Part 2

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!”