THE SILVER BAR MYSTERY
BY W. C. TUTTLE
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers, NEW YORK
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COPYRIGHT, 1930, BY THE FRANK A. MUNSEY CO.
This story was published serially under
the title of “The Trail of Deceit”
Printed in the U.S.A.
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CONTENTS
I: Shooting Scrape
II: A Warm Welcome
III: In the Border Town
IV: “Shot in the Back!”
V: A Strange Tangle
VI: Cal Sands, Fixer
VII: Trouble Roosts at the Star A
VIII: Night Ambush
IX: Mexican Blackmail
X: Suspects
XI: Out of the Frying Pan
XII: Inquiries
XIII: Conflicting Conspiracies
XIV: Kidnapped
XV: On the Cañon Rim
XVI: “Coincidence Poker”
XVII: Mendez Shows His Teeth
XVIII: Guarded by Yaquis
XIX: Gathering Storm
XX: A Fog of Gun Smoke
XXI: Mendez’s Surprise
XXII: The Fiesta in Piñon
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CHAPTER I: Shooting Scrape
“The West,” said “Goober” Glendon, speaking authoritatively, “ain’t
nothin’ like what she was. Now, I can remember the time when----”
“How do yuh feel toward that pot?” interrupted a cowboy, fingering his
cards nervously.
“Oh, yeah,” said Goober softly. He moistened the tips of his fingers
on his lips and proceeded to peek at the pips of his cards. “She’s
been raised twice, eh? Costs me fifteen _pesos_ to see what _you_’ve
got. Le’s make her twenty to see mine.”
“I ain’t held a hand since the Jamestown flood,” sighed his young
partner, Johnny Wells, tossing his five cards among the discards. “If
I ever drawed one to a pair, I’d frame ’em.”
Two men called Goober’s bet.
“Three typewriters and a couple Johns,” said Goober, spreading out three
queens and two jacks.
“Yo’re pretty lucky,” observed Cal Sands, foreman of the Star A outfit.
“You dealt that mess, didn’t yuh?”
Goober looked keenly at Sands. “Yeah, I dealt it; why?”
“Nothin’; I just wanted to know whose deal it was next.”
Johnny Wells glanced quickly at Goober, who was calmly stacking up his
chips. They were partners, these two--Johnny and Goober--partners in a
strange town. They had ridden into Silver Bar late that afternoon, and
decided to stay all night. Their destination was the Keno range, twenty
miles north-west. They did not know any of the men at the table.
Goober Glendon was past fifty, partly bald, of medium height, but very
thin. His features were sharp, deeply lined, his nose slightly hooked;
thin-lipped mouth topped a square chin, which jutted a trifle. His eyes
were a faded blue, almost hidden beneath bushy eyebrows.
Johnny Wells was twenty-five, range born and raised. He was of medium
height, with the physique of a middle-weight fighter. His hair was
inclined to auburn, wide blue eyes, nose slightly upturned above a
laughing mouth. Johnny was good-looking. Both men wore battered
Stetsons, faded shirts, and overalls. Goober wore the shotgun type of
chaps, while Johnny affected the flaring batwing variety.
Their belts and holsters were identical, because of the fact that Goober
had made them by hand. Goober carried an old, black-handled Colt, while
his young companion wore a Colt with carved bone handles.
The game progressed slowly, with Goober steadily piling up chips, while
Johnny was hardly able to keep even. Cal Sands drank liquor and swore at
his luck. Sands was tall and dark, with snapping black eyes. His hat was
black, shirt black, and he wore black trousers. There was not a touch of
colour about the man. Sands was possibly thirty years of age, and had
been foreman of the Star A outfit for three years.
“Did I hear you say somethin’ about goin’ over to Keno?” asked Sands,
speaking to Goober.
Goober nodded slowly, studying his cards. “Yea-a-ah, we’re ridin’
thataway to-morrow. . . . Check the bet.”
“Know anybody over there?”
“No-o-o-o, I don’t reckon we do. Me and Johnny jist driftin’ in for a
look around. You acquainted over there?”
“I’m from that part of the country.”
“Thasso? You know Frank C. Austin?”
“Sure.”
“So do I. Me and Frank was bunkies long time ago. We’re goin’ over and
hit Frank for a job.”
Sands laughed shortly. “Do yuh think Austin is out there runnin’ a
ranch?”
“Ain’t he?”
“With all the money and interests he owns?”
Goober’s faded eyes studied the face of Sands for several moments.
“I didn’t know,” he said mildly. “The last time I see Frank Austin, I
reckon him and me would assay about the same amount.”
“Must have been a long time ago.”
“Somethin’ like twenty-two, twenty-three year ago.”
“Austin is one of the big financiers of the Pacific Coast now.”
“I’ll be damned! Where did he hit it rich like that?”
“Smart investments and all that.”
“Yuh got to have money to make investments.”
“Austin married money.”
“Oh,” thoughtfully. “Then he got married agin, eh?”
“Again? I didn’t know he ever was married more than once.”
Goober picked up his five cards and studied them closely. The pot was
played out and a new deal started, when Sands said: “What about Austin
being married before?”
“My mistake,” said Goober softly. “I was thinkin’ of another man.”
“I’ve got enough,” sighed Johnny, passing the bet. He leaned back in his
chair and began rolling a cigarette.
“I’m goin’ to hit the hay pretty quick,” said Goober. “I’m so sleepy, I
can’t hardly see my cards.”
“I’d hate to play yuh, when yo’re asleep,” growled Sands. He started
to shove in a stack of red chips, when from out in the street came the
report of two shots, spaced about two seconds apart.
“What the devil’s goin’ on out there?” snorted Sands, kicking back his
chair. The men were all up from the table, crowding to the doorway.
There seemed to be a little commotion up the street a short distance,
and two men were coming down the rickety sidewalk. They reached the
doorway, a big, burly man, shoving a drunken young man ahead of him.
The younger man was almost too drunk to walk, too drunk to argue
intelligently. The big man wore a sheriff’s shield on the lapel of his
old vest. He had a gun in his left hand and one in his holster, as he
shoved the reeling young man into the saloon. He dropped the gun on
the card-table and turned to Sands.
“Git this damn fool out of here, Sands; he just shot Jigger Slade.”
“Killed him, Nolan?”
“I think so. Self-defence. Him and Jigger been quarrellin’ all evenin’.
Yuh know, they rode in together this afternoon.”
Sands grasped the drunk by the shoulders and shook him roughly. “Hal,”
he gritted. “Why didja shoot Slade?”
But the young man merely looked more dazed and slumped back against the
bar.
“Hell of a note!” snorted Sands. “And his father due in on that midnight
train.”
“Frank Austin comin’ in to-night?” asked Sheriff Nolan.
“Yeah--mebbe the rest of the family. Wilson,” he turned quickly to the
other cowboy who had been in the game, “will you take this fool kid
back to Keno? Git a livery rig, if he ain’t able to ride. I’ll make it
all right with yuh.”
“Sure, I’ll take him for yuh, Cal.”
“Good. C’mon, Hal, you poor fool.”
Nolan, the sheriff, went with them. It broke up the game.
Goober and Johnny went up the street to the saloon in front of which
the shooting had taken place. They had laid the body out on top of an
old pool-table, and a doctor was making an examination. No one seemed
to know much about it, except that it was self-defence, and no one
seemed greatly concerned. It seemed that Jigger Slade was a cowboy
from Austin’s Star A ranch near Keno City.
They wandered back to the other saloon and found Sands and the sheriff
back from the livery stable. Sands spoke confidentially to Goober.
“Yo’re an old friend of Frank Austin, yuh say?”
“Yeah.”
“Then don’t mention this to him, if yuh see him. That’s his kid. No
doubt of its bein’ in self-defence. The sheriff will fix it up here;
so there won’t be anythin’ said. It might make Austin feel awful
bad.”
“I know,” nodded Goober.
“The kid is awful wild,” sighed Sands. “We’ve had plenty trouble with
him.”
“Didja get him started out all right?”
“Oh, sure; he’s safe for the present.”
“What became of that six-gun?” asked Nolan, looking around. “I put it on
that card-table, didn’t I?”
“I saw yuh put it there,” said Johnny.
“Mebbe Wilson took it,” offered Sands. “He was there by the table. He
knew it was Hal’s gun.”
“Well, the damn fool!” snorted the sheriff angrily. “What right would he
have to take that gun?”
“Bein’ as it was self-defence----” said Goober mildly.
“You don’t need it for evidence,” said the bartender quickly.
The sheriff growled something and walked out.
“We might as well go to bed, Johnny,” yawned Goober. “I shore need a lot
of shut-eye to-night.”
“Same here.”
They went across the street and into the dingy little hotel where
they had rented a room. Johnny lighted the lamp and drew down the one
curtain, while Goober sat down on the creaking bed and drew the
missing gun from inside his shirt. It was a forty-five Colt, double
action. Goober swung out the cylinder, exposing two empty cartridges.
Then he took an old envelope from his pocket, tore off a corner, and
placed it to reflect the light, when he squinted through the barrel
of the gun. He snorted softly and handed the gun to Johnny, who also
peered down the barrel.
“Shines like a new dollar!” grunted Johnny. “This gun ain’t been shot
to-night, Goober.”
“That’s what I reckoned when I saw young Austin. He was too drunk to
even pull a gun. Somebody shifted them empty shells damn quick.”
Johnny laughed softly. “No wonder the sheriff wanted that gun.”
Goober nodded slowly as he drew off his boots. “This kid’s dad and me
was bunkies once, Johnny. Frank was hell-winded in them days, and he
was shore strong for backin’ up a friend. That’s why I stole that gun.
I’d do a lot for Frank. They’ll scare the tripe out of that kid. He
won’t know whether he fired a shot or not, because he was too drunk to
realise anythin’.”
“How about us goin’ over to Keno City?” asked Johnny.
“Shore, we’ll go. Even if Frank Austin ain’t there, we’ll take a look at
the country. But I’d like to see Frank. Married money and becomes one of
the big men, eh? That’s what you ort to do, Johnny. Git yourself a rich
wife.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that,” seriously.
“And an orphing.”
“A what?”
“Orphing. Damn, you know what a orphing is, don’tcha, Johnny? A kid what
never had a father or mother.”
“Incubator baby,” nodded Johnny. “I was reading about one in a paper.”
“Yeah, that’s the kind. Pick a rich one.”
“Why an orphan?” queried Johnny.
“Saves yuh the trouble of killin’ relatives. You better undress and git
in bed. Sa-a-a-ay! Ain’tcha goin’ to say yore prayers?”
“Who would I pray for?” demanded Johnny, half under the covers.
“Well,” thoughtfully, “yuh might say a few for the jasper that killed
Slade.”
It was midnight when the train pulled in at Silver Bar, and the Austin
family climbed down from a Pullman. They could have gone on fifteen
miles to Indian Wells and taken the branch line up to Keno City, which
ran a mixed train on an uncertain schedule, but Austin preferred getting
off at Silver Bar and taking the stage over to Keno City. In either case
they would have to stay overnight, and the poor accommodations at Silver
Bar were much better than those at Indian Wells.
Cal Sands met them at the little depot and escorted them over to the
little hotel. It was the first time Mrs. Austin or her daughter Betty
had ever been there, and the first time Sands had ever seen either of
them. Frank Austin was a portly, business-man type, well-groomed,
gray-haired, smooth-shaven. His features were well-shaped, but he
looked flabby, tired.
Mrs. Austin was a stately woman of more than medium height. Despite her
platinum-gray hair she looked much younger than her fifty years.
Betty was like her mother in build, but a decided blonde, blue-eyed.
Betty Austin was handsome--but not pretty. She shook hands with Cal
Sands in the dim light of the depot lantern, and he thrilled at the
firm grip of her small gloved hand.
“Yore first trip to the cow country?” he inquired.
“Yes--the first,” as her eyes travelled over his tall figure, clad in
severe black.
Sands had reserved the rooms for them at the hotel. They seemed very
poor to the women, but Austin hastened to assure them that they were
the best to be had. When Betty had settled in her room, Austin closed
the door and motioned Sands to a chair.
“What’s new, Cal?” he asked.
“Not much, since I wrote you, Austin. There was a shooting scrape here
to-night, and Jigger Slade was killed.”
“Slade? The name is familiar.”
“One of my men.”
“Is that so? Who shot him?”
“Jigger was drinkin’ pretty heavy, and he got into a quarrel with a
cowboy from over in the Flask River country. Jim Nolan, the sheriff,
saw it. The Flask River cowboy shot to save himself; so there wasn’t
any arrest.”
“My heavens, what a place!” exclaimed Mrs. Austin. “Does this happen
often?”
“No,” smiled Sands. “No, ma’am; it’s kinda rare.”
“I should hope so.”
“What about Hal?” asked Austin anxiously. “Ever since your letter--well,
that’s why we came down here, Sands.”
“I know,” nodded the foreman. “Well, there ain’t much more to tell.
Hal’s all right. I’m not tryin’ to worry yuh about him, but I thought
yuh ought to know. He won’t stay at the ranch, because I said he ought
to keep away from that Diaz place. I had a long talk with him about
it, and we almost had a fight. Hal’s hot-headed, and he won’t listen
to reason. I told him I was goin’ to write you all about it.”
“What did he say to that?”
“Well, I’d hate to repeat it here. Anyway, he told me a few things.
Yeah, he went a long ways back in my ancestry and dug up things I didn’t
know about myself. Then he took his things and moved to town.”
“He needs discipline,” said Mrs. Austin severely.
“He needs something,” growled Austin. “What about that Mexican girl?”
“In what way?”
“Is she chasing after Hal?”
Sands laughed softly. “You’ve got her all wrong, Austin. Juana Diaz
never chased after any man--they come to her.”
“Good-looking?”
“You answer that after you see her.”
“She must be a low creature,” said Mrs. Austin.
“To give the devil his due--she’s not,” said Sands. “Juana Diaz is as
straight as a string, partly educated and as proud as a queen.”
“Are you backing Hal in this?” asked Austin quickly.
“I am not.”
“Well, we’ll take this up later,” said Austin wearily. “I suppose Hal is
in Keno City now, isn’t he?”
“Should be.”
“I’ll see him to-morrow. Now, what about the rustlers, Cal?”
Sands shrugged his shoulders. “Still goin’ strong. Those seven polo
mares and the black stallion----”
“You don’t mean to say they’ve been stolen?”
“They’re gone.”
“The devil they are! Well--why--uh----” Austin spluttered. “What’s the
matter with La Plante?”
“He’s done about all any sheriff could do. Thinks they were taken over
the border, where they can disfigure the brands enough to make ’em
look like not much of anythin’, and pass ’em back as Mexican raised.
You know, them Mexicans and Injuns have the queerest-lookin’ brands on
earth. Not even registered.”
“That’s true. But damn it, Cal, I can’t stand for things like that.
This continual drain will soon ruin the Star A. Your report was enough
to knock me off my chair.”
“Yeah, it shore would.”
“Well, you go on and get some sleep. We can stay a week or so at the
ranch, and perhaps we can straighten things out.”
“I hope yuh can, Austin--it shore needs it. Well, good-night, folks,
I’ll hit the hay.”
Sands closed the door and went down the uncarpeted hall, his spurs
rasping. From the other side of the partition, Goober Glendon took his
ear away from the thin wall, and padded back to bed.
“Yo’re a regular old lady,” grunted Johnny sleepily. “It’s a wonder to
me you don’t git yore ears sawed off for listenin’ thataway.”
“Uh-huh,” softly.
“Didn’t yuh ever git a poke in the snoot for bein’ nosey?”
“Shore, I have; but I’ve heard enough to pay for the poke,” Goober
maintained. “Jist now I heard that Jigger Slade was killed by a waddy
from Flask River, and that Frank Austin is down here to keep his kid
from marryin’ a Mexican girl, and to stop rustlin’.”
“Old Mother Hubbard she went out and rubbered,” said Johnny, and began
snoring softly.
Tommy Wilson and Hal Austin, meantime, were nearly over to Keno City,
before Hal sobered sufficiently to understand what Wilson told him about
the shooting.
“You say I shot Jigger?” Hal asked vacantly, as the buggy jolted along
the stage road.
“You shore did.”
“Why?”
“How’d I know? I didn’t see it. Jim Nolan reported that you two had
quarrelled.”
“Nolan? He’s the sheriff over there, ain’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“I think he’s a liar.”
“You was too drunk to know anythin’ about it. Yuh shot him twice.”
“Nolan?”
“No-o-o-o! You shot Jigger Slade.”
“Let’s turn around and go back,” snapped Austin.
“What for?”
“Well, I’ve lost my gun, for one thing, and I----”
“The sheriff took it.”
“All right. Turn around and let’s go back. I want to tell that sheriff
what I think of him.”
Hal had grasped the lines, but Wilson immediately jerked them away from
him. “Let them lines alone, you drunken idiot! Listen to me: Nolan says
you shot in self-defence. Yo’re all cleared. Let it go at that. And yore
family are due in on that train at Silver Bar to-night.”
“They are, eh?”
“Didn’t you know it?”
“Slade said he heard they were, but I didn’t believe it.”
“Well, they are, and you better sleep off yore jag and sober up before
they see yuh.”
“Is Sands down there?”
“Shore is. He’s down there to meet ’em.”
“The big, black four-flusher!” snorted Hal. “He’s down there to tell the
Old Man a lot of lies about me, I suppose. Well, if the Old Man wants to
believe Sands--all right. I’m big enough to take care of myself.”
“Yeah, yo’re big enough,” agreed Wilson wearily.
“I sure am.”
After a few minutes, Hal resumed: “Do you really believe that I shot
Slade?”
“Yuh shore did.”
“I liked Slade.”
“Go to sleep and forget it.”
“Sleep! This is sure going to put me in bad with the family. I suppose
Sands will tell dad all about that shooting.”
“Yore father used to be out in this country, and he’ll understand.”
“He might, but mother won’t--not her and Betty. Are you sure Slade is
dead?”
“He was dead when we left. It was lucky that the sheriff saw the
shootin’.”
“I wish I knew what Slade and I quarrelled about. I don’t remember.”
“Both of yuh drunk.”
“That’s the funny part of it,” sighed Hal.
“What’s funny?”
“Slade don’t drink. The last I remember he had every pocket full of
cigars. And here’s another thing--Slade could easily beat me to the
draw with a gun, if he was sober and I was drunk.”
“You better sleep it off,” advised Wilson.
“All right, all right. But I’m going to find out more about this. The
bartender could prove that Slade wasn’t drunk.”