by Max Brand
At this he smiled to himself and shook his head. A ghost wagon did not make eight men sweat and strain to pull it, and a ghost wagon did not rumble as it traveled and make a whispering of the sand. No, a solid wagon and eight solid human beings, and two heavy horses, somewhere between his last dry camp and Cayuse, had vanished utterly and were gone!
Searching the walls of the valley on either side, he almost neglected the floor of the cañon, and it was only the bright flash of metal that made him halt the gelding and look to his right and behind. He swung the mustang about and reached the spot in half a dozen jumps. A man lay with his arms thrown out crosswise, and a revolver was in his hand.
At first glance Carney thought that the fellow lived, but it was only the coloring effect of the morning sun and the lifting of his long hair in the wind. He was quite dead. He had been dead for hours and hours it seemed. And here was another mystery added to the disappearance of the wagon. How did this body come here? What vehicle had carried the man here after he was wounded?
For, tearing away the bandages around his breast, Carney saw that he had been literally shot to pieces. The tightly drawn bandages, shutting off the flow of blood, perhaps, had bruised the flesh until it was a dark purple around the black shot holes.
One thing was certain—after those wounds the man had been incapable of travel on horseback. He must have been carried in a wagon. But certainly only one wagon had gone that way before the sandstorm, and after the sandstorm any vehicle would have left traces.
After all then, there had been some freight in the ghost wagon, and this man, perhaps dead at the time, had been part or all of the burden that had passed under Lew’s eyes.
But why had the wagon carried a dead body? And if it carried a dead body at all, why was it not taken on to the destination of the wagon itself? Certainly the burden of one man’s weight was not enough to make any difference.
Two startling facts confronted him: first, here was a dead man, and second, the dead man had been brought this far by the ghost wagon.
Here, also, was the chance of learning not only the identity of the dead man, but of the man who had killed him. Carney searched the pockets and brought out a wallet that contained half a dozen tiny nuggets of pure gold, nearly $100 in paper money, and a pencil stub. Evidence enough that robbery had not been the motive in this killing. Besides the wallet, the pockets produced a strong knife, two boxes of matches, a blue handkerchief, a straight pipe, and a sack of tobacco.
There was no scrap of paper bearing a name. There was nothing distinctive about the clothes whereby the man could be identified. He was dressed in a pair of overalls badly frayed at the knees, with a smear of grease and an old stain of red paint, both on the right leg. Also, he had on a battered felt hat and a blue shirt several sizes too large for him. In appearance he was simply a middle-aged man of average height and weight, with iron-gray hair, and hands broadened and callused by years of heavy labor. His face was singularly open and pleasant even in death, but it had no striking feature, no scar, no mole.
Carney stripped him to the waist and turned the body to examine the wounds, and then he straightened with a black look. It was not a man-to-man killing. It was murder, for the vital bullet that eventually robbed the man of life had struck him in the center of the back. By the small size of the wound he knew that the bullet had entered here, just as he could tell by the gaping orifice on the breast where the bullet had come out. Yet the man had not given up without a struggle. He had turned and fought his murderer, for there were other scars on the front. In five distinct places he had been struck, and it was only wonderful that he had not been instantly killed.
Had they carried him as far as this and, then discovering that he was indeed dead, flung his body brutally from the wagon for the buzzards to find? No, at the very latest he must have died within two hours of the reception of these wounds. He must have been dead long before he passed the dry camp of Lew Carney. But if they had carried him as far as this, what freak of folly made them throw the dead body, the brutal evidence of crime, in a place where the freighters were sure to find him inside of twelve hours?
It was reasoning in a circle. One thing at least was sure. The murderer and the men of the ghost wagon were confident that their traces could not be followed.
As for the body itself, there was nothing he could do. The freighters would pick the man up and carry him to Cayuse where he would receive a decent burial. In the meantime, unless that wagon were indeed a ghost, it must have gone by means however mysterious to Cayuse, also. And toward that town Carney hurried on.
III
The mountains went up on either side of Cayuse, but from each side it was easy of access. It gave out upon Silver Cañon in one direction, and on the other side there was a rambling cattle country. As for the mountains, they were better than either a natural highway or a range, for there was gold in them. Five weeks before it had been found. The rumor had gone roaring abroad on the mountain desert, and now, in lieu of echoes, a wild life was rushing back upon Cayuse.
Its population had been more than doubled, but by far the greater number of the newcomers paused only to outfit and lay in supplies before they pushed on to the gold front. The majority found nothing, but the few who succeeded were sufficient to send a steady stream of the yellow metal trickling back toward civilization. Of that stream a liberal portion never went farther than Cayuse before it changed hands. For one thing supplies were furnished here at doubled and redoubled prices. For another, a crew of legal and illegal robbers came to this crossing of the ways, to hold up the miners.
In perfect justice it must be admitted that Lew Carney belonged to the robbers, though he was of the first class rather than the second. His sphere was the game table, and there he worked honestly enough, matching his wits against the wits of all comers, and trying his luck against the best and the worst. It meant a precarious source of livelihood, but in gambling a cold face and a keen eye will be served, and Lew Carney was able to win without cheating.
His first step after he arrived was to look over old places and new. He found that the main street of Cayuse was little changed. There were more people in the street, but the buildings had not been altered. Away from this established center, however, there was a growing crowd of tents that poured up a clamor of voices. Everywhere were the signs of the new prosperity. There stood half a dozen men pitching broad golden coins at a mark and accepting winnings and losses without a murmur. Here was a peddler with his pack between his feet, nearly empty—everything from shoestrings to pocket mirrors, and hardly a man that passed but stopped to buy, for Cayuse had the buying fever.
Carney left the peddler to enter Bud Lockhart’s place. It had been the main gaming hall and bar in the old days and, by attaching a lean-to at the rear of his house, Bud had expanded with the expanding times, and he was still the chief amusement center of Cayuse. In token of his new prosperity he no longer worked behind the counter. Two employees served the thirsty line, and in the room behind, stretching out into the lean-to, were the gaming tables.
As Carney entered, he saw a roulette wheel flash and wink at him, and then the subdued exclamations of the crowd as they won or lost. For the wheel fascinates a group of chance takers at the same time that it excites them. The eye of Carney shone. He knew well enough that where the wheel is patronized by a group, there is money to spend on every game. One more glance around the room was sufficient to assure him. There was not a vacant table, and there was not a table where the chips were not stacked high. Bud Lockhart came through the crowd straight toward Carney. He was a large man with a tanned face, which in its generous proportions matched his big body. What it lacked in height above the eyes it made up in the shape of a great, fleshy chin.
“Hey, Lew!” called the big man, plowing his way among the others and leaving a disarranged but good-natured wake behind him. Carney turned and waited. “I need you, boy,” said Bud Lockhart as he s
hook hands. “You’ve got to break your rule and work for me. How much?”
The gambler hesitated. “Oh, fifty a day,” he murmured.
“Take you at that price,” the proprietor said, and Lew gasped.
“Is it coming in as fast as that?” he queried.
“Faster. Fast enough to make your head swim. The suckers are runnin’ in all day with each hand full of gold and they won’t let me alone till they’ve dumped it into my pockets. I’ve got a lot of boys workin’ for me but most of the lot are shady. They’re double-crossin’ me and pocketin’ two-thirds of what they make. I need you here to take a table and watch the boys next to you.”
“Fifty is pretty fat,” admitted Carney, “but I think I’ll do a little gold digging myself.”
Bud gasped. “Say, son,” he murmured, “have they stuck you up with one of their yarns? Are you goin’ in with some greenhorn and collect some callouses on your hands?”
“No, I’m going to do my digging right in your place, Bud. You dig the coin out of the pockets of the other boys … I’ll sit in a few of your games and see if I can’t dig some of the same coin out again.”
“Nothin’ in that,” Bud Lockhart protested anxiously. “Besides, you couldn’t play a hand with these boys I have. I’ve imported ’em and they have the goods. Slick crowd, Lew. You’ve got a good face for the cards but these fellows read their minds.”
“I see.” Carney nodded. “But there’s ways of discouraging the shifty ones. Oh, they’re raw about it, Bud. I saw that fat fellow who’s dealing over there palm a card so slow I thought he was trying to amuse the crowd until I saw him take the pot. I think I could clean out that guy, Bud.”
“Not when he’s goin’ good. You could never see him work when he tries.”
“He wouldn’t try the crooked stuff with me,” remarked Carney. “Not twice, unless he packs along two lives.”
“Easy,” cautioned Lockhart. “None of that, Lew. I paid too much for my furniture to have you spoil it for me. Look here, you’re grouchy today. Come behind the counter and have a drink of my private stock.”
“This is my dry day. But what’s the news? Who’s been sliding into town? You keep track of ’em?”
“I’ll tell a man I do! Got two boys out, workin’ ’em as fast as they blow, and steerin’ ’em down to my joy shop. Not a bad idea, eh?”
“What’s come in today?”
The proprietor pulled out a little notebook and turned the pages with a fat forefinger. “Up from Eastlake there was a gent called Benedict and another called Wayne … cowmen loaded with coin. They’re unloadin’ it right now. See that table in the corner? Then there was Hoe …”
“I don’t know the lay of the land east of Cayuse,” protested Lew Carney. “No friends of mine in that direction.”
“Out of the mountains,” began Bud, consulting his notebook again. “There was …”
“Cut out the mountains, too. What came out of Silver Cañon?”
“What always comes out of it? Sand.” Bud’s fat eyes became little slits of light as he grinned at his own jest. He added, “Lookin’ for somebody?”
“Not particular. Heard somebody down the street talk about a wagon that came off the desert with eight or nine men. What was that?” To conceal his agitation he began to roll a cigarette.
“One wagon?” asked Bud Lockhart.
“Yep.”
“What’n thunder would eight men be doin’ in one wagon?”
“I dunno.”
Carney took out a match, scratched it, and then lit his cigarette hastily. Every nerve in his body was on edge, and he feared lest the trembling of his hand should be noticed.
“Eight men in one wagon,” chuckled Bud. “Somebody’s been kiddin’ you, Lew. If this crowd has started kiddin’ Lew Carney for amusement, it’s got more nerve than I laid to it. But why’s the wagon stuff eatin’ on you, Lew?”
“Not a bit,” said Carney. “Doesn’t mean a thing, but, when I heard that the wagon came off Silver Cañon, I thought it might be from my own country, might find a pal in the crowd.”
“I’m learnin’ something every day,” Bud replied with a grin. “Makes me feel young again. Since when have you started in havin’ pals?”
“Why shouldn’t I have ’em?” Carney retorted sharply, for he felt that the conversation was not only unproductive but that he had aroused the suspicion of the big man.
“Because they don’t last long enough,” replied the other, with perfect good nature. “You wear ’em out too fast. There was young Kemple. You hooked up with him for a partner, and he comes back with a lump on his jaw and a twisted nose. Seems he disagreed with you about the road you two was to take. Then there was Billy Turner that was goin’ to be your partner at poker. Two days later you shot Billy through the hip.”
“He tried a bum deal on me, on his pal,” Carney stated grimly.
“I know. I told you before that Billy was no good. But there was Jud Hampton. Nobody had nothin’ ag’in’ Jud. Fine fellow. Straight, square dealin’. You fell out with Jud and busted his …”
“Lockhart,” snapped the smaller man, “you’ve got a fool way of talking sometimes.”
“And right now is one of ’em, eh?”
“I’ve given you the figures,” said Carney. “You can add ’em up any way you want to.”
It was impossible to disturb the calm of big Bud. “So you’re the gent who is lookin’ for some pals?” he chuckled. “Say, Lew, are you pickin’ trouble with me? Hunt it up someplace else. And the next time you start pumpin’ me, take lessons first. You do a pretty rough job of comin’ to the wind of me.”
A lean hand caught the arm of Bud as he turned away. Lean fingers cut into his fat, soft flesh. He found himself looking down into a face at once fierce and wistful. “Bud, you know something?”
“Not a thing, son, but it’s a ten to one bet that you want to know something that’s got a wagon and eight men in it. What’s the good word?”
The knowledge that he had bungled his first bit of detective work so hopelessly made Lew Carney flush. “I’ve talked like a fool,” he said. “And I’m sorry I’ve stepped on your toes, Bud.”
“That’s a pile for you to say,” replied Bud. “And half of it was enough. Now what can I do for you?”
“The wagon …”
“Forget the wagon! I tell you, the only thing that’s come in out of Silver Cañon is you. Hasn’t my spotter been on the job? Why he give me a report on you yourself, the minute you blew in sight. What d’you think he said? ‘Gent with windy lookin’ hair. Rides slantin’. Kind of careless. Good horse. Looks like he had a pile of coin and didn’t care how he got rid of it.’ It sure warmed me up to hear that kind of a description, and then in you come. ‘There he is now,’ says the spotter. ‘Like his looks?’ ‘Sure,’ I said to him. ‘I like his looks so much you’re fired.’ That’s what I said to him. You should’ve seen his face!” The fat man burst into generous laughter at his own joke.
The voice of Lew Carney cut his mirth short. “I tell you, Bud, you’re wrong. Either you’re wrong or I’m crazy.”
“Don’t be sayin’ hard things about yourself,” Lockhart retorted.
“It’s gospel, is it?”
“It sure is.”
“Then keep what I’ve said to yourself.”
“Not a word out of me, Lew. Now let’s get back to business. What you need to get this funny idea out of your head is a game …”
But the head of Lew Carney was whirling. Had he been mad? Had it been an illusion, that vision of the wagon and eight men? He remembered how tightly his nerves had been strung. A terrible fear for his own sanity began to haunt him.
“Blow the game,” said Carney. “I’m goin’ to get drunk!”
“I thought you said this was your dry …”
But the younger man ha
d already whirled and was gone among the crowd. He went blindly into the thickest portion, and, where men stood before him, he shouldered them brutally out of the way. He left behind him a wake of black looks and clenched hands.
Bud Lockhart waited to see no more. He hurried to call one of his bartenders to one side. “You see that gent with the sandy hair?” asked Bud.
“Yep.”
“Know him?”
“Nope.”
“He’s Lew Carney and he’s startin’ to get drunk. I’ve known him a long time, and it’s the first time I’ve ever heard of him goin’ after the booze hard. Take him aside and give him some of my private stock. Keep a close eye on him, you hear? Pass the word around to all the boys. There’s a few that knows him and they’ll hunt cover if he starts goin’. But some of the greenhorns may get sore and try a hand with him. You’re kind of new to these parts yourself, son. But take it from me straight that Lew Carney has a nervous hand and a straight eye. He starts quick and he shoots straight. Let him down as easy as you can. Put some tea in his whiskey if he’s goin’ too fast. And see that nobody touches him for his roll. And if he flops, have somebody put him to bed.”
IV
All of these things having been accomplished in the order named, with the single exception that the roll of Carney was untouched, the gambler awakened the next day with a confused memory and a vague sense that he had been the center of much action. But he had neither a hot throat nor a heavy head. In fact after the long nerve strain that preceded the drunk, the whiskey had served as a sort of counter poison. The brain of Lew Carney, when he wakened, was perfectly clear for the present. It was only a section of the past that was under the veil.
Through the haze, facts and faces began to come out, some dim, some vivid. He remembered, for instance, that there had been a slight commotion when news came that a freighter had brought in the body of a man found dead in Silver Cañon. He remembered that someone had jogged his arm and spilled his whiskey, whereupon he had smote the fellow upon the root of the nose, and then waited calmly for the gunplay. And how the other had reached for his gun but had been instantly seized by two bystanders who poured whispered words into his ears. The words had turned the face of the stranger pale and made his eyes grow big. He stared at Lew, then had apologized for the accident, and had been forgiven by Lew, and they had had many drinks together.
