He trudged away, leaving Yates and the girl staring at the strangers. Carolyn’s eyes were aglow.
“Larry and Stretch?” she breathed. “Honest?”
“Well,” grinned Larry, “we’re honest enough—most of the time.” He took the babe from her. Sam grinned up at him. “Miss Carolyn, we’re mighty obliged to you.”
“I guess she’s heard tell of us,” Stretch smugly asserted.
“Heard of you?” frowned Yates. “Heck. She’s been listenin’ to all the wild stories about you, readin’ about you in the newspapers and, by golly, she cut your pictures out of the Carson City Star a couple years back and nailed ’em to the parlor wall!”
“You’re braver than Buffalo Bill,” Carolyn solemnly informed Larry. “And you ...” She turned to Stretch, “I bet you can shoot straighter than Wes Hardin or Bill Hickok or—or anybody.”
“Right friendly little critter.” Yates nodded to the babe. “How’d you come by him?”
“The Injuns gave him to us,” said Stretch.
Yates blinked uncertainly, shrugged, and said, “Well—ask a silly question, get a silly answer. You gents fixin’ to stay on in Blanco Roca?”
“Long enough,” said Larry, “to find out who the little feller belongs to.”
“Sure sorry I can’t help you,” said Yates. “Haven’t heard tell of any local folks losin’ a baby.”
He escorted his daughter to the doorway. From there, she smiled back at the Texans and murmured, “Goodbye, Mr. Valentine—Mr. Emerson.”
Father and daughter departed. For a few moments, Larry stood frowning at the vacant doorway.
“Best we start lookin’ around,” he told Stretch. “Got to find shelter for Sam.”
Ten minutes after quitting the law office, Wade Stabile entered the High Strike Bar, a small saloon in the downtown area. From just inside the batwings, he nodded to one of the three rough-looking men occupying a corner table. Then, unobtrusively, he retreated to the boardwalk. The man signaled came out to join him. He was scrawny and beady-eyed, with a grizzled beard adorning his unprepossessing features.
“Not here, Stabile,” he grunted. “The side alley.”
“Why sure, Bowes.” Stabile grinned knowingly. “Side alleys are your specialty, huh?”
“That ain’t funny,” growled Russ Bowes.
They moved into the gloom of the side alley. Stabile lit a cigar and said, “Hand it over. Markham’ll be getting impatient.”
“You think I got that consarned map?” challenged Bowes. “Hell, I’d of took it to Markham by now. We didn’t have time to check Cabot’s pockets before them two strangers jumped us.”
Stabile cursed luridly. “Three of you—against one burnt-out old desert-rat. An easy chore—and you had to bungle it!”
“The old fool fought like crazy!” protested Bowes. “He’d of yelled his damned head off if I hadn’t knifed him. And then, just when I was about to search him, all hell busted loose. We had to cut and run.”
“You got any idea who you were running from?” prodded Stabile. “Well, I’ll tell you. Just two hombres. A couple of smart-alecks name of Valentine and Emerson.”
“Never heard of ’em.”
“Well—that’s not important any more. What matters is the map, and it’s likely still in his clothes.”
“They toted him to Wilkie’s Funeral Parlor. I saw ’em.”
“All right. I’ll get down to Wilkie’s right away. Meantime, you and those two sidekicks of yours keep your mouths shut and your noses clean. I’ll let you know when Garth wants to parlay again.”
“Fair enough, Stabile. But you better find that doggone map.” Bowes grinned blandly. “Me and Dixon and Flegg—we hanker for our share of that Moon Mountain silver.”
“You’ll get your share,” Stabile assured him, as he strode from the alley.
The Wilkie establishment was located two blocks further downtown. Within minutes of his short conference with the killer, Stabile was hustling into the undertaker’s workroom to bark queries at the mortician. Where were the dead man’s clothes? Had Wilkie searched them yet?
“Haven’t got around to it yet.” The undertaker gestured to the mortal remains of the old prospector, now occupying a long table and covered by a sheet.
“This is his stuff?” demanded Stabile, as he approached the shapeless bundle in the near corner.
“That,” nodded Wilkie, “and whatever’s on the burro. It’s hitched outside.”
Stabile made a thorough examination of the shabby garments, then hurried outside and checked the pack roll, the contents of the bags slung to the burro’s back. Nothing. Not a sign of the map. From the front doorway, Wilkie frowned out at him and asked, “Who pays for this funeral? The daughter?”
“What daughter?” challenged Stabile.
“Girl that sings at the Bonanza,” said Wilkie. “You recall her? She’s the one hitched up with that gambler a while back—feller that got killed over Utah way.”
“Oh, sure.” Stabile nodded impatiently. “I recall her now. Well, maybe she can afford a cheap funeral for her old man.”
He headed for the big saloon, in urgent haste. His mood was grim, but, when he entered Blanco Roca’s noisiest house of entertainment, his saturnine countenance wore its customary impassive mask. He talked to the proprietor at the bar, quietly, casually.
“She’s all broken up,” Bennett confided.
“Marshal still with her?” asked Stabile.
“Been and gone,” said Bennett. “I told her she could take the night off.”
“Well,” frowned Stabile, “I don’t like to intrude on her at a time like this, but maybe she’s thought of something—maybe she can give us a clue.”
“Wouldn’t Fames have questioned her already?” suggested Bennett.
“Could be,” shrugged Stabile. “But I aim to be sure.”
“He was in here earlier,” offered Bennett.
“Old Jordy?” prodded Stabile.
“Uh huh,” nodded Bennett. “Visited with her a spell.”
Stabile glanced towards the stairs and did some deep thinking. Bennett, ever eager to curry favor with the law, gave him a cigar and a light, and asked, “You want to talk to her?”
“Reckon I’d better,” drawled Stabile.
“Last room along the gallery,” said Bennett.
When the deputy knocked at her door, Anna was hard at work, plying her needle diligently, her vision blurred by her tears. She had begun the chore within minutes of Fames’ leaving her. Hadn’t her father stressed the importance of his one and only map? And wasn’t it likely that he had been murdered for it? Men had been killed for less, in many mining camps.
Her feelings were mixed and, though her nerves had suffered a jolt, she was trying to think clearly. She assumed her father had talked too freely, had bragged of his good fortune in the presence of opportunists, which could mean that others were aware of the existence of the map. The fact that Jordy Cabot had visited his daughter that evening was no secret. In time, the killers would think about this—and maybe guess the map had been passed to her for safekeeping.
At Stabile’s knock, she hastily refolded the map and thrust it into her bodice, draped the shawl over the back of her chair and nudged her sewing basket out of sight under the bed. Then, tensely, she asked, “Who is it?”
“Deputy Stabile,” he replied. “Begging your pardon for the intrusion, Miss Anna. Got a few questions to ask.”
She went to the door, unlocked and opened it. Stabile sauntered in with his hat in his hands, helped himself to the chair she’d been using, so that his head rested against the shawl. She closed the door, sank into the other chair and eyed him enquiringly.
“Tough,” he sympathized, “what happened to your old man. You got my sympathy.” His eyes seemed to be probing clear through her. “How’re you feeling?”
“How does any woman feel,” she countered, “at a time like this?”
“Sure.” He nodded moodily. “Well�
�life goes on, Miss Anna, and I got my duty to think of. Got to make a try at finding the men that killed old Jordy.”
“I’ve already told the marshal everything I know,” she pointed out.
“Figured you might have thought of something since Corey questioned you,” he explained.
“Well,” said Anna, “I haven’t.”
To Fames, she had said nothing about the map, or her father’s discovery of the rich silver deposits of Moon Mountain. ‘Don’t trust anybody’—that was her policy now.
“Jordy visited with you tonight.” Stabile made it a statement, not a question.
“That’s right,” she nodded.
“What did you talk about?”
“The usual things.” Perhaps her reply was too quick, too ready. “How I’d been getting along without him—things like that.”
“Nothing about where he’d been,” he demanded, “or what he’d done?”
“He didn’t talk about himself,” she lied. “Why, Deputy Stabile? Why do you ask?”
“We got no leads at all,” he shrugged, “as to why your father was murdered. I thought maybe he talked about some old enemy of his. If you can think of anybody ...”
“I can’t,” she firmly assured him. “My father had no enemies.”
“If that’s so …” He grinned mirthlessly, “… old Jordy was a mighty unusual feller. There aren’t many who can claim they don’t have an enemy in the world.”
“Deputy Stabile,” frowned Anna. “I’ve suffered a great shock and I’m very tired.”
“Yeah, sure.” He got to his feet. For a fleeting moment, his narrowed eyes scanned the room, questing. Then, ambling to the door, he muttered, “Sorry to bust in on you. If you think of anything that might help us, come see us at the marshal’s office.”
She rose up, closed the door after him and carefully locked it. Then, quickly, she retrieved her sewing basket and resumed her chair. The map was unfolded and placed on the table. By lamplight, she could clearly follow the simple lines and characters sketched by her father.
The shawl had been intended for her baby. She had worked a floral pattern into the heavy silk during the latter stages of her pregnancy. A pleasing confusion of red flowers against the deep blue of the silk. Now, the garment so quickly discarded that chill evening—when the midwife had broken the sad news—had been brought to light again, and for a specific purpose. To copy the original map on to a fresh sheet of paper would prove futile—even dangerous—or so she thought. Her father’s murderers might search her room, and that search would certainly be thorough.
And so Anna Layton, despite the sorry condition of her nerves, had devised a strategy that would defeat the men who had so savagely butchered her father. Every detail of the map was being duplicated on the blue shawl, in fine thread.
Four – Thieves’ Council
At nine-twenty that night, Stabile rapped at the rear door of the building occupied by the Markhams, and was admitted by the younger brother.
“Been waiting for you, Wade.” Kane Markham came straight to the point. “What about the map?”
“Who’s here?” demanded Stabile.
“Garth and me,” frowned Kane. “And Ty just stopped by.”
“All right.” Stabile strode into the small kitchen, nudged the door shut. “Time we all got our heads together on this deal.”
He preceded Kane into the room behind the office, a combination of parlor and bedroom shared by the brothers. Garth Markham was pouring drinks. As Stabile entered, he nodded to his brother and muttered, “Break out an extra glass. You thirsty, Wade?”
“That’s a fool question,” growled Stabile. He flopped into a chair, and told Kane, “Make mine a double-shot.”
“Coming up,” Kane assured him. “Now—uh—what about ...?”
“I don’t have the damn-blasted map!” scowled Stabile.
Tyler Halsey stroked his scrubby moustache and eyed the lawman anxiously. “Garth felt sure Cabot would be carrying a map,” he muttered. “Can we afford to trust Bowes and his friends? Maybe they have it.”
“Not a chance,” said Stabile. “You heard the news, didn’t you? A couple of inquisitive strangers came drifting into town at just the worst moment. They spotted Cabot in the alley and invited themselves to the party.”
“Could they identify Bowes and his boys?” frowned Kane, as he placed a drink before the deputy.
“They fought in the dark,” said Stabile. “Bowes and Dixon and Flegg got away clear—but they didn’t have time to search Cabot.”
“We aren’t even sure there is a map,” fretted Halsey.
“Don’t talk like a fool, Ty,” grinned Garth. “Cabot found his way to Moon Mountain more by luck than by skill. Do you suppose he’d risk losing his way—the next time he went to his claim? No. You can bet your life he made a map.”
“Something you can bet your life on, Garth,” muttered Stabile. “That map wasn’t in Cabot’s clothes. I searched his gear at the funeral parlor.”
“Well ...” began Garth.
“And then I played a hunch,” Stabile continued. “I went to the Bonanza and talked to Cabot’s daughter.”
“Of course!” breathed Halsey. “The Layton woman—Cabot’s only living relative!”
“You sure about that?” frowned Garth.
“I told you,” said Halsey. “I drew up Cabot’s will tonight. Anna Layton is his daughter, and she inherits everything.”
“He was with her tonight,” Stabile announced. “Bennett told me.”
“And so?” prodded Garth.
“And so ...” Stabile grinned wryly, “I paid her a call, asked her a question or two.” He took a stiff pull at his drink. “Real jumpy she was.”
“That’s only to be expected,” suggested Halsey. “After all-—the news of her father’s murder ...”
“I could be wrong,” drawled Stabile, “but I think she’s got other reasons for acting that way. I got the notion she’s hiding something.” He grinned and winked at Garth. “Like the map, for instance.”
Garth Markham nodded thoughtfully. “Why not?” he mused. “What’s more natural than that Cabot would give his map to the one person he trusted—his own daughter?”
“She lives at the Bonanza,” said Stabile. “Last room along the corridor. I checked around some, after I talked to her. There’s a window opens on to a balcony, with fire stairs going down into the side alley.”
“All right,” said Garth. “I want that room searched—and the woman as well, if necessary. I want that map.” His eyes narrowed, as he added, “I’ve waited a long time to get my hands on all that silver.”
“A king’s ransom,” muttered Halsey. “We could live in luxury the rest of our lives.”
“That,” Garth bluntly assured him, “is exactly how it’s going to be.” He nodded to Stabile. “Relay my orders to Bowes. He’ll know how to handle it, but I want him to play it smart. He has to take precautions.”
“You name it,” offered Stabile.
“They have to be masked,” said Garth. “If the woman identified them, we’d end up in bad trouble, because Bowes might just shoot off his fool mouth and implicate us.”
“Is it wise?” wondered Halsey. “I mean—to employ men of Bowes’ caliber?”
“Don’t worry about Bowes,” Garth smiled coldly. “When the right time comes, I’ll dispose of him in my own way. Meantime, he can still be useful to us. Wade, tell Bowes to wait until long after the Bonanza closes—and tell him it has to be a sure thing. No slip-ups.”
~*~
By ten-thirty, Larry and Stretch had found accommodation for their horses, but not for themselves, nor for the blanket-wrapped babe slumbering in the crook of Larry’s left arm.
They were footsore and weary, bedeviled by thirst, when they loafed past the office of the “Bugle Call.” On to the front windows was painted the proud inscription—“THE BUGLE CALL—BLANCO ROCA’S MOST PROGRESSIVE NEWSPAPER.” A proud inscription indeed, considering that t
he “Bugle Call” was the territory’s only newspaper.
They crossed the narrow alley separating the newspaper office from the next building in line, which happened to be the Bonanza. On the porch of the big saloon, they paused in indecision.
“Will you listen to that purty music?” sighed Stretch.
“I’ve heard pianos that sounded sweeter,” muttered Larry.
“Who’s talkin’ about the consarned pianner?” countered Stretch. “Listen to that other sound, runt.”
Larry listened to that other sound—the familiar clinking sound of bottlenecks against glass.
“We got an important chore, Stretch,” he pointed out. “Findin’ a place for Sam to sleep is a sight more important than how thirsty we are.”
“We’ve been lookin’ for hours,” protested Stretch, “and we’re gettin’ no place—fast.”
“You had your supper,” growled Larry.
“I don’t crave chow,” said Stretch. He sniffed at the variety of aromas wafting from within the saloon. “What I crave is a whole jug of beer—cold as Montana ice. They don’t have to put it in a glass. I’ll just take the jug—and swig it down—down—down ...”
“Damnitall ...!” began Larry.
He broke off, cursing impatiently. Sam had chosen that moment to rouse from slumber, and was wriggling in his arms. Anxiously, he studied the tiny face. Stretch moved closer, squinted over his partner’s shoulder. The babe blinked up at them, and Stretch asserted, “He’s thirsty, I bet. Look how he blinks at us—kinda pleadin’.”
“I dunno ...” frowned Larry.
“Listen,” said Stretch. “If you want for me and you to die of thirst, well all right then. But what about Sam? You said we’re responsible for him. Least we can do is buy him a drink.”
Unable to ignore his dry throat, Larry didn’t need further persuasion. “All right,” he grunted. “But we got to go careful. Can’t afford to get mixed into no hassles.”
“Hell, no,” Stretch fervently agreed. “We got responsibilities.” He looked at the babe. “Hey. He’s sleepin’ again.”
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