Part 1

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.

* * * * *