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Title: The trail of deception
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: October 8, 2025 [eBook #77016]
Language: English
Original publication: Chicago, IL: Best Publications, Inc, 1948
Credits: Roger Frank
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRAIL OF DECEPTION ***
The Trail of Deception
By W. C. Tuttle
Jim Bailey was reported dead--which gave him a
clear field for a profitable game!
I
Jim Bailey was thoroughly disgusted and discouraged, as he sat down on
a park bench. It was nearly dark, and the lights were blinking around
him. Jim was only twenty-five years of age, fairly-well dressed, fairly
good-looking; an average young man, trying to buck the world.
For two days he had tried to find a job, but with no success. He had
two dollars in his pocket, owed ten dollars room rent, due right
now--and an assurance from the landlady that unless he produced the
back rent tonight--
Jim was a bookkeeper. That is, he tried to keep books, if he could have
found some books to keep.
He tried to tell himself that he would be all right, if it was not for
Cliff De Haven, that doggone chiseler! Cliff was an actor--a hoofer.
That is, he was when there was a job for him. When there wasn’t he
shared Jim’s room, but not in any financial sense of the word. He also
ate at Jim’s expense. Cliff was a hard man to insult. At least, Jim
Bailey found him so. Maybe Jim didn’t use the right words.
Cliff always had a big deal coming up. Last night he had told Jim that
he was all set for the biggest deal of his life and that Jim would
profit thereby. Cliff chummed with a down-at-the-heel private detective
named Bob Hawley. Jim hated Hawley. Often he ate with Cliff, and Jim
paid the check. Yes, if he could get rid of Cliff De Haven--but what
was the use?
It was about eight o’clock when Jim got off the bench and walked to his
room. He simply could not pay the bill, so there was no use trying to
fool the landlady any longer.
The landlady was not in sight as Jim came in. He looked into the
series of pigeon-holes at the desk, took out a letter addressed to
Cliff De Haven and a folded sheet of paper, on which was printed in
the landlady’s familiar hand:
Dear Mr. Bailey: Unless you can pay me ten dollars
tonight, I must ask you to vacate early in the morning.
Jim Bailey crumpled the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket. No
use keeping it. He went up to his room, where he tossed his hat aside
and sat down on the edge of the bed. The built-in wardrobe door was
open, facing him as he sat, and he got up quickly and investigated.
His best suit was missing, his one best shirt, his best pair of shoes.
On the table was a penciled note, which said:
Sorry, old man, but I had to put on a little dog.
Will see you tomorrow. Also borrowed your watch,
as I needed something to make a little flash.
Thanks. Cliff.
Jim threw the letter aside in disgust. It was like Cliff to do a thing
like that. Suddenly it occurred to him that Cliff had neglected to empty
the pockets, in which were several letters, cards and things like that.
He had probably dressed and got out in a hurry, knowing that Jim would
soon be back.
Jim expected a visit from the landlady, but she did not put in an
appearance, so he went to bed, leaving the door unlocked. Cliff would
probably show up before daylight, full of apologies and other things.
* * * * *
But Cliff did not show up. Jim got up about eight o’clock. He had an
old suit-case, but little to put in it until Cliff came back with that
suit and clothes. He went out to get some breakfast and ran into a new
chambermaid at the bottom of the steps. He inquired about the landlady,
and the woman said she was sick.
“Will she be here today?” he asked.
“She will not,” replied the woman. “She has some sort of infiction.”
Jim went out to the street, grinning. He said half-aloud, “I’ll bet she
bit herself.”
He ate breakfast in a cheap restaurant and bought a paper, mostly for
the want-ads. He glanced at the front page and his own name seemed to
jump up at him. A smash-up between a truck and a street car--gasoline
explosion--several people killed and injured! Only two bodies
identified. Robert Hawley, a private detective. The other was,
according to the police, Jim Bailey, address unknown. Partly-burned
papers in his pocket and a wrist watch positively identified him.
Hawley was identified by unburned articles in his possession.
Jim Bailey leaned against a post and drew a deep breath. His suit! His
watch! He looked vacantly at the traffic along the street. Jim Bailey
was dead--it said so in the paper. Walking in sort of a daze he went
back to his room. Address unknown. He sat down on the edge of the bed
and tried to realize what had happened. Jim Bailey was dead. That was
a good joke.
He started to light a cigaret, then remembered the letter for Cliff
De Haven. It was there on the table. There was no letterhead on the
envelope, and the postmark was blurred. He opened the letter and
looked it over. Cliff would never read it. It said:
You will find transportation waiting for you at the
S. P. ticket office. Come to Pinnacle City and contact
me at once. Office on the main street. Bob Hawley says
you can do the job. Remember, your name is Jim Meade.
Don’t talk with anyone, until we can get together on
this deal, and don’t mention anything that Bob has
told you. Wear no fancy clothes--you’re supposed to
be in meager circumstances.
Ed McLean.
Jim Bailey read it twice and then sat there, an unlighted cigaret
between his lips. This must have been the deal that Cliff had
mentioned. He studied the postmark again and now he could see that it
was Pinnacle City, Arizona. What sort of a deal was this, he wondered?
Cliff was supposed to go to Pinnacle City, take the name of Meade--and
what else?
Pinnacle City sounded interesting, like a small town. Jim Bailey had
always lived in a big city. A sudden thought caused him to squint at
the faded wall-paper of his room. Just suppose this Ed McLean had
never--of course he had never seen Cliff De Haven. Bob Hawley had
told McLean about Cliff. Why not take a chance? No job, no home, no
ties of any kind. Jim Bailey grinned slowly.
“Wear no fancy clothes,” he quoted aloud. “You’re supposed to be in
meager circumstances. Brother, you meant me!”
He took his almost-empty suit-case and left the house. There was no one
in the lobby. He walked to the ticket office, where he asked about the
transportation. After being shunted from desk to desk, he was sent into
an office, where the man said:
“Have you anything for identification?”
Jim Bailey shook his head. “Not a thing. Oh, yes--this letter.”
It was the one sent to Cliff De Haven. The man looked at it.
“You look honest, young man,” he said smiling. “Here is your ticket, and
here is the ten dollars expense money.”
Jim Bailey walked out of the office and headed for the depot.
“Good-by, Jim Bailey,” he said to himself. “I feel like a new man.
Maybe I’ll just get kicked in the pants, maybe they’ll dump me into
a nice Arizona jail. That is in the hands of the gods. There is one
angle, though, in which I can excel--and that is in forgetting that
my name ever was Cliff De Haven. If I live and prosper, I’ll send
ten dollars to that landlady.”
The town of Northport is twenty-five miles north of Pinnacle City.
Passengers for Pinnacle City get off the train at Northport, and take
the stage. Northport itself is no metropolis, with its one street and
few false-fronted buildings. Jim Bailey looked it over and decided it
would be a good place to get out of at once. However, the stage would
not leave for an hour, so he sat down in the little stage-depot and
tried to enjoy a smoke.
The nearer he got to Pinnacle City the less he thought of this personal
masquerade he was going to attend.
* * * * *
Northport was depressing. At least it was until a young lady came from
the depot, carrying a valise, which she placed on a seat. She was
little over five feet tall, with dark, wavy hair, a beautiful olive
complexion, and wonderful eyes. Jim Bailey decided that there wasn’t
anything wrong with those lips either. Jim Bailey admired beauty, but
was woefully girl-shy. He had felt that a girl was a luxury far beyond
his pocket-book.
An old timer came into the depot, grizzled, bow-legged, clad in
overalls, flannel shirt and high-heeled boots. He stared at the girl
for a moment and blurted:
“Mary Deal--or I’m a sizzlin’ sidewinder!”
“You’re not, Uncle Len,” laughed the girl. “How are you?”
“I’m finer’n frawg-hair, Mary. Golly, I’m shore glad to see yuh. It’s
been--uh-h-h-h--Mary, I plumb forgot.”
“About Uncle Clint?” asked the girl. The man nodded.
“Why didn’t somebody send me a wire?” she asked. “Even a letter might
have given me time to get here. I never knew it had happened for over
two weeks after he was buried.”
The stage driver nodded sadly. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Ed McLean was
to have let yuh know, Mary. He knowed you was at college. He said he
just forgot.”
“Well, I suppose it can’t be helped,” she said. “But I did want to be
here, you see. After all he did for me--”
“Yeah, I know. It was too bad, Mary. Is that yore valise? I’ll put it on
the stage.”
The driver looked at Jim Bailey.
“Are you my other passenger?” he asked.
“I believe I am, sir,” replied Jim.
“Good! My name’s Carson. What’s yours?”
“My name is Jim Meade.”
“Fine. Mary Deal, meet Jim Meade.”
They both smiled. Len Carson said, “I like to make my passengers used to
each other. It’s a long ways to Pinnacle City.”
[Illustration: “Mary Deal, meet Jim Meade”]
“Can’t I ride on the seat with you, Uncle Len?” asked Mary.
“I’d shore love to have yuh,” replied the driver, “but I can’t. Company
passed a rule agin it, Mary. Four, five weeks ago I had a whisky drummer
on the seat with me. Hit a chuck-hole and lost m’ drummer. Hung him up
by the seat of the pants on a manzanita snag, ten feet down on the side
of Coyote Canyon. If he hadn’t been wearin’ awful tough britches, I’d
have lost him. He sued the stage company for ten thousand dollars, but
they settled for a hundred and a new pair of pants. Sorry, but I cain’t
take chances, Mary. Women’s clothes wouldn’t hold up nothin’, snagged on
a manzanita.”
Mary laughed and got into the old stage. Jim followed her in, and the
stage headed for Pinnacle City. Len Carson was a wild driver, but he
had never wrecked a stage. It was the first time that Jim had ever
ridden over a road like that, and it rather frightened him, but Mary
only laughed.
“Why are you going to Pinnacle City?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” replied Jim. “My plans are rather vague.”
“I haven’t been there for over eight months,” she said. “I’ve been away
to school.”
“Is your home in Pinnacle City?” he asked.
“It was,” she replied. “I don’t know what will happen now.”
Jim looked at her curiously, and she explained.
“I have no father or mother. Clint Haverty adopted me several years ago.
He was wonderful to me. He died a few weeks ago, but no one notified me
in time to attend his funeral. I came as soon as I heard about him.”
“That wasn’t a fair deal,” said Jim.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Was he a relative?”
Mary shook her head. “No, we were not related in any way. Uncle Clint
knew my mother, and when she died I went to live at the Lazy H. But
he’s dead now and I don’t know what will happen.”
“Has he any relatives?”
“He has two cousins in Pinnacle City, Ace and Dick Haverty. They own the
Box Four H outfit. Uncle Clint never liked them.”
“This Box Four H and the Lazy H, and all that is Greek to me,” confessed
Jim. “I have never been out of a city in my life before. I suppose they
are places where cattle are raised.”
“That’s right, Mr. Meade. You’ll soon learn. Have you ever ridden a
horse?”
“No, I never have. Is it difficult?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl smiling. “I’ve worked with horses ever
since I can remember. You will learn--the hard way.”
“Everything I have ever learned was the hard way,” Jim admitted.
II
In spite of the dust and the rough road, the ride to Pinnacle City
seemed short to Jim Bailey. Pinnacle City was booming with some new
mining strikes. Jim left his valise in the stage depot and located Ed
McLean’s office.
The lawyer was short, fat and nearly bald. Seated behind his desk, he
looked at Jim Bailey thoughtfully. This young man didn’t exactly look
like ready money.
“Well, young man, what can I do for you?” he asked.
“I am Jim Meade,” replied Bailey soberly.
McLean twitched visibly and his pale-blue eyes blinked.
“Jim Meade?” he asked. “You--uh--ah, yes, Jim Meade. Well, I--”
“I am answering your letter,” explained Jim.
“Oh!” the lawyer’s relief was explosive. “For a moment, I had an
idea--sit down! I want to look at you. Hm-m-m-m. You don’t look very
prosperous, but that is good.”
McLean leaned back in his chair, an expression of satisfaction on his
face. Apparently Jim Bailey met with his approval.
“You’ll do,” he half-whispered. “Have you met anybody--talked with
anybody?”
“I met a girl on the stage. Mary Deal.”
“Did she come in this morning?” asked McLean quickly. “I was expecting
her, but I didn’t know when she was coming. Did she talk with you?”
“Yes, some. I told her my name was Meade.”
“Hm-m-m! Still, that name wouldn’t mean anything to her.”
“You were expecting her?”
“Yes--I wrote to her. But forget girls. This deal is a big one, and we
can’t afford to miss out on it, my friend. How are you fixed for funds?”
“I am not.”
“I see. Well, go easy. Here is fifty dollars. Your room will not
cost over a dollar a day. Don’t drink, don’t gamble. Let me handle
everything. And above all, don’t try to explain anything.”
“Isn’t that a rather ridiculous order?” asked Jim. “After all, what
could I explain?”
“True. But if anybody asks you questions about where you come from and
what you are doing here--evade them.”
“When do I learn what this deal is all about?” asked Jim.
“Didn’t Hawley tell you anything about it?”
Jim shook his head, wondering if Hawley should have told him.
“Does Hawley get a cut out of the deal?” he asked.
“I’ll take care of Hawley. As soon as we can get together, I’ll explain
everything. Too many people come in here. I’ll get in touch with you
tonight, if I can, and we’ll go into the deal.”
Jim got his suit-case at the stage depot and secured a room at the
hotel. He signed the register with the name of Jim Meade, and gave his
address as San Francisco. The lobby was full of roughly-dressed men,
some of them wearing chaps and spurs--and guns. Jim Bailey didn’t like
that idea. He stopped at the top of the stairs and saw several of them
examine the register.
“I feel like a criminal,” he told himself, “and I haven’t done a
thing--yet.”
The food was good in the little restaurant, but Jim spent most of his
time watching the people. In all his life he had never seen as many
hard-looking men, but they seemed good-natured, having a good time.
There were cowboys, cattlemen, miners, prospectors, and a sprinkling
of dapper-looking gamblers. Just after dark he met Ed McLean on the
street.
“I’ve been looking for you, Jim,” the lawyer said. “We can’t talk
tonight, but I typed out some stuff for you to memorize. Put this in
your pocket and study it in your room. See you tomorrow.”
Jim went back to his room and studied the paper. It read:
You are Jim Meade, born twenty-seven years ago in
Denver, Colo. Your mother was Gale Haverty, your
father was Henry Meade. He was a small merchant,
and died fifteen years ago. Your mother died nine
years ago. You heard vaguely of relatives in the
Pinnacle country, and came here, hoping to get work.
Jim studied the few lines carefully. It still didn’t make sense. He
repeated it over to himself several times, tore the note into small
pieces and sifted them out the window, where they blew away in the
breeze.
“Haverty?” queried Jim to himself. “That’s the name of the man who died
and left the big ranch--the one Mary--” He stopped and thought things
over. “But where does Jim Meade enter into the deal? Maybe Jim Bailey
is getting in over his head. Well, I’ve got to know a lot more about it
than this, before I get excited.”
* * * * *
Mary Deal sat on the big porch of the Lazy H and talked things over
with Tellurium Woods, the old cook, who had been there for years.
Tellurium was as wide as he was high, and he was only five feet, three
inches tall. Except for a tuft above each ear, Tellurium was as bald
as a billiard-ball.
“You’ll jist have to blame Ed McLean for not bein’ told about Clint
dyin’,” sighed Tellurium. “I reckon he was too busy to do much thinkin’.
Ed McLean and the Cattlemen’s Bank are the executioners of the will,
which ain’t been read yet. I heard it was to be read tomorrow. You’ll
get the Lazy H--that’s a cinch. Clint wouldn’t give Ace and Dick Haverty
the sleeves out of his vest.”
Mary had no comments. A rider came up to the ranch-house and drew up
at the porch. The rider was tall and thin, with a long, rather
humorous-looking face. He took off his sombrero and grinned at them.
“I’m lookin’ for the ramrod of this spread,” he said quietly.
“If I ain’t mistaken, pardner,” replied Tellurium, “you’ll find Tex
Parker down around the corrals.”
“Much obliged, mister--and ma’am,” he said soberly, and rode down across
the yard.
“There goes Arizona,” said Mary.
“Huh? I didn’t git it.”
Mary laughed. “When I was at school, I thought of Arizona a lot,
Tellurium--and Arizona was always a tall cowpoke on a long-legged
horse, squinting into the sun.”
“Yeah, I know what yuh mean. That hombre looks like real folks, and he
packs his gun low and handy. I like his grin.”
The tall cowboy found Tex Parker at the stable. Tex was a raw-boned
cowboy, hard-faced, with little sense of humor. He sized up the stranger
questioningly.
“Yo’re Tex Parker? Good! I’m knowed as Skeeter. Smith is the last
designation. Glad to meet yuh.”
Skeeter Smith dismounted and leaned against the fence. “What can I do
for yuh, Smith?” asked the foreman.
“A job,” replied Skeeter. “I was up in Pinnacle City, kinda askin’
around, and somebody told me that the bank was runnin’ the Lazy H; so
I went to see the head-man of the bank, and he said you was startin’
a roundup next week.”
“I see,” said Parker. He didn’t like the idea of the bank taking things
over like that. After all, nothing had been settled.
“I’m just a pilgrim,” said Skeeter. “Kinda moseyin’ around all the time,
lookin’ at things and places. Right nice lookin’ spread you’ve got here.
I’ve been rated as a top-hand with cows.”
Tex Parker smiled. “You pack yore gun awful low for jist a pilgrim,” he
remarked.
“Long arms,” said Skeeter soberly. “Kinda lazy, too. Hate to have to
crook m’ elbow too much. How about a job for a while?”
The foreman nodded. “All right, Smith. I’ll show yuh a bunk, and you can
dump yore war-bag. Start workin’ in the mornin’.”
“Right nice and pleasant of yuh, Parker. Thanks.”
Skeeter Smith left his war-bag in the bunk-house, got on his horse and
headed back for Pinnacle City. Tex Parker was thoughtful, as he went
back to the stable.
“I’d like to know who that rannahan is,” he remarked to himself.
“Pilgrim! Oh, well, all I want is a good cow-hand--and he talks like
a good one.”
On the porch Tellurium and Mary were talking about Len Carson, the
stage-driver.
“Ol’ Len’s a character,” laughed the cook. “I think he was exaggeratin’
about the drummer. I don’t believe he ever fell into Coyote Canyon. I
heard the drummer made a derogatory re-mark about some woman in Pinnacle
City, and Len knocked him off the seat. Didja hear about Len gettin’
held up? No?
“Yeah, that happened about a month ago. Two fellers stuck up the
stage. Got away with some gold from the Santa Isabella mine, and some
registered mail, I heard. Had masks on. Len wasn’t able to say who
they looked like.”
“Len never told me about it,” said Mary. “In fact, we didn’t have much
chance to talk.”
“You mentioned a passenger named Meade,” said Tellurium. “Yuh know, I’ve
been thinkin’ about that name, and I kinda remembered Clint speakin’ of
somebody named Meade. It seems to me that it was some relate of his’n,
but I can’t be sure.”
“I suppose there are a lot of people by that name,” said Mary.
“Yeah, I reckon there must be. Well, I’ve got to start cookin’.”
Tellurium bow-legged his way into the house, headed for the kitchen. He
whistled off-key, but with enthusiasm.
III
Jim Bailey’s first night as Jim Meade was fraught with bad dreams and
bed-bugs. Stampeding cattle and bucking horses trampled him into the
dust while Mary Deal hung suspended over the side of a cliff, her skirt
twisted into a manzanita snag. Jim wanted to be a hero, and save her,
but his former landlady showed up and chased him through the brush.
However, the bugs were very real.
The bank had notified Ace and Dick Haverty to come in at ten o’clock
that morning to listen to the reading of Clint Haverty’s will, and they
were in, dressed in their Sunday clothes, looking very uncomfortable.
They were a hulking pair of unshaved, unwashed cattlemen, expecting
nothing from the estate of their uncle.
Ed McLean, the attorney, was there. No one had invited Mary Deal. Thomas
Estabrook, the white-haired banker, was there, grim-visaged, as became a
banker. Ed McLean, after a short preamble extolling the virtues of
Clinton Haverty, opened the sealed envelope. The will was short and to
the point, witnessed by the postmaster and the proprietor of the hotel.
It left the Lazy H ranch--buildings, furniture, all live-stock and
money in the bank--to Jim Meade, son of his sister, Gale, and Henry
Meade, last heard of in Denver, Colorado. It gave Ace and Dick Haverty
each a silver dollar, but did not even mention Mary Deal. Mace Adams,
the grizzled sheriff of Pinnacle City, was in at the reading.
“I have never heard of Jim Meade,” Estabrook said. “Didn’t Clint say
anything to you about him, Ed?”
“I asked him about Meade, when he signed the will,” replied the lawyer.
“He said, ‘It is up to you to find him.’ I have no idea where to look,
Mr. Estabrook. Of course, we can--”
“Wait a minute!” exclaimed the sheriff. “Meade? Why, there’s a stranger
at the hotel, and I’m sure he signed that name.”
“That,” said McLean, “would be a coincidence.”
“That would be my opinion, too,” said the banker meaningly.
The sheriff found Jim Bailey at the hotel, sprawled in a chair, reading
an old paper.
“Your name is Meade--Jim Meade?”
“Why yes,” nodded Jim. He saw the insigna of office on the sheriff’s
vest, and swallowed painfully.
“Come up to the bank with me,” said the sheriff. “If your name is Meade,
we need you.”
Jim Bailey got slowly to his feet. “The--the bank hasn’t been robbed,
has it?” he asked haltingly.
“Not yet,” smiled the sheriff. “This is about a will.”
Jim Bailey went with him. The presence of Ed McLean was reassuring, at
least. The two Havertys looked at him indifferently.
“He says his name is Jim Meade,” announced the sheriff.
“I see,” mused the banker. “Your name is Jim Meade?”
* * * * *
Jim Bailey nodded. “What is all this about?” he asked.
“Do you claim that you are the nephew of Clinton Haverty?” asked McLean
pompously.
“Clinton Haverty?” parroted Jim. “Why, I--I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” snorted the banker. “What are you doing in Pinnacle
City, young man?”
“I happen to be minding my own business,” retorted Jim hotly. He didn’t
like the attitude of Thomas Estabrook, and showed it.
“Let me handle this,” suggested the lawyer. “We understand that you
are Jim Meade. The question is--are you related to the late Clinton
Haverty?”
“I told you that I don’t know. I have heard that I had some relatives
in this country, but I don’t know their names. I came here, looking for
work.”
“What sort of work?” asked the banker.
“I am a bookkeeper.”
“Where and when were you born?” asked McLean.
“In Denver,” replied Jim. “I am twenty-seven.”
“That checks,” said McLean. “What was your mother’s maiden name--her
first name?”
“Gale,” replied Jim quietly. The effect was good. “My mother died about
nine years ago.”
* * * * *
It suddenly occurred to Jim that it was ridiculous for him not to know
that his mother’s name had been Haverty, but no one asked him.
“What was your father’s given name?” the banker asked.
“Henry,” replied Jim Bailey. “He died fifteen years ago.”
The banker sighed and looked at McLean, who was lighting his pipe.
“What is this all about--or am I not supposed to know?” Jim demanded.
“Young man,” replied the banker, “Clinton Haverty died a few weeks ago
and the bulk of his holdings have been left to a Jim Meade, who was
born in Denver, twenty-seven years ago. It is very coincidental that
you should come here at this time, but your answers seem definite. Of
course, this will cannot be probated for a while, at least until the
judge recovers from an illness. The court will, of course, demand all
possible proof before accepting you as the legal heir to the Lazy H.
The reading of this will was held up by me until such a time as Mary
Deal could be present. I supposed, of course, that she would be
mentioned. However, Mr. McLean neglected to tell me that she was not
included.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Jim Bailey. “I had no idea of anything
like this. It rather--er--floors me, gentlemen.”
“All we git is a silver dollar apiece, eh?” grunted Ace Haverty. “That
wasn’t worth ridin’ in for!”
“In these clothes, too!” added Dick Haverty.
“You didn’t expect he’d leave you anything, did you?” asked the banker
curiously.
“Not ’less he had some loose debts hangin’ around,” replied Ace. Dick
roared with laughter, slapping his leg.
“That’s a good’n!” he gasped. “Ace, yo’re a dinger!”
“I believe that is all, gentlemen,” said the lawyer. “Nothing more can
be done until the will is offered for probate.”
“How about giving Meade a job in the bank?” asked McLean. It would do
away with the problem of expense money.
The banker shook his head.
“There is no opening,” he replied, “and if there was, I’d have to know a
lot about a man--a lot more than we know about Mr. Meade.”
Jim Bailey went back to the hotel, feeling that the banker was
suspicious. Jim knew now what McLean’s game was and wondered just
what he would have to do for McLean, in case he got the Lazy H. But
Jim was not without certain fears. If they ever did discover his real
identity, or prove that he was not Jim Meade--Jim Bailey didn’t like
to think about it. He was anxious to have a long talk with Ed McLean,
but realized McLean had to be careful.
It didn’t take long for the news of the will to become known. The
general opinion was that Clint Haverty had done entirely wrong in not
including Mary Deal in the will. As far as the two Haverty boys were
concerned, they got too much. Tellurium Woods, the Lazy H cook, and
Archie Haas, horse wrangler, came to Pinnacle City after dark. These
two had stayed away from liquor up to the limit of their ability. They
met with Cactus Spears, the deputy sheriff, who was a fraternal soul,
dogged by thirst. Cactus was small, wiry, with a long nose and
inquiring eyebrows. Archibald Haas was a long-armed, big-footed
person, whose I.Q. was just below zero, but companionable. These three
entered the Antelope Saloon and spaced themselves closely against the
bar.
They drank soberly and solemnly, bowing to each other before each drink.
Sam Ballew, the bartender, looked upon them with evident apprehension.
They had started this way before and ended up in a blaze of glory.
“I unnerstand the Lazy H is roundin’ up t’morrow,” Cactus said.
“Thaz true,” replied Tellurium. “We’ve gotta count all the li’l dogies.
The bank wants it.”
“Wha’ they goin’ do with ’em?” asked Archibald, “Put ’em in the shafe?”
It wasn’t funny. Even the bartender didn’t laugh.
“I shuppose you have heard ’bout Mary not bein’ mentioned in Clint’s
will,” Cactus said.
“Heaven’s m’ home!” gasped Tellurium. “You mean-- Cactus, old friend,
yo’re lyin’ to me. You mean--yuh do?”
* * * * *
Patiently Cactus told them of the will and its contents. Archibald
cried on the bar, but Tellurium, built of more solid fiber, cursed the
name of Meade. In fact, he went back far beyond the immediate ancestry
of Jim Meade, and laid the family tree out cold. When he had finished,
or rather, run out of wind, Cactus added:
“If that gallinipper thinks he can come here and take things away from
that li’l gal--he’s mishtaken.”
“Absholutely and positive,” agreed Tellurium. “We’ll run him out of here
sho fasht that it’ll take sheven days of brill’nt shunshine to let his
shadder catch up with him.”
“I vote f’r immediate mashacree,” piped up Archibald.
“Oh, yo’re jus’ im--im--petuous,” said Cactus. “Tha’s all--jist an
ingpetuous pershon. Ol’ impetuous.”
“I’m Archibald,” corrected the horse-wrangler.
“Gotta go eashy,” warned Tellurium. “Might scare him. Wait’ll he goes to
bed. Then we’ll schneak in on him.”
“Tha’s shenshible,” agreed Cactus. “Then what’ll we do to ’im?”
“Don’t rush me,” replied Tellurium. “I’ve got wonnerful ideas, but don’
rush me, Cactus. Let’s have ’nother dram.”
They had several. Luckily Mace Adams, the sheriff, didn’t find his
deputy. He had warned Cactus to keep away from strong drink. It
impaired the dignity of the office. It didn’t help Cactus’ own
dignity either, because he became more bow-legged than ever. But they
had decided to visit the iniquities of Clint Haverty on the victim of
his choice.
“’F I didn’ do shomethin’,” declared Tellurium, “I could never look that
sweet young lady in the fasch again.”
“I’m with you to the bitter end,” declared Cactus.
“Bit ’er end?” queried Archibald. “Esplain it to me, Tellurium.”
“Have ’nother drink, Archibald,” invited Cactus. “You’ve got to be drunk
to obscure yore natural stupidity. Yore natural reshources are depleted,
don’t-cha know it.”
“I’m jus’ a horsh-wrangler,” sobbed Archibald.
“Well, jus’ don’t tell the horshes, or you’ll have trouble with ’em.”
“The horshes know me,” said Archibald.
“Don’t get too familiar with ’em,” advised Cactus. “The firs’ thing you
know they’ll be wranglin’ you. Have drink?”
“It makes me sick, thinkin’ about Mary,” said Tellurium.
“Don’t worry,” advised Cactus. “We’ll do her proud.”
Jim Bailey was getting ready for bed, when his door banged open and the
three men came in. Cactus had a gun in his hand, waving it in wide
circles, while Tellurium had a lariat-rope. Archibald was too drunk to
more than lend his moral support to the project. Jim Bailey was clad in
some old pajamas, and it might be recorded that the entrance of these
men frightened him.
“Schtop runnin’ ’round like that!” Cactus ordered.
“I’m not moving,” assured Jim Bailey.
“Good!” grunted Tellurium, shaking out the loop.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Jim. “What have I done?”
“It’s that will,” explained Tellurium. “You ain’t gonna git it, I’ll
tell yuh that. This is yore finish, Misser Meade.”
Tellurium suddenly flung the loop. Perhaps Tellurium’s sense of
direction was no better than Cactus’, because the loop missed Jim
Bailey by three feet and circled the lamp on the table. The next
moment the room was as dark as a dungeon.
For the next twenty seconds or more, there was only the sound of strong
men in mortal combat, the crash of a chair, the upsetting of the table.
Then Tellurium’s voice rang in triumph.
“I’ve got him! C’mon, grab the rope, and we’ll drag him out.”
* * * * *
Willing hands helped him in the dark. They yanked the door open, dragged
their struggling victim the length of the dark hall and down the stairs.
It was a soundless voyage, except for the scuffling feet, the dragging
of the victim. Old Hank Voigt, the hotelkeeper, gazed in open-mouthed
wonder, his glasses balanced on the end of his long nose, as they came
down the stairs.
The three men were almost at the bottom of the stairs, before their
victim, roped around the legs, came bumping down behind them, taking
the brunt of the bumping on that part of him designed by nature for
such things as bumps.
Cactus backed over a chair and went sprawling, and the other two ceased
hauling when the victim landed on the floor-level.
“Wh-what’s goin’ on here?” blurted Old Hank. “What’s Archibald done?”
Tellurium leaned against the desk, panting wearily, blinking. Beside
him, hanging onto the rope, was Jim Bailey, his pajamas flopping. At
the foot of the stairs sat Archibald Haas, his two legs roped, a
pained expression on his face, together with a fast-swelling eye.
Cactus got slowly to his feet. Tellurium stared at Jim Bailey, looked
over at Archibald and said:
“Didja ever see such hair on a dog?”
“Dog?” queried Jim Bailey blankly.
“You!” snorted Tellurium. “What’r you doin’, hangin’ onto that rope,
feller?”
Jim Bailey swallowed heavily. “You--you said, ‘Grab the rope,’ and I--I
grabbed.”
“Who hit me?” asked Archibald, getting loose and to his very unsteady
feet. “I crave to know who hit me--that’s what I’ve got a cravin’ t’
know.”
Cactus sat down in a chair, tears running down his cheeks. Tellurium
shrugged helplessly, while Jim Bailey leaned against the counter and
tried to reason out a few things. Hank Voigt said:
“Young feller, you better go back and hide yore shame. There’s a
two-foot rip in the back of them drawers.”
Jim Bailey went up the stairs in nothing flat, clutching at his rear.
Tellurium looked Archibald over critically.
“Archibald, if yo’re through foolin’, we’ll go home,” he said.
“I’d love it,” said Archibald soberly. “Yuh know, when I’m in the city I
jist cain’t re-lax.”
Jim Bailey went back to his room, righted the table and managed to
light the lamp. The chimney was broken, but the rest of the lamp was
all right. Some oil had spilled, and the place smelled of kerosene,
but Jim was too upset to care. Those men might have killed him.
He could not quite figure out just why he helped them haul Archibald
Haas down the stairs. Perhaps he had been a bit confused. He was about
to blow out the guttering lamp and go to bed, when someone knocked
softly on his door.
It was Ed McLean, the lawyer. He glanced at the lamp, sniffed
disgustedly and sat down.
“I came up the back stairs,” he explained. “Didn’t want to be seen
coming up here. What happened a while ago? I heard Cactus Spears trying
to explain it to the sheriff.”
Jim Bailey told him what his experience had been, and McLean’s comment
was, “Drunken fools!”
“Not too drunk,” corrected Jim nervously. “I don’t like it. What is
this deal, McLean? I am beginning to realize that you want control of
this estate--but what do I get?”
“Keep your voice down,” warned the lawyer. “These walls are mighty thin.
You get control of the Lazy H. After that, I get financial backing and
buy you out. Simple, isn’t it?”
“You buy me out, eh?” said Jim quietly. “How much?”
* * * * *
Ed McLean looked narrowly at Jim. Maybe this wasn’t as easy as it had
looked.
“How much do you expect?” he asked.
“All I can get. Tonight has proved to me that I am not here for my
health.”
“Oh, they were just drunk.”
“You die just as dead when a drunk kills you, McLean. What about this
Mary Deal?”
“She has no legal claims. She wasn’t even legally adopted.”
“I’m not talking about that. Why didn’t this Haverty person name her in
the will?”
McLean shrugged his shoulders, and Jim continued:
“That banker is suspicious, McLean. The will should have been read two
weeks ago. Me being here right on the dot is a coincidence that the
banker doesn’t want to swallow. And another thing I’d like to mention.
If that banker stops to think things over, he’ll realize I should have
known that my mother’s maiden name was Haverty. Me knowing I had
relatives around here and not knowing the name!”
McLean scowled thoughtfully. “Bob Hawley said you were dumb,” he
remarked.
“I am, McLean. If I wasn’t I’d leave here tomorrow. Just what will I
make out of this deal?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“I see. From what I can learn, listening around, there must be more
cash than that in the local bank. The ranch and cattle are worth over a
hundred thousand. There was something else. I heard two men talking in
the lobby and one said, ‘The best gold prospect of them all is located
on the Lazy H.”
“A prospect doesn’t mean a paying mine,” said McLean.
“Taking it all in all, isn’t ten thousand small money for my share of
the deal, McLean?”
“All right,” said the lawyer grimly. “How much do you want?”
“At least half.”
“Ridiculous!”
Jim Bailey shrugged. “Fifty percent. Without me you are lost.”
Finally the lawyer nodded. “All right. I’d like to punch Bob Hawley
right in the nose.”
“He would probably take it lying down,” said Bailey dryly. “You make out
the papers, McLean.”
“Papers? You--do you--wait a minute! You mean papers on our agreement?”
“Why not?” asked Jim. “I’m afraid we don’t trust each other.”
“We better!” snapped the lawyer, getting to his feet. “There will be no
papers.”
“Suit yourself. I might claim more than fifty percent. In fact, I might
take over the whole of the estate.”
“Listen, my friend,” warned the lawyer, “you play the game my way or
you won’t get anything. I’m not threatening you--I’m merely stating
facts. Accidents happen. Think it over, and I’ll talk with you later.
Doublecrossing won’t pay dividends in this part of the country.”
McLean walked out and closed the door. This time Bailey locked it and
went to bed. He pounded the pillow into shape and lay down. He wasn’t
in the habit of talking to himself, but he did say:
“Cliff De Haven, I don’t wish you any bad luck, but I do wish you had
lived to take over this job.”
IV
Clint Haverty had told Mary one day that she did not need to worry
about her future and he had not even mentioned her in his will. She
had nothing now, but she did not complain. Clint Haverty had been
more than generous with her, and she was very grateful. The crew of
the Lazy H had finished up their first day of the spring count, and
the new man, Skeeter Smith, had proved himself a good worker with
cattle.
Late in the evening, after the men had eaten, Skeeter drifted around to
the front porch, smoking a cigaret, and found Mary sitting there alone.
“Hello,” she said.
Skeeter sat down on one of the steps.
“It’s shore nice around here, Ma’am,” he said.
“I love it,” she said quietly. “It has been my home for eight years. I
love the sunsets, the sunrise and the moonlight.”
“They’re pretty,” he admitted. “The boys was tellin’ me about the
readin’ of that will, and I’d like to say that I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” she said simply.
“Folks don’t call me mister--I’m Skeet.”
“They don’t call me ma’am either.”
“I reckon we’re even.”
“Is your home in Arizona?” she asked.
“Home? No, I haven’t any home--Mary. Wherever I hang my hat. I’m sort of
a pilgrim I reckon.”
“I’ll have to be a pilgrim now, I suppose,” said Mary. “I can’t make
this my home much longer. As soon as the will is probated the new owner
will take over the Lazy H.”
“Yeah, I reckon that’s how they do it. Life’s a funny thing. Yuh never
know what you’ve got--not for sure. Where will yuh go?”
“Oh, I suppose I can find a job--maybe.”
“Yeah, I reckon so. Still, a woman can always marry somebody, and not
have to work.”
“I haven’t given much thought to marriage,” she said.
“I didn’t dare to,” grinned Skeeter. “Have you ever seen the feller
they’re givin’ the Lazy H to?”
“I came in from Northport on the stage with him.”
“Yeah? What sort of a feller is he, Mary?”
“Oh, just--well, I’d say he was average--as far as I could see. I didn’t
know he was the heir to the Lazy H at that time.”
“City feller, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes. He said he had always lived in a city.”
Dell Howard, one of the cowboys, came around the corner.
“Skeet, do yuh want to ride to town with me and Dan?” he asked. Skeeter
got to his feet.
“I’ll be with yuh, Dell,” he replied, and to Mary he said:
“Keep yore chin up, Mary. Speakin’ as a drifter, the things yuh worry
most about never happen. A feller died once and willed me his socks,
but I never got ’em.”
“What happened to them?” asked Mary.
“Oh, nothin’ much. They buried him with ’em on before they read his
will. See yuh later.”
Going up the street in Pinnacle City that evening, Skeeter Smith and
Dell Howard found Cactus Spears and Jim Bailey talking in front of
the hotel. Dell introduced Skeeter to Cactus, who in turn introduced
Jim to them.
“Meade, eh? So yo’re the heir to the Lazy H?” Dell asked.
“That’s what they say,” replied Jim. No one had any comments, nor
anything else, it seemed to Jim. Dell said:
“I’ll go to the postoffice, before it closes, Skeet,” and went on.
“Glad to have met yuh, Smith,” Cactus said. “I’ve got to go to the
office.”
That left Jim Bailey and Skeeter Smith together.
“This happens all the time,” Jim said. “As soon as they find out who I
am they leave me alone. They resent me.”
“Don’t feel too bad about it,” advised the tall cowpoke. “If you can
prove that yo’re entitled to the property, I don’t see what they can
do about it.”
“Something happened last night,” said Jim soberly.
“Yeah, I heard about that at supper tonight. Tellurium was tellin’ us
how Archibald got his black eye.”
“It wasn’t funny--not to me.”
“You was prejudiced,” grinned Skeeter.
“One man threatened me with a gun.”
“Yeah, I reckon he did. But that’s nothin’, he didn’t shoot. They resent
you takin’ over the Lazy H of course. But if you are entitled to it, why
worry? They’ll make yuh prove it.”
“But suppose the court won’t accept my proof?” asked Jim.
“That,” replied Skeeter seriously, “would be too bad. Folks in this kind
of country believe the court is right.”
“What do you mean?”
“If the court says yo’re a fraud--they’ll hang yuh.”
“They wouldn’t do that!” exclaimed Jim.
“My friend,” said Skeeter earnestly, “there’s boot-hills made up of
tombstones of men who made that same remark and believed they were
right. This is no country to doublecross the people. I’ll see yuh
later, Mister Meade.”
* * * * *
Jim went back into the hotel and sat down. That was the second warning
he had received on a double-cross. If he double-crossed Ed McLean he’d
suffer, and if he double-crossed the people, they’d hang him.
“Fifty percent is entirely too little for my job,” he told himself. “I
should get it all--and a bonus.”
Still, he mused, fifty percent of a hundred thousand dollars was an
awful lot of money. And then the thought struck him that Ed McLean
had been all too quick to agree to a fifty-fifty split. It wasn’t
what a lawyer would do. Offer ten percent, and then agree to a fifty
percent. There was something fishy about the whole thing. Of course,
he could understand why McLean did not want any written agreements.
Jim was very careful to lock his room that night, but no one came to mar
his slumber.
It was after ten the next morning when Jim Bailey came down from his
room. It was very hot in Pinnacle City, and the little hotel lobby was
deserted. Jim flung his key on the desk and had turned toward the door
when he heard a sound that was very much like a partly muffled shot.
Through the open doorway he could see several men over in front of
the Antelope Saloon, looking across the street. Two of them started
to cross the street, traveling at a fast pace. At that moment Hank
Voigt, the hotelkeeper, skidded around to the entrance of the hotel,
and fairly fell into the place.
“Bank robbery!” he exclaimed. “Bank robbery!”
He caught his balance and looked at Jim Bailey.
“Well, do somethin’!” he barked at Jim.
“Do what?” asked Jim, watching more men run from across the street. Hank
flopped his arms helplessly.
“Shot at me,” he said in amazement. “Imagine that, will yuh?”
“I shall try, Mr. Voigt.”
“Well--good! You’ll-- There goes the sheriff!”
Jim Bailey walked out and went up to the bank, where a goodly crowd had
gathered.
Cactus Spears was trying to keep them out of the bank.
“Thomas Estabrook is prob’ly dead,” he reported. “We’ve sent for the
coroner. Now, dang yuh, keep out and give us room!”
No one seemed to know any of the details. Thomas Estabrook was dead,
sprawled behind the counter, a gun on the floor beside him. He had
apparently tried to defend himself. The robber, or robbers, had left via
the rear doorway. No money had been touched, the bandits frightened away
after having shot the banker.
Old Hank Voigt said he didn’t see how many men were in there. He had
gone to make a deposit, and as he came into the doorway he heard a shot
fired. A moment later a bullet blew splinters from a side of the doorway
near his head, and he didn’t stop running until he skidded into his own
hotel.
Estabrook was alone in the bank at that time, the bookkeeper having gone
to Northport to have a tooth repaired. He was expected to be back later
in the day. The sheriff closed the bank for the day.
Jim Bailey saw Ed McLean at the bank, but did not get a chance to
talk with him. Jim went back to the hotel and sat down on the shaded
porch. The town buzzed over the killing of their banker, who was a
much respected citizen. McLean sauntered over to the hotel porch and
sat down with Jim.
“Well,” he remarked quietly, “there is another coincidence. The one man
we feared has been removed.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” said Jim. “It was a terrible thing.”
“I have some news for you,” said the lawyer. “I had a talk with the
judge a while ago. He won’t be back on the bench for another two weeks.
We discussed the will, and I suggested that you be allowed to live at
the Lazy H, at least, until the will has been probated. The judge said
that if I was satisfied that you are the legal heir to the Lazy H, it
will be all right for you to take up your residence out there. I said I
was satisfied.”
* * * * *
Bailey thought it over for a while.
“Meaning,” he remarked, “that I must be out there with Mary Deal, who--”
“Hang it!” snapped the lawyer. “Can’t you understand that she wasn’t
even mentioned in the will? She has no more claim than I have!”
“Pinnacle City seems to think she has, McLean.”
“Hang Pinnacle City!”
“With pleasure, McLean--and Pinnacle City feels the same way about me.
I have a feeling that the men at the Lazy H hate me, and if I am out
there--I have heard that a broken neck is quite a nuisance.”
“They won’t harm you.”
“Perhaps not. And you would benefit thereby, not having to pay my hotel
expenses. Well, after all, why not?”
“Sure,” nodded the lawyer. “If they wanted to hang you they could do it
here as well as at the ranch. I’ll take you out there this afternoon.
Pack up your stuff.”
Jim Bailey grinned. Pack up his stuff! He could just about carry it all
in a folded handkerchief. McLean got to his feet, sighed with relief and
promised to be after Jim in a little while.
Old Hank Voigt listened to Jim’s explanation for leaving the hotel. He
shook his head sadly.
“I’d like to wish you luck, young man,” he said, “but it’ll take more’n
that to help yuh. There’s so many different ways of causin’ a demise
around a ranch. Accidental shot, bad broncs, some knot-headed ol’ cow,
which recognizes you as the one who took her calf to market--oh, a lot
of legitimate ways of openin’ your earthly envelope. But, as I say,--or
didn’t I?”
“You said quite a lot, Mr. Voigt.”
“Yeah, I reckon I covered the subject pretty well. Well, if I don’t see
yuh again, it’s nice to have knowed yuh, my boy.”
Jim Bailey winced over the handshake--not the physical hurt, but the
implied fact that he was rushing in where angels fear to tread.
He tried to grin, as he said, “I shall do my best.”
“I’d advise that yuh get some overalls, boots and a gun, and don’t be
too slick-jawed. When yore face starts to itch, that’s time enough to
shave.”
“I have never fired a gun, Mr. Voigt,” said Jim. “Why, I might shoot
myself--or somebody else.”
“That’s what they’re made for, my boy--somebody else.”
“I would hate to take that chance.”
“You’d hate to take _that_ chance?” Hank Voigt looked at him in
amazement. “You--uh--yo’re claimin’ the Lazy H, ain’t yuh?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Huh! Gaggin’ on a fox-tail and tryin’ to swaller a stack of hay!”
“I don’t believe I understand, Mr. Voigt.”
“You run along and keep claimin’, my boy, and maybe it’ll dawn on yuh
some day.”
“Well, thanks, anyway; you’ve been nice to me.”
“You paid and I ain’t cravin’ no cowranch.”
V
Ed McLean had his own horse and buggy. They tossed the valise into the
back of the vehicle and headed for the Lazy H. Jim told the lawyer what
Hank Voigt had said, but McLean only laughed.
“Hank is quite a joker,” he said.
“I _hope_ he was joking, McLean.”
“Of course he was. We’re all set now. Estabrook might have made trouble
for us, but it is clear sailing from now on.”
“I hope you are right, but something tells me that everything is not
right. These people, as I understand it, do not always depend on the
law to settle their troubles. The court might accept me as the legal
and lawful heir to the Lazy H, but some of these cowpokes, as they
are called, might not.”
“Forget that part of it. They’re law-abiding people. Just because they
carry guns and talk a queer lingo they are not necessarily killers.”
“Maybe not. I was thinking about that new man at the Lazy H. Skeeter
Smith, I believe. He intimated that they hang a man for a doublecross
in this country.”
Ed McLean shot a side glance at Jim Bailey.
“O-o-oh!” he exclaimed. “Just why did he say that?”
“Oh, we were talking about my claims. I intimated that perhaps the court
might not accept my credentials. He said that if the court decided that
I was a fraud the people would probably hang me.”
“Bosh!” snorted the lawyer. “My friend, you talk too blasted much! Let
others do the talking, you listen.”
“Of course,” remarked Jim, “my life doesn’t mean anything to you,
McLean. All you are interested in is using me for a cat’s-paw. You want
the Lazy H. If this deal works out, very likely you will get it. We are
a fine pair of crooks.”
“And we can’t afford to fall out, remember that, Jim.”
“Remember that yourself, McLean. I will not be bossed. You may suggest
something, but don’t order. I’ve taken orders all my grown-up life and
I don’t like it.”
“I’ll remember that, Jim. Sometimes you rub me the wrong way.”
“Sorry. I am going to need some overalls and boots. And if you know
where I can get a gun--”
“What in the world would you do with a gun?”
“That,” replied Jim soberly, “is something that no man knoweth, until
the experiment has been made. I want to be a man among men.”
“I see,” replied Ed McLean. “Well, I’d offer good odds that the first
time you pull that gun, you’ll be the only horizontal one among the
men.”
Mary Deal was the only one to greet Jim Bailey with a smile. Tex Parker
turned and walked away, and Tellurium backed into the kitchen. There
was an extra room in the ranch-house, which was turned over to Jim. Ed
McLean talked quite a while with the foreman, and then came up to have
a few words with Tellurium, out at the wood-pile.
“Listen t’ me, McLean!” Tellurium griped. “Do you think I’m going to
cook good food for that anteloper?”
“The word is interloper,” corrected McLean.
“The word,” declared the cook, “is no!”
“You need a job, don’t you, Tellurium? Well, just remember that this
young man is the heir to the Lazy H.”
“You don’t need t’ rub it in. As far as a job is concerned I can stretch
m’ apron at any spread west of the Mississippi. Don’t tell me what I’ve
got to do. You keep up this yappin’, and you won’t be hired to misquote
law to a strange dog in this man’s country.”
“Look at it this way,” suggested McLean. “The young man can’t help that
he was Clint Haverty’s nephew.”
Tellurium thought about that.
“All right. In mem’ry of Clint Haverty, I’ll feed him. But I ain’t goin’
to nurse him along. The boys won’t like it. He won’t be welcome, but if
he can stand it we’ll try.
“That’s fine, Tellurium. You’re sensible.”
“You git out of here, before I split yuh with the axe. Sensible! Huh!”
* * * * *
McLean went back to Pinnacle City in a happy frame of mind. At least
the expense problem was settled. He even decided to get Jim Bailey some
boots and overalls. As far as the gun was concerned, he felt that Jim
was a little too new for things like six-shooters.
Jim soon found that he was a pariah at the Lazy H. He ate with the
cowboys and they snubbed him completely. The food was plentiful and
very good. Archibald Haas was still sporting a discolored eye, and
he looked daggers at Jim Bailey, remembering that Jim had helped
Tellurium and Cactus drag him down the hotel stairs. Mary ate alone,
and after supper that night, Jim went out on the porch, where Mary
was sitting.
“Did you enjoy your supper?” she asked pleasantly.
“I enjoyed the food,” he replied, “but the company was entirely
anti-me.”
Mary nodded sadly. “I’m sorry, Jim,” she said. “It isn’t a thing that I
can help. I have talked with the boys, but they all have minds of their
own.”
“I understand,” he said quietly. “They treated me the same way in town.
Mary, let me ask you a question. If I left this country, gave up this
inheritance, would you get the Lazy H?”
Mary shook her head. “No, I am not--was not, I mean--related to Clint
Haverty. It would go to Ace and Dick Haverty because they are the next
of kin--all his remaining relatives, as far as anyone knows.”
“I have seen them both,” said Jim. “I think I’ll stay.”
“I believe you are sensible, Jim. Your going away would not help me in
the least.”
“Mary, tell me something about Clint Haverty. Didn’t he ever tell you
that you might share in the estate?”
“He told me that I would have nothing to worry about.”
“I see. Was he all right physically and mentally?”
“The only thing on earth wrong with Clint Haverty, as far as anyone
knew, was bad eyesight. He didn’t want anyone to know his eyes were
bad; and he wouldn’t wear glasses. I read most of his letters to
him.”
“He died a natural death, I suppose?” Jim asked.
“Oh, didn’t you hear?” asked Mary.
“Only that he died, Mary.”
“He was thrown from his horse, coming back from Pinnacle City, and had
a skull fracture. He usually rode a bad horse, and the doctor says this
one threw him and then kicked him in the head.”
“I didn’t know that,” sighed Jim. “I am afraid of horses.”
“You’ll get over that,” laughed Mary. “In a few months you’ll be wearing
chaps and riding the hills with the rest of the boys.”
“It sounds very romantic, but I still don’t believe I will.”
Skeeter Smith finished supper and came around to the porch to enjoy a
cigaret. After the customary greetings, he said to Jim:
“If yo’re goin’ to own and operate the Lazy H, here’s somethin’ you
ought to know, Meade. The Lazy H is bein’ robbed. At least, this is
the opinion of Tex Parker and the boys.”
“Tex has said that several times, Skeeter,” said Mary.
“I know. He says it shows up in the count. Tex has gone to town to talk
with the sheriff. This is serious, Mary.”
“How does one steal a cow?” asked Jim.
Skeeter’s brows lifted slightly, and he glanced at Mary, who was
smothering a smile.
“The methods,” replied Skeeter, “vary.”
“I see,” remarked Jim vaguely. “I really didn’t know.”
There was no conversation for a while. Then Skeeter said:
“How do you like the cattle country, Mr. Meade?”
“I am afraid of it,” replied Jim honestly.
* * * * *
Skeeter smiled. “The thing for you to do is to get on a bronc and learn
it first-hand.”
“A bronc is a horse, isn’t it, Mr. Smith?”
“It is--and call me Skeeter.”
“Thank you. I have never ridden a horse, but I suppose I must learn.
First I must get some overalls and boots, I suppose. Then I can get a
gun and--”
“Wait!” Skeeter laughed. “Have you ever fired a six-shooter?”
“Never. But I supposed--”
“You won’t need a gun. The longer yuh can get along without a gun, the
better off you’ll be. Take my advice, Jim, learn to ride and rope,
brand, judge beef and all that. That six-shooter don’t brand yuh as a
cowpoke--it brands yuh as a man, who, for some reason or another,
expects trouble to cut his trail some day.”
“Thank you, Skeeter--you have been very kind to me.”
Skeeter laughed and got to his feet.
“My friend,” he said, “somewhere in the Bible, I believe it says
somethin’ about being cautious about them who come bearin’ gifts.”
“But you haven’t brought me any gifts, Skeeter.”
“Friendship is a gift.”
“You mean that I should beware friendship?”
“Until it has been tried and proved--yeah.”
Skeeter went back to the bunk-house. Jim said:
“Mary, he is a queer sort of cowboy, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” replied the girl. “He is different. I believe he would make a
wonderful friend, and I would hate to be his enemy.”
“I don’t believe I have ever had a real friend, Mary.”
“Few people ever do, Jim. Uncle Clint used to say that a friend was
someone who knew all about you, but liked you in spite of it.”
“In my case,” said Jim slowly, “I could hardly expect it.”
“In the morning,” said Mary, “I’ll ask Archibald to saddle a horse for
you, Jim. You might as well learn to ride as soon as you can.”
“You are too kind to me, Mary,” he said earnestly.
“Say that tomorrow evening and I’ll believe you,” she said dryly....
It was midafternoon next day at the Lazy H. Archibald Haas sat on the
corral fence in the shade of a sycamore and looked at Jim Bailey,
astride an ancient charger called Peter the Hermit, so named from his
habit of staying alone as much as possible.
“That there lump on the front end of the saddle,” explained Archibald,
“is the horn. It’s used to dally a rope around, not to be hugged. If yuh
cain’t think of anythin’ to do with yore extra hands, let ’em dangle,
they won’t fall off.”
“_I_ might,” suggested Jim Bailey wearily.
“Uh-huh--yuh might. Now, the thing t’ do,” suggested Archibald, “when
the horse starts lopin’, you try and lope with him. You and Pete ort to
git together. And when he trots, brace yore legs. No use of him goin’
one way and you the other. And another thing; that horse is rein-broke.
Yuh don’t have to take holt of one rein with both hands and yank his
jaw loose. Try it again.”
At supper time Jim Bailey staggered to the house. Peter the Hermit
didn’t stagger at all, he lay down where he was. This was almost too
much for his ancient bones. Archibald Haas said to Mary:
“All he needs is the finishin’ touches.”
“What do you mean, Archie?” she asked.
“Jist shoot him and put him out of his misery.”
“You’ll not shoot Peter the Hermit!”
“’Course not. I didn’t mean him.”
VI
Jim Bailey was in bad shape next morning. He was barely able to limp to
the breakfast table. The rest of the crew had eaten and gone away, long
before Jim Bailey came to breakfast. Archibald Haas was there.
“I’ve got a bronc all saddled for yuh,” he said.
Jim Bailey groaned.
“This’n is a little faster than Pete,” Archibald said. “And more
durable.”
Tellurium placed Jim’s breakfast on the table, stepped back and looked
Jim over appraisingly.
“I found a pair of boots for yuh,” he said. “They ain’t no Sunday
specimens, but they’ve got heels. You’ve got to have heels.”
“What I need,” groaned Jim, “is two new legs, two new arms and a
headache tablet.”
“Does it hurt yuh to set down?” asked Archibald.
“It does,” replied Jim grimly, “but it also hurts me to stand up or lie
down.”
“Didja ever try hangin’ by yore hands?” asked Tellurium soberly.
Archibald stood in the kitchen doorway, yawned widely and announced:
“Here comes that knot-headed lawyer from Pinnacle.”
Jim didn’t want to talk with Ed McLean. In fact, he didn’t want to
talk with anybody, but McLean came up to the kitchen. Hot weather
gave McLean a beaded complexion and he continually polished his bald
head with a pink handkerchief. Jim could see that the lawyer was not
in good humor. He refused breakfast curtly.
Jim finished and limped outside with McLean, who led him down by the
corral, where he could talk without being overheard.
“In my mail last evening,” said McLean, a bit grimly, “I got a letter
and a clipping from a friend of mine in Frisco. The clipping deals with
the death of Bob Hawley.”
“Bob Hawley?” asked Jim quickly. “Is Bob dead?”
Ed McLean looked at Jim Bailey, and his expression was not exactly
friendly.
“According to the time element,” he replied, “Bob Hawley must have died
the night before you left San Francisco. Bob Hawley told me that your
name was De Haven.”
“Well,” said Jim, “is that remarkable?”
“According to this clipping--yes. The body believed to be that of Jim
Bailey has been identified as that of Cliff De Haven, and the police
are looking for Jim Bailey, who roomed with De Haven. They would like
to know why De Haven had articles on his person, which identified him
as Bailey.”
Jim Bailey thought the thing over carefully. It would be easy to explain
to the police, as far as he was concerned. He said:
“Well?”
[Illustration: “You are an impostor!” said the lawyer.]
“You,” said the lawyer accusingly, “are an impostor.”
Jim Bailey laughed, “So the pot calls the kettle black, eh?”
“You can tell me the truth, Bailey,” McLean said. “I don’t want the San
Francisco police tracing you to Pinnacle City.”
“They won’t get that far,” said Jim, and proceeded to tell the lawyer
exactly what happened.
“So De Haven merely appropriated your suit, eh?”
“That’s all. I took his letter--and took a chance.”
“All right. I’ll go back now. What makes you so lame?”
“Learning to ride a horse,” groaned Jim.
“Stay off the bad ones,” warned the lawyer. “At least, stay off them,
until this deal is finished. I need a live heir to the Lazy H.”
Ed McLean drove away, and Archibald came down from the kitchen, carrying
a pair of old, high-heel boots. The heels were worn off on the outside,
indicating that the owner had been bow-legged.
“They ain’t much--but they’ll help,” Archibald said.
* * * * *
Leaning against the corral fence, Jim painfully pulled them on. They
were a little tight, but not too bad. Walking was difficult, especially
with his aching legs. There was an old pair of overalls and an old
sombrero hanging on a peg in the stable. The overalls were tight but the
sombrero was loose.
Archibald looked him over approvingly.
“Right now,” he declared, “yo’re three looks and a whoop from bein’ a
tenderfoot. I ain’t sure whether you’d be diagnosed as a broken-down
cowpoke, or a up-and-comin’ sheepherder. However, my friend, you won’t
scare the cows.”
Mary came down to the stable. She wanted to be sure that no tricks were
being played on Jim. When she saw him she emitted a smothered shriek,
and he laughed heartily.
“How do I look, Mary?” he asked.
“How do you feel?” she whispered huskily.
“Terrible.”
“You look just that way, Jim. Are you going to ride again?”
“I am going to try.”
Archibald came out with a Roman-nosed sorrel, saddled and bridled.
There was little comparison between this horse and Peter the Hermit,
except that they both had four legs. Mary said:
“Do you think he’s capable of handling Blondy, Archie?”
“Well,” replied the wrangler, “I figure that Blondy is the only horse
around here capable of handling him. He won’t buck. You know Blondy. If
he gits four, five miles away from the ranch, he’ll come back in spite
of hell and high-water.”
Mary nodded, and watched Jim get into the saddle. It was a very painful
procedure, and Jim’s face showed it.
“Don’t go too far,” she advised. “If you get lost, give Blondy his
head, and he’ll come home. And if he wants to come home, don’t try to
stop him; it makes him mad.”
“I shall do my best,” replied Jim.
“You let Blondy do that, you jist set,” advised Archibald.
Mary shook her head as Jim disappeared down an old road.
“You ain’t worryin’ about that gallinipper, are yuh?” asked the
wrangler.
“Not worrying, no,” she replied. “I didn’t think he would have the nerve
to get on a horse today.”
Archibald chuckled. “Not only that, but he looks almost human in them
clothes, Mary.”
“People’s ideas of humanity differ, I’m afraid,” said the girl.
Jim Bailey soon found out that Blondy was not like Peter the Hermit.
Blondy _wanted_ to go places. Mary had said that Blondy would bring him
home; so why worry? There was a cooling breeze in the hills, which made
riding pleasant. He struck a trail, leading up through a wide swale, and
sent Blondy over it in a swinging walk.
For the first time in his life Jim Bailey felt freedom. He was not going
any certain place, and he was not going home until the horse decided to
go back. All he had to do was enjoy the scenery. The sore muscles were
much easier now, and he began to like riding.
At the top of the swale they found another well-worn trail, and kept
on going. For an hour or more they followed trail after trail, until
Jim began to wonder how long before Blondy would feel the urge to go
back to the ranch. By this time they were high in the breaks, where
he could see the blue haze of the valley. There were cattle along
the trail, wild-eyed creatures, moving quickly aside into the brush.
Two deer broke out of a thicket and went bouncing into the heavy
cover. It was all very new to Jim Bailey. Suddenly Blondy stopped
short, shaking his head. Jim booted him gently, but the horse
whirled, almost upsetting his rider, struck a down-trail through the
brush, and went along at a swinging walk. Jim laughed aloud. Blondy
was going home.
It seemed that Blondy was taking a short-cut, instead of going around
the way they came. The trail was steep, and the hoofs of the horse cut
deep into the dirt, angling down into a canyon. They struck the bottom
and kept on going down through a mesquite thicket, where the trail was
almost too narrow. Those mesquite claws slashed at Jim’s overalls and
boots, and now he understood why cowpokes wore leather chaps.
Suddenly they broke into an opening, possibly two acres in size. Just
ahead, standing against the edge of the brush, were two saddled horses.
Near the horses were two men, one of them kneeling down beside a roped
yearling. A few feet away was a tiny pile of sticks, a thin spiral of
almost colorless smoke indicating the branding fire. Blondy stopped
short, and one of the horses nickered softly.
* * * * *
Both men whirled, the one lurching to his feet. Jim started to call a
greeting to them, when a gun flamed and he felt Blondy jerk back from
the impact of the bullet. Another shot blasted, and Jim found himself
pitching into space as the horse fell sideways. Only slightly dazed
from the fall, Jim got to his feet, dimly realizing that these men
were shooting at him. A bullet tugged at his sleeve, and Jim Bailey
had a sudden urge to get as far away as possible in the least space
of time.
[Illustration: Another shot blasted and Jim pitched into space.]
It has been said that it is impossible to run fast in high-heel boots,
but Jim Bailey disproved this theory. It was the first time he had ever
been obliged to run in order to save his life, and he made the best of
it. There was no soreness left in his legs, and he went into that heavy
brush with all the dispatch of a frightened cottontail. Not only did he
go into the brush, but he kept right on going, while bullets whistled
past him.
Finally he sprawled, exhausted, and waited for the worst. He could
not hear any sounds of pursuit. A half-hour passed, but there were
no sounds, except the buzzing of a bee, the call of a bird. Jim got
carefully to his feet. Something else buzzed near him, and he
instinctively held still. After a few moments a diamond-back rattler
slowly uncoiled and slid easily away in the undergrowth. Jim Bailey
shivered. The snake had rattled not over five feet away.
Cautiously he made his way back to the cleared space. There was Blondy,
flat on his side, but no sign of the two men. He went to the horse, but
the animal was dead. Jim’s heart sank. He knew it was a long way back to
the Lazy H, but in just what direction?
“It must be downhill,” reasoned the young man, “because we came all the
way uphill. If I ever get out of this alive, I’ve had all I want of the
West.”
It was after sundown that evening, when Skeeter Smith came riding
along the base of the hills north of the Lazy H. He saw a man stumble
out of the mouth of a small canyon. The man stopped in the open,
looking around. When he saw Skeeter he ducked down behind some brush.
He was acting so queerly that Skeeter approached him cautiously.
It was Jim Bailey, scratched and torn, his face bleeding, hands cut.
One sleeve of his shirt was entirely gone, the rest of the garment in
tatters. One bare knee protruded from a split overall leg, and there
were cactus spines in that knee.
“Meade! What happened to you?” Skeeter gasped.
“I’ve been walking,” replied Jim wearily.
“Yeah, I reckon you’ve been doin’ somethin’. Here,” Skeeter slipped his
left foot out of the stirrup, “hook your foot into that stirrup and come
up behind me.”
“You mean two on one horse?”
“That’s right. Hook that stirrup and I’ll help yuh on. Don’t stand there
like a billy-owl--climb up.”
With his help, Jim managed to get up behind Skeeter. He drew a deep
breath.
“I went riding and somebody shot my horse,” he said.
“They did? Well, that’s interestin’. Shot yore horse, eh?”
“Tried to shoot me, too,” complained Jim. “Are you sure you know the way
back to the ranch? I think you’re going the wrong way.”
“Yore compass is busted, pardner,” chuckled Skeeter.
“I feel completely busted,” said Jim. “Even the snakes buzzed at me.”
The boys were all at the ranch, waiting for supper when the two men
rode in. Mary was anxious over the safety of Jim. They mopped him off
with water and put his blistered feet to soak, while Archibald, with
the aid of pliers, began taking out cactus spines.
Jim told them what had happened to him and Blondy. No one offered
sympathy. Tex Parker asked Jim if he could find the spot where they
had killed Blondy.
“I hope not--ever,” Jim said.
Tex said, “Let’s eat, boys. We’ll have to watch the buzzards to find
Blondy and get that saddle back. It sounds to me like somebody was
doin’ some range-brandin’ on other people’s cows. That could be their
only reason for smokin’ up the kid. I wish I’d been in his place.”
“You’d prob’ly stayed in the canyon,” said Tellurium. “Come and git
it--before I dump it out!”
Jim managed to hobble to the table and ate a good meal though he was one
mass of sore spots.
“Soon’s yuh git ready for bed,” Tellurium said, “I’ll sneak in with
the horse-liniment. That’s a he-man’s cure for everythin’ from ingrown
toenails to dandruff. How do you like bein’ a cowpoke?”
“Ask him that in the mornin’,” advised Dell Howard, “he’s sound asleep.”
VII
Skeeter Smith went to Pinnacle City alone that evening. When he tied
his horse at the saloon hitch-rack, he saw a light in Ed McLean’s
office. The lawyer was working on some papers as the tall, lean
cowpoke came in. The fat lawyer shoved the papers aside and leaned
back in his chair, wondering what caused the newcomer at the Lazy H
to come into his office. Skeeter said “Howdy” and sat down.
“What can I do for you, sir?” asked McLean, reaching for his pipe on the
desk-top.
“I thought yuh might like to know that Jim Meade rode into the hills
today and some rustlers shot the horse from under him. The kid had to
walk home, and he’s pretty sick of his job.”
“Job?” queried the lawyer. “He is not working for the Lazy H.”
“Well,” drawled Skeeter, “we’ll call it a deal, instead, eh?”
McLean puffed violently at his empty pipe, his eyes watching the lean
face opposite him.
“Deal?” queried McLean quietly.
“Yeah--deal.” Skeeter leaned forward, lowering his voice.
“I want in on this deal, McLean,” he said.
McLean stared at Skeeter, but encountered only a pair of level, gray
eyes. He swallowed painfully and looked at his pipe.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” he protested.
“No?” Skeeter smiled slowly. “What would you say if I told yuh that I
know Jim Meade?”
“I’d say you lied--unless you mean the Jim Meade at the Lazy H. He’s the
only Jim Meade in this deal.”
Skeeter shook his head. “Yo’re wrong, my friend. I know the real Jim
Meade, the only one.”
“That is a lie--and I know it’s a lie!” snapped McLean.
“Clint Haverty told yuh that Jim Meade was dead, didn’t he? Jim Meade
was supposed to have been killed seven years ago in a mine explosion
in Colorado.”
“Clint Haverty said he was!” snapped McLean. “What are you driving at,
Smith?”
“Clint Haverty’s idea of willin’ a ranch to a dead man.”
Ed McLean realized that he had fallen into his own trap. He looked
slit-eyed at the tall cowboy and said harshly:
“What’s your price, Smith?”
“What does the kid get?” asked Skeeter.
“Half--I suppose.”
“All right--I’ll take half of your half, McLean.”
“By what right?” snapped McLean hotly. “Why, you--”
“Think it over,” advised Skeeter calmly. “I can ruin yore deal, McLean.
And don’t try any funny stuff.”
“What do you mean, Smith?”
“Well,” grinned Skeeter, “you might shoot yourself and ruin the whole
deal. I’d like to make some big money.”
Skeeter got up and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. Ed
McLean went to the doorway. In the lights from the Antelope Saloon he
saw Skeeter Smith ride away from the hitch-rack, heading back to the
Lazy H. McLean sat down at his desk, his expression very grim.
“I don’t dare tell Bailey,” he said to himself. “He’d get so frightened
he’d leave. Half of my half, eh? Why, the poor fool, who does he think I
am, anyway? If anybody thinks he can stop me from making this deal--let
him try.”
He put on his hat, put out the light, locked the front door and went
out the rear entrance to his small stable. McLean kept a buggy horse
in the stable, but that horse was also a very good saddler.
* * * * *
Aching in every joint, and reeking of horse-liniment, Jim Bailey sat on
the ranch-house porch, his swollen feet encased in a pair of Tellurium’s
old slippers. Cactus Spears, the deputy sheriff, and Tellurium, the
cook, sat on the steps, discussing Jim’s adventure with the rustlers.
Cactus said complainingly:
“If you could only remember what color them horses was. They didn’t
happen to be pink, did they?”
“Pink?” queried Jim Bailey. “They might have been.”
“Pink!” snorted Tellurium. “Why not green?”
“Not this time of year,” said Cactus. “Most of ’em are ripe now. No, I
don’t think you’d find a green one, Tellurium.”
“No, it’s a little late, I reckon,” nodded the cook soberly.
“The boys are watchin’ the buzzards today?” asked Cactus.
Tellurium nodded. “That’s the only way they’ll ever find the saddle and
bridle, Cactus. Jim ain’t got no idea where he met his Waterloo.”
Cactus grinned. “You must have went awful fast, Jim,” he remarked.
“I have no recollection of speed nor effort,” replied Jim seriously.
“One moment I was there by the horse, being shot at, and the next moment
I was yards away from there, hiding under a bush with a snake.”
“Yea-a-ah,” drawled Tellurium, scratching his chin, “I’ll betcha the
snake took one look at him and said, ‘No use strikin’ at him, ’cause
he’s too blamed fast.’”
After a short pause Tellurium said:
“He’s shore hard on the rollin’ stock of this here ranch. Poor Ol’
Peter the Hermit is all stove up, and Blondy has done gone. I dunno
what _caballo_ we’ll issue to him next.”
“If _caballo_ means horse--banish the thought,” said Jim, rubbing the
cramped calf of one leg.
Mary came from the main room of the house and joined them.
“We’re wonderin’ what horse to give Jim next,” said Cactus.
“I think he got off very lucky,” said Mary. “Two men shooting at him,
getting lost in the hills and all that. It was quite an experience.”
“It shore was,” agreed Cactus, getting to his feet. “I’ll have to go
back to town and tell Mace Adams that Jim didn’t stop to look at the
colors of the horses. See yuh later, folks.”
The boys came in from work that evening, but had not found the dead
horse. Tellurium wanted to go to town after supper. He asked Archibald
to go along, but Archibald had a poker date at the bunk-house; so
Tellurium asked Jim Bailey to go along. Skeeter Smith and Tex Parker
went in ahead of them. Jim had to wear the old slippers, but most of
the pains had left him.
Tellurium and Jim rode in the ranch buckboard. Tellurium had a grocery
order, and left Jim to his own devices. In front of the hotel a little
later Jim met Ed McLean. The lawyer looked disgruntled over something,
and his eyes showed the need of sleep. He looked Jim over critically.
“You’re a fine looking heir to the Lazy H.”
Jim Bailey looked back grimly at the fat lawyer.
“You don’t need to be sarcastic, McLean. I darn near got killed
yesterday.”
“Yes, I heard about it. You keep out of the hills.”
His tone made Jim Bailey angry. He flared up.
“Don’t try to order me around,” he said. “I’ve told you that before.
I’ve got a mighty good notion to throw the whole deal back at you, and
leave this country.”
“Oh, you have, have you? Listen to me, Bailey.” McLean came in closer,
lowering his voice. “You’re not leaving here.”
“I’m not, eh? Who will stop me?”
“I will--and mighty quick!”
Jim Bailey took aim. Never in his life had he hit a man, but now he hit
Ed McLean smack on the nose with every ounce of muscle at his command.
It dropped the lawyer squarely on the broad seat of his pants. Then, in
a half-hysterical move, Bailey reached down, grasped one of McLean’s
ears, yanked his head sideways and yelled into the upturned ear:
“You and who else, McLean?”
* * * * *
If McLean knew, he did not answer.
Jim Bailey stepped back and looked around. Skeeter Smith had emerged
from the hotel doorway, and was looking at him, a queer grin on his
face.
“That was a funny thing to do, wasn’t it?” Jim asked.
“It looked funny to me,” replied Skeeter.
Ed McLean got slowly to his feet, one hand clutching at his bleeding
nose. He did not say anything--just went across the street to his
office. Several people had seen what happened, and they looked
curiously at Jim Bailey. Tellurium was loading some boxes into the
buckboard in front of the general store.
“I guess Tellurium is ready to go back to the ranch,” Jim said.
“Yeah, he’s loadin’ up,” agreed Skeeter, and watched Jim Bailey walk up
the sidewalk.
“You and who else?” parroted Skeeter Smith to himself. “I wonder what
McLean said to him?”
Jim Bailey and Tellurium rode back to the ranch.
“What’s itchin’ yuh, Kid?” the cook asked. “You ain’t talkin’ none.”
“I knocked a man down on the street,” replied Jim.
Tellurium said, “Whoa!” and slowed the team down to a walk.
“You knocked a man down?” he asked incredulously.
“I struck him right on the nose. You see, I never hit a man before.”
“Yuh mean yuh intended to hit him?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Hm-m-m-m! Who was he?”
“Ed McLean, the lawyer.”
“McLean, the--you ain’t jokin’ with Ol’ Tellurium, are yuh?”
“No, I’m not joking, Tellurium. I knocked him down.”
“Well, man, howdy!” exclaimed the cook. “Son, yo’re improvin’. Yessir,
Arizona is makin’ a man out of yuh. Well, well!”
“Was it terrible?” asked Jim quickly.
“In a way--yeah, it shore was.”
“In a way? In what way?” asked Jim.
“I didn’t git a chance to see it done. I’d have loved it.”
Jim Bailey drew a deep breath. “You don’t like McLean?”
“Well, I never sent him any love and kisses, son.”
The boys in the bunk-house didn’t believe Tellurium until Skeeter Smith
came back and told them the same story. There was so much speculation
over the reasons for it that the poker game broke up. Dell Howard said
soberly:
“It kinda sounds like he might have some Haverty blood in him, at that.
Clint Haverty would poke yuh in the nose as quick as he’d look at yuh.
Well, it won’t hurt the looks of McLean’s nose, anyway. It might perk
him up a little bit.”
“The funny thing about it,” remarked Skeeter, “was the fact that after
he knocked McLean down, he grabbed one of McLean’s ears, yanked his head
sideways and yelled in his ear, ‘You and who else?’”
“Maybe,” remarked Tex Parker, “we’ve underestimated the boy.”
“He’s been after me to git him a six-gun,” said Tellurium.
“Hold him off,” said Dell Howard. “We all want to live until after the
ranch changes hands.”
VIII
At the request of relatives the body of Thomas Estabrook was shipped
to Philadelphia. The incoming head of the Cattlemen’s Bank was James
Wells, a new man to the country. Ed McLean, still suffering from a
sore nose and outraged feelings, lost no time in taking up the matter
of the Haverty will with the new banker. Wells, naturally, had no
suspicions, and McLean was very persuasive. Wells said he was willing
to leave everything to the court and McLean breathed easier.
However, McLean was far from satisfied with the way things were going.
Jim Bailey had proved belligerent and Skeeter Smith had thrown a
monkeywrench into McLean’s machinery. Between the two of them it would
seem that McLean could expect very little from the Lazy H.
There was some small activity around the Lazy H that morning. Mary was
upstairs, watching through a window, while Tellurium and Archibald were
safely ensconced in the kitchen. Sitting on a corral fence near the
stable were Jim Bailey and Cactus Spears. Jim was examining an old Colt
.41, with a sicklebill handle, and Cactus was patiently explaining the
deal.
“It’ll cost yuh twenty dollars, but I’m willin’ to wait for my money,
until yuh--until the court passes judgment on yuh, if yuh live that
long. Anyway, I’d get the gun back--I hope.”
“What do you mean--if I live that long, Cactus?”
“The way you’ve been handlin’ that hog-leg would indicate a awful sudden
de-mise for you--or somebody.”
“I can learn, can’t I?” asked Jim.
“Do you know what a moot is?” asked Cactus soberly.
“A moot? No, I don’t believe I do, Cactus.”
“Well, this is a moot question. You’ve got a long ways t’ go, before
you ain’t a menace to yourself. After that, yo’re a menace to everybody
else.”
“I want to learn how to handle a gun,” sighed Jim. “I feel it is
necessary, Cactus.”
“All right, we’ll try her again. You don’t shoot with both hands. If
that was the right way, they’d put two handles on it. That there thing
is the hammer. That point on the face of it is supposed to puncture the
cap on the shell, not yore left thumbnail, as heretofore demonstrated.
“That doo-jingus under there is the trigger. Yuh don’t _yank_ it. Now,
let’s get together on it. Go ahead and cock it. He-e-ey! Don’t point it
at my knee! That’s better. Now it’s cocked. Grip it in yore right hand.
That’s right. Now, yuh place the first finger of yore right hand around
the trigger and--”
_Wham!_ Part of Cactus’ left heel disappeared, the gun bucked out of
Jim’s hand and fell behind him and Cactus Spears swiftly bow-legged
his way toward the house and safety!
“Come back here and show me something!” called Jim, but Cactus merely
flinched and kept on going into the kitchen.
“I hope yo’re satisfied!” barked Tellurium. “Git away from that
door--it’s thin wood!”
“Look at m’ boot-heel!” complained Cactus.
“Too bad it wasn’t yore head,” said Tellurium. “Bringin’ a gun out to
that kid! He can’t shoot.”
Jim Bailey came up and peered through the window at them.
“Git away from there, you--you menace!” howled Archibald, grabbing at
the curtain.
“I can’t shoot any more--this gun is empty,” called Jim.
“Good!” breathed Cactus. “He shot twice accidently and three times
unconsciously. One thing--he ain’t scared of the gun.”
“I suppose yuh call that a virtue!” snorted Tellurium. “I was out there,
cuttin’ wood, and that first bullet hit the axe.”
“I done told him to select a simple target for his first shot,” sighed
Cactus.
“Yuh mean--he was really shootin’ _at_ Tellurium?” gasped Archibald.
“That’s enough out of you!” snorted Tellurium. “You was scared so bad
yuh ate two yeast-cakes, thinkin’ they was crackers!”
“I thought they tasted kinda fuzzy. They won’t hurt me, will they?”
“Keep out of the sun,” advised Tellurium. “If they ever get heated up
and start to raise--you better tie yore feet down.”
* * * * *
Jim walked around and sat down on the porch, placing the gun beside him.
Mary came out, and he smiled at her.
“Lesson over, Jim?” she asked.
“I ran out of ammunition--and instructors,” he replied. “I am not what
you would call an apt pupil, Mary.”
“You will learn,” she said encouragingly.
“I doubt it. I never do anything well. In fact, all I know is how to
keep a set of books and not too well, at that. Out here, all that seems
so far away and hazy, like something you dream and try to remember.”
“Don’t you love it out here?” she asked.
“Love?” Jim smiled slowly. “No, I can’t say I do. I don’t fit in,
Mary. You see, at first I thought most everybody out here was rather
dumb. When I try to do the things that they do, I know I am the dumb
one.”
“You’ll learn, Jim,” she said quietly. “After you have owned the Lazy
H for a while, you wouldn’t trade one little dogie for a whole city.
You’ll never want to go back there.”
Jim shook his head slowly. “I don’t understand you, Mary. You will be
the only one really to suffer, and still you don’t resent me. Everybody
else resents me.”
“Why should I?” she asked. “It isn’t my ranch.”
“But don’t you resent the fact that--that Clint Haverty did not leave
you anything?”
“No, Jim, it is not resentment. It hurt a little--at first.”
“You’re a mighty sweet girl,” said Jim slowly, but he did not look
at her as he said it. “I think you are the sweetest girl I have ever
known. I’ve always been afraid of girls--but I’m not afraid of you.”
There was a chuckle in Mary’s voice as she said:
“You’re not trying to make love to me, are you, Jim?”
“No,” replied Jim, getting to his feet. “I--I couldn’t do that. I guess
I just wanted you to know that I appreciate you. I don’t know anything
about love--except that it should be honest.”
Then he walked off the porch and went down to the stable. Tellurium came
out cautiously and squinted at his back.
“He didn’t find no more shells, did he, Mary?” asked the cook.
“I don’t think so, Tellurium; there’s his gun on the porch.”
“He ain’t such a bad feller, Mary,” remarked the cook. “I don’t
reckon he’d hurt anybody intentionally, but, man, what he’d do to yuh
accidently! I’d better put that gun away before he finds some more
shells. He’s got more, ’cause Cactus gave him almost a full box.”
“I’m sure Jim will be careful next time, Tellurium.”
“He will, huh? Listen, my dear, if he was jist six times more careful
next time, there wouldn’t be enough of us left to go to the polls next
election. What he needs is a pea-shooter with a busted spring.”
Archibald found a quart of hard liquor hidden in the oat-box at the
stable that afternoon. Some one of the cowpokes had cached it there,
but Archibald wasn’t choosey. He took his liquor where he found it.
Then he notified Tellurium and they went down to the stable and sat
on the oat-box. They didn’t need anything for a chaser. After a few
drinks Tellurium said thoughtfully:
“Archie, I’ve been doin’ some thinkin’ f’r myself.”
“Gettin’ yore brain all wrinkled, huh?” remarked Archie, who was not
interested in Tellurium’s conclusions. “Hit her again, she’s still
a-standin’ up.”
* * * * *
They had another drink.
“Yuh know, Archie,” Tellurium said, “I’ve been cogitatin’ to myself.
Why didn’t Clint leave somethin’ to Mary? Don’t answer that--you’ll
only confuse me. He loved her like a daughter, and you know it.”
“What’r yuh tryin’ t’ do--make me cry?”
“I’m tryin’ to make yuh understand, Archie. There’s been crooked work
done. What’d Clint care about this young gallinipper? Why, he never
seen Jim Meade in his life. Archie,” Tellurium lowered his voice to a
stage-whisper, “there’s dirty work at the crossroads.”
“Which one?” asked Archibald.
“Yo’re a big help,” sighed Tellurium. “What I mean is this; that will
ain’t right. Clint Haverty never intended it thataway.”
“There’s three, four big swallers left for each of us,” said Archibald,
“and we don’t want the owner of that bottle to find us. We’ll hide the
empty in the oats.”
“Archibald,” said Tellurium severely, “how good are you as a holdup
man?”
Archibald stared owl-eyed at Tellurium.
“Yo’re tryin’ to dig into m’ past, huh?” he grunted. “Yo’re a-gettin’ me
drunk, so yuh can put some deadwood on me, huh?”
“Archie, yo’re the past-master of the Loco Lodge!”
“All right--heap me with honors, but yuh can’t slicker me. Let sleepin’
dogs lie--that’s my motter. Well, who do yuh want to rob?”
Tellurium whispered quietly, and Archibald nodded dumbly. It was a crazy
scheme, but it appealed to Archibald.
“We go to town right after supper,” said Tellurium, “and don’t forget to
put a big handkerchief in your pocket, Archie.”
“I’ll be there with bells on,” declared Archibald.
“You can leave the bells here--this ain’t no shivaree.”
Ed McLean was more than a little worried over the way things were going.
That punch in the nose indicated that Jim Bailey had a mind of his own
and might make trouble. And there was that hard-eyed, cold-jawed Skeeter
Smith, who knew too much. McLean had no idea of giving Skeeter Smith any
part of the Lazy H. If things came to a bitter showdown, he’d swear that
Jim Bailey had fooled him; that McLean had accepted him at face value.
Bailey had no proof otherwise. Bob Hawley, the detective, was dead, and
he had McLean’s only contact to secure the right man.
McLean sat at his desk that night, thinking things over. Personally,
he felt secure, but he wanted more than personal security--he wanted
ownership of the Lazy H. He had schemed long and hard to put over this
deal. He looked at his old safe, half in the shadows from the lamp on
his desk, wondering if there could be any scrap of paper in that safe
that would, or could, incriminate him, in case of an investigation. He
felt sure that everything dangerous had been removed, but as he looked
at the safe, he felt a desire to sift things again and be sure.
He went over to the safe and twisted the dial carefully, swung the
heavy door open and began taking out the papers, placing them on his
desk. A sudden draught caused a paper to flutter off the desk, and a
chill breeze struck the back of his neck.
* * * * *
Slowly he turned his head, realizing that someone had opened the rear
door. Two masked men were standing there, one of them covering him with
a six-shooter. The man growled behind his mask:
“Don’t move! Keep yore hands in sight.”
The other man stepped over to the desk, grasped a handful of the papers
and started to put them in his pocket. In fact, he had some of them in
his coat pocket, when a voice behind him said:
“Drop the papers!”
His hand came away from his pocket, dragging papers out, and he dropped
them on the pile of papers atop the desk.
“Back over by the door,” growled the voice again, and the first two
masked men obeyed. One of them whispered:
“My gosh--another set!”
He was right, there were two more masked men behind them. McLean,
white-faced, watched one of the second pair sweep up the papers and
dump them into a sack.
“Is the safe empty?” asked the holdup man.
“Yes,” whispered McLean huskily.
Swiftly the two men backed away, and went outside. The first two were
watching McLean narrowly. They too backed out, leaving the frightened
attorney still on his knees beside the safe.
Slowly he got to his feet, walked to the rear door and looked out into
the night. There was nobody in sight. He locked the door and went back
to his desk, where he sat down heavily, staring at his empty safe. Every
paper was gone. Suddenly he said aloud:
“What am I worried about, anyway? There was not an incriminating paper
in the safe. This is a job for the sheriff.”
He put on his hat, locked the door and went down to the sheriff’s
office. Cactus Spears was there, but McLean didn’t want to talk with
the deputy. He found the sheriff at the Antelope Saloon, ensconced in
a draw-poker game. Also in the game was Skeeter Smith. McLean waited
until the sheriff dropped out of a pot. “Mace, can I have a word with
you?” he asked.
The sheriff followed him outside, where McLean told him what happened in
the office.
“Two different sets?” the sheriff said. “Ed, that sounds like you must
have dreamed it. Why on earth would those four men want your papers?”
The lawyer shook his head. “Sheriff, I wish I knew,” he said.
“Couldn’t you identify any of the four?”
“No, I couldn’t, damn ’em! Things like that confuse you.”
“Well, I don’t know of anythin’ we can do about it, Ed. They’re
gone--and so are yore papers. Maybe they’ll send ’em back to you.”
“I suppose I’ll have to wait and see,” sighed McLean.
Tellurium Woods and Archibald Haas rode slowly on their way back to the
Lazy H. Not much had been said since they entered Ed McLean’s office.
Finally Tellurium spoke.
“Archie, did you get a good look at them two?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I seen ’em good.”
“Good enough to identify ’em?”
“Nope--good enough to stand where they told me to.”
“Yuh know,” remarked Tellurium, “it’s awful funny that two other men
should get an idea jist like mine. It shows I’m smart.”
“Yeah,” agreed Archibald, “yo’re smart, Tellurium--but them two was the
smartest.”
“How do yuh figure that?”
“They brought a sack.”
IX
The news of the robbery at McLean’s office was brought back to the ranch
by Skeeter Smith, and Jim Bailey heard it next morning at breakfast. He
realized that if there had been anything incriminating in that safe, it
was too late to do anything about it now. And, strangely enough, Jim
Bailey didn’t care. He had lost all desire to help McLean. Naturally, he
wanted Mary to get some of the Lazy H, but that was something beyond his
control. As far as his share of the deal was concerned, he never did
feel that he would ever receive it. He didn’t trust McLean at all, and
the longer it went, the less his trust.
Ed McLean came out to the Lazy H that afternoon. He said he was out to
get a breath of fresh air, but he soon got Jim alone.
“I heard about your robbery,” said Jim. “Did they get anything?”
“They took every paper out of my safe,” replied McLean, “but little
good it will do them--I saw to that. Day after tomorrow that will is
to be probated. I’ve talked with the judge. All you have to do is
appear in court with me and answer questions. If anybody in Pinnacle
City thinks that they can stop me from getting control of this ranch,
they’re badly mistaken.”
“I can,” declared Jim Bailey soberly.
“You?” gasped the lawyer. “Don’t be a fool, Bailey.”
Jim Bailey laughed shortly. “I’m through with it, McLean--and you better
be, too.”
“Yellow, eh?” sneered the lawyer.
Jim shrugged. “I’ll take it on one consideration, McLean.”
“What’s that?”
“That as soon as I get the ownership of the Lazy H, I turn it over to
Mary Deal.”
“Well, what a fool you’ve turned out to be! Do you think for a minute
that I’d--so you’re stuck on the girl, eh? Well, if--”
“Turn it over to her,” said Jim doggedly, “and we’ll both pull out. You
say I am yellow. I suppose that means, I’m afraid. I am. I believe that
robbery last night was done because four men do not believe that will
was on the square. My acceptance by the court won’t change their minds.
You know as well as I do that the will was not on the square, McLean.
Clint Haverty did not cut Mary Deal out of her share--and you know it.”
McLean’s eyes slitted, as he looked at Jim Haverty. If looks could kill,
Jim Bailey would have died in his tracks.
“What else do you know that’s funny?” asked the lawyer tensely.
“I know that when you go into court to probate that will, Jim Bailey
won’t be there. When I came here, I fell for your crooked deal, because
I didn’t know these folks. It looked like a chance for easy money. But
I don’t want that easy money now.”
Ed McLean stared grimly into space. His plans were shattered if this
foolish kid persisted in not doing his part.
“You’re letting a pretty face keep you from a fortune,” he said.
“We will leave the woman out of it, McLean. I’m walking out. Even if the
Haverty brothers get the Lazy H--I can’t help it.”
“So that is your final word, eh, Bailey?”
“That is final, McLean.”
“All right, you’re the loser,” said the lawyer and started over to get
into the buggy. “I’ll see you in court,” he said, and drove away.
“He’ll see me in court?” queried Jim to himself. “What has he got under
his hat, I wonder?”
He walked up to the house and met Archibald Haas.
“How about some pistol practice, Jim?”
Jim smiled. “Are you willing to take chances?”
“Shore--if yuh want to try it. A feller never knows when he’ll need a
gun. It’s good to be able to shoot.”
“Yes, I believe you are right, Archibald; I’ll get the gun. One never
does know when a gun might be useful.”
* * * * *
Archibald led the way far down a dry-wash, where even the worst shot
in Arizona would not endanger lives. After an hour of instructions,
Archibald threw the undamaged tin can into the brush. “Ten feet, or
a hundred, yuh miss ’em all plenty far,” he said.
“That last shot would have killed a man,” said Jim.
“Yeah, I know--but I ducked. You ain’t cut out for no gunman, Jim. You
shut yore eyes, grit yore teeth, and git stiff enough to skate on. Then
the gun jumps out of yore hand and I spend my val’able time, diggin’ the
sand out of it. Didja ever try a shotgun?”
“Would I do better with one?”
“Well, yuh couldn’t do any worse.”
Jim flopped disgustedly on the porch, and tossed the gun aside.
Tellurium came out, wiping his hands on his apron, grinning a little.
“Mucho boom--no hit, eh?” he remarked.
“That’s right. I simply cannot shoot a six-shooter, Tellurium.”
“Well, it’s a good thing to find out. Mary went to town a while ago.
She wondered if you’d like to go along, but you was too busy throwin’
lead and I wouldn’t go and get yuh--too dangerous.”
“I’d have been honored to go with her,” said Jim. “Sorry. When will she
be back?”
“I dunno. She said she might go down and visit with Mrs. Voigt for a
while; mebbe stay for supper--she didn’t know. Was McLean around,
checkin’ up to find out who robbed him last night?”
“No, I don’t believe he was,” laughed Jim. “He said they did not get
anything of value from his safe.”
“I jist wondered,” said Tellurium, and went into the house.
Jim sat there and thought it over. He knew that Tellurium and Archibald
had gone to town last night. Could those two old timers have been one of
the two pairs of masked men? It would be like them to do a thing like
that, trying to help Mary Deal. But who were the other two, he wondered?
Mary Deal did not come home for supper, but no one was concerned.
Tellurium sat up until midnight, waiting for her, but she did not come.
Jim heard Tellurium moving about the main room and came out to see what
was wrong. The old alarm clock on Jim’s dresser showed the time to be
almost half-past twelve. Tellurium was standing at a window, peering
out into the night.
“What is wrong?” asked Jim. The cook turned away from the window and
looked at Jim.
“Mary ain’t home yet,” he said, a worried note in his voice. “She
wouldn’t stay this late--alone--not unless she said she’d stay there
all night.”
“What could happen to her?” asked Jim anxiously.
Tellurium shrugged. “_Quien sabe?_ Put on yore pants, kid, we’re headin’
for town--me and you.”
Tellurium hitched up the buckboard team, and they headed for Pinnacle
City. Tellurium knew where the Voigt family lived; so he hammered on
the door until Mrs. Voigt came. Mary had eaten supper with them, and
had left about seven o’clock. She had said that she was going home.
It was too late to seek more information; so they drove back to the
ranch, hoping that Mary might be home, but she was not; so Tellurium
went to the bunk-house and awakened the boys. They all gathered in
the main room, where they talked it over.
“She rode Irish,” said Tellurium. “He’d come home.”
The boys nodded.
“No one would harm Mary,” Tex Parker said.
“Maybe she fell off the horse, or was thrown,” suggested Jim.
“Mary is a good rider,” said Dell Howard, “and Irish never bucked in his
life. Mary broke him thataway.”
“All right,” said Tex, “we’ve got to do somethin’. Tellurium, you and
Jim stay here--the rest of us go to town. We’ll search along the road,
and check on everybody in town. Somebody must have seen her after she
left Voigt’s place. C’mon boys.”
They hurried out, heading for the stable.
“You might as well go to bed, Jim,” Tellurium said. “No use settin’ up.”
“This,” replied Jim, “is no time to sleep.”
* * * * *
It was a long night. Dell Howard and Buck Ives came back for breakfast
and to see if Mary had returned.
“We can’t find any trace of her in Pinnacle City,” Dell told them.
“We’re makin’ up two posses for the search.”
“I’m goin’ with yuh,” declared Tellurium. “I’d go crazy, not doin’
anythin’. Jim can take care of the ranch.”
“I’d like to go along,” said Jim.
“You’d do us more good right here,” said Dell.
The three of them rode away in a cloud of dust. Jim wandered around
the place, not knowing what to do. Dell Howard had tossed the ranch
mail on the table, and Jim glanced at it. There was a paper from
Phoenix, a small mail-order catalogue, and one letter in a plain
brown envelope. Jim looked at the name, a puzzled expression on his
face. It was addressed to Jim Meade, care of the Lazy H, Pinnacle
City, Arizona.
Slowly he opened it, wondering who would write him. Inside was a single
sheet of soiled paper, on which had been written in ink, the letters
faded;
YOU STICK ON THIS DEAL AS AGREED OR SHE WON’T NEVER COME BACK.
It was unsigned, undated. Jim sat down in a chair and stared at the open
doorway, the paper clutched in his hand.
“Stick to the deal, or she won’t never come back,” he whispered. “That
must be McLean’s work.”
He read the note again, holding it to the light, the ink was that
weak. He heard a horse walking across the yard outside. He shoved the
paper into his pocket and went to the doorway. It was Irish, Mary’s
saddle-horse, the reins tied up. Irish nickered at him, and he went
out to the animal, which seemed to be all right.
Jim tied Irish to the porch-rail and went into the house. He had no
idea just what he was going to do, but he was going to do something. He
put on those hated, high-heel boots, borrowed an old belt and holster,
and buckled on his .41. Anything was better than sitting there at the
ranch-house.
Mary’s stirrup leathers were too short, but luckily, they were of the
buckle-type, and he was able to lengthen them. Irish didn’t seem to
mind. In fact, the little bay gelding rubbed his nose against Jim’s
elbow.
“You came home, Irish,” said Jim, “so why can’t you take me to Mary?”
The horse made no audible reply. Jim remembered that he had forgotten
to load the gun, so he filled the cylinder with stub-nosed .41’s,
replaced it in the holster, and headed down past the stable. He was
going back the way he had gone when Blondy was shot. It might be the
wrong way, but it was the only way he had ever traveled on a horse.
Anyway, he reasoned, with the hills full of searching riders, one was
as good as another.
It seemed that Mace Brown, the sheriff, had enlisted every rider in the
country, split them into three sections, and given each one a certain
territory. No one had any idea of what had happened to Mary, nor where
to search. It was a blind trail, but the men were all anxious for
action.
Ed McLean stood grimly in his office and watched the riders sweep out
of Pinnacle City. He had been forced to play his ace-in-the-hole, and
he wondered how Jim Bailey had reacted. He was sure they had left
Bailey at the Lazy H, because he was not worth taking along on the
search. There was not a scrap of evidence to connect McLean with the
disappearance of Mary Deal and if the worst came to the worst--McLean
shrugged. After all, he must protect himself. The court would consider
that will tomorrow, and now he was very sure that Jim Bailey would not
back out of his part in the deception.
There was only one angle that worried McLean and that was the
possibility that Jim Bailey never received that letter. It was an
annoying thought, and he finally decided to ride out to the Lazy H
and have a few words with Bailey. He saddled his horse and rode out,
only to find the ranch-house deserted. He went in and looked around.
On the floor of the main room, near a table, was the opened envelope
in which the note had been mailed.
McLean put the envelope in his pocket, a grin on his fat lips. No one
would ever be able to identify the penciled writing on that envelope,
and as far as the note was concerned, McLean was not afraid of that.
After satisfying himself that no one was at the ranch, he rode back
to Pinnacle City.
X
Near sunset, Jim Bailey began to take stock of his situation. He had
ridden miles, but had not seen a human being and just now he had no
idea where he was. He had lost all sense of direction, but strangely
enough, was not worried. The fact that darkness comes swiftly after
sundown had no terrors for him.
He rode along a cow-trail, angling up around the point of a hill, and
saw a group of buildings below him. He drew up, partly screened by the
tall brush. The place consisted of a roughly-built ranch-house, of two
or three rooms, a series of tumble-down corrals and a huge, sway-backed
stable. Two loose horses browsed around the littered yard.
As Jim looked the place over, two riders came in from behind the house,
traveling slowly. Suddenly one of them pointed out past the stable. A
moment later the other rider reined swiftly to the right and galloped
down past the corrals and drew up in the heavy brush between Jim and the
ranch-house. Jim could not see him, but sensed he had concealed himself.
The other rider dismounted, dropped his reins to the ground and went
into the house.
The actions of the two men seemed strange to Jim Bailey. In a few
minutes five riders came in past the stable and drew up at the house.
He saw the man come outside, bareheaded, and talk with them. After a
short conversation he went back, got his hat, climbed into his saddle,
and rode away with them.
Jim felt that these five men were one of the searching parties and that
this man had joined them. But why did the other one hide from them, he
wondered? After a few minutes he saw the other man ride back past the
corrals, dismount at the house and go inside.
Jim decided not to go down there. He had noticed there was a road
leading away from the ranch, and he surmised that it would lead to
Pinnacle City. The man was in there quite a while, but finally came
out, carrying a sizable bundle, which he tied on the back of his
saddle. The man seemed to be keeping watch of the surroundings and
after he mounted his horse he kept turning his head, looking things
over.
Then he turned his horse and headed back the same way they had come to
the ranch. Why Jim Bailey elected to follow this man, he had no idea.
He rode off the point of the hill and swung in behind the horseman who
rode slowly, but in the opposite direction from Pinnacle City.
Jim Bailey kept the man in sight through a long, brushy swale, following
a well-used cow-trail. It was growing darker all the time, but he could
still see the man after they went out of the swale. He was bearing off
across rough country, and Jim was afraid he would lose track of him. He
didn’t dare hurry. Objects became more indistinct, until suddenly he
realized it was dark. The last he saw of the other rider, he was heading
over some broken country, and holding a fairly straight line.
There was a full moon, but its effect was of little value this early
in the evening. Jim stopped and tried to take stock of his position.
After looking around he had no idea which way he had come. Irish was
perfectly willing to rest.
“If we go on,” Jim said aloud, “we can’t be more lost than we are
now. Just why I followed that man I don’t know, Irish. Well, he must
have a destination in mind and that is what I need most right now--a
destination.”
* * * * *
So Irish went on, dodging brush and piles of rock, circling brushy
washouts, until Jim suddenly realized that he was on the rim of a
mighty canyon. Far across the canyon he could see moonlight shining
on the cliffs. Somewhere a coyote lifted its voice in displeasure,
and Jim’s spine tickled a little. Another and still another added
their voices, until they sounded like gabbling geese.
Jim turned Irish gently and started along the rim. Stunted pines and
huge, gnarled manzanitas grew along the rim. The flinty rock scraped
under Irish’s shod hoofs. Suddenly a horse nickered ahead. The animal
was tied to a manzanita snag, standing full in the moonlight. It was
the horse Jim had followed.
He rode into the shadow of some small pines and dismounted. He tied
Irish securely and went back to the other horse. The rider was not
there, but Jim found an old trail down the sharp side of the cliff.
At that, it wasn’t much of a trail, but even in the moonlight he
could see the fresh scrapes of boot-marks.
Jim looked the situation over carefully. Twenty feet down, the trail was
in absolute darkness.
“Suppose Mary is down there,” he said to himself. “Suppose they hid
her down there. Why would that man go down the trail, unless he had
a very urgent reason--and what could the reason be? This man hid
from the posse, while the other went along. That, in itself, looked
suspicious.”
He looked at the moon, at the depths of the canyon, and added,
half-aloud:
“While asking questions, Bailey--what in the devil are you doing up
here--all alone--and lost?”
Shivering a little, he slid off the rim and started down the trail,
leaning in against the bank, carefully digging his high-heels into
the dirt and against the rocky projections. Jim Bailey was
frightened. The light had gone now, and he had to go slowly, feeling
his way. It seemed hours since he had left the rim. It was like
going down a slanting ladder, feeling ahead for each rung. Something
scraped against his cheek, and he stopped, groping around with his
left hand. It was a rope.
It was larger than an ordinary lariat, and he was able to discover
that it was tied around some sort of an old snag. Cautiously he
investigated. Just below him the trail broke almost sheer. Evidently
the rope was there to help men go down the impossible part of that
trail. Below was only a dark mass, like a lot of houses piled on top
of each other.
Jim took a deep breath, grasped the rope tightly, turned around and
went down slowly, his feet seeking purchase on the side of the wall.
It was hard on his hands, that rough rope, but he was making progress
slowly. He had gone down about a dozen feet, when he felt a heavy tug
on the rope. He thought for a moment that he had been discovered, but
a continuous tugging indicated that someone was coming up the rope.
Jim thought wildly of trying to go back, but it was impossible. One
of his flailing legs caught around the rope, giving it one turn, and
he started down fast. The rope burned his hands, but he didn’t even
feel it. Suddenly he crashed into somebody.
The rest of the descent was rather hazy for Jim Bailey. He lost control
of the rope with his left hand, his right was jerked loose and he went
into space for a few feet, landing in sliding rubble, to bring up
sharply on a smooth space, against a rock.
All he had heard from the other man was a startled curse when he had
crashed into him, but he knew the other was not far away. Jim realized
he had cut his cheek, because the blood was trickling into his mouth,
and his hands felt as though they had been burned. Still he was sure
no bones had been broken.
* * * * *
But Jim Bailey stayed put. He was in a dark corner and he was not going
to move until the other man started something. His gun had stayed in his
holster, and now he took it out. The feel of that gun was reassuring,
even if he knew he couldn’t hit anything with it.
Then he heard the other man off to his right. He was cursing in an
undertone, his rough clothes rasping against rock. Then he lifted his
voice to a conversational level and said:
“Who is it? _Quien es?_”
Jim did not answer. The man cursed some more, flinging rocks into the
dark spots. One barely missed Jim’s head, and it made him mad. He picked
up a shattered part of the rock and flung it back at the man. Judging
from the response, it must have registered, but the man wasn’t sure from
what direction it had come.
“Come out of there, or I’ll kill yuh!” rasped the man.
Jim thought he had been seen, but a moment later the man fired a shot,
almost at right-angles to where Jim was hidden. The man was evidently
searching out the darkest spots for his bullets. Jim hunched lower, the
old .41 gripped in both hands.
_Wham!_ The man fired again and the bullet smashed into the rocks almost
directly behind Jim, who swung the muzzle of his gun, shut his eyes and
yanked the trigger. The .41 blasted flame, almost jumped out of Jim’s
two-handed grip, and the hidden man yelped, either in pain or surprise.
“Don’t tell me I hit something!” exclaimed Jim, aloud.
The man didn’t say; he was cursing bitterly, and Jim heard him rasping
around over the rocks. Anyway, he wasn’t doing any more shooting. Jim
eased his position cautiously, watching further up the rocks, where the
moonlight streaked them with blue. From the sounds it seemed as though
the man was trying to get away.
Jim suddenly realized that if his enemy were able to get back to
that rope, and climb up to the trail, he might take the rope along.
Without the rope it might be impossible ever to get back to the rim.
The thought made him panicky for a moment, and he crawled out into
the moonlit strip. But nothing happened.
Trying to find his way back, he almost went over the sheer edge of the
cliff. Peering down, he could see, possibly a hundred feet below, to
where the moonlight streaked the rocks. He edged his way back and a
loose rock, the size of a football, crashed beside him. Several pieces
banged into him, but not against his head. Quickly he slid into the
heavy shadow again, thankful to be alive, but realizing that the other
man was above him now.
Jim worked cautiously now. He could hear the man once in a while, but
was unable to locate him exactly. Jim suddenly realized how tired he
was. His face was swollen, his hands swollen too, and he had bruises
too numerous to mention. He found loose rock, which gave under his
knees as he crawled carefully upward. He remembered that he had landed
in loose rock and dirt. Perhaps this was the place.
Above him he could hear the rasp and scrape of what sounded like someone
sliding on rock. He stood up, and something brushed his arm. It was the
rope again. He grabbed for it, but it was yanked out of his hands. The
man had reached the trail and taken the rope.
In sudden desperation Jim braced against the wall, cocked his gun,
gripped it in both hands and shot almost straight up. There was no
target, nothing to shoot at. He jerked back, losing his footing for
the moment, and a fraction of a second later a heavy object crashed
into him, and his consciousness went out in a shower of shooting
stars.
XI
He had no idea how long he was unconscious, except that the angle of
the moonlight had changed. He sat up, trying to remember where he was.
It was very confusing for a while, until memory came back. There was a
cut on his head, and a numb feeling in his legs, but the numbness was
caused by the twisted position he had occupied for an uncertain length
of time.
After a while he was able to move around, and he decided that no bones
were broken. Just below him on a moonlit ledge was a bright object,
which turned out to be a perfectly good six-shooter, three chambers
loaded. To the right was the edge of the cliff, where he had almost
fallen in the darkness. Suddenly he realized that the man had fallen
from the trail, crashed into him and gone over the edge.
It was a sickening thought, realizing he had shot a man. He went slowly
back on the ledge. The moonlight illuminated it now, and he stood
looking at it. He remembered something about the ancient cliff dwellers,
and wondered if this was one of the places where they had lived. Some of
the ancient walls were still there. He crawled through a broken place
and into what might have been another room of the dwelling.
Full in the moonlight, sitting against the wall, gagged and blindfolded,
her arms and legs tied, sat Mary Deal. Very little of her face was
visible, but Jim knew who she was. Clumsily he took away the bandages
and ropes. His hands were too swollen to let him work fast or surely.
“How are you, Mary?” he asked.
But Mary wasn’t able to answer, because her jaws were cramped. He could
see the moonlight glitter on the tears down her cheeks, and he said,
“Well, my gosh.”
She was trying to rub her jaw with her hands, but her hands wouldn’t
work. Jim helped her, carefully massaging her jaw, until she could
speak.
“I’m all right, Jim,” she said huskily.
But she wasn’t all right. Returning circulation is painful. Jim rubbed
her hands and fingers.
“Where did you come from?” she asked.
“The ranch,” he replied. “I know where I came from, but I do not know
where I am.”
“This is Destruction Canyon, Jim. The deepest in the country.”
“It looks deep,” he said. “Did they hurt you?”
“No--not much. What became of that man? I heard shots--”
“I shot him,” said Jim simply.
“You shot him?” Her tone was incredulous.
“Accidentally--but with certain intentions,” he said. “You see, he was
up on the trail, trying to take the rope away; so I--I sort of shot up
the rope, as you might say. He fell into the canyon. Do you know who he
was, Mary?”
“No. They caught me just outside town in the dark. They blindfolded me
and put a cloth in my mouth. I remember that rope. They tied it under
my arms and let me down here. But how did you find me, Jim--you of all
people?”
“Irish came home,” he said. “They all went hunting you and left me at
the ranch; so I rode Irish. We followed that man.”
“They are hunting for me?” she asked.
“Every man in the country. What is in that sack?”
Mary didn’t know. Jim dumped the contents and found that it was
food--canned food and some cold biscuits.
“I haven’t eaten since last night,” Mary said. “Maybe they were going to
feed me. But, Jim, what do they think became of me?”
“They don’t know, Mary--but I did. I’ll show you something.”
He took the letter from his pocket, spread it flat and lighted a match.
The paper was bare of any marks. Jim stared at it until the match burned
his fingers.
“I don’t understand,” Mary said.
“I do,” said Jim wearily. “They used disappearing ink.”
“But what was it all about?” asked Mary. “You said you knew what became
of me--”
“I--I didn’t know what--I only knew why, Mary. I’ve got to tell you. My
name is Jim Bailey--not Jim Meade.”
“Jim Bailey? Why--I thought you--”
“I know. Listen Mary--I’ll tell you the story. I’m not a bit proud. I
didn’t know you might get hurt. That wasn’t in the deal but I can see
why it was done.”
* * * * *
And then Jim Bailey, hunched on part of the doorway of an ancient
and departed race, told Mary Deal the whole tale, beginning in San
Francisco, with Cliff De Haven and Bob Hawley, and extending up to
the time he left the Lazy H ranch-house on Mary’s own horse. Jim did
not spare himself, he told it all.
Mary didn’t interrupt him once. When he had finished, she said:
“Jim, it is almost morning; we’d better get out of here--if we can.”
“Don’t you want to eat something, Mary?”
“Not now--we have to hurry--before that other man comes here.”
“That’s right,” agreed Jim. “I can’t hit a thing in the daylight.”
They managed to find their way back to the rope. The light was
better, and the climb did not look nearly as formidable as it did in
the darkness. Mary went first, clinging to the rope, hooking her
feet over the projections, until she swung up beside the old snag,
out of breath, but safe. Jim’s hands were in no shape to handle that
rope, but he managed to get up there, ready to collapse. They rested
a while, before climbing to the top.
“Your hands are bleeding, Jim! Oh, I didn’t notice them before. And your
face is swollen!”
“I’m all right,” said Jim wearily. “I’m alive and you’re alive--and that
is really something.”
“Something I didn’t expect,” said Mary quietly. “Look, Jim! The east is
rosy. It will soon be full daylight.”
“We better get to the top, Mary.”
There was still a steep, dangerous climb, but they didn’t mind it, until
they reached the top, when their knees went weak, as they looked back
down the cliffs. Irish was there, and so was the other man’s horse.
“You better ride Irish, Jim,” Mary said, “we don’t know the other one.”
Jim laughed weakly. “Listen, woman,” he drawled, imitating Archibald and
Cactus Spears, “I can ride anythin’ on four laigs. Lemme at him.”
The horse snorted at Jim as he started to untie him. Suddenly Mary
yelled a warning and Jim whirled. A horseman was coming down through
the rocks near the rim, not over fifty yards away. He saw them and
jerked up quickly.
Jim Bailey had two guns now, but he drew the one he had found. The rider
fired one shot, and barked the tree to which the horse was tied, missing
Jim Bailey’s head by three feet.
Then Jim Bailey fired--fired with one hand--his eyes open. The rider
jerked back in his saddle, the horse swung sharply and the rider dropped
his gun, grabbing at the saddle horn, as he spurred his horse savagely.
A moment later he was gone, racing back along the rim.
“No!” exclaimed Jim Bailey in amazement. “I can’t believe it!”
“You hit him!” exclaimed Mary.
“Yeah!” breathed Jim Bailey. “You know, Mary--I was shooting at the
wrong kind of targets--tin cans.”
Jim had a little trouble in mounting, but he made it, and drew up the
horse sharply.
“Do you know the way to Pinnacle City?” he asked.
“We are going to the ranch,” she said sharply. “You must have those
hands fixed up.”
“We are going to Pinnacle City,” he declared soberly. “I want to look
at buildings--a street--people. Not only that, but I’m due in court to
prove who I am. You lead the way.”
“Yessir,” she said soberly. “Follow me, please.”
* * * * *
The three groups of riders, out searching all night, were back at
Pinnacle City eating breakfast, tired and discouraged. They were
finishing breakfast when Tellurium and Archibald came in from the
Lazy H. Tellurium shook his head sadly, in answer to their unspoken
question. Archibald said wearily:
“That blamed dude ain’t even there. He ain’t been there all night
either, ’cause no bed has been slept in.”
“My gosh, have we lost him, too?” asked Cactus.
Tex Parker said, “What horse did he take?”
“None I reckon,” replied Tellurium. “Ain’t no saddle missing, Tex.”
Ed McLean joined them and heard them discussing Jim Bailey. It was
almost time for the court to open. McLean’s eyes were a bit bleak, as
he said to Tex Parker:
“Where would Jim Meade go, Tex?”
Tex shook his head. Skeeter Smith smiled wearily.
“You may not have a candidate for the Lazy H, McLean,” he said.
McLean turned away and walked toward the frame building, which housed
the court of Pinnacle City. The men looked curiously at Skeeter.
“What did yuh mean, Skeet?” Cactus asked.
“They’re probatin’ that Haverty will this mornin’, Cactus.”
Cactus nodded. The men were all too tired to care much. They stood
around, waiting for the sheriff to suggest their next move.
“Boys,” he finally said, “I don’t know what to do next. We’ve covered
every likely place, and--” Mace Adams stopped, staring up the street,
where a lone rider had appeared. He seemed to be sitting drunkenly in
his saddle, as he came slowly into town.
“That’s Ace Haverty!” exclaimed Cactus. “He wasn’t drunk, when he left
us last night.”
“This mornin’,” corrected the sheriff.
Ace Haverty pulled up in front of the court-house, tried to get out of
his saddle and fell off into the dirt. He staggered to his feet and
headed for the door of the court house.
“That’s queer,” declared the sheriff. “We better find out--”
Ace had trouble, trying to open the door. The men came in behind him,
and he snarled:
“Keep away from me--I’ll kill yuh!”
“He’s been shot!” whispered someone.
There were several men in the big court-room. The elderly judge was at
his desk, and McLean was with him, talking fast, asking the judge to
postpone probating the will, while he looked for Jim Meade, who had
disappeared. Then the door was flung open and Ace Haverty staggered
in. His left shoulder and arm were blood-caked, his knees rubbery, as
he came haltingly toward the judge’s desk.
“What in the name of heaven!” gasped the judge.
Ace Haverty tried to say something, tried to hold his balance, but
suddenly collapsed in front of the desk. The men were crowding in
through the doorway. McLean’s face was the color of wood-ashes, as he
stared from Ace Haverty to the crowd.
From outside came a shrill yell.
“Here’s Mary Deal and the tenderfoot!”
McLean’s move was totally unexpected. He whirled, leaped to an open
window, which opened on the main street, and dived through it like a
trained dog going through a hoop. He landed on his hands and knees on
the sidewalk, rolled into the dusty street, and landed against the legs
of Jim Bailey, who had just dismounted. The horse whirled away, but Jim
Bailey fell on top of the lawyer. A moment later Jim Bailey had a tight
grip on McLean’s two ears and was bouncing his face up and down in the
dust.
Then strong arms reached through the dust cloud, lifted Jim Bailey away,
picked up the choking lawyer and carried him into the court house. Jim
Bailey followed them in. Mary was there, and everybody was trying to
talk at once.
McLean, half-choked from the dust, pointed a shaking finger at Jim
Bailey and spluttered:
“He’s a liar! That man is an impostor! Arrest--”
“Shut up!” snapped the sheriff. “Stop the noise! Let’s get some sense
out of this. Mary, what happened to you? The rest of yuh shut up and
let her tell it.”
* * * * *
Mary told them all about it. She told them how Jim Bailey found her,
fought with an unknown man on the cliff and what he told her about
himself. The crowd was silent, until Tellurium came galloping through
the doorway, waving a piece of paper.
“Look at this, will yuh?” he yelled. “I--I just found it! It’s Clint
Haverty’s own writin’. It’s what he told McLean to put in the will! I
had it in my pocket and-- Whoa, Blaze!”
“You dirty thief!” screamed the lawyer. “You held me up! You--” McLean
stopped short, his eyes blinking tearfully.
“Let me see that, Mr. Woods,” said the judge.
Tellurium handed it to the judge, who peered at it closely.
“This is Clinton Haverty’s writing,” he said. “It appears to be
instructions regarding his will. It says, ‘Give Tex Parker one thousand
dollars, Tellurium and Archibald five hundred apiece, one dollar each to
Ace and Dick Haverty. The rest of the Lazy H I wish to give to Mary
Deal. This includes the ranch, stock and everything I own, including any
money in the bank. That covers it. Make it up like this right away.’”
The judge looked up at the crowd and said, “It is signed by Clint
Haverty, gentlemen. Mr. McLean, what do you know about this paper?”
McLean shook his head.
“Judge, the man lies,” Skeeter Smith said. “He worked with Ace and Dick
Haverty, robbin’ the Lazy H. They robbed the stage and took registered
mail, and they held up the bank and killed Mr. Estabrook!”
“I didn’t!” husked McLean. “Those two ignorant fools took the mail. I
told them--they tried to rob the bank and--”
“Thank you, McLean,” smiled Skeeter. “I had the deadwood on yuh for
alterin’ the Lazy H to the Box Four H, but I had to have you tell me
about the mail robbery. I figured out the brand deal right away, and
I suspected the mail robbery, but I had to wait for it to stew a
while.”
The judge fixed a baleful eye on Jim Bailey. “Well, young man, what have
you to say for yourself?”
“Not a thing, Judge,” replied Jim wearily. “I admit everything. I
told McLean I would not go through with the deception; so he had Mary
Deal kidnapped to force me to appear. You see, Judge, after Mary
disappeared, I received a note, saying that if I did not go through
with my agreement, she would never come back.”
“Have you that note, sir?”
Jim Bailey smiled and drew a paper from his pocket.
“It was written in disappearing ink, Judge--here is the paper.”
The judge examined the paper and placed it on his desk.
“Young man, do you admit that you are not Jim Meade?”
“I insist that I am not, Judge.”
“The kid is all right, Judge,” said Skeeter Smith. “He started wrong,
but he’s all right now. McLean saw a chance to steal the Lazy H.
Haverty’s eyesight was bad, so McLean shuffled the wills, and tricked
Haverty into signing the one he made to suit his own needs, givin’ the
Lazy H to Jim Meade, instead of to Mary Deal. Yuh see, Judge, I knew
all the time that this boy was not Jim Meade.”
“You knew it all the time, sir? And just how did you know that this boy
was not Jim Meade?”
Skeeter smiled. “Because I am Jim Meade, Judge. A few years ago I was
reported killed in an explosion.”
“I see. So you are Jim Meade. Well, I--isn’t it rather coincidental that
you should come here at this particular time, sir?”
“Not exactly, Judge,” smiled Skeeter. “You see, I am a deputy U. S.
Marshal, sent here to investigate that mail robbery, but I use the
name of Smith, especially when I smell a rat.”
* * * * *
Mace Adams snapped handcuffs on McLean who stared at them with stony
eyes.
Tellurium said, “And they say the kid shot both of the Haverty boys.
Seein’ is believin’ on my part--I saw what he didn’t do to a tin can.
Why don’t somebody get a doctor for Ace Haverty--he ain’t dead. C’mon,
Jim--I’m takin’ you out to the ranch, where I can fix yuh up with some
horse-liniment.”
Jim shook his head. “I’m sorry, Tellurium,” he said, “the masquerade is
over. I won’t be going out to the ranch again.”
Jim Bailey limped toward the doorway, going out alone. No one said
anything, but they looked at Mary, who got to her feet and limped after
him. They disappeared outside.
“I ain’t no bettin’ man,” Archibald Haas said, “but I’ll bet a dollar
agin a bent-nail that he goes out to the Lazy H again.”
Skeeter and Tex Parker stepped over to the open window, where McLean had
done his high-dive. Mary and Jim were only a few feet away, facing each
other.
Jim said, “But, Mary, I’m a cheat. I’ve lied to everybody. I’m just a
no-good hound. And you--”
“I’m glad you realize it,” said Mary soberly. “You said that love had to
be honest--and you are honest, Jim.”
“Anybody want to take m’ bet?” asked Archibald.
Skeeter and Tex turned away from the window, and Skeeter said seriously:
“I don’t like to ruin what looks like a good bet, boys, but keep yore
bent nails in yore pockets.”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the Spring, 1948 issue
of _Giant Western_ magazine.]
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