this canyon, Henry?” Judge panted.
Henry sprawled on top of a rock to get his breath, nodded and rubbed a
sore elbow.
“I’ve heard there is, Judge. Somewhere near the upper end, but I don’t
know just where.”
Judge took off a boot and examined his sore toes. It was very quiet down
there. Finally Judge said:
“Henry, we’re two old fools! We ruin ourselves, trying to get in here to
find the body of a dead man. Suppose we do find him--we can’t carry him
out. Why, we will be lucky to get out ourselves.”
Henry sprawled on the rock, looking up at a circling buzzard, far up in
the blue sky.
“Two old fools,” he said slowly. “That’s right, Judge. Fighting to keep
a job, getting all busted up physically. This is a young man’s job,
Judge. Maybe Pete Gonyer--who knows?”
“Pete must be forty.”
“A mere child, Judge. Well, we must be going on. It is noon. At this
rate, we will fight our way out in the dark.”
“But about taking the body out, Henry.”
“The first thing to do is to find the body, Judge. Come on.”
They went on, circling, crawling, tearing their way through the brush.
Circling a pot-hole in the bottom of the canyon, they reached a steep
slope, reaching up into more rocks and more brush. Judge was ahead,
hunched over, clawing his way up, when Henry saw the head and shoulders
of a man ahead of his deputy. Henry reached for his bolstered gun, when
his feet slipped and he dropped to his knees on the slope. The gun
slipped out of his hand, and before he could recover it, he heard a
voice snap:
“All right--come on up--and keep yore hands in sight!”
Henry managed to straighten up. Judge was above him, hands up above his
shoulders. There were two men now, and one of them had a gun pointed at
Henry. Taking a deep breath, Henry managed to negotiate the slope. Judge
sank down on a rock, panting heavily. One of the men yanked the gun from
Judge’s holster, and came to Henry to disarm him.
“Where’s yore gun?” he asked sharply.
“I--I lost it,” panted Henry. “Let me sit down--please.”
There were two men, both masked, watching Henry and Judge.
“What are you two doin’ here in the canyon?” asked one of them.
“We are on an errand of mercy,” replied Henry painfully.
“Yeah? What do yuh mean?”
“A man fell into the canyon last night, and we are searching for his
body.”
“Well, ain’t you nice and kind. Who are you?”
“I am the sheriff, sir,” replied Henry. He was getting his wind back
now. The man laughed.
“Sheriff, eh?” he snarled. “A fine sheriff, you are! Well, Fatty, yo’re
all through.”
“So you knew about it, too, eh?” remarked Henry.
“Knew about what?” asked the masked man.
“About the Commissioners going to force me to resign.”
“They are, huh? Well, we’ll save paper and ink for ’em, feller.”
He turned and called, “One of you fellers fetch a rope.”
And as he turned to speak Henry slid off the rock, hit that slope, and
went sliding. The man yelled for him to stop. Perhaps he thought it was
an accident. At any rate it only required a second or two, before Henry
slid onto his gun, grabbed it with both hands, crashed feet-first into
the brush and turned over. He had dust in his eyes and misery in his
body, but he lifted the gun and shot point-blank at the man at the top
of the slope. At that moment Judge fell backwards on the rock, both feet
in the air. The man jerked back and yelled:
“Damn him, he hit me! Look out--he’s got a gun!”
Henry scrambled to his feet and went into the brush, away from that
slope, coming up among some huge boulders. He reloaded his gun, ears
alert for sounds. A man was cursing viciously.
“I’ll get him--don’tcha worry about that!” he said.
“He outsmarted yuh once,” said another voice. “Where’d he get that gun?
Where’s the other one?”
“Get away from that openin’, you fool! He’s down at the foot of that
slope.”
“Where’d he hit yuh?”
“My right arm. Damn him, I’ve got to shoot left-handed.”
For a while there was no noise, no conversation. Then somebody began
throwing rocks into the brush--rocks about the size of a baseball. One
of them crashed off a rock and filled Henry’s eyes with rock-dust. Then
a man’s voice said harshly:
“Aw, that won’t do no good. We’ve got to git above ’em and shoot down.
Yuh can’t see a damn thing in this brush.”
“You do it--I can’t. That arm hurts--yeow! Look out! They’re throwin’
rocks, too! That’n hit me in the back. Get down!”
For several minutes there was not a sound. Henry hugged the rocks and
listened. He knew that any movement must make a noise. Then he heard a
man crashing brush, stumbling, panting. He stopped at the foot of the
slope, but went on up, his breathing plainly audible. Henry tried to see
who he was, but the brush was too thick. Then he heard a thud, a muffled
cry, and a crash.
“Who was that?” one of the masked men called.
“I presume it was one of your friends,” replied Judge’s voice. “He
stopped a rock. Now, if you will kindly show yourselves--”
“You blasted old fool!” snarled one of the men, and fired three shots in
Judge’s general direction, but all it brought was a derisive laugh from
the deputy.
Henry, peering through the brush, saw a movement, caught a flash of
color. He steadied the gun over the rock, holding it in both hands, and
squeezed the trigger. The rattling report brought a yell of pain, and a
general scurrying around in the brush. A man was cursing, and Henry
heard him say:
“We’ve got to git out of here, I tell yuh! I’ve got some busted ribs. If
the boys ain’t finished--we can’t help it.”
“Lettin’ two old fossils like that whip us,” complained the other man.
“Pull yore shirt tight over them ribs, can’tcha?”
From far up the canyon came the rattling report of a gun.
“He-e-ey! What’s goin’ on up there?” came from one of the men.
“C’mon! That don’t sound good!”
Henry could hear the two men going up through the brush. He backed out
and called to Judge. After a few moments he heard Judge say, “I just
wanted to be sure they had really gone, sir. Are you all right, Henry?”
“The latest reports from outlying precincts,” replied Henry, “would
indicate that I am not running too well. Who did you hit?”
“He is there at the top of the slope, where we were captured.”
* * * * *
Henry managed to climb up there, where Judge was looking down at his
victim. Judge and Henry looked at each other, and Judge said blankly:
“Where does Bob Stickler fit into the pattern of things?”
“I don’t know,” replied Henry. “Why did he come here, I wonder. Look at
that knot on his head! Judge, if he came here to help us, I’m sorry, but
if he came to help the other team, I’m mighty glad for your pitching
ability. Listen!”
The canyon echoed with more shots. Henry scratched his head and squinted
thoughtfully at Judge. By mutual consent they moved into the brush,
where Judge picked and hefted another rock.
“Or Slingshot Van Treece,” he said grimly.
“I hit two of them,” said Henry.
“Knowing how well you shoot,” said Judge, “I believe in miracles.”
“I suppose the meeting is on now,” remarked Henry. “Mr. Akers is on his
feet, extolling the virtues of Peter Gonyer. By the way, I wonder what
became of James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly?”
“And Professor Fossil,” added Judge.
Henry was staring into space, and now he gasped, “I have it!”
“You--uh--have what?” whispered Judge.
“Palaeozoic and Mesozoic,” whispered Henry. “There are no fossils in the
Mesozoic.”
Judge shook his head. “Probably just a slight recurrence of shock,” he
said quietly. “You should have stayed in bed.”
“He said he would have to determine, Judge. Ridiculous!”
“You take the rock and let me have the gun, Henry.”
“No, I--”
Another splattering of shots, but closer now. A man was running wildly
down through the brush, and they saw him now. Hatless, his clothes torn,
tall, thin, running clumsily, trying to look back. He wasn’t looking for
anyone ahead of him, and he was heading for Henry and Judge. He jerked
to a stop, gun raised, when Henry hit him in a clumsy football tackle.
In fact, Henry missed him with both hands, but his ample girth struck
the man just behind the knees with terrific force, and he went down
backwards, flinging his gun far into the brush.
Both of them were knocked out. Judge went over carefully and looked them
both over. Henry sat up, his face purple, as he tried to wheeze air back
into his tortured lungs, but the other man lay quiet, arms outstretched,
breathing heavily. Henry’s gun was on the ground, and Judge picked it
up.
Another man was running down through the brush toward them. Judge cocked
the gun, his face grim, as the man came ahead, really smashing his way.
He crashed into the opening, stumbled to a stop, and stood there staring
at Judge. It was Oscar Johnson, torn, disheveled, but very much in
earnest.
He came on and squatted on his heels beside Judge. Henry was beginning
to recover. Oscar looked at the other man, and a slow grin spread across
his big face.
“Ay vill be yiggered, Yudge!” he exclaimed.
Henry drew a deep breath, and whispered, “Professor Fossil.”
“Yah,” grinned Oscar. “Ay vass chasing him, Hanry. By golly, das faller
can run!”
“You--were--chasing--him?” panted Henry.
“Yah, sure. How are you, Hanry?”
“I do not know, Oscar. I doubt if I shall ever know again. How on earth
did you get down here?”
“Oh, that vass easy. Freeholey know the odder trail. Ve caught all free
of dem, Hanry.”
“All three of them?” queried Henry weakly. “Three, you said?”
“Yah--su-re. Couple of dem vere vounded, but Pete Gonyer, he vars all
right, until he vent crazy and tried to shoot us. Who is that yigger
over dere, Yudge?”
“That,” replied Judge, “is Bob Stickler.”
“Yudas Priest! How did he get here, Yudge?”
Judge shook his head. “He just came, Oscar.”
“Three?” queried Henry. “Pete Gonyer and who else?”
“Lou Greer and Yud Bailey.”
“Jud Bailey? Oscar, Bailey is dead!”
“No-o-o,” drawled Oscar. “All he got is bullet in his arm.”
“But--why--didn’t he go into the canyon last night?”
“He yumped,” said Oscar. “Ve missed him, and he valked to de ranch.”
* * * * *
Bob Stickler stirred and managed to sit up. He rubbed his head and
stared around, looking at each of them separately, as though trying to
reason out what this was all about. Then he tilted his head and looked
up at the canyon walls. The professor was moving his arms and legs, as
he recovered. The three men watched them. Consciousness came quickly to
the professor, and with it came realization. Then he sat up, flexing his
legs.
Stickler started to get up, but Oscar went over to him, and the manager
of the Yellow Warrior sat down again.
“Yust stay like you vere,” said Oscar.
Another man was coming down the canyon. It was Frijole. He broke into
the open, gun in hand, and stood there, staring at them.
“Velcome de party, Freeholey,” grinned Oscar.
“Yeah,” said Frijole, and came on slowly, staring at the professor and
Bob Stickler.
“Slim’s got the others,” said Frijole. “They’re roped. Where in hell did
these two come from?”
“Mr. Stickler came up the canyon,” said Judge, “and I hit him with a
rock. Mr. Fossil came down the canyon, and Henry tackled him around the
knees.”
“Nice work!” grunted Frijole. “We found ’em, startin’ up the trail,
Henry. They’ve got four pack-horses, loaded with--do you want to tell
’em, Professor?”
Professor Fossil didn’t. Henry said, “Loaded with jewelry ore from the
Yellow Warrior, Frijole?”
“You knowed, Henry?”
“No--I merely guessed. What’d your version, Stickler?”
“I am not talkin’,” said Stickler sullenly.
“Pete Gonyer was the leader of the gang,” said Frijole. “That dad-blamed
Jud Bailey confessed. He thinks he’s goin’ to die from a bullet in the
arm. Where-at is yore horses, Henry?”
“About a mile from the other end of the canyon. You know where it makes
a sharp right-hand turn? You do? Well, the horses are on the left-hand
side, in a little thicket. But how----?”
“We’ll get ’em from the other end--later. Let’s drift.”
Both Stickler and the professor were able to walk. Less than a quarter
of a mile up the canyon they found the others. They unpacked the horses
and tied Pete Gonyer to a saddle. He was in bad shape, as were the
others, but they were able to get back to the grades.
They had the four pack-horses, and seven saddle-horses. The trail was
bad, but they got up to the main road without mishap, just as the
valley-bound stage came into view. The driver pulled up beside them and
looked with amazement at the cavalcade.
Out from inside the stage came Tom Akers and two others of the Board of
Commissioners, staring, mumbling. Akers said:
“What happened to Pete Gonyer? Conroy, what does this mean?”
“It means,” replied Henry wearily, “that we have busted up the
high-graders--and Mr. Gonyer, whom you were going to appoint as sheriff
in my stead, was the leader. Professor Fossil was here, merely to be
able to ship samples back to his home--samples of Yellow Warrior gold.
Mr. Stickler handled things for them at the mine. You see--”
“My God!” gasped Akers. “It can’t be true!”
“It looks true to me,” said one of the Commissioners dryly.
“Congratulations, Sheriff Conroy.”
“I don’t understand,” complained Akers. “Pete Gonyer isn’t that sort of
man. Why, I’d bet my soul--”
“If you do not mind, gentlemen,” interrupted Henry, “you will ride
horseback the rest of the way, and we will use the stage as an
ambulance. Later we will recover the Yellow Warrior gold.”
The cavalcade came into Tonto City, the stage almost an hour late, and
drew up at Doctor Bogart’s house, where the wounded were unloaded. James
Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly was there, trying to find out what on earth
had happened.
“Did you,” he asked Akers, “hold that meeting and decide to remove Henry
Conroy?”
Tom Akers looked bleakly at Pelly, but said nothing. This was no time to
talk of resignations. He followed them to the jail with Stickler and the
professor. Stickler said, “I’ll sue the county for false arrest, Conroy.
You can’t prove anything against me.”
“We shall try, sir,” said Henry wearily. “What do you think, Professor?”
“After what has happened,” replied the professor soberly, “I’m sure you
will try.”
* * * * *
With their prisoners behind the bars, Henry led the way over to the
King’s Castle. There was quite a crowd in there, discussing what had
happened. Mack Greer, the manager, saw Henry and came to him.
“Good work, sheriff,” he said. “Mighty good work.”
“All praise aside, sir,” said Henry soberly, “I would like to see Violet
La Verne.”
Greer looked curiously at Henry and at the other men with him. Then he
turned to one of the other girls, who had come in close, and asked,
“Where is Violet?”
“She’s up in her room, packing up, Mack--she’s quit.”
They trooped up the stairs and knocked on her door.
“All right--in a minute. Take that rig around to the back and I’ll meet
you out there,” said a voice from inside.
“She hired a livery rig to take her to Scorpion Bend,” whispered one of
the curious girls. Henry nodded.
Then the door opened and Violet La Verne stood there, staring at the
crowd. She was dressed for traveling, and had an old valise in her hand.
“Who shot Ben Todd?” asked Henry quietly.
The valise dropped from her hand and she closed her eyes for a moment.
Henry went on kindly:
“You see, my dear, I happen to know that Ben Todd couldn’t read nor
write; so that will had to be a fake. All the rest of the gang are
either in jail or being probed for lead, so you might as well talk and
save what skin you have left.”
“Stickler killed him,” she whispered huskily. “I grub-staked Ben
Todd--I--I honestly did. Stickler wrote that will. He thought Todd had
struck it rich and that he’d record the location--but it--it wasn’t
recorded--because it wasn’t a mine--he stole two sacks of high-grade ore
from the Circle G. That’s the truth--and--and nothing but the--”
And then Violet La Verne went flat in a faint.
Back in the office, thirty minutes later, Henry, Judge, Oscar, Slim and
Frijole sat there a tin-cup in hand. They were a bedraggled crew.
Stickler had confessed--and the troubles of the sheriff’s office were
over for the time being.
“You see,” explained Henry, “about a year ago I helped Ben Todd make out
a location notice. He could neither read nor write, and I felt very sure
that he could not learn in a year. That was their first blunder. I
suspected theft of that gold by Todd, because he did not record his
claim. Todd was careful.”
“But why did you suspect the professor?” asked Judge.
“His lack of knowledge of the rocks, Judge; and he was supposed to be an
archaeologist. I am not versed in it, but somewhere I had read of them,
and I’m sure that either the Palaeozoic or the Mesozoic rock contains no
fossils, while the other is filled with them. I believe the Palaeozoic
is the blank rock. But, Judge, the professor said he would have to
classify them.”
“And what other clues?” asked Judge.
“Well, when the professor escaped from Doctor Bogart’s place last night,
I realized that he was going to warn Pete Gonyer; so I--well, Judge, I
decided to beat them to the fossils.”
“Speaking of rocks,” said Judge soberly, “I wonder just what I hit
Stickler with.”
“Well, here’s luck,” said Frijole. “Everythin’ turned out fine.”
“You forget somet’ing, Freeholey,” said Oscar soberly.
“What was that, Oscar?”
“Das lef’ front wheel of the bockboard.”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 25, 1948
issue of _Short Stories_.]
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