A QUEER CASE.
“What’s ther feller’s name, Buffler?”
“Patrick McGowan.”
“Sounds like er bit o’ th’ brogue.”
“Not much of the brogue about McGowan. He’s Irish, all right, but not
so you could notice it. A fine man, take him by and large, Nick, but
he ran out the wrong trail when he came to me.”
“What fer sort of a trail was et, Buffler?”
“Going it blind on a hunt for red bullion thieves.”
“Waugh! Sounds kinder good ter me.”
“But it’s sheriff’s work, Nick; plain sleuthing, and nothing in sight
for a strong arm. The sheriff gets paid for doing that sort of thing
in this county.”
“But reds! From ther way yer mouth went off, Buffler, I opined an
Injun er two was tangled up in this hyar bag o’ tricks.”
“McGowan has had three dreams to that effect and stands ready to bet
his life that redskins are helping to do him out of his bullion.”
The king of scouts laughed. Dreams and omens, when taken seriously,
always struck at the comical side of his matter-of-fact mind.
He and his trapper pard were lounging out the afternoon on the
veranda of their hotel, in Phœnix. They were just in from a trying
piece of work at Gray Buzzard’s Gulch, and were taking the two or
three days of rest which they felt themselves entitled to.
The scout had had his interview with McGowan in the early morning,
and immediately afterward the disappointed mine-owner had left for
his home camp.
When Buffalo Bill mentioned “dreams,” old Nomad proceeded to take a
consuming interest in McGowan’s business. The trapper believed in
dreams, and in evil spirits which he called “whiskizoos,” and he was
ready to bet his scalp that there were such things as spooks.
The scout’s reference to dreams likewise aroused the deep interest of
another of his pards, who had been squatting on the veranda floor at
a little distance, nodding in the warm sun.
This was the Piute boy, Little Cayuse.
Getting up from his sitting posture, Cayuse crossed the veranda and
settled down nearer the scout’s chair, where he would not miss a word
of whatever else might be said.
Buffalo Bill passed his eyes from Cayuse to Nomad and gave a grim
smile.
“It’s a queer case,” said he.
“Tell us erbout et, Buffler,” said Nomad.
“I’m not intending to mix up in it, mind you. We are going from here
direct to Fort Apache, and report for duty to the colonel commanding.”
“Waal, tell us erbout McGowan an’ his dreams, anyways.”
“It’s this way, pards,” went on the scout, lighting a fresh cigar
and tilting back comfortably against the wall behind him. “Patrick
McGowan owns the Three-ply Mine, mill, and cyanid-plant, over in the
Phœnix mountains.” The scout waved one hand toward the distant blue
uplifts, visible from the veranda. “For a long time, now, McGowan
has been losing gold. The ore, just before it is fed to the stamps,
assays one hundred dollars to the ton; when the tailings come off
the mill-plates they assay six dollars to the ton. That leaves a
difference of ninety-four dollars a ton which McGowan’s plates ought
to catch for him; but they don’t. His mill clean-ups bring in an
average of only forty-four dollars a ton. The question is, what
becomes of the remaining fifty dollars a ton? It’s a conundrum that’s
bothering the life out of McGowan.
“They put through ten tons of ore every twenty-four hours at the
Three-ply. That means that McGowan is losing five hundred dollars a
day in some mysterious manner. And this has now been going on for two
weeks, causing him a loss of seven thousand dollars, so far.”
“Some of his millmen aire workin’ er hocus-pocus on him,” suggested
Nomad.
“McGowan swears that his millmen are straight. He has camped in the
mill night and day and is ready to make oath that there’s nothing
crooked in the mill.”
“Whar do ther dreams come in?”
“Well,” and the scout smiled incredulously as he spoke, “McGowan
says that he dreamed, one night, he saw an Apache crawling among the
cyanid-tanks. When the Apache came out into the moonlight he held
up something that looked to McGowan like a bar of bullion. The next
moment the Apache was whiffed out among the shadows. McGowan dreamed
the same thing the next night, and the night after that. And for this
reason,” laughed the scout, “McGowan believes that thieving redskins
are mixed up in the thieving.”
“Waugh!” grunted Nomad. “Et sounds reasonable.”
“Bosh!” said the scout.
“Speakin’ pussonly,” pursued old Nomad, “I’d like ter dip inter ther
puzzle, jest ter prove whether er not a bunch o’ reds aire really
foolin’ with McGowan’s gold.”
“Go out and dip in,” advised the scout. “When you get through, come
on to Fort Apache. You’ll find me there, if I’m not away on business.”
Nomad looked startled.
“Nary, pard,” said he, with emphasis. “Ye don’t find me tanglin’ up
with any job in which Buffler ain’t consarned.”
“Then,” returned the scout, “this bunch of warriors will hike for
Fort Apache about dew-fall.”
“Ain’t ye goin’ ter wait fer ther baron ter show up?”
“The baron has had three days to show up. Evidently he has taken a
cross-trail of some kind, and we’re not going to wait for him. If we
should happen to----”
“Beg yer pardon, Buffalo Bill, but I’d like a word with ye.”
The scout dropped his chair down on the veranda with a thump, and
looked around.
Hawkins, a deputy sheriff, had come out on the veranda and was
walking in the scout’s direction.
“Howdy, Hawkins,” said the scout. “What can I do for you?”
“The sher’f would like ter see ye at his office in the jail. Can ye
come right over?”
“On the jump. What’s the business about?”
“About the McGowan bullion robberies.”
The scout was already on his feet, but at that he hesitated.
“I told McGowan,” said he, “that I hadn’t time to bother with that
matter.”
“I know, an’ it ain’t expected ye’ll bother with it. All you’re
wanted fer is ter establish the identity o’ one o’ the thieves that
has jest been brought in.”
“A red thief?”
“No, a white ’un.”
“I don’t know why the sheriff thinks I can identity the thief.”
“Ther feller claims ter be a pard o’ your’n.”
“My pards are not drawn from that class.”
“That’s what we all reckoned, but the feller insists that you come
over an’ see him.”
“I’ll go, of course,” said the scout, “but I haven’t the least idea
I’ll be able to establish the thief’s identity. He’s bluffing, for
some reason or other.”
The scout followed the deputy into the hotel, down the stairs, and
out upon the street. Nomad and Little Cayuse trailed along behind.
Across the street was Court-house Square. The little party crossed
the square, passed along a graveled walk bordered with oleanders and
overhung with the branches of pepper-trees, and presently reached the
court-house steps.
The sheriff’s office was in the front of the building.
As the scout and his friends entered the office they beheld a
little group of men consisting of Rising, the sheriff, McGowan, the
mine-owner, and two other white men, all grouped about some one who
was sitting in a chair.
“Hello, Cody,” called Rising, stepping forward and grasping the
scout’s hand.
“What have you got me over here for, Rising?” queried Buffalo Bill.
“You haven’t any idea that I’m on intimate terms with a bullion
thief, have you?”
“I’m the one that bothered you, Buffalo Bill,” put in McGowan. “It’s
the thief himself that asked us to send for you. He says he’s one of
your pards. What we want to do now is to prove him a liar as well as
a thief.”
“Puffalo Pill!” came a wail of distress from a corner chair. “Look at
here, vonce!”
At the sound of this familiar voice, Buffalo muttered an exclamation
and whirled around.
The baron was sitting in the corner chair, a picture of rage and
injured innocence. As he spoke, he had lifted up his hands, showing
the ugly manacles about his wrists.
“Schnitzenhauser!” cried the scout.
“Ole Weenerwurst hisself!” exclaimed Nomad; “ther ’riginal Hot
Termale hisself, decorated with er pair o’ come-erlongs! Waugh!”
“Ugh!” growled Little Cayuse; “heap shame!”
Without another word, Buffalo Bill walked over to the baron and
caught his manacled hands in a cordial and reassuring grip.
“What does this mean?” the scout demanded, turning and looking at
Rising and McGowan with a glittering eye. “This man is my pard. He
has told you the truth.”
“But he’s a thief,” protested McGowan.
“He can’t be!” declared the scout.
“He was caught with the goods on. Why can’t he be?”
“_Because he’s Buffalo Bill’s pard!_”
Buffalo Bill’s words made an impression. There was no doubt on that
score.
“Now ye’re torkin’, Buffler!” seconded Nomad. “Before an ombray kin
trot with Pard Buffler he has ter show what he is. Schnitz, thar, hes
done thet same. He’s a whole man, game as a hornet, an’ consequently
he kain’t be er thief.”
“Wuh!” agreed Little Cayuse.
“Facts are facts, Buffalo Bill,” said McGowan.
“Sometimes facts only _seem_ to be facts,” answered Buffalo Bill,
pulling up a chair beside the baron’s and sitting down. “So far as
the truth is concerned, you might just as well have those bracelets
on me, as on the baron. Tell me about this.”
McGowan pushed forward his superintendent and his cyanid expert,
presenting them each in turn to the scout. Both Bernritter and Jacobs
were in a tremor of apprehension, for there was that in the scout’s
keen, calculating eye which seemed to probe deep into their guilty
minds.
McGowan, following the introductions of his assistants, went into
the matter of the cyanid bullion at length. The bar was produced in
evidence.
“Lastly,” finished McGowan, “your pard’s actions virtually admitted
his guilt.”
“How so?” asked the scout.
“Why, he refused to let us examine the inside of his saddle-bags, and
tried to fight us off.”
“So far from proving his guilt,” declared the scout, “it goes to show
his innocence. Knowing he had done nothing unlawful he denied your
right to question his integrity. Any man of spirit would have fought
against a dishonoring search of his person or his saddle-bags.”
“How did the gold get in there, then?”
“Somebody put it in.”
“And that somebody,” spoke up Bernritter, with a swagger, “was the
Dutchman.”
“Did you see my pard put the bar into his saddle-bag, Bernritter?”
demanded the scout, his eyes narrowing to mere slits as he measured
the superintendent.
“Why, no.”
“Then don’t air your ignorance. Have I heard the whole of this,
McGowan?” the scout inquired, turning to the mine-owner.
“Yes, you’ve got our side of it,” was the reply. “If you want to
question your pard----”
“I don’t,” promptly. “I know the baron too well to offer him an
insult. You might dismiss your two men, McGowan,” the scout added,
“and we’ll smoke a talk and see where we land.”
“Go back to the Three-ply, Bern, you and Jacobs,” said McGowan, in a
kindly tone. “We can’t leave the plant to run itself, you know. I’ll
be along some time to-night.”
Bernritter and Jacobs left the office. The scout, as soon as the door
closed, started up from his chair and beckoned Nomad and Cayuse apart.
“Trail those two men secretly,” he ordered, “no matter where they go.
Watch every move they make.”
“Ye’re goin’ ter help McGowan?” asked Nomad eagerly.
“That remains to be seen. However, it will make no difference with
you. Do your trailing.”
“Whar’ll we report?”
“You’ll find me somewhere when you’re ready to report.”
“Keno.”
Again the door opened and closed, this time with Nomad and Little
Cayuse on the other side of it.
The scout returned to his chair.
“Now that your Dutch pard’s safety is concerned, Buffalo Bill,” said
McGowan, “I suppose that you’ll hook-up with me and help run down
those red bullion thieves?”
“My pard’s safety must not enter into the question,” returned Buffalo
Bill. “He’s the victim of foul play, and his liberty ought not to be
imperiled for a moment.”
“You bank heavy on your pards!”
“I never let a man into the inner circle until I know I can bank
heavy on him. I’ll admit, McGowan, that since my talk with you this
morning, I am more inclined to give you my aid than I was before.”
McGowan began to expand, and to congratulate himself.
“Faith, it’s your strong arm we need,” said he. “It’s a hefty fist
you have, Buffalo Bill, and a sharp mind back of it.”
“Thanks,” said the scout dryly. “If I did not bank a little on you,
McGowan, I might suspect that this was a put-up job, of which you
were fully cognizant.”
“How do you mean?” flared McGowan.
“Why, in order to secure my aid, you might have been tempted to
implicate my Dutch pard.”
McGowan’s “Irish” was up in a moment.
“If you think that----” he began angrily, but the scout smiled and
stretched out a hand soothingly.
“I don’t,” said he. “I’ve only seen you twice, but I’m willing to
bank on your integrity. You’re the sort of a man I’d like to help.”
McGowan was entirely pacified. The king of scouts had a winning way
with him, when he so desired, and that way was now much in evidence.
“I’d think it an honor,” said McGowan, “to have Buffalo Bill help me.”
“I’ll do it, on one consideration only.”
“And that is?”
“That you consent to let the sheriff take those irons off my pard’s
wrists. In other words, he must be a free man before I hook-up with
you.”
“That’s hardly according to Hoyle,” demurred McGowan, visibly worried.
“It’s according to Buffalo Bill. You have my proposition. Take it or
leave it.”
“Why, if your pard is left in this jail and brought to trial, you’ll
have to work for me in order to prove his innocence, won’t you?”
“I’ll not work for you, McGowan, but I’ll work for him. You’d find
that to be vastly different.”
“You’d better do as the scout says, McGowan,” put in Rising. “If
he’s going to help you, you’d better let him do it in his own way.
Catching a man with the goods on doesn’t always prove him a thief.”
“I don’t know who to suspect,” said McGowan, “if we don’t suspect the
Dutchman.”
“I do,” said the scout.
“Who?” demanded McGowan.
“Never mind that. What’s your last word?”
McGowan debated the matter with himself for a moment. Then, finally,
“Take off the darbies,” he said to Rising.
The manacles were removed, and Rising shook hands with the baron.
“I haf peen imbosed ubon,” said the baron, “und I feel schust like
some hornets mit a shtinger oudt. Puffalo Pill iss my pard, und der
pest feller vat efer vore shoe-ledder; he shtands py me, you bed you,
aber I feel so madt I vant to fighdt.”
“Get over it,” said McGowan crustily. “You’re free. What more do you
want?”
“I vant dot imbression dot I’m guildy all der same remofed from your
mindt,” scowled the baron. “Dot’s vot I vant!”
“Then find the man that put that gold-brick in your saddle-bag.”
“We’ll do it, McGowan,” spoke up the scout. “Give us a little time.”
“Will you go out to supper with me, Buffalo Bill?” queried the
mine-owner.
“I have other business on hand, just now, McGowan.”
“Anyhow, you’ll ride with me back to the Three-ply this evening?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass that up, too.”
“But if you’re going to hook-up with me----”
“You’ll hear from me and my pards, all right, and probably when
you least expect it. Go back to your diggings, McGowan, and be
comfortable in your mind. Take things easy, and let things drift as
usual.”
“All right, Buffalo Bill, if you want matters that way. But I’m
depending on you.”
“Then show that you have confidence in me, McGowan, by heeding
instructions.”
McGowan, with a wave of the hand to those in the sheriff’s office,
left the room, and the court-house. A few moments later, Buffalo Bill
and the baron also left.
“You’ve made a fool of yourself, baron,” said the scout, as soon as
he and the Dutchman were out of the court-house.
“How’s dot?” asked the bewildered baron.
“A pair of blue eyes have got you locoed. They held you in that
Three-ply camp until the real thieves got you implicated in the
bullion robberies.”
“Vell, I like dot Frieda pedder as any girl vat I efer saw. Dot’s
right.”
The scout laughed.
“Vat’s to be done now, Puffalo Pill?”
“We’ll have supper, and then we’ll ride out and camp in the vicinity
of the Three-ply Mine. We can learn more by playing this game on the
strict q. t. than by going about it openly.”
“I’ll bed you dot feller, Pernridder, und dot odder feller, Chacops,
knows more as dey vants to----”
“Stow it, baron! You don’t want to throw any suspicions on men who
are possibly innocent. Developments will prove who are guilty, and
who are not. We’ll let events speak for themselves.”
In the hotel office the clerk halted Buffalo Bill and handed him a
letter.
The letter was addressed in an unfamiliar hand, and the postmark
showed it had passed through the Phœnix post-office at 4 P. M. It was
then only half-past 5. The enclosed sheet bore the following:
“BUFFALO BILL: If you know when you’re well off, you’ll leave this
bullion business at the Three-ply strictly alone. Attend to your
own affairs. This is the sheriff’s business, anyway. A word to the
wise is sufficient. Talk is cheap, and writing is fully as cheap as
talk, but don’t pass up this warning if you value your scalp.
“ONE OF THE THIEVES.”
The scout allowed the baron to spell out this warlike communication.
“We have the robbers scared,” remarked the scout. “Whenever a
criminal tries to frighten an officer off his trail with such a
letter, he proves that he’s losing his nerve. What time did you and
McGowan and the other two reach Phœnix, baron?”
“Aboudt haluf-bast dree.”
“Did you stop anywhere on the way to the sheriff’s office?”
“Ve shtopped at der bost-office. Pernridder vent in und asked for
der Dree-bly mail.” The baron, putting two and two together, in his
logy German way, began to grow excited. “Py shiminy! Dot sgoundrel,
Pernridder, must haf mailed dot ledder ven he----”
“Not so fast, baron,” warned the scout. “You’re getting ahead of
developments. This is only a small piece of circumstantial evidence,
and not half so convincing as finding a bar of stolen bullion in a
man’s saddle-bags.”
The baron grew quiet and pensive. After supper he and the scout
mounted their horses and, with several days’ rations at their
saddle-cantles, rode out through the “Five Points,” then along
Grand Avenue, and so into the Black Cañon trail on their way to the
Three-ply.
They had not been gone half an hour when Nick Nomad came charging
into the hotel with important news. His news was of vital import, and
his disappointment was great when he discovered that the scout and
the baron had left.
Bernritter and Jacobs, intent on making a big “clean-up” and a safe
getaway, were drawing upon all their resources to foil Buffalo Bill
and his pards.