Part 3

“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.”

“Let him weave,” said Slim quickly. Henry took hold of the editor’s arm and steadied him. “How did you get here Pelly?” he asked.

“In a wagon,” whispered Pelly. “I--I was at the Circle G--visiting. The professor was going home; so I decided to ride back with them. Cooler at night, you know.”

“How many of you on that wagon?” asked Henry anxiously.

“Th-three,” stammered Pelly. “The professor, Jud Bailey and myself. But what happened--anyway? Don’t you know?”

“I hate to say this, gentlemen,” remarked Henry slowly, “but I’m very much afraid that Jud Bailey and his equipage went into Lobo Canyon.”

No one said anything for a while, and then Slim remarked, “Well, they ain’t here now, they didn’t go past that buckboard, and I’m fairly sure that they never backed up, Henry.”

“I remember a little,” said Pelly shakily. “I--I thought we were going a little too fast for that curve. Then it happened.”

“Well,” said Slim dryly, “all I can say is that you and Professor Fossil was lucky to get off on the right side. It was shorter that way. Shucks, you could be a-fallin’ yet.”

* * * * *

But the professor was not dead. He sat up, took a few wheezing breaths, but was unable to talk. An examination showed that their two horses were still intact, but the right front wheel of the wagon was gone and the body badly ditched on that side. They took the team, hitched it to the buckboard, piled everybody aboard, and headed for Tonto City, with Frijole and Slim taking care of the speechless professor.

“Don’t talk with yore hands,” said Slim, “’cause we can’t read no hand-talk in the dark.”

“Das is the lousiest deal Ay ever had,” declared Oscar sadly.

“What was that?” asked Henry.

“Losin’ de yug,” replied Oscar.

They finally arrived at Tonto City and routed Doctor Bogart out of bed. Professor Fossil was able, with some help, to walk into the doctor’s office. He had only spoken a few words on the way home, but he was able to tell the doctor that he was all right. He had a cut scalp, numerous bruises, and the doctor decided that he was suffering from shock. Pelly shrugged off any medical attention, although he had an egg-sized lump on the side of his head. Henry had numerous cuts and bruises, most of them from the sharp limbs of that manzanita, and also declined any assistance from the doctor. Slim had brought Judge down there to hear what happened. The doctor put the professor to bed and came back to the office.

“The professor required a sedative,” said the doctor. “He has suffered considerable shock, and is very nervous.”

“You can’t blame him,” said Pelly. “After all his work in this valley, all his samples and trophies have gone into Lobo Canyon.”

“Oh, that’s too bad!” exclaimed Henry. “I didn’t realize--”

“Mr. Gonyer wanted him to ship them out on the stage,” said Pelly, “but he decided to handle them himself.”

“Quite a collection, I suppose,” said Henry.

“Two large boxes,” said Pelly. “At least five hundred pounds of fossil-bearing rocks. And his trunk and valises, too.”

“They might be recovered,” suggested Henry. “Lobo Canyon is a difficult place to get in and out, but perhaps we can--”

“I must get to Scorpion Bend,” interrupted Pelly. “My paper must be published. I almost forgot about it.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Judge soberly. “I’m sure that the public would thoroughly admire your negligence.”

Although Pelly was not in physical shape to flare-up--he made an attempt. He turned on Henry and declared, “I am announcing your resignation, Conroy.”

“My goodness! But what if I do not resign, sir?”

“You will--or get fired. By resigning you escape the stigma of being ousted bodily. I have it on such good authority that I have the story all written. And after what happened tonight--”

“You are blaming me for that?” queried Henry soberly.

“You deliberately turned the wrong way, Conroy. You forced the wagon over into the canyon.”

“Instead of going down there ourselves,” said Henry. “Yes, I did that, Mr. Pelly. You have admitted that your driver was traveling too fast for that dangerous road, and you must admit that he was crowding the outer edge, making it impossible for me to have stayed on that side. I have the evidence of your own words, spoken before witnesses. One word of accusation against me in your paper, and I shall sue you for criminal libel, my boy.”

James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly looked around the room. Oscar Johnson, Slim Pickins, Frijole Cullison, Henry Conroy, Judge Van Treece, all looking at him.

“You can’t scare me,” he said weakly.

“Not any worse than you are now, Pelly,” assured Henry.

“It’s a wonder Professor Norbert and I were not killed, too,” said Pelly huskily.

“We can’t have everything our way,” sighed Judge.

* * * * *

Slim, Frijole and Oscar took the buckboard and headed for the JHC, while Henry and Judge went up to their room. It was almost morning. Henry’s face was scratched, his clothes badly torn. He took off his boots and sank down in a chair.

“Well, my friend, it looks as though _finis_ has been written for the Shame of Arizona,” remarked Judge.

Henry drew a deep breath, flexed his tired hands, and said, “Judge, a Conroy always goes down fighting.”

“Against whom--if I may ask, sir?”

“My opponent has not been selected yet.”

“And today--they hold that meeting. The time is short, sir.”

“Aye, my friend--but not too short. We must sleep on it.”

Someone knocked timidly on their door, and Henry said, “Come in.”

It was Slim Pickins, who announced, “We’ve decided to stay here t’night, Henry.”

“You have? And why, if I may ask, Slim?”

“Yuh see,” explained Slim, “Oscar was drivin’, and he knocked the left front wheel off the buckboard against the sidewalk.”

They were barely asleep, when another knock sounded.

“Don’t bother lighting a lamp, Henry. The professor is gone,” came Doctor Bogart’s voice.

“You mean--he died already, Doc?” asked Henry huskily.

“No, I mean he pulled out. Opened a window in the bedroom and left it open. Took all his clothes.”

“My goodness, Doc! Why, the man must be out of his head!”

“I wouldn’t swear to that, Henry--but he is out of my house.”

“Should we make a search for him--do you think--I hope you do not?”

“No, I don’t believe that would do any good, Henry. I just thought you’d like to know about it. Good-night.”

“Good-night, Doc.”

Doctor Bogart closed the door and Henry sank back.

“The professor must be wandering in his mind,” commented Judge.

“With brains enough left to dress himself and crawl through a window? He may be wandering, Judge--but not in his mind.”

Henry slid out of bed and lighted the lamp. Judge sat up in amazement and saw the sheriff starting to dress. Judge ran his bony fingers through his mop of tousled hair, shut his eyes tightly and then looked at Henry again. The fat man was struggling with a rather tight pair of overalls.

“You must have been hit rather hard, too, Henry,” said Judge.

“I suspect that some of my sense of balance has been disrupted,” agreed Henry, “but I am normal again--thank you. Get into your clothes, Judge; and I would advise boots, instead of those disreputable slippers you have been wearing. And chaps, too, if you do not mind.”

“Have you gone mad?” gasped Judge. “We haven’t been to sleep yet.”

“Oh, get dressed and do not quibble. You must realize that a man died in the depths of Lobo Canyon tonight, and, in spite of Mr. Pelly’s diagnosis, we are still the peace officers of Wild Horse Valley, and it is our duty to remove that body.”

“Heavens above!” snorted Judge. “You mean--no, you can’t mean that, Henry-- at this time of the night!”

“Explain, Judge.”

“Well, I--Henry, you do not intend going into Lobo Canyon at this ungodly hour --or do you?”

“I do, my dear deputy--and you will be at my side--except where we are obliged to ride single-file. Stop moaning, and dress.”

“I wish I could contact Doctor Bogart about this,” whispered Judge. “He would know what to do about it.”

“I suppose we should take rifles along,” muttered Henry, yanking at his boot.

“Rifles?” Judge sat on the edge of the bed and stared at Henry. “Why--uh--the man is dead, isn’t he, Henry?”

“Get dressed,” said Henry. “It is almost daylight.”

“What you need is a sedative, sir,” declared Judge.

“What I need is a deputy, I’m afraid.”

Judge grabbed a boot and glared at Henry. “Indeed? Until you fall on your head--I am satisfactory. Do not blame _me_, Henry--you do not realize your condition.” Henry selected an old, leather coat and drew it on, saying, “I’d advise that you wear a leather jacket, Judge--that brush tears cloth badly. I’ll meet you at the office--with the horses. Do not keep me waiting, my boy.”

“You have your boots on the wrong feet, Henry.”

“I have not, sir; I am toeing-out--to keep my balance. It has been a hard night.”

Henry walked out and shut the door. Judge stared at the boot in his hand for several moments, before putting it on. He said aloud, “The man is as mad as a hatter--and I must humor him.” Then he donned the rest of his clothes and left the hotel.

* * * * *

It was about nine o’clock when Oscar, Slim and Frijole came down to breakfast. They were all limping, more or less. They found James Wadsworth Longfellow in the restaurant. He flinched, but did not speak. The three were subdued, having little to say. Doctor Bogart came in and asked them if they had seen Henry or Judge. He had been up to their room, but they were not in, nor were they at the sheriff’s office.

“Henry hit on his head,” said Slim soberly, “and Judge ain’t too intelligent to wander off with him.”

“You boys don’t look too good this morning,” remarked the doctor.

“Pers’nally, Doc,” said Frijole flexing a sore shoulder, “I think I’m in the sere and yaller leaf, as yuh might say. I ain’t as flexible as I was last night, I know that much. Slim slept on the floor. He said that the bed was too soft, after what he’d been through. Sa-a-ay!” Frijole’s eyebrows lifted suddenly. “Yuh don’t suppose them two old galoots have gone into Lobo Canyon, do yuh, Doc?”

“That’s possible, Frijole. Better see if their horses are gone.”

They finished their breakfast first. The horses and saddles were not in the stable.

“Looks at it thisaway, fellers,” said Slim soberly. “Them two galoots ain’t got no more right in Lobo Canyon than David had in the lion’s den. That’s one awful tough spot. I’ve been there and I know. What’s to be done about ’em?”

“Our best bet,” said Frijole, “is for one of us to get a horse at the livery-stable, go out to the ranch and bring back enough rollin’-stock for all three of us. And make it quick. We’ll match coins--odd man goes.”

“You ve got a head on yuh,” said Slim soberly. “All right, get out yore money.”

Slim and Frijole’s coin showed heads--so Oscar went to get the horses at the ranch. It always worked--and Oscar never got wise to their scheme.

* * * * *

Slim and Frijole met James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly on the street. Pelly had talked with Doctor Bogart, and found that the professor was missing. Pelly wasn’t in perfect physical condition, and he had lost his glasses.

“Somebody should go out and tell Mr. Gonyer,” said Pelly. “He don’t know what happened last night.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Slim Pickins gravely, “it’s too late for Pete Gonyer to do anythin’ about it, Pelly. He’s shy one team and wagon--and a squint-eyed cowpoke.”

“Yes, I’m afraid that Jud Bailey is dead.”

“If he ain’t, he’s the most durable cowpoke that ever lived. It’s three, four hundred feet to the bottom at that place, and he shore got a divin’ start.”

“You knew that the professor is missing, didn’t you?”

“Missin’?” gasped Frijole. “Missin’ what--his valise?”

“No--he’s gone,” said Pelly. “Doctor Bogart went in to look at him, after we had left there last night--or this morning--and the professor had dressed and went out the window.”

“Lovely dove!” snorted Slim. “Let’s go to the office and find the jug--I need medical assistance.”

“Thank you,” said Pelly, “I do not need that stuff. I feel bad enough, as it is.”

Slim had a key to the office, and they located the supply. They were enjoying their third cupful, when Bob Stickler, manager of the Yellow Warrior, came into the office, looking for Henry.

“What was this about the accident on the grade last night?” he asked. “I’ve heard two or three versions.”

“What did yuh hear?” asked Frijole soberly. “We don’t want ours to be the same. Yuh see, we was there, and maybe we saw it all wrong.”

“Oh, I see--trying to make it sound funny, eh?”

“It wasn’t funny,” said Slim. “The Circle G team and wagon went into the canyon, along with Jud Bailey, who was drivin’. He came around a jack-knife bend too blamed fast, shoved us in against the wall, and went off the edge.”

“I see. Yes, I heard all that. How badly was the professor hurt?”

“_Quien sabe?_ Doc put him to bed, but he dressed and sneaked out a winder.”

“Probably didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Yuh mean--before or after he fell?”

“So you don’t know where the sheriff went, eh?”

“Just between me and you--and I want this held in strictest confidence, Mr. Stickler--I don’t. All we know is that he’s gone, Judge is gone and so are their two horses.”

“I might add to the confusion,” said Frijole owlishly, “by sayin’ that they’ve prob’ly gone to find the body.”

“Jud Bailey’s body?” asked Stickler.

“Well, yeah--that seems to be the only one we have on hand at the present time. Have a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

Stickler left the office, and they filled the cups again.

“Lizzen,” said Slim, “if we drink two more cups of this stuff we won’t even be able to find Lobo Canyon.”

“Don’tcha think we ort to drink this’n, Schlimmie?”

“Well, I wouldn’t shay that--but I will shay that we ort to drink it a little slower, par’ner.”

* * * * *

Henry and Judge, shivering in the false dawn, rode off the main highway and followed an old trail, which led to the lower end of Lobo Canyon. The trail was little used, because only on rare occasions did anybody go into the canyon. Cattle kept away from it. There were a few pools of water down there, where quail, bobcats and an occasional lion slaked their thirsts, but the bottom of the gulch was a tangle of brush and rocks, making it very difficult to travel. The main canyon was about nine miles in length, and in most of it the sun never shone.

Judge had spent most of the trip complaining. His boots hurt, he hated leather chaps, and his rheumatism was acting up again.

“Here we are,” he stated dismally, “poking into an ungodly spot, risking our lives, while those damnable Commissioners are meeting to throw us out of our jobs. We may come out alive, but without visible means of support. Henry, what on earth shall we do for a living?”

“Let us get out of Lobo Canyon with our lives, before we do too much worrying about the future, Judge.”

“You admit that it is hazardous?”

“Yes, I believe it has its dangers. Rocks do let loose and come down here, they say. Slim swears that he saw a rattler as long as a lariat and as big as a stove-pipe. Well, here is the trail into it, Judge. Just let the horse pick its own way, and we’ll be down there in a jiffy.”

The entrance to Lobo Canyon was not too difficult nor dangerous, but the trail ended at the bottom. From there on it was a case of work out your own salvation.

“At least seven miles to where the wagon went over--and if we make a mile an hour we shall be going mighty fast,” groaned Judge.

“One thing,” said Henry soberly, “there is no danger of us getting separated.”

They started up the canyon, seeking places where their horses could travel, but after about a mile Henry said:

“It gets worse every foot of the way, Judge. New slides have blocked us ahead, I believe.”

“In a way, I am glad,” said Judge. “We can go back now.”

“Go back?” asked Henry in amazement “And admit defeat? I’ll have you know that a Conroy is never conquered, sir.”

“You admitted defeat.”

“I admitted defeat--on horseback, sir. We will leave our noble steeds here and proceed on foot.”

“Well,” said Judge resignedly, “I suppose that is what I get for playing Sancho Panza to an addle-pated Don Quixote. But I may assure you that these high-heel boots were never made for this sort of usage. We will never get out alive--unless somebody carries us out, Henry.”

“I hope we are alive--when carried,” remarked Henry soberly.

* * * * *

They started ahead, crawling through brush, over rocks, keeping alert for rattlers, which abounded in Lobo Canyon. Henry was so stiff and sore that it was difficult for him to keep going. They rested often, but were making fair progress. They struck about a mile of fairly open traveling, but ran into another slide, which halted them for a while.

“Isn’t there another way to get into this canyon, Henry?” Judge panted.

Henry sprawled on top of a rock to get his breath, nodded and rubbed a sore elbow.

“I’ve heard there is, Judge. Somewhere near the upper end, but I don’t know just where.”

Judge took off a boot and examined his sore toes. It was very quiet down there. Finally Judge said:

“Henry, we’re two old fools! We ruin ourselves, trying to get in here to find the body of a dead man. Suppose we do find him--we can’t carry him out. Why, we will be lucky to get out ourselves.”

Henry sprawled on the rock, looking up at a circling buzzard, far up in the blue sky.

“Two old fools,” he said slowly. “That’s right, Judge. Fighting to keep a job, getting all busted up physically. This is a young man’s job, Judge. Maybe Pete Gonyer--who knows?”

“Pete must be forty.”

“A mere child, Judge. Well, we must be going on. It is noon. At this rate, we will fight our way out in the dark.”

“But about taking the body out, Henry.”

“The first thing to do is to find the body, Judge. Come on.”

They went on, circling, crawling, tearing their way through the brush. Circling a pot-hole in the bottom of the canyon, they reached a steep slope, reaching up into more rocks and more brush. Judge was ahead, hunched over, clawing his way up, when Henry saw the head and shoulders of a man ahead of his deputy. Henry reached for his bolstered gun, when his feet slipped and he dropped to his knees on the slope. The gun slipped out of his hand, and before he could recover it, he heard a voice snap:

“All right--come on up--and keep yore hands in sight!”