“You’ll pass the word to Bowes?” asked Kane, on his way to the door.
“I’ll alert Stabile,” corrected Garth, “and he’ll pass the word to Bowes.”
“Couldn’t be any doubt, huh?” demanded Kane. “It is Moon Mountain silver—and the old man is likely toting his map?”
“Without breaking it up for analysis,” growled Garth, “I can tell you this stuff is only about twenty per cent rock.” He added, in a hushed whisper, “The other eighty per cent is the pure stuff! Fantastic, Kane! Raw silver—the purest I’ve ever seen.”
Kane Markham hustled away. The plan had been devised many months ago, and all the conspirators were ready to play the roles assigned to them by the venal Garth. At the outset, the name of the potential victim had been a blank. What mattered was the plan. The victim could be anybody—any man fortunate enough to stumble upon the secret of Moon Mountain. And now it had happened. The victim had a name and identity and was wide open to attack.
~*~
When the bright lights of Blanco Roca showed dead ahead, the Texans heaved sighs of relief. Larry grinned down at the tiny bundle cradled in his left arm, and quietly announced, “You’re almost home, Sam. Won’t be long before you’re eatin’ regular baby chow and sleepin’ in a soft crib.”
They were more than glad to be reaching their destination. Over the past forty-eight hours, Sam had presented many a problem. He was, in his wide-awake hours, an extremely active infant with migratory instincts. They couldn’t afford to take their eyes off him for more than a moment.
A few hours ago, he had startled the wits out of them by wriggling from the blanket and crawling to the brink of a thirty-foot drop overlooking a fast-flowing creek. Larry had reached him in the nick of time.
“He still asleep?” Stretch queried.
“Sleepin’ deep,” nodded Larry, “and that’s a wonder. Poor little maverick must be powerful hungry.”
“Well, doggone it,” protested Stretch, “we’ve been feedin’ him regular.”
“Mashed beans and sowbelly,” growled Larry, “ain’t proper for a kid so young. What he needs is milk.”
“No call to fret,” decided Stretch. “We’ll find his ma soon enough.”
“I’m not so sure,” frowned Larry.
“Meanin’ what?” challenged Stretch.
“Meanin’,” said Larry, “it might’ve been Sam’s own momma that gave him to the Injuns.”
“Hell, no!” gasped Stretch. “No female would ...!”
“With females,” said Larry, “you never can tell. I’m mighty partial to mothers—most of ’em, anyway. But I’ve known women that didn’t want any part of any young ’un—even their own.”
They entered the main stem slowly. From its north end, they could see for several blocks downtown—the busy boardwalks, the bright lights, the ever-mobile throng typical of all mining towns. And they could hear the familiar sounds—the clinking of glassware, loud laughter, tinny piano music and the shrill giggling of percentage-girls in the saloons and honkytonks lining Main Street.
It happened when they were half-way along that first block. They were drawing abreast of the entrance to a narrow side-alley at their left. To their right, several men were in conversation on the porch of the Wells Fargo depot. This end of town appeared considerably quieter than the area further along, and all seemed peaceful—until Larry chanced to glance to his left. Right away, he spotted the little man.
For just a moment, Jordy Cabot appeared in the alley mouth, his shabby clothes showing ominous dark stains, one hand weakly raised. Then, from the gloom of the alley, a brawny arm captured the hapless prospector and pulled him back out of sight. Grim-faced, Larry transferred his small burden to his partner. “Take care of Sam,” he snapped, as he eased his boots from his stirrups.
He slid to the ground and hustled towards the alley. Stretch blinked after him, indignant at the thought of being excluded from a ruckus, but conscious of the need to safeguard the infant. He reined up, stared to his right and spotted the girl. She stood only a few yards away, eyeing him curiously, a slim, wide-eyed youngster who appeared no more than sixteen years old. From within the alley, he heard the sounds of conflict, a startled oath, a grunt of pain, and he could hold back no longer.
In haste, he dismounted, advanced on the girl and thrust the bundle into her arms. “You got a name, little gal?” he demanded.
“Carolyn,” she frowned.
“Do somethin’ for me,” he begged. “Take care of the young ’un.”
He whirled, dashed toward the alley with his fists bunched. Intent on adding his weight to the conflict, it never occurred to him to glance backward. Had he done so, he might have found cause for alarm, because Carolyn was performing a fast disappearing trick, scurrying away along the opposite boardwalk with the babe clutched to her breast.
Into the alley he barged, splitting the air with a wild rebel yell. Larry’s voice reached him, calling an answer.
“Along here, big feller!”
Stretch bounded forward, tripped over a prone body and sprawled flat on his face. Cursing, he lurched to his feet and swung a blow. The alley was almost pitch-dark, so his targets were blurred. He heard a gasp of pain, followed by the thudding sound of a body hitting the dirt. From out of nowhere, a fist pounded his right ear. He reeled sideways, came up hard against a board wall.
The next sound he heard was far from satisfying—the urgent clumping of boots, as the invisible attackers beat a retreat toward the far end of the alley. He unleashed another curse and made to follow, but was halted by Larry’s muttered command.
“Stay put—and light a match. There’s a hurt hombre here.”
Stretch scratched a match. From the far end of the alley, a gun roared. Larry scowled defiantly, emptied his holster, and returned fire. He hadn’t seen the gun flash, but couldn’t resist the urge to retaliate. There was no third shot. The attackers were in hot retreat.
“How many of ’em?” demanded Stretch.
“Could’ve been as few as three—as many as six,” growled Larry. “How the hell could I tell?”
He dropped to his knees beside the prone man, as Stretch lit another match. Jordy blinked up at them, tried to speak, but in vain. Larry soberly studied the ugly wounds. The killers had used a knife, and their hapless victim was sinking fast. He was about to order Stretch to find a doctor in a hurry, when the old man breathed his last. Stretch lit another match. Larry tensed, dropped a hand to his holster. They were being challenged from the street-end of the alley. A tall man stood there, covering them with a shotgun.
“Keep your paws clear of the hardware!” came the snarled command. “You’re covered!”
“Badge-toter,” Stretch sourly observed.
“Wouldn’t you just guess it?” sneered Larry. “They always show up too late.”
More men were crowding about the alley-mouth. One of them put a restraining hand on Stabile’s arm, but Stabile shook it off, muttering, “Keep your nose out of this, Purley. This is law business.”
“But you can’t arrest ...” began the man called Purley.
“Shuddup!” scowled Stabile. He nodded to the Texans. “You two—unbuckle the hardware.”
“If you think us Texans killed this old jasper ...!” began Stretch.
“I got eyes to see with,” retorted Stabile. “Drop those belts or, so help me, I’ll blast you clear to the far end of the alley!”
“Trouble, Wade?”
“Need help, Wade?”
These last two queries were voiced by a couple of late arrivals, both wearing deputy’s badges. They were youthful and eager. One was barrel-chested and assertive, the other lean, sensitive looking, with close-cropped blond hair. They brandished six-guns and eyed the tall strangers with more than casual interest.
“Brad—Robbie,” grunted Stabile. “Maybe you’d better lend a hand at that. Couple real mean killers I got here. Caught ’em in the act.”
“You lame-brained liar!” breathed La
rry.
“Shuddup!” snarled Stabile. He rapped a command to the younger deputies. “Get in there and take their guns—but don’t get between us.”
Deputies Brad Paulson and Robbie Meyers sidled into the alley, their cocked .45s pointed unerringly at the grimfaced Texans. In double-quick time, the strangers were disarmed and prodded out into the street. The local doctor arrived and began a cursory examination of the murdered prospector. He was short, round-bellied and gray-haired, and his name was Nathan Kyle.
Larry advanced on Stabile and, ignoring the leveled shotgun, poked the deputy’s chest with a hard forefinger.
“Now you get this through your thick head!” he growled. “We didn’t knife the old jasper and we don’t know who did. We tangled with the killers, but we couldn’t see their faces. They hightailed it into the back alley, and, if you had a brain inside that fool head of yours, you’d be tryin’ to hunt ’em down!”
“Deputy ...” began the man called Purley.
“Will you shuddup?” raged Stabile. “Brad—Robbie—help me march these killers to the jailhouse.”
Menaced by a scattergun and two cocked Colts, the drifters had no option but to surrender quietly. A towner fetched their horses and fell in behind the small procession marching downtown. Purley and his three cronies tagged along. And only then did it occur to Larry to ask Stretch, “Where’d you stash Sam?”
“Little gal is takin’ care of him,” said Stretch.
“What little gal?” prodded Larry.
“Name of Carolyn,” Stretch recalled. “Right purty little filly. No call for you to act sore, runt.”
Three – The Witnesses
Corey Fames, a lawman who preferred to handle all his business quietly, pounded his desk with a clenched fist and roared, “Quiet! Everybody shut up.”
There had been uproar and confusion in the law office from the moment of the deputies’ arrival with their prisoners, and with several towners in tow. The tall Texans were loudly telling Stabile exactly what they thought of his powers of detection, his standard of intelligence and the mating habits of his ancestors. Just as loudly, Stabile was ordering the junior deputies to lock the prisoners up. And, above all this, the persistent Harv Purley was trying to get a word in edgeways.
It took Fames some little time to win silence.
“Now,” he breathed, “let me hear it quietly—one detail at a time.” He eyed Stabile impatiently. “Who got killed?”
“The old prospector,” frowned Stabile. “Jordy Cabot.”
The marshal’s face clouded over.
“That’s rough,” he grunted. “Poor old Jordy ...” He shook his head. “All right—so you arrested these two strangers. Who are they?”
“Didn’t get around to asking their names,” shrugged Stabile. “All I know is I found ’em with Jordy.”
“The names,” said Larry, “are Valentine and Emerson.”
Fames made a choking sound, resumed his chair and began gnawing at his fingernails.
“I knew it,” he mumbled. “It’s a rough town, this Blanco Roca, but I’ve been keeping the peace. Twenty years I’ve been a lawman—and never yet ran into the Texas Hell-Raisers. Figured I could serve this last term and then retire peaceful—and never meet Valentine and Emerson. But I was fooling myself. I should’ve known it’d happen—sooner or later.”
“Don’t let it faze you,” shrugged Larry, as he dug out his makings. “We ain’t half as dangerous as folks think.”
“Hey!” grinned Brad Paulson. “Larry and Stretch. How about that?”
“Gosh—I’ve been hearing tales of these hombres since I was knee-high to a jackrabbit,” murmured Robbie Meyers.
“I don’t care who they are,” scowled Stabile. “I still say they butchered poor old Jordy Cabot!”
“You keep sayin’ that ...” Larry scratched a match, lit his cigarette and squinted at Stabile through the smoke-haze, “and I’ll ram that shiny tin badge down your doggone throat.”
“The hell with you ...!” gasped Stabile.
“Simmer down, Wade,” chided Fames.
“And now,” smiled Harv Purley, “maybe you’ll listen to what I got to say.”
“Who’s he?” enquired Stretch.
“Purley’s the name.” The owner accorded the Texans a genial grin, tucked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. “Harv Purley to you. I’m in the travel business—manage the Wells Fargo office here.” He turned to the marshal. “Corey, you might as well turn these gents loose, here and now.” “Purley,” scowled Stabile, “I’m getting awful weary of you butting into this deal.”
“Ease up,” warned Fames. “You got no call to talk that way to Harv. He’s president of the Temperance League here in Blanco Roca, and a mighty respected citizen.” He nodded to the Wells Fargo man. “Go ahead, Harv. Say your piece.”
“It just happens,” explained Purley, “I was on the depot porch with these friends of mine ...” He indicated his cronies. “Guess you’re acquainted with the other leaders of our temperance movement—Mr. Kelly, Mr. Cooper, Mr. McKenzie ...”
“Good honest citizens,” Fames acknowledged. “Go on, Harv.”
“We saw these Texas gents ride in,” continued Purley. He frowned ponderously, rubbed at his prominent nose. “And I’ll tell you what else we saw. We saw old Jordy trying to get out of the alley. A mighty sorry sight he was too. All bloody. Then somebody hauled him back into the alley, and Mr. Valentine and Mr. Emerson cooled their saddles, and went running in after ’em. By the time we made it to that side of the street, the killers were on the run, and these gents were checking Jordy over. That—uh—that’s when Deputy Stabile arrived—and started jumping to conclusions.”
“That’s all?” frowned the marshal.
“Isn’t that enough?” challenged Purley. “As sure as I’m a teetotaler, these Texas gents are innocent.”
“You satisfied now?” Larry challenged Fames.
Fames ignored him for the time being—or tried to. “Harv,” he prodded, “how many men attacked Old Jordy?”
“It was too dark to see,” frowned Purley. “Three or four, maybe.”
“We tangled with ’em,” said Larry, “but I couldn’t tell you how many there were. We were fightin’ blind in there.”
Fames nodded slowly, heaved a sigh, and said, “I can’t rightly hold you—and I don’t know which is worse: having you in my jail—or having you loose on the streets of Blanco Roca.”
“Obliged to you,” Larry told Purley.
“My pleasure,” beamed Purley.
Purley and his cronies nodded farewell to the Texans and sauntered from the office. To the deputies, Fames said, “Start checking around—try and get a lead on the men who knifed old Jordy.” He eyed Stabile sourly.
“I was certain-sure ...” began Stabile.
“You were wrong, Wade,” Fames pointed out. “You owe these hombres an apology.”
“The hell with them,” snapped Stabile.
He turned on his heel and strode out. The younger deputies made quite a ceremony of returning the Texans’ armory, after which they hustled away to begin their investigation. Fames rose up, trudged to his safe and unlocked it. While the Texans buckled on their hardware, he tore the flap of the envelope, extracted the document given him by the dead man and checked for the name of next-of-kin.
“Anna Layton,” he mused. “Jordy’s daughter. Helluva lousy chore this’ll be—breaking the bad news to her. Well ...” He reached for his hat, “I’d best get it over and done with.”
“Before you go,” said Larry, “there’s somethin’ we have to ask you.”
“Ask it fast,” frowned Fames.
“We got a baby ...” began Larry.
“Congratulations,” shrugged Fames.
“Hell!” protested Stretch. “He ain’t our baby!”
“A maverick,” explained Larry. “Party of Piutes brought him to us. The kid’s white, so we took him off their hands. Could be the mother is right here in Blanco
Roca.”
“A white baby ...” Fames eyed them incredulously.
“Some Blanco Roca woman gave the baby to a Piute that came here to trade,” said Larry.
“That,” declared Fames, “is just about the craziest think I ever heard of.” He rubbed at his jaw, frowned perplexedly. “It couldn’t be kidnapping, that’s for sure. And, if some Blanco Roca baby was missing, I’d be bound to hear about it.”
“That’s what I figured,” nodded Larry. “Well? Has anybody reported a baby missin’?”
“No.” Fames shook his head emphatically. “I’ve been marshal of this burg quite a spell, and there’s just never been a case of baby-stealing here. Seems to me, Valentine, those Indians tricked you somehow.”
“It didn’t smell like a trick,” argued Larry.
“Well,” said Fames, “I still can’t help you. Of course, if I should hear anything …”
“All right,” shrugged Larry. “But, meantime, we need a place to stay. We don’t mind campin’ out of town, most times, but not when we got a baby on our hands.”
“Can’t help you there either,” said Fames. “Every hotel in Blanco Roca is full to the roof—even the two-bit flophouses. But you could ask around. Maybe somebody’ll take pity on you.” On his way to the door, he paused, struck by a new thought. “Where is the kid anyway?”
That question was answered immediately. Into the office came Ezekiel Yates, tagged by his eldest daughter, and Carolyn was tenderly toting the small enigma.
“Howdy, Zeke,” grunted Fames.
“Howdy, Marshal,” nodded Yates. He stared curiously at the Texans. “You the gents that belong to this young ’un?”
“We’re his godfathers,” explained Larry, “kind of.”
“What’s going on?” Yates asked the lawman. “I asked around for these gents, and heard tell they got arrested.”
“That was a mistake,” said Fames. “They’ve been cleared.” He thrust the last will and testament of Jordan Cabot into his hip pocket, donned his Stetson. “You folks’ll have to excuse me now. I got a chore to tend.” From the doorway, he though to perform introductions. “This is Zeke Yates and his daughter Carolyn. Zeke, maybe you’ve heard of these hombres. Valentine and Emerson.”
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