Goober Glendon did considerable thinking over what Chandler, Silver
Bar’s prosecuting attorney, had told him about the probability that
Austin had bribed Nolan to cover up the shooting. He later told Johnny
Wells all about the conversation.
Smoky Hill was curious, but Goober told him nothing, because he did
not consider it any of the deputy’s business, it being an affair in
the other county, out of his jurisdiction.
“That all fits in with the gun we got,” said Johnny. “Hal Austin had
nothin’ to do with the shootin’--bein’ merely the fall guy. But who
did, and why, Goober? I believe Hal Austin might know something, but
don’t realise it. I’d like to know why Hal went to Silver Bar with
Slade. Slade picked him up here, and they went over together.”
“Johnny, you’ve got the makin’s of a detective,” grinned Goober.
“There’s only one answer to that cattle-stealin’ deal, as far as I can
see; but it might be damn hard to prove it.”
“Who do yuh think shot Terrill?”
“I’d hate to try and prove my idea to a jury,” laughed Goober. “They’d
say I was crazy . . . Slade was a private detective.”
“Who told you that?” Johnny demanded.
“Nobody. Frank Austin paid all the expenses of shippin’ that body back
to San Francisco. That proves Austin hired him and felt responsible.
Slade wasn’t an old hand at the Star A. My guess is that somebody knew
Slade was a detective, and they knew Frank Austin was comin’; so they
killed Slade to keep him from tellin’ Austin anythin’. When we was over
in Silver Bar the last time, I found out from the postmaster that Slade
got his mail there, instead of at the post office here.”
“Mebbe yo’re right, Goober. They knew Slade had somethin’ to tell, eh?”
“Shore. But it wasn’t any of the Star A outfit. I checked up on that,”
Goober stated. “Sands and the Wilson boy were the only men in town from
the Star A, and we know they didn’t have no hand in the deal. Might have
been Terrill, might have been most anybody--but we do know that Nolan,
the Silver Bar sheriff, is crooked. He covered up the murder--if it was
a murder. And I’ll betcha he knows I’ve got Hal’s gun.”
“And only the two of us to swear that it never had been fired,” grinned
Johnny. “He could swear that it had been fired, but that we cleaned it
out later.”
“Shore,” agreed Goober heartily. “And he could prob’ly find plenty men
who would swear that they looked through that barrel just after the
murder. There’s a lot of drawbacks in detectin’, Johnny. But I reckon
we’ll go down to Indian Wells and see if we can’t have a little talk
with Hal.”
“And get another chicken feed at the Casa del Diaz,” grinned Johnny.
“Yea-a-a-ah!” snorted Goober derisively. “Big, dark eyes, black ha’r,
and skinny ankles.”
“Yo’re gettin’ old, Goober.”
“Old enough to re’lise that I’m m’ own boss.”
They were crossing the street to the livery stable, when Mrs.
Austin, Betty, and Tony Riecho went down the main street in the Star
A buckboard, which had been remodelled and an extra seat added. Mrs.
Austin sat stiffly, looking neither to right nor left, but Betty was
missing none of the sights. She turned her head to look at Johnny,
who jerked off his hat, stubbed his toe, and almost fell down, much
to the amusement of Goober.
They talked with the stableman for several minutes before saddling,
and as they rode out they saw Frank Austin and Cal Sands dismounting
at the Keno Saloon. Johnny and Goober were in no hurry, and allowed
their horses to shuffle along in the dusty road. The day was not
uncomfortably warm. They travelled several miles without any
conversation between them. The country was mostly broken hills, dry
washes through which wound the old road. The hills were covered with
patches of mesquite, cat-claw and yucca, with an occasional
ocotillo--the tall, slender cactus with the flaming red flower on its
tip. In some of the washes were live-oaks and scattering sycamores
and willows.
They were still about four miles from Indian Wells, when Goober suddenly
reined in his horse. On the right-hand side of the road, less than a
hundred feet away, was the sorrel team from the Star A, tangled in some
mesquite, the buckboard turned over on its side.
Both men spurred over there quickly and dismounted, dropping their reins
and running around behind the upset buckboard, while the tangled team
tried to break loose. Of the two women there was no trace, but on the
far side of the overturned rig, pitched on his head in the mesquite, was
Tony Riecho, as dead as he would ever be. Johnny quickly cut the team
loose and tied them to a snag, running back to Goober, who was examining
the body.
“This is the same rig we saw go through Keno City, ain’t it?” asked
Goober.
Johnny nodded grimly, his eyes searching the barren hills. “Dead?” he
asked, looking at the body.
Goober nodded. “Shot twice.”
“Hell of a note,” muttered Johnny. “Where’s the women? Yuh don’t suppose
it was a runaway and they got throwed out back up the road, do yuh?”
Goober shook his head quickly. “Them tracks show what happened. Somebody
tried to hold ’em up, I’d say. The driver got shot, yanked his team
around to the right, and they tangled in the brush and upset. Mebbe they
shot him again, before the rig turned upside down. Looks as though he
pitched off the seat dead.”
Goober got to his feet and went searching around, trying to discover
tracks, anything that might give him a clue, but the sandy soil did
not hold tracks well. He had crossed the road and was searching the
other side, when Frank Austin and Cal Sands came riding down the
road. Goober turned and came back to them, about the time they saw
the team and buckboard.
“For God’s sake, what happened?” blurted Austin. He dismounted, fell
to his knees, and seemed to have difficulty in getting up again. Sands
went over to the wrecked buckboard, where Johnny merely pointed at the
dead man. Austin managed to get there, his face the colour of ashes.
He grasped Sands by the elbow, as they stared down at the dead Riecho.
Sands’s face was white as he turned to Goober.
“Did you--did you find things like this?” he asked hoarsely.
“Except that we cut the team loose,” replied Goober.
“My wife and daughter,” said Austin weakly, “where are they?”
“We been wonderin’ that,” said Johnny.
“Tony’s dead,” muttered Sands in horror. “Can yuh imagine that--dead?”
“Shot a couple of times,” nodded Goober. “Women gone. What do yuh make
of it, Austin?”
Frank Austin looked decidedly shaky, as he gripped one of the wheels in
both hands. “Why, I--I don’t know, Glendon. What’s to be done?”
“Women don’t disappear,” said Johnny foolishly. “You’d almost think the
Apaches had busted loose again.”
“Kidnapped?” queried Goober.
“Why?” groaned Austin.
“If you don’t know, it’s a cinch I don’t,” Goober pointed out. “Johnny,
you’ve got a fast horse; suppose you high-tail it for Keno and get the
sheriff.”
Johnny was on his horse and galloping up the road, almost before Goober
made the suggestion. Sands was almost afraid to look at Austin. This
kidnapping had been his scheme, but he had not bargained for anything
like this. Had Britton and Elkinson gone crazy on the deal, he wondered?
If not, why had they killed Tony Riecho? Would the women be safely
hidden in the old adobe? He knew they would not. This was not the mouth
of Oreano Cañon; it was a mile beyond, nearer the town of Indian Wells.
What had gone wrong?
Austin was looking at him as he lifted his head, and Sands looked
quickly away. Goober was watching Austin’s face, and he saw Sands’s
expression. Austin kept his eyes on Sands, and Goober saw his hands
clench tightly.
“They know somethin’,” Goober told himself. “Austin is half crazy, and
Sands is scared. They don’t act natural for a case of this kind.”
“What can the sheriff do?” mumbled Austin. “Where would he look for
them?”
Sands shook his head, looking at the body, half buried in the brush. He
was as much at sea as Austin, but Austin did not seem to believe this.
“Kinda funny business,” said Goober.
“Funny?” Sands turned quickly. Austin had stiffened.
“Nothin’ to laugh at,” said Goober. “But who knew them two women would
be along here at this time? This sort of thing don’t jist happen.”
Austin shook his head. “I--I don’t know. Nobody knew it, as far as I
know, except us at the ranch.”
“What’s yore theory, Sands?”
“Theory--hell!” snapped the big foreman disgustedly. “How can yuh arrive
at a theory in a case of this kind? There’s Tony Riecho, dead; women
gone.”
“Riecho?” muttered Goober thoughtfully. “Tony Riecho. Hm-m-m-m-m. Wasn’t
he sent up from Cochise County several years ago?”
“What if he was?” growled Sands. “Lots of good men have been sent up. If
he wanted to go straight--why not let him, Glendon?”
“Ex-cuse me,” said Goober dryly. Austin looked sharply at Sands. “You
never told me anything about Riecho being an ex-criminal, Cal.”
“You never asked me,” sharply. “A man’s past is his own.”
“That’s right,” agreed Goober warmly. “I reckon we’re all livin’ in
glass houses, Frank.”
Austin scowled, but had no ready reply. Sands walked about impatiently,
and finally turned to Austin.
“No use of all of us stayin’ here,” he said. “I’ll go to Indian Wells
and see what I can hear.”
“That’s right. Perhaps I better go along. I’d like to have Hal know what
happened--and I can’t do a bit of good here--if you don’t mind staying
here alone, Glendon.”
“It’s all right with me,” replied Goober.
The two seemed almost too anxious to get away from there. Goober
squatted on his heels against the buckboard and rolled a cigarette,
which he smoked slowly, trying to puzzle out what this meant. He had
schooled himself in reading expressions, and he was sure that Austin
and Sands knew something.
Austin had been too stunned over the affair. He had lost all
initiative, it seemed, as though he knew something was to happen, but
not in just that way. Goober scratched his head, got to his feet and
walked around to the body. Riecho was dressed in a faded shirt, old
gray vest, overalls and high-heeled boots.
Goober’s investigation of the vest pockets netted a few matches, a
package of tobacco and some crumpled papers. From one hip-pocket he
drew out a folded cheque for two hundred and fifty dollars, payable
to Tony Riecho, signed by Frank Austin. The cheque was from a San
Francisco bank. Goober replaced the cheque, and tried the opposite
pocket. Deep in one corner was a small dirty handkerchief, wadded
tightly; and in this handkerchief, one corner tied tightly through
it, was a solitaire diamond, set in platinum. It was a beautiful
stone and a beautiful piece of platinum work. Goober decided that it
was worth a lot of money, admired the flashing stone for several
moments, and finally put it in his own pocket.
“Yeah, our friend Tony Riecho wanted to go straight,” said Goober to
himself. “That kinda proves that Tony was one of the gents that stuck
up that stage. But why in the devil would Frank Austin give him a
cheque for two hundred and fifty dollars, unless he was payin’ Riecho
for somethin’ outside his regular work? That’s six months’ pay for a
cow-poke.”
Goober sat down in the shade again and rolled another smoke. He knew
it would require quite a while for Johnny to ride the round trip to
Keno City, even if the sheriff was in town and started immediately.
He glanced at his old silver watch and estimated that Sands and
Austin had been gone nearly an hour. By this time Johnny would be in
Keno City, perhaps starting back.
Goober got up and stretched his legs, yawning wearily. He happened to
glance toward his horse; the animal was looking up the slope to the
right, ears pricked forward. Goober could see nothing.
“What is it, Poncho--a deer?” he asked. The horse turned his head and
looked at Goober, but shifted back toward the hill.
At that same moment something struck Goober on the head, knocking him
flat in the dirt. Came the rattling report of a rifle shot, which echoed
back and forth along the hills.
Goober heard the report of that rifle, and knew he was hit. The shock
had knocked him down, his right arm partly cramped down under his right
thigh, but he recovered quickly from the blow, and his right arm slid
loose slowly, his hand clutching his heavy Colt. He did not move now.
His hat had rolled several feet away, and Poncho was moving toward it,
his nose outstretched. The horse was gun-broke.
Goober was entirely conscious. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead,
and dripped past the corner of his right eye, but not a muscle of him
moved. To any one on that slope of the hill it would seem that Goober
Glendon had been killed instantly. His ears were tuned for any sound,
but none came, except the cawing of some crows flying high overhead, and
the soft creaking of his own saddle as Poncho moved restlessly.
“Got me the first shot, and hit the grit,” decided Goober, after lying
motionless for fifteen minutes. He shifted his head carefully and peered
at the brushy slope. Finally he got to his feet, picked up his hat and
sat down in the shade of the mesquite to take stock of his injuries.
On the right side of his head, just above the ear, was a livid welt, not
much over two inches in length, where a high-power bullet had left its
trademark. At the forward end of the welt, the skin had been broken, but
the bleeding had been slight.
“Creased me good,” he told himself. “Inch more to the left, and I’d be
learnin’ chords on a harp right now. That’s shore a narrow margin.”
He sat down in the shade, nursing a headache, but thankful it was no
worse. Some one had made another attempt on his life, and he had no
idea who it might have been. No one except Johnny had known they were
to come over that road. The shot had come from the brushy hillside.
“Mebbe it was the same fellers that pulled off this other deal,” he
suggested to himself. “But if it was, why would they try to kill me?
I’m darned if this ain’t queer. I figured Terrill tried to kill me
because I knew too much about him; but I shore don’t know too much
about anybody else around here.”
He was still musing over it, when Johnny came back with Pete La Plante
and Smoky Hill. Johnny was the first to notice the bruise on Goober’s
head.
“What happened to you?” he asked quickly.
“Stray bullet,” grinned Goober.
“What stray bullet?” queried the sheriff.
“Closer’n hell!” grunted Johnny. “Hurt yuh much?”
“Knocked me stiff for a few seconds,” Goober admitted.
“Yuh mean to say that somebody shot at yuh?” grunted the sheriff.
“Might have been a stray bullet. Comes hummin’ down off that slope,
and shore knocked on my head. I lays doggo for quite a while, hopin’
that somebody shows up to see if I’m dead--but they don’t. No more
shootin’--just that one shot.”
“Hell!” snorted Smoky. “Didja hear the report of the gun?”
Goober nodded quickly. “Sounded like the whang of a thirty-thirty.”
The sheriff cuffed his hat sidewise on his head and stared at Goober.
“What’s all this about, anyway, Glendon?”
“I’d trade quite a lot for an answer,” grinned Goober. “But forget my
end of it, and see what yuh can figure out on this missin’ women job.”
Pete La Plante yanked violently at one end of his drooping moustache,
cuffed his hat to another angle, and walked over to the body.
“Don’tcha want to take a look at him, Smoky?” asked Johnny.
Smoky grimaced and shook his head. “Lookin’ at dead men don’t mean a
thing to me, Johnny. And I don’t crave murders. Lookin’ at his boots
is enough for me--knowin’ that on the other end is a dead man.”
As the sheriff turned away from the body, Frank Austin, Hal Austin, and
Cal Sands rode in from Indian Wells. Hal was the first to dismount,
badly excited, as he fired a volley of questions at La Plante.
“Wait a minute,” begged the little sheriff. “We jist got here.”
Sands eyed Goober closely. “What happened to you, Glendon?”
“Oh, this?” Goober laid a finger tenderly on the side of his head.
“Well, some feller, who thinks he’s good enough to hit a man’s head
at a couple hundred yards, miscalculated a little.”
“Did somebody shoot you?” asked Frank Austin anxiously.
“Aw, hell, it ain’t anythin’! What didja find out in Indian Wells?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, isn’t anything going to be done?” asked Hal querulously. “Don’t
any of you realise that my mother and sister are missing? Where are
they? Who killed Tony Riecho--and why? My God, you’d stand around here
and argue about something else and--why don’t you do something?”
“Got any good ideas on the subject?” asked Goober dryly. “If yuh have,
it might help a little. Yuh see, it ain’t goin to do a bit of good,
runnin’ all around, until we’ve decided what might have happened.”
Hal flopped his arms wearily and looked at the hills. The sheriff was
at a loss what to do. They looked at Tony Riecho and stood around the
buckboard, as though waiting for him or it to speak and tell them what
happened. It was Goober who reopened the conversation: “Austin, yuh
don’t know anybody around here that hates yuh so much they’d steal yore
wimmin folks, do yuh?”
“Not a soul.”
“Uh-huh. Well, how much would yuh pay to git ’em back safe?”
“Eh? Why----”
“What do yuh mean by that?” asked the sheriff quickly.
“You’d pay well, wouldn’t yuh, Austin?”
“Anything I’ve got.”
“Shore, yuh would; and that looks like the answer. You’ve been known as
a millionaire: and a millionaire pays well.”
“You mean, they’ve been kidnapped and held for ransom?”
“Looks thataway.”
Austin sighed deeply. “Glendon, I hope you’re right. It would mean that
no harm would come to them, unless I failed to pay.”
“By golly, I believe Glendon’s right!” snorted Smoky. “How about you,
Cal?”
“I bow to superior wisdom,” said Sands rather mockingly. “Mr. Glendon
seems to be the mental leader of the conference.”
Goober grinned slowly. “Thank yuh, Mr. Sands. Yore remark didn’t sound
jist like what a cow-puncher might say, and I wondered for a moment jist
what yore business was, before yuh turned cow-puncher.”
“What do yuh mean?” snapped Sands.
“Education crops out.”
“I’ve been to school, if that’s what yuh mean.”
“What difference does all this make?” asked Hal testily.
“We can’t do anything, Hal,” said his father. “I believe Mr. Glendon is
right; so the thing to do is to wait until they show their hand.”
“Do yuh suppose the Mexicans have anything to do with this?” asked
Johnny.
The sheriff shook his head quickly. “No, I don’t believe it, Johnny.”
They righted the buckboard, patched up the harness, and loaded in the
body. The sheriff drove the team, while Smoky led the sheriff’s horse.
Frank Austin did not ask his son to go with him to the ranch; so Frank
and Sands rode on ahead of the sheriff’s equipage, while Hal went on
to Indian Wells with Goober and Johnny.