HENRY GOES PREHISTORIC
By W. C. Tuttle
The Sheriff of Tonto City Could Expect Anything to Come
Out of the Night in Wild Horse Valley--Even an Idea
“Judge” Van Treece was mad; so mad that he deliberately threw his
beloved, and badly dog-eared copy of Shakespeare, across the office,
where it fluttered to the floor, like a wounded duck. He didn’t even
look at the poor thing, as he sat, tilted back in an old chair, his high
heels hooked around a rung of his chair, which brought his bony,
overall-clad knees, almost up to his chin. Judge had the features of a
tragedian, and just now he glared his hate at nobody in particular.
Henry Harrison Conroy, the sheriff of Tonto City, got up from his
creaking desk chair, retrieved the dog-eared copy and placed it on his
desk. While Judge was inches over six feet in height, and as skinny as a
sand-hill crane, Henry Harrison Conroy was barely five feet, seven
inches in his high-heel boots. However, Henry was fashioned after the
specifications of the well-known Humpty Dumpty. Henry had very little
hair, a face like a full moon, small eyes and the biggest nose that ever
gleamed above the footlights in vaudeville. That nose had been known
from one end of most vaudeville chains to the other, featured, in fact.
He looked quizzically at Judge, as he sat down.
“After all, Judge,” he said, “you can not blame William Shakespeare.”
“I have,” declared Judge hollowly, looking straight ahead, “a notion of
resigning. I still have my pride, sir. My body may belong to Wild Horse
Valley, but my soul is still my own.”
“Ah, yes--pride and soul; resignation--no!” mumbled Henry. “No, that is
not the solution, Judge. There must be some other way to handle the
situation. We’ll fight this out to the bitter end.”
“So you think there will be a bitter end, Henry?”
“Let us look calmly upon the matter at hand,” suggested Henry. “I must
admit that those Commissioners are irksome. They did decry our lack of
ability in coping with the crime wave, which seems to be washing upon
our shores. It is very unfortunate that recent gold strikes have filled
Tonto City to overflowing with some damnable riff-raff, which always
drifts in with new gold strikes, like buzzards after a dead animal. Our
once-peaceful pueblo of Tonto is filled with covetous folk, who work
not, neither do they spin. And we, you and I, Judge, are the Keepers of
the Peace--such as it is.”
“Keepers of the Peace,” repeated Judge. “I like that, sir. But that is
not what the _Clarion_ called us. Isn’t bad enough to read such
damnable, scurrilous, infamous--er--”
“Enlightening,” suggested Henry calmly.
“Well,” sighed Judge, “I was about to indicate that I did not relish the
reading of the editorial by the Commissioners. Damme, they didn’t have
to read it aloud to us! We had read it. It is deplorable that a
chuckleheaded nincompoop like James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly can
influence public opinion. He suggests that we resign at once. And damme,
that Board of Commissioners agreed with him. In fact, they--well, were
you going to say something?”
“No,” replied Henry calmly, “I merely opened my mouth for air.”
“Well, do you not resent the attitude of the three Commissioners, Henry?
Are you a man or a mouse, sir?”
“Biology,” sighed Henry, “is in my favor; I have but two legs.”
“Will you please hand me that book?” asked Judge. “I hate to ask it, but
my damn legs are so cramped that I would never be able to regain this
position again. Thank you, sir--you are kind.”
* * * * *
Judging from appearances there was little wonder that the Scorpion Bend
_Clarion_ called these two men, plus Oscar Johnson, their jailer, the
Shame of Arizona. Oscar was a giant Swede of tremendous strength, but
low IQ.
When vaudeville waned and faded from American stages, Henry Harrison
Conroy, like thousands of other vaudevillians, was out of work. An
uncle, whom he had never heard about before, died in Wild Horse Valley,
leaving Henry as sole owner of the JHC cattle ranch. Henry knew nothing
about the cattle country, but he accepted his inheritance, came to Tonto
City, wearing tailored clothes, spats, pearl-colored derby hat, and
twirling a gold-headed cane.
Arizona loved Henry at once. His courtly manner, sense of ridiculous
humor, and enormous thirst intrigued them. He took over the JHC, much to
their delight, and really went Arizona himself. Shortly after he became
acclimated an election came along, and, as a good joke, the cowboys got
together and wrote Henry’s name on their ballots. The next morning he
found that he was sheriff of Wild Horse County. A cowboy summed it up in
his statement that, “We’ve shore played a joke on this county.”
Henry saw the humor of the situation clearly. In Tonto City lived Judge
Van Treece, who had never been a judge, but a really fine attorney,
until an insatiable thirst made him a derelict. Henry, as a humorous
gesture, and also because he liked Judge, appointed Judge as his deputy.
And as an extra gesture, he appointed Oscar Johnson, a horse-wrangler,
as jailer. It completed as queer a trio of peace officers as any county
ever had. Men laughed and made fun of them, but, as a matter of fact,
they had managed to keep crime at a rather low ebb in Wild Horse Valley,
until now, when things were getting out of hand, due to an influx of
rather unsavory characters, lured by new gold strikes.
Judge had barely settled in his chair, thumbing the pages of his old
book, when John Campbell, the big, prosecuting attorney came in.
Campbell had been present with the Commissioners, when Henry and his
staff had been severely taken to task.
“One gloat out of you, John, and I shall cram this copy of the Bard of
Avon down your gullet,” declared Judge soberly.
John Campbell laughed shortly. “I don’t blame you, Judge. No, I came not
to gloat, gentlemen.”
“To bury Caesar?” queried Henry quietly.
“No, Henry. I talked with those men after we left here. They are merely
barking, not biting--as yet. As a matter of fact, Henry, this Mr. Thomas
Akers, the gentleman from Scorpion Bend, has an axe to grind. He is
stumping for his cousin, Pete Gonyer. If you can be induced to resign,
or if he can talk the others into forcing you out of office for cause,
he hopes to have Pete Gonyer appointed as sheriff of Wild Horse Valley.”
“That broken-nosed high-pockets!” snorted Judge. “Why, that--”
“So Pete Gonyer, owner of the Circle G, is a cousin of our esteemed
Commissioner from Scorpion Bend, eh?” remarked Henry. “Now I see the
light. And Mr. Thomas Akers is a friend of James Wadsworth Longfellow
Pelly, ye editor of ye _Clarion_.”
“In fact,” added Campbell, “Mr. Akers rents the _Clarion_ building to
Mr. Pelly.”
“Astoundingly simple,” snorted Judge. “Back-scratching!”
John Campbell laughed. “All you have to do now, Henry,” he said, “is to
put a halt to all this high-grading and gold stealing in Wild Horse
Valley. Personally, I don’t envy you the job.”
John Campbell went back up the street, leaving Henry and Judge, looking
at each other. A team and vehicle drew up in front of the office, and
two men got out. One of them was of featherweight size, with a
murderous-looking mustache, bow-legs--and a gallon jug. The other was
tall and thin, tired-eyed, buck-teeth and inquiring eyebrows. The
smaller one was Frijole Bill Cullison, the cook at Henry’s JHC ranch,
and the other was Slim Pickins, Henry’s lone cowpoke.
* * * * *
They went slowly into the office, with Frijole in the lead, carrying the
jug in front of him in both hands, like a man bearing a valuable
gift--or something dangerous. Both Henry and Judge turned quickly,
looking at the procession, which came to a halt in front of the desk,
where Frijole carefully set the jug. Then they both backed away and
stood at attention.
“Damnable mumbo-jumbo!” snorted Judge.
Frijole winced. “Don’t say that, Judge,” he pleaded. “You are now in the
presence of the finest batch ever made. Twelve hours of age, and as
prime as anythin’ that ever come out of a pot. That, gentlemen, is m’
masterpiece. Put yore ear agin that jug, and yuh can hear her hum, like
a wire in the wind.”
Slim just stood there, grinning foolishly, eyebrows arched.
“Well done, thou good and faithful servant. What is in it this time?”
Henry asked quietly.
“The soul of a great distiller,” replied Frijole gravely. “M’ life’s
work is done. If the world knew what I know--”
“We would all be half-witted,” added Judge soberly.
The jug looked innocent enough. Henry touched it with his finger.
Frijole said, “Slim, you tell ’em what happened to Bill Shakespeare.”
“Have done!” exclaimed Judge. “Not that, Frijole. I can swallow your
prune whiskey, but not the fantastic tales of that damnable rooster. I
do not believe a word of it--even from Slim.”
“I cain’t tell it,” whispered Slim. “You go ahead, Frijole.”
“The two biggest liars in Arizona,” sighed Judge.
“I believe,” stated Henry soberly. “Go ahead, Frijole.”
“Well, this ain’t no lie,” declared Frijole. “I seen it with m’ own
eyes. Yuh see, Henry, I’ve been ’sperimentin’ on a new mash. I fermented
some maguey, like they make tequila, mixed it with some spuds, and a
batch of Indian corn.”
“Don’t leave out the horse liniment,” suggested Judge.
“No, I didn’t, Judge. When that batch of mash got to the whistlin’
point, I put in the liniment and then I--”
“No one is interested in a recipe,” interrupted Judge. “Get down to the
distorted facts.”
Frijole grinned slowly. “Well, yeah--I shouldn’t expose my formula. I
won’t tell yuh how me and Slim had that mash in a keg, with a anvil on
top of it, and it blowed the anvil plumb through the kitchen roof, and
when it hit--” Frijole whispered huskily, “that anvil was shrunk to the
size of a tack-hammer. I won’t tell that part of it, ’cause it’s hard to
believe. Anyway, you know how fond Bill Shakespeare, the rooster, is of
mash. I was so scared of him a-gettin’ this mash and killin’ himself
that I put it in a sack and hung it in a tree, aimin’ to dry it out and
burn it. But do you know what happened? It leaked--and there was Bill,
settin’ on his hind-end under the tree, bill open, drinkin’ in the
drippin’s.
“By the time I seen him, Bill was swelled up like a balloon. His crop
was plumb filled with mash-drippin’s, and he was as loaded as a
lumber-jack on pay-day. He staggered away from the sack, with joy in his
soul and rubber in his legs. The hens all kept away from Bill--them
a-settin’ on the corral fence in executive session, while Bill goes
lookin’ for what he may devour.
“Well, sir, there’s a old diamond-back, which lives in the day-wash, and
I suspect he’s livin’ partly off baby chickens. He’s a old sockdolager,
with about twenty rattles. Bill finds him out in the weeds behind the
little chicken house, and the first thing I know, here’s that big
rattler, all cocked and primed, buzzin’ his tail, a-warnin’ Bill
Shakespeare to stay back.
“I know that Bill don’t like that rattler, but he ain’t never been able
to figure out jist how to whip the crippled crawler. I just says to
m’self, ‘Bill, yo’re a goner this time, if yuh don’t back-track real
pronto.’ But Bill don’t back-track. He staggers in close, and that
dog-gone rattler hits him square in the crop. Then he rears back and
socks poor old Bill another. I kinda shut m’ eyes and turns away. I--I
love that old featherless son-of-a-gun.” Frijole choked a little.
Henry was leaning across the desk. “So Bill died, eh?” he said.
“Nossir,” replied Frijole, “he didn’t. Bill walked away, kinda
proud-like and went down to the corral--and yuh don’t have to believe
me, Henry, but a few moments later that big rattler went into
convulsions, and died on the spot.”
“Slim!” exclaimed Judge sharply. Slim jerked convulsively.
“Slim, did you see all this?” asked Judge.
“No, I didn’t exactly see it, Judge,” replied Slim soberly. “Yuh see, I
was out in the blacksmith shop, tryin’ to make a couple new iron lids
for the cook-stove. When we was makin’ this mash, it kinda boiled over
on the stove and et up two lids, jist like a Piute eats hotcakes. Why, I
jist got in the steam of that batch, and it et all the rivets out of m’
overalls.”
Henry put one hand on the jug and shut his eyes. “I can see it all,” he
said soberly. “A wonderful tale--and well told, Frijole. Thanks to you,
Slim, for the additions. Judge, if you will be kind enough to procure
the cups--”
The testing of a new batch of Frijole’s distillation was a ceremony.
They drank from tin cups which held almost a half-pint. Sometimes Henry
or Judge offered a toast, but usually they merely nodded to each other,
held the cups high, and drank swiftly. This was no liquor to be sipped.
For several moments after the drink no one spoke. In fact, it was a
physical impossibility. Slim’s whisper came first--“Don’t anybody light
a match!”
Gradually as they recovered speech and action, Henry said, “That is
proof positive, gentlemen.”
“What does it prove?” husked Judge.
“It proves the story of Bill Shakespeare and the snake, sir.”
“And I,” said Judge soberly, “feel sorry for the snake.”
“And why, may I ask, sir?”
“For wasting its efforts. One strike would have been enough.”
* * * * *
Rumors of new, rich strikes were common in Tonto City, most of them were
false, but a man brought a story of a rich strike to the sheriff’s
office. Old Ben Todd, a veteran prospector of Wild Horse Valley, had
struck a bonanza. He was spending raw gold in the saloons; not the
washed nuggets of a placer mine, but chunks of gold from a quartz vein.
Henry tried to find Old Ben. He liked the eccentric old-timer, and had
done favors for him. Not that Henry wanted any part of Old Ben’s find,
but did consider that the old man might need protection.
However, he was unable to locate Ben. He talked with a bartender in the
King’s Castle Saloon, who had seen Ben’s gold, and the bartender said it
was true. Old Ben had his pockets full of the stuff, and was drinking
heavily.
The Yellow Warrior mine had been the hardest hit by thieves. It was the
oldest mine in the valley, and had been once virtually abandoned as
through, but a small syndicate of eastern men had purchased it and
struck a new vein, which was so rich that high-graders had managed to
steal the bulk of the output. Not only had they swiped the jewelry-ore
piecemeal, but had broken in and got away with twelve sacks of selected
stuff, ready to ship.
An organized bandit gang had made it difficult to send gold or payrolls
over the regular channels, and the sheriff’s office had not been able to
cope with all the various crimes against the law. Bob Stickler, manager
of the Yellow Warrior, was one of the leading agitators against the
present regime of Henry Harrison Conroy. Stickler wanted protection--not
a comedy trio.
The Three Partners and the Smoke Tree mine were not complaining
vociferously. They had little high-grade stuff to steal, but they were
concerned over the robbery of the Yellow Warrior payroll.
The Yellow Warrior syndicate had also purchased the King’s Castle
Saloon, which was being operated by Mack Greer, a newcomer to Tonto
City. Henry sighed over the changes in Tonto. He told Judge, “When a man
complains about changes in his community, he must be getting old.”
“You are,” nodded Judge soberly.
“I am not!” Henry was emphatic, and added quietly, “I love peace and
quiet. This damnable town clatters like a tin-pan shivaree for
twenty-four hours, on end. Let us go out to the ranch and put our feet
on the porch-railing, Judge. I would enjoy the song of a little bird.”
They were an incongruous couple on horseback. Judge rode a short-coupled
roan, and his long feet almost reached the ground, while Henry perched
high on a leggy sorrel, his legs reaching only to the middle of the
lanky animal. Judge hated a saddle. In fact, he rarely used the
stirrups, preferring to let his legs dangle loosely, and instead of the
high-heel boots he wore what was known as Congress-gaiters, well-worn
and the elastic sides gaping.
* * * * *
Oscar Johnson was left in charge. The giant Swede, who dwarfed that
little office, nodded solemnly when Henry said they were going to the
ranch.
“Ay vill run it, Hanry,” he said, “and Ay hope Tames Vadsworth
Longfeller Telly comes ha’ar. Ay have bone to pick vit him.”
“What bone is that, Oscar?” asked Henry.
“His,” replied Oscar blandly.
There was nothing ornate about the JHC ranchhouse. The old frame house
tilted west, while the front porch tilted east, and the railing around
the porch sagged to the north. Frijole had a mulligan stew on the stove,
and more of his devil’s brew in a jug.
Thunder and Lightning Mendoza, two of Henry’s general helpers, sprawled
on the shady side of the house. “Henry don’t need those two any more
than he needs shoe-laces for a boot,” Judge had said.
“I love every bit of ivory in their unused heads,” declared Henry. “They
amuse me.”
Henry looked them over soberly. He loved to question them as to just
what they had done for the past week. Lightning seemed to be the more
intelligent of the two.
“Oh, we feex the corral,” he said expansively. “Put out ol’ fence-pos’,
leave een a new ones. Cut leetle wood. Ver’ busy pippil.”
“Sure,” agreed Thunder. “Ver’ nice jobs--I theenk. You know Profeezil?”
Henry scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Profeezil?” he asked.
“Sure,” grinned Lightning. “Profeezil. Got the long leg, glass on hees
eye.”
“Aw, he means Professor Fossil,” informed Slim Pickins.
“Sure,” grinned Thunder. “We see heem.”
“He came past here a while ago,” said Slim, “packin’ a short pick and a
sack of rocks.”
“Oh, yes,” murmured Henry. “Professor Fossil.”
His right name was Charles Winston Norbert, Archaeologist. He was tall,
thin and slightly stooped, possibly from carrying rock specimens. He had
been in Wild Horse Valley for weeks, and had taken up his temporary
abode at the Circle G ranch, from where he sampled the country. Even
Pete Gonyer considered the man slightly touched in the head. Nearly
every day he brought in a sack of samples, which he studied carefully,
making voluminous notes in his book.
“Except for eddication,” declared Frijole, “he’d make a first-class
shepherd. He’s got the legs for it.”
“_Mucho loco_,” declared Lightning. “Rock too damn h’avy.”
“Ver’ seely pippil,” added Thunder. “He theenk feesh leeve on rock.”
“Fossil fish,” explained Henry.
“Sure--weeth a peek--not weeth a hooks,” said Lightning.
“I think it is about time to surrender,” sighed Judge.
* * * * *
They were in bed that night, when Oscar Johnson came out there, knocking
so hard on the front door that the whole house shook. Frijole opened the
door, and said Oscar, “Val, hallo dere, Freeholey. Ay yust come out.”
“That’s what I thought, when I heard yuh knock. What’s wrong? Have the
Norwegians taken Tonto City?”
“Norvegians! Ay can lick any Norvegian Ay ever--oh, hallo, Hanry!”
Henry had stepped from his room, clad only in his full-length underwear,
which had been made full-length for a full-length man. Henry was one
succession of wrinkles.
“What is wrong, Oscar?” he asked.
“Oh, Ay forgot,” said Oscar, “Ol’ Ben Todd is dead.”
Henry paddled out a little closer. “Ben Todd?” he asked. “You mean to
say that Ben Todd is dead?”
“Ay have de opinion of Doctor Bogart”
“What killed him?”
“Buckshot--t’rough a vindow.”
“My goodness! Judge! Oh, Judge! Frijole, saddle our horses! Judge! Wake
up! We have a murder!”
Judge mumbled something about not being a Recording Angel, as he
struggled into his clothes. Frijole had gone to saddle their two horses.
“Ben Todd vars in his little shack,” said Oscar, “and somebody shoots
bockshot t’rough de vindow at him. Ay t’ink he vars dronk, but yust de
same, he died.”
“That’s queer!” declared Henry, struggling with his boots.
“Nothing queer about murder,” said Judge. “Sordid, I’d say.”
“Possibly, Judge. But why kill Old Ben? He was--oh, I forgot about the
new strike they say he made!”
“He vars spending gold,” said Oscar.
“Ay saw it.”
“Chunks of raw gold,” remarked Judge. “I saw some of it. Crushed out of
gray quartz. And now he’s dead.”
“You have your shoes on the wrong feet, Judge,” said Henry.
“It might change our luck,” said Judge. “Let ’em stay.”
* * * * *
The body of the old prospector had not been moved. Doctor Bogart, the
coroner, was waiting for them. Ben Todd had a little, old shack a short
distance off the main street, where he batched, when in town. A load of
buckshot had blown out one of the windows, and Ben Todd was sprawled on
his bed. Evidently he had been killed, just as he was about to retire.
His pockets still held several chunks of gold, possibly worth twenty
dollars, but he had no money. On a shelf was an old, tin tobacco box, in
which were some odds and ends, and in it was a folded paper. Henry
unfolded it on the table. It was Ben Todd’s will, written in an inky
sprawl, and said:
I hereby give every thing I own to Violet La Verne because
she grub-staked me. I ain’t got no relatives.
--Ben Todd.
“Violet La Verne?” queried Doctor Bogart.
“One of the King’s Castle damsels,” said Henry grimly. “You know her,
Judge.”
“Why me?” asked Judge testily. “Everybody knows her.”
“So she staked Ben Todd,” muttered Henry.
“The will isn’t dated,” remarked the doctor.
“No, that is true, Doc--but, still, it is a will.”
“And Ben Todd was murdered,” pointed out Judge. “Just one more incentive
for a _Clarion_ editorial.”
“I read that last one,” said the doctor. “Something should be done to
muzzle Mr. Pelly. We better get some help to move the body. You take
charge of that will, Henry.”
“Probably worthless,” said Judge. “He had nothing to leave.”
“You forget his rich strike,” said Henry. “He may have plenty.”
“Yes, I forgot,” admitted Judge. “At least he had enough to get himself
blasted off this mortal coil--or presumed to have.”
There was no use going back to the ranch, so they went up to their room
at the Tonto Hotel. It was miserably hot up there. Judge kicked off his
gaiters, flung his hat in a corner and sat down, a miserable specimen of
the genus _homo_.
Henry said nothing, sitting there on the edge of the bed, deep in
thought. Judge got up slowly and went over to a small closet, where he
picked up a jug and shook it carefully. Henry said slowly:
“‘And lately, by the tavern door agape,
Came shining through the dusk an Angel
Shape bearing a vessel on his shoulder;
And he bid me taste of it; and ’twas the Grape.’”
“Omar,” said Judge, “had the right idea, but in our case it was
prune-juice and horse liniment. Have a small portion, sir.”
“About three inches in a bath-tub,” nodded Henry soberly.
* * * * *
Tonto City was not greatly perturbed over the murder of Old Ben Todd.
Henry gave the will to John Campbell, the prosecutor, who said that if
Ben left anything of value it must be given to Violet La Verne. Henry
went to the county recorder’s office and looked over the records, but
Ben Todd had not recorded a mining claim for over a year.
* * * * *
Later in the day he found the girl in the honkatonk at the King’s
Castle, and sat down with her. Violet had little resemblance to her
namesake. She was of undeterminate age, blonde, by choice, with dark
roots showing.
“Did you call me over to buy me a drink?” she asked curiously.
“I have no objections, my dear,” said Henry soberly, “but alcohol was
not my main reason. You knew Old Ben Todd, I believe.”
“Yes. I grub-staked him. Gave him fifty dollars. He said he’d cut me in
on any strike he made.”
“You knew he was killed last night, did you not?”
Her eyes narrowed a little. “I heard he was,” she nodded.
“It is true, my dear--he was murdered. But evidently Ben Todd was as
good as his word--he--that is, you are his sole heir. He wrote a will,
in which you get everything he had.”
“He did, eh?” Violet leaned across the table. “What?”
“Who knows? I understand that he made a rich strike.”
“He was throwing money around. That is, he was throwing gold. It must
have been a rich strike--don’t you think?”
“Didn’t he tell you where it was?” asked Henry.
Violet shook her head. “He didn’t tell me anything. But if he made a
strike, he must have--I don’t know what you call it--”
“Recorded it?” asked Henry, and she nodded quickly.
“That’s what I meant,” she said. “He must have done that.”
“Unfortunately--no,” said Henry quietly. “I examined the record book,
and Ben Todd did not record his location notice--if he ever made one
out. My dear lady, I’m afraid that it will go down in history as the
Lost Todd mine, along with many more.”
Violet La Verne looked bleakly at Henry.
“Then I don’t get anything for my fifty bucks, eh?”
“The clothes he had on, a pocket-knife, a six-shooter, very old and very
battered, a mule--I believe. I’m not sure of the mule--but who is? Oh,
yes, about twenty .45 caliber cartridges, somewhat corroded. I believe
that covers his assets.”
Violet La Verne got up from the table. “What about that drink?” said
Henry.
But Violet La Verne walked away, not even looking back. Mack Greer, the
new manager of the place, came over and sat on the edge of the table.
Greer was rather handsome, tall, slender.
“What about Ben Todd? I heard he was murdered,” he remarked.
Henry nodded thoughtfully. “That is true, Mr. Greer. You see, he left
his entire estate to Violet La Verne.”
“Yea-a-a-ah?” whispered the gambler. “That’s fine. I heard that she
grub-staked him.”
“It mentioned that in the will.”
“It did, eh? Well, he had plenty of raw gold, and he said there was
plenty more where that came from.”
“It must have been rich,” said Henry, “if all the tales are true. He had
only a few nuggets left, and no money.”
“That grub-stake was a lucky hunch for Violet,” said Greer.
“That’s what she thought,” said Henry.
“What do you mean, Sheriff--thought?”
“Yuh see, Mr. Greer,” explained Henry carefully, “Ben Todd forgot to
record his claim. There isn’t even a location notice to prove that he
ever located a gold claim.”
The gambler looked keenly at Henry. “You mean--he never put his claim on
record at all; that nobody knows where it is located?”
“That seems to be a fact, sir. Unless Ben Todd imparted the knowledge
verbally to someone--the secret died with him. That man with the shotgun
was premature.”
“It would seem so,” agreed Greer.
* * * * *
Henry was crossing the street to his office, when he saw two men just
entering the place. Henry groaned quietly. One of the men was Thomas
Akers, merchant of Scorpion Bend, and a member of the Board of
Commissioners, while the other was James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly,
editor of the Scorpion Bend _Clarion_, and the pet obsession of the
sheriff’s office. Judge and Oscar were both in the office.
Henry came up to the doorway as quietly as possible, and heard Judge
say:
“We are not allowed to announce the name of the murderer of Ben Todd,
until Sheriff Conroy gives his permission, sir.”
“You mean--you--er--know?” asked Pelly in a whisper.
“Ay know von t’ing--” rumbled Oscar’s voice, and the creak of a chair
indicated that the giant Swede was getting up.
Henry had started to enter the office, when a flying Pelly hit him
squarely in the middle. Pelly was more or less of a lightweight, but
with a distinct muzzle-velocity. He caromed off the bosom of Henry
Harrison Conroy, landed on the seat of his pants, from where he turned
over twice and sprawled flat on his back in the dusty street.
Henry was knocked speechless for the moment. Thomas Akers came out
swiftly, skidded a heel on the threshold, and came down to a sitting
position with rather a dull thud. It knocked his hat down over his eyes,
and he just sat there, wheezing audibly. It was all rather embarrassing.
Judge and Oscar came to the doorway. Judge had tears in his eyes, but
they were not from sympathy.
“All Ay done vars get up,” declared Oscar stolidly.
James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly sat up in the dust, looking dazedly
around, until his eyes centered on Thomas Akers. Then he said
accusingly, “I told you it wouldn’t do any good.”
Akers got up, too. He braced one hand against a side of the doorway and
felt behind him, his hat still over his eyes. Then he took off his hat,
fanned himself a little and stared at J. W. L. Pelly, who was trying to
brush off the dust.
“Gentlemen,” said Henry huskily, “I believe I am entitled to an
explanation.”
“A what?” husked Pelly. “Explanation of what?”
“Of your attack on me, sir. Do not deny it! I start to enter my own
office, and you fly at me--actually fly, sir! You are not satisfied with
slanderous attacks on me in your filthy newspaper--you attack me
physically. And you, Mr. Akers! Why did you jump up and down in the
doorway of my office, blocking me from entering? Damnable discourteous,
to say the least.”
Thomas Akers opened and shut his mouth several times, but no explanation
came forth. He seemed in pain.
“As I told you before, it didn’t do any good, Mr. Akers,” Pelly said.
After Pelly delivered his “I told you so,” he started back up the
street, flexing his knees, like a place-kicker getting ready to boot a
football. After a moment of indecision, Mr. Akers followed him.
Henry stepped into the office, leaned against his desk and gave way to
his emotions. Judge sat down, bent over as though in prayer, and groaned
painfully, “I--I can’t stand it! As long as I live, I shall never forget
what I just witnessed.”
Henry managed to fall into his deskchair, his moon-like face glistening
with tears.
“Ay vill be dorned! Did somet’ng go wrong, Hanry,” said Oscar Johnson
soberly.
“Something,” choked Henry, “went just right, Oscar.”
“Das is gude,” said Oscar. “Ay vill get de yug.”
They had finished their drink, when John Campbell came in. The big,
good-natured prosecutor, looked at the tin-cups and smiled but shook his
head. He had experienced a drink of Frijole’s brew, and wanted none of
it.
“I just came up from Doctor Bogart’s place, where Mr. Akers and Mr.
Pelly were consulting medical science,” he said.
“O-o-o-oh!” said the surprised Henry. “And what ails them?”
“That seems problematical, Henry,” laughed the lawyer. “Their testimony
is contradictory. Mr. Akers is of the opinion that he must have slipped,
while Mr. Pelly favors an attack theory. However, Mr. Akers does not
remember any attack.”
“And what was Doctor Bogart’s diagnosis, John?”
“He advised a pillow for Mr. Akers and a sense of humor for Mr. Telly.”
“Oil Ay did vars get oop,” declared Oscar soberly.
“Well,” laughed Campbell, “I guess the incident is closed. By the way,
Telly hinted that you know the name of the murderer of Ben Todd.”
“That,” said Judge, “is as far-fetched as his attack theory. I merely
told them I was not allowed to name the killer, until the sheriff gave
his permission.”
“And I,” smiled Henry, “am very close-mouthed, John.”
* * * * *
It was late that afternoon, and Henry and Judge were standing in front
of the general store, when Pete Gonyer and Professor Fossil came to town
in a buckboard. Pete Gonyer was of medium size, swarthy, possibly forty
years of age. Professor Charles Winston Norbert, jokingly called
Professor Fossil, was well over six feet in height, bony and angular,
with a deeply-lined face, and wearing thick-lense glasses.
Pete Gonyer went over to the King’s Castle Saloon, while the Professor
came to the store. Henry had never met the man, but Judge had, and he
introduced Henry.
“And how are the fossils coming, Professor?” asked Henry.
“I beg pardon, sir--but fossils do not come--they have been here for
aeons.”
“Sorry--my mistake,” said Henry.
“I presume that you meant to ask if I had been successful. Yes, I
believe I have, thank you.”
“The fossil fish of this valley--are they of the upper Palaeozoic or of
the Mesozoic rocks, Professor?”
Professor Fossil looked keenly at Henry Harrison Conroy.
“That I shall have to determine,” he replied. “I have them classified as
to location and depth, and I can assure you that I have some wonderful
specimens.”
“Perhaps I am foolish to ask you, sir,” said Henry, “but have you found
a specimen of the _Ichtus Fillari_?”
“No, I haven’t, sir--much to my regret. I doubt if any exists in this
local formation. However, I am still searching.”
“I wish you luck, sir,” said Henry soberly.
“Yes--thank you, gentlemen. Well, I must do a little shopping.”
Henry and Judge went on over to the hotel porch, where they sat down to
wait for the supper bell to ring.
“Henry, what in the name of all that is holy, is an _Ichtus Fillari_?”
asked Judge.
“I am not exactly sure myself,” replied Henry soberly. “It must have
been a fish.”
“Have you ever seen one, Henry?”
“Judge, I give you my word, I never even heard of one before.”
“You--you made that name up, sir?”
“I believe I did, Judge. I feel that it is possible to create a fossil
fish that even an archaeologist hasn’t found yet.”
“Hm-m-m-m,” hummed Judge thoughtfully. “I had no idea you had ever
studied such things. Palaeozoic and Mesozoic rocks. Your knowledge
amazes me, Henry. I wonder what Professor Fossil thinks of your--shall
we say, knowledge of archaeology?”
“It might be rather interesting to know,” said Henry quietly.
“Somewhere, sometime I read an article on prehistoric rocks. The names
of the Palaeozoic and the Mesozoic came to mind, and I used them in the
right spot, it seems. Hm-m-m-m-m. I seem to remember something--”
“It is my opinion,” remarked Judge, “that if you have any urge of
concentration, you might well try thinking of something that will clear
up the local crime situation. What happened a million years ago will
have little bearing on high-grading and murder.”
“Perhaps you are right, Judge. Ah, there is the dinner-bell. I jump from
the Palaeozoic to--well, to hash.”
* * * * *
The inquest over the body of Ben Todd attracted few people. Violet La
Verne was called as a witness, because of the fact that she had been the
sole heir to Ben Todd’s estate. She was defiant, tight-lipped, but
stated that she had grub-staked Ben Todd about a month ago.
“Did Ben Todd tell you he had made a rich strike?” Doctor Bogart asked
her.
“He never talked to me,” she replied.
“How much money did you give Ben Todd, Miss La Verne?”
“I don’t know--hundred dollars, I guess.”
“You told the sheriff that you gave him fifty dollars.”
“Did I? Maybe I did. What’s the difference?”
“Mathematically--fifty dollars,” said the doctor dryly.
“All right,” she said angrily, “it don’t make any difference. I
lose--and the amount is my business.”
“Did you know that Ben Todd had made you his sole heir?”
“No!” emphatically. “He said he’d split with me--if he found a mine. Why
should I be a witness in this--I don’t know who shot the old coot.”
They excused Violet La Verne, and she swept out of the courtroom. The
six-man jury grinned and brought in the usual verdict, killed by a
person, or persons, unknown.
“That woman knows something,” declared Judge quietly.
“At her age--and occupation--she should,” agreed Henry.
As they walked back to the office Judge said:
“If that La Verne woman knew that Ben Todd had willed everything he
owned to her--”
“But she says she didn’t, Judge.”
“My dear, Henry, you are a trusting soul. What is her word worth? She
lied about the amount she gave Ben Todd.”
“Only a matter of fifty dollars, Judge. It is possible that the woman is
poor in mathematics.”
“We are all entitled to our theories, sir,” said Judge, “and mine is
that somebody was greatly surprised and pained when they discovered that
Ben Todd did not locate and record that gold mine.”
“It would, I believe,” said Henry soberly, “have added to his estate.”
“As Shakespeare said,” smiled Judge, “there is something rotten in
Denmark.”
“At least, it is worth a sniff or two,” said Henry.
In the afternoon mail came a notice from the express company that a new
buckboard, consigned to the JHC ranch, had arrived in Scorpion Bend, and
was ready for delivery.
“Something more for those half-wits to destroy, Henry,” remarked Judge.
“I hope they will be careful, Judge. This one has yellow wheels, red
body, and is appropriately decorated.”
“I shudder to think what it will have after Frijole, Slim or Oscar have
a try at it. We should keep it here in the livery-stable, and only use
it on state occasions.”
“Such as?” queried Henry.
“Well--going between here and the ranch, for instance. You know how I
hate to ride a horse. Possibly we could use it for a trip to Scorpion
Bend.”
“It might give Mr. Pelly an idea for a new editorial,” laughed Henry.
“The Shame of Arizona on Yellow Wheels.”
“Anyway,” sighed Judge, “it is money wasted. Those prune-juicers at the
JHC have no regard for property. I shudder to think what that buckboard
will look like in a week.”
“Well,” said Henry soberly, “when I told Frijole what I had ordered, he
said that he would protect it with his life. Frijole, I believe, likes
nice things. Slim also has a feeling for art. Why, I’ve seen him stand
for long periods of time in front of that picture in the King’s Castle,
studying it intently.”
“What picture?” asked Judge curiously.
“The one at the end of the bar-room, Judge. A beer advertisement, I
believe. It depicts a member of the female sex, leaning over a rock,
peering into a spring. Rather nicely done, too.”
“Oh, that!” snorted Judge. “I happened to note Slim Pickins studying the
print at close range, and I asked him if he was interested in the
technique of the artist, and he said, ‘Hell, no! I’m tryin’ to see what
she’s a-lookin’ at.’”
Henry grinned slowly. “Maybe Slim is a realist, Judge.”
John Campbell dropped in and they discussed the inquest for a while, but
finally Campbell said:
“You probably don’t know it yet, Henry, but the Commissioners are
holding a special meeting tomorrow afternoon at Scorpion Bend. I have
not been asked to attend.”
Henry looked at the big lawyer thoughtfully, but did not comment. The
implication was plain. They were going to decide to ask for his
resignation.
After a long pause, the lawyer went on. “I hear that James Wadsworth
Longfellow Pelly is spending a few days at the Circle G, where Mr.
Thomas Akers has also been the guest of Peter Gonyer. I heard that they
bought a case of bourbon from the King’s Castle.”
“Mr. Akers,” remarked Henry, “is the chairman. But will the others vote
with him, John?”
“I don’t know, Henry--but I’m afraid they will.”
* * * * *
Frijole, Slim and Oscar came in from the ranch, driving a young team to
a battered old buckboard. Judge said, “You can look at that equipage and
know what that new buckboard will look like in a few days.”
They met the three men on the sidewalk and Henry said to Frijole, “You
take the team over to the livery-stable and hitch them to a
spring-wagon. We are going to Scorpion Bend to bring back our new
buckboard.”
“Vit yellow veels?” asked Oscar. “Yudas, Ay von’t to see it.”
“Who is going?” asked Judge quickly.
“Don’t you want to go, Judge?” asked Frijole.
“Ride over Lobo Canyon grades with any of you three doing the
driving--at night?”
“I shall do the driving, Judge,” assured Henry soberly. “We shall be
back before morning.”
“In that event,” said Judge firmly. “I shall stay right here in Tonto
City. You drive! And how on earth will you bring that pristine vehicle
back, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
“Tie her on behind and trail her home,” said Slim.
Judge shrugged. “I still shall stay here,” he decided.
They secured the two-seated spring-wagon, and with Henry at the lines,
seated with Frijole, they rode away, with Oscar and Slim Pickins on the
back seat, holding a gallon jug between them.
“Ay am crazy to see a bockboard vit yellow veels,” declared Oscar.
“Yo’re crazy,” agreed Slim soberly. “The rest is superfluous.”
“This is not a pleasure trip,” informed Henry. “For your information,
Oscar, the Commissioners are meeting tomorrow in Scorpion Bend to decide
to ask me to resign as sheriff of Tonto. It will mean that you are out
of a job, along with Judge and me.”
“Ay vill now open de yug,” stated Oscar.
“No,” said Henry, “we will not do any drinking--yet.”
“Ay vant to be yoyous, ven Ay get to Scorpion Bend, Henry. Ay am going
to have a vord vit Mr. Pelly.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Pelly is at the Circle G ranch, Oscar.”
“Ya-a-a-ah! Das son-of-a-gon! Vaal, Ay am so downhorted that Ay must
have drink.”
“Oh, go ahead,” said Henry. “You’d do it sooner or later.”
They were able to travel the Lobo Grades in daylight, on their way to
Scorpion Bend, a picturesque but dangerous road, which wound around the
cliffs above Loco Canyon, only wide enough for one vehicle, except at
rare intervals, where there was barely room for two wheeled vehicles to
pass each other. Jack-knife turns, where the road ahead was blocked from
view, until completely around the turn, increased the hazard, even in
daylight. Sheer cliffs blocked the inside, but there was no guardrail on
the other side.
It was after dark, when they arrived at Scorpion Bend. Frijole, Slim and
Oscar were rather mellow, but Henry did not take a drink. He declared,
“I am going to make this trip in safety, if it is the last thing I ever
do.”
“Tha’s a good idea,” agreed Slim. “I admire any man who is wishful to
get back alive.”
They ate supper, and Henry tried to get the boys to go up to the depot,
but they didn’t want to go back too early.
“Man, when we go back,” said Frijole, “we don’t want nothin’ else on the
grade.”
So Henry waited. There was a dance in Scorpion Bend, and it was after
ten o’clock when Henry managed to gather his brood and go to the depot
after the new buckboard. A peevish depot agent accepted the money from
Henry, and unlocked the storeroom. The whole buckboard was crated,
wheels separate, and Henry’s helpers were in no condition to do
mechanical labor.
They managed to move everything outside, borrowed the agent’s lantern
and hammer. There was a monkey-wrench in the spring-wagon, and, after an
infinite lot of argumentative labor, they got the wheels and tongue on
the buckboard. It glistened like a circus wagon in the lamplight. With a
section of chain they fastened the tongue to the rear axle of the wagon,
and were all ready for the trip to Tonto City.
Slim and Oscar declared that they were going to ride in the buckboard,
and Henry was too weary to argue.
“It’s all right, Henry. If the blamed thing busts loose, they can take
care of it--until found,” said Frijole.
“I believe you are right, Frijole.”
* * * * *
They drove slowly, until satisfied that the coupling was sufficient, and
then headed for Tonto City at their usual pace, which was a cross
between a harness race and a runaway. They heard Slim yelling to Henry
to stay on the road, but paid no attention. At the foot of the grade
they stopped for inspection. Slim said wearily, “I’m shore glad yuh
stopped. Every time we tried to take a drink out of the jug--we can’t.
Man, I never rode in anything as rough as this buckboard. Oscar’s very
sick.”
“Ay am sea-sick,” gasped Oscar. “Some-t’ing is wrong vit us.”
The buckboard seemed intact, unmarked. Henry and Frijole lighted matches
and looked things over. Slim asked, “What’s wrong with it, Frijole?”
“Not a blamed thing. Cork up that jug--we’re travelin’.”
“I dunno,” said Slim. “I’ve rode a lot of things in m’ life, but this’n
has got em all beat. How are yuh, Oscar?”
“Viggly,” whispered Oscar.
They drove on. Frijole was chuckling, and Henry said, “What is so
funny?”
“That buckboard,” choked the little cook. “We got a hind wheel and a
front wheel on each end. No wonder Oscar feels viggly!”
“My goodness!” exclaimed Henry. “Hadn’t we better remedy that?”
“No. It can’t hurt anythin’--except their feelin’s. Keep goin’.”
There was no moon, and a slight overcast ruined the starlight for
illumination. Henry had to trust to the team entirely. On the first
sharp turn they felt a decided jerk, and heard a crash. The team stopped
short, when Henry applied the brake.
“W’ere de ha’al do you t’ink you are going?” wailed Oscar.
“I see!” grunted Henry. “Sharp turn, and the buckboard did not make it
in time. Hm-m-m-m!”
Oscar and Slim were scratching matches at the buckboard, and Slim came
up to report, “You almost knocked the hubs off both wheels, scratched
the body and some of the spokes pretty bad.”
“I shall try and do better on the next one,” promised Henry.
“Yeah,” said Slim, “you do that. Yuh can roll when ready.”
As they started on Henry said, “I shall swing wider on the next curve,
Frijole.”
“Could yuh see where yuh swung?” asked Frijole.
“No, I could not, but I’ll swing wider next time.”
“Not with me on this side--yuh won’t. Even in the dark I could look
straight down into that canyon, and I seen a eagle’s nest with six aigs
in it.”
“Well, I don’t want to knock _all_ the paint off that vehicle.”
Frijole had taken the jug from the buckboard, and now he drew out the
cork. They were on an upgrade, and at the top was the worst jack-knife
curve on the whole road. Frijole said,
“Have a snort, Henry--it might cushion yore fall.”
Henry shoved on the brake very tight and stopped the team.
“Cushion my fall!” he snorted. “The idea!”
“The idea is good,” said Frijole. “That curve ain’t twenty feet ahead,
and I don’t believe we’ll make it--not in this dark. That buckboard
won’t swing far enough. Mebbe we better untie it and take it around by
hand.”
“I believe I can make it, Frijole,” said Henry, but there was doubt in
his voice. Frijole said, “Anyway, I’ll get out--until yuh do. After all,
there should be one survivor of the tragedy.”
“What’sa delay?” yelled Slim. “This ain’t no place to stop.”
“We’re figgerin’!” yelled Frijole.
“Git out, Oscar, and hug the rock--they’re a-figgerin’!” exclaimed Slim.
“Ay vill help dem,” declared Oscar. “Ay am gude from figures.”
“He-e-ey!” howled Slim. “Where-at is the jug, Oscar? We’ve done lost
it!”
“Hang onto yore seat!” yelled Frijole. “We’re goin’.”
Henry kicked off the brake and they started ahead, but just at that
moment something loomed out of the darkness just ahead of them. They
heard the rattle of a wagon, the rasp of shod tires, skidding on rock,
and the yell of warning. Henry swung heavy on his left line, throwing
his team in against the cliffs. It was a violation of driving rules,
trying to pass on the left, but Henry had no liking for that outside
edge. A moment later came the crash, a babel of excited yelps.
Henry jumped ahead of the crash, tripped over a front wheel and dived
headfirst into a bushy manzanita against the foot of the cliff, breaking
his fall, but taking great toll of his clothes. He had a dim idea of
horses rearing over him, but he was helpless to do anything about it. He
heard a man yelling:
“Help! Help! Help!” and suddenly realized that it was himself. He heard
Frijole’s voice calling, “Whoa, you buzzard-heads! Whoa, whoa! Where are
yuh, Henry?”
Slim said, “Stop yellin’ and help me git this horse back on his feet,
Frijole!”
“That ain’t no horse--that’s Oscar.”
“It is, huh? How can yuh tell, in the dark?”
“He’s got on high-heel boots. What happened? Didn’t I tell yuh that
buckboard wouldn’t make the turn? Didn’t I--huh?”
Henry managed to extricate himself from the manzanita and staggered
around the end of the wagon, where he almost fell over somebody. He
grabbed the end-gate of the wagon and felt for some matches.
“Henry must have got killed, Slim,” came Frijole’s voice.
“Yeah,” said Slim vacantly. “We lost the jug, too.”
“Well, what happened?” asked Frijole. “I seen somethin’--Slim! It was a
wagon and team! I ’member now. But where did they go?”
Henry managed to light the match and look down. He was standing astride
of James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly, and the vitrolic editor of the
_Clarion_ was staring up at him, blinking slowly. Frijole and Slim came
over and lighted more matches. Pelly was fast recovering. Slim said, “We
have to take the bitter with the sweet--he ain’t dead.”
“Henry ain’t dead, too,” said Frijole in amazement. “Henry, what
happened to you?”
“Never mind me,” replied Henry. “What happened to that other team and
wagon?”
“You saw it, too, huh?” asked Slim. “I didn’t. I was huntin’ for that
jug in the back of the buckboard.”
“Did you find it?” asked Oscar’s voice, very weakly. “Ay could use it.”
“I had it before the crash,” said Frijole.
“Vait a minute!” snorted Oscar. “Ve must check up. Slim, are you and
Hanry and Freeholey oil right?”
“No,” replied Henry, “but we’ll do, I suppose. Why?”
“Ay have found somebody else.”
Oscar scratched a match, and yelled, “Yudas Priest! Das is Professor
Fossil!”
They all stumbled over and made a match-light examination of Professor
Charles Winston Norbert. He was all dressed up in a black suit, white
shirt and very high, starched collar. Slim said, “From the way he’s
dressed, he must have knowed--”
James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly managed to get up and stagger over
toward them.
“I--I can’t get this straight,” he said huskily.
“You never got anythin’ straight--so don’t worry,” said Frijole. “Stop
teeterin’ --that aidge is too close.”