Jim Bailey was reported dead--which gave him a clear
field for a profitable game!
I
Jim Bailey was thoroughly disgusted and discouraged, as he sat down on
a park bench. It was nearly dark, and the lights were blinking around
him. Jim was only twenty-five years of age, fairly-well dressed, fairly
good-looking; an average young man, trying to buck the world.
For two days he had tried to find a job, but with no success. He had
two dollars in his pocket, owed ten dollars room rent, due right
now--and an assurance from the landlady that unless he produced the
back rent tonight--
Jim was a bookkeeper. That is, he tried to keep books, if he could have
found some books to keep.
He tried to tell himself that he would be all right, if it was not for
Cliff De Haven, that doggone chiseler! Cliff was an actor--a hoofer.
That is, he was when there was a job for him. When there wasn’t he
shared Jim’s room, but not in any financial sense of the word. He also
ate at Jim’s expense. Cliff was a hard man to insult. At least, Jim
Bailey found him so. Maybe Jim didn’t use the right words.
Cliff always had a big deal coming up. Last night he had told Jim that
he was all set for the biggest deal of his life and that Jim would
profit thereby. Cliff chummed with a down-at-the-heel private detective
named Bob Hawley. Jim hated Hawley. Often he ate with Cliff, and Jim
paid the check. Yes, if he could get rid of Cliff De Haven--but what
was the use?
It was about eight o’clock when Jim got off the bench and walked to his
room. He simply could not pay the bill, so there was no use trying to
fool the landlady any longer.
The landlady was not in sight as Jim came in. He looked into the
series of pigeon-holes at the desk, took out a letter addressed to
Cliff De Haven and a folded sheet of paper, on which was printed in
the landlady’s familiar hand:
Dear Mr. Bailey: Unless you can pay me ten dollars
tonight, I must ask you to vacate early in the morning.
Jim Bailey crumpled the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket. No
use keeping it. He went up to his room, where he tossed his hat aside
and sat down on the edge of the bed. The built-in wardrobe door was
open, facing him as he sat, and he got up quickly and investigated.
His best suit was missing, his one best shirt, his best pair of shoes.
On the table was a penciled note, which said:
Sorry, old man, but I had to put on a little dog.
Will see you tomorrow. Also borrowed your watch,
as I needed something to make a little flash.
Thanks. Cliff.
Jim threw the letter aside in disgust. It was like Cliff to do a thing
like that. Suddenly it occurred to him that Cliff had neglected to empty
the pockets, in which were several letters, cards and things like that.
He had probably dressed and got out in a hurry, knowing that Jim would
soon be back.
Jim expected a visit from the landlady, but she did not put in an
appearance, so he went to bed, leaving the door unlocked. Cliff would
probably show up before daylight, full of apologies and other things.
* * * * *
But Cliff did not show up. Jim got up about eight o’clock. He had an
old suit-case, but little to put in it until Cliff came back with that
suit and clothes. He went out to get some breakfast and ran into a new
chambermaid at the bottom of the steps. He inquired about the landlady,
and the woman said she was sick.
“Will she be here today?” he asked.
“She will not,” replied the woman. “She has some sort of infiction.”
Jim went out to the street, grinning. He said half-aloud, “I’ll bet she
bit herself.”
He ate breakfast in a cheap restaurant and bought a paper, mostly for
the want-ads. He glanced at the front page and his own name seemed to
jump up at him. A smash-up between a truck and a street car--gasoline
explosion--several people killed and injured! Only two bodies
identified. Robert Hawley, a private detective. The other was,
according to the police, Jim Bailey, address unknown. Partly-burned
papers in his pocket and a wrist watch positively identified him.
Hawley was identified by unburned articles in his possession.
Jim Bailey leaned against a post and drew a deep breath. His suit! His
watch! He looked vacantly at the traffic along the street. Jim Bailey
was dead--it said so in the paper. Walking in sort of a daze he went
back to his room. Address unknown. He sat down on the edge of the bed
and tried to realize what had happened. Jim Bailey was dead. That was
a good joke.
He started to light a cigaret, then remembered the letter for Cliff
De Haven. It was there on the table. There was no letterhead on the
envelope, and the postmark was blurred. He opened the letter and
looked it over. Cliff would never read it. It said:
You will find transportation waiting for you at the
S. P. ticket office. Come to Pinnacle City and contact
me at once. Office on the main street. Bob Hawley says
you can do the job. Remember, your name is Jim Meade.
Don’t talk with anyone, until we can get together on
this deal, and don’t mention anything that Bob has
told you. Wear no fancy clothes--you’re supposed to
be in meager circumstances.
Ed McLean.
Jim Bailey read it twice and then sat there, an unlighted cigaret
between his lips. This must have been the deal that Cliff had
mentioned. He studied the postmark again and now he could see that it
was Pinnacle City, Arizona. What sort of a deal was this, he wondered?
Cliff was supposed to go to Pinnacle City, take the name of Meade--and
what else?
Pinnacle City sounded interesting, like a small town. Jim Bailey had
always lived in a big city. A sudden thought caused him to squint at
the faded wall-paper of his room. Just suppose this Ed McLean had
never--of course he had never seen Cliff De Haven. Bob Hawley had
told McLean about Cliff. Why not take a chance? No job, no home, no
ties of any kind. Jim Bailey grinned slowly.
“Wear no fancy clothes,” he quoted aloud. “You’re supposed to be in
meager circumstances. Brother, you meant me!”
He took his almost-empty suit-case and left the house. There was no one
in the lobby. He walked to the ticket office, where he asked about the
transportation. After being shunted from desk to desk, he was sent into
an office, where the man said:
“Have you anything for identification?”
Jim Bailey shook his head. “Not a thing. Oh, yes--this letter.”
It was the one sent to Cliff De Haven. The man looked at it.
“You look honest, young man,” he said smiling. “Here is your ticket, and
here is the ten dollars expense money.”
Jim Bailey walked out of the office and headed for the depot.
“Good-by, Jim Bailey,” he said to himself. “I feel like a new man.
Maybe I’ll just get kicked in the pants, maybe they’ll dump me into
a nice Arizona jail. That is in the hands of the gods. There is one
angle, though, in which I can excel--and that is in forgetting that
my name ever was Cliff De Haven. If I live and prosper, I’ll send
ten dollars to that landlady.”
The town of Northport is twenty-five miles north of Pinnacle City.
Passengers for Pinnacle City get off the train at Northport, and take
the stage. Northport itself is no metropolis, with its one street and
few false-fronted buildings. Jim Bailey looked it over and decided it
would be a good place to get out of at once. However, the stage would
not leave for an hour, so he sat down in the little stage-depot and
tried to enjoy a smoke.
The nearer he got to Pinnacle City the less he thought of this personal
masquerade he was going to attend.
* * * * *
Northport was depressing. At least it was until a young lady came from
the depot, carrying a valise, which she placed on a seat. She was
little over five feet tall, with dark, wavy hair, a beautiful olive
complexion, and wonderful eyes. Jim Bailey decided that there wasn’t
anything wrong with those lips either. Jim Bailey admired beauty, but
was woefully girl-shy. He had felt that a girl was a luxury far beyond
his pocket-book.
An old timer came into the depot, grizzled, bow-legged, clad in
overalls, flannel shirt and high-heeled boots. He stared at the girl
for a moment and blurted:
“Mary Deal--or I’m a sizzlin’ sidewinder!”
“You’re not, Uncle Len,” laughed the girl. “How are you?”
“I’m finer’n frawg-hair, Mary. Golly, I’m shore glad to see yuh. It’s
been--uh-h-h-h--Mary, I plumb forgot.”
“About Uncle Clint?” asked the girl. The man nodded.
“Why didn’t somebody send me a wire?” she asked. “Even a letter might
have given me time to get here. I never knew it had happened for over
two weeks after he was buried.”
The stage driver nodded sadly. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Ed McLean was
to have let yuh know, Mary. He knowed you was at college. He said he
just forgot.”
“Well, I suppose it can’t be helped,” she said. “But I did want to be
here, you see. After all he did for me--”
“Yeah, I know. It was too bad, Mary. Is that yore valise? I’ll put it on
the stage.”
The driver looked at Jim Bailey.
“Are you my other passenger?” he asked.
“I believe I am, sir,” replied Jim.
“Good! My name’s Carson. What’s yours?”
“My name is Jim Meade.”
“Fine. Mary Deal, meet Jim Meade.”
They both smiled. Len Carson said, “I like to make my passengers used to
each other. It’s a long ways to Pinnacle City.”
[Illustration: “Mary Deal, meet Jim Meade”]
“Can’t I ride on the seat with you, Uncle Len?” asked Mary.
“I’d shore love to have yuh,” replied the driver, “but I can’t. Company
passed a rule agin it, Mary. Four, five weeks ago I had a whisky drummer
on the seat with me. Hit a chuck-hole and lost m’ drummer. Hung him up
by the seat of the pants on a manzanita snag, ten feet down on the side
of Coyote Canyon. If he hadn’t been wearin’ awful tough britches, I’d
have lost him. He sued the stage company for ten thousand dollars, but
they settled for a hundred and a new pair of pants. Sorry, but I cain’t
take chances, Mary. Women’s clothes wouldn’t hold up nothin’, snagged on
a manzanita.”
Mary laughed and got into the old stage. Jim followed her in, and the
stage headed for Pinnacle City. Len Carson was a wild driver, but he
had never wrecked a stage. It was the first time that Jim had ever
ridden over a road like that, and it rather frightened him, but Mary
only laughed.
“Why are you going to Pinnacle City?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” replied Jim. “My plans are rather vague.”
“I haven’t been there for over eight months,” she said. “I’ve been away
to school.”
“Is your home in Pinnacle City?” he asked.
“It was,” she replied. “I don’t know what will happen now.”
Jim looked at her curiously, and she explained.
“I have no father or mother. Clint Haverty adopted me several years ago.
He was wonderful to me. He died a few weeks ago, but no one notified me
in time to attend his funeral. I came as soon as I heard about him.”
“That wasn’t a fair deal,” said Jim.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Was he a relative?”
Mary shook her head. “No, we were not related in any way. Uncle Clint
knew my mother, and when she died I went to live at the Lazy H. But
he’s dead now and I don’t know what will happen.”
“Has he any relatives?”
“He has two cousins in Pinnacle City, Ace and Dick Haverty. They own the
Box Four H outfit. Uncle Clint never liked them.”
“This Box Four H and the Lazy H, and all that is Greek to me,” confessed
Jim. “I have never been out of a city in my life before. I suppose they
are places where cattle are raised.”
“That’s right, Mr. Meade. You’ll soon learn. Have you ever ridden a
horse?”
“No, I never have. Is it difficult?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl smiling. “I’ve worked with horses ever
since I can remember. You will learn--the hard way.”
“Everything I have ever learned was the hard way,” Jim admitted.