Part 1

The Trail of Deception

By W. C. Tuttle

Jim Bailey was reported dead--which gave him a clear field for a profitable game!

I

Jim Bailey was thoroughly disgusted and discouraged, as he sat down on a park bench. It was nearly dark, and the lights were blinking around him. Jim was only twenty-five years of age, fairly-well dressed, fairly good-looking; an average young man, trying to buck the world.

For two days he had tried to find a job, but with no success. He had two dollars in his pocket, owed ten dollars room rent, due right now--and an assurance from the landlady that unless he produced the back rent tonight--

Jim was a bookkeeper. That is, he tried to keep books, if he could have found some books to keep.

He tried to tell himself that he would be all right, if it was not for Cliff De Haven, that doggone chiseler! Cliff was an actor--a hoofer. That is, he was when there was a job for him. When there wasn’t he shared Jim’s room, but not in any financial sense of the word. He also ate at Jim’s expense. Cliff was a hard man to insult. At least, Jim Bailey found him so. Maybe Jim didn’t use the right words.

Cliff always had a big deal coming up. Last night he had told Jim that he was all set for the biggest deal of his life and that Jim would profit thereby. Cliff chummed with a down-at-the-heel private detective named Bob Hawley. Jim hated Hawley. Often he ate with Cliff, and Jim paid the check. Yes, if he could get rid of Cliff De Haven--but what was the use?

It was about eight o’clock when Jim got off the bench and walked to his room. He simply could not pay the bill, so there was no use trying to fool the landlady any longer.

The landlady was not in sight as Jim came in. He looked into the series of pigeon-holes at the desk, took out a letter addressed to Cliff De Haven and a folded sheet of paper, on which was printed in the landlady’s familiar hand:

Dear Mr. Bailey: Unless you can pay me ten dollars tonight, I must ask you to vacate early in the morning.

Jim Bailey crumpled the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket. No use keeping it. He went up to his room, where he tossed his hat aside and sat down on the edge of the bed. The built-in wardrobe door was open, facing him as he sat, and he got up quickly and investigated. His best suit was missing, his one best shirt, his best pair of shoes. On the table was a penciled note, which said:

Sorry, old man, but I had to put on a little dog. Will see you tomorrow. Also borrowed your watch, as I needed something to make a little flash.

Thanks. Cliff.

Jim threw the letter aside in disgust. It was like Cliff to do a thing like that. Suddenly it occurred to him that Cliff had neglected to empty the pockets, in which were several letters, cards and things like that. He had probably dressed and got out in a hurry, knowing that Jim would soon be back.

Jim expected a visit from the landlady, but she did not put in an appearance, so he went to bed, leaving the door unlocked. Cliff would probably show up before daylight, full of apologies and other things.

* * * * *

But Cliff did not show up. Jim got up about eight o’clock. He had an old suit-case, but little to put in it until Cliff came back with that suit and clothes. He went out to get some breakfast and ran into a new chambermaid at the bottom of the steps. He inquired about the landlady, and the woman said she was sick.

“Will she be here today?” he asked.

“She will not,” replied the woman. “She has some sort of infiction.”

Jim went out to the street, grinning. He said half-aloud, “I’ll bet she bit herself.”

He ate breakfast in a cheap restaurant and bought a paper, mostly for the want-ads. He glanced at the front page and his own name seemed to jump up at him. A smash-up between a truck and a street car--gasoline explosion--several people killed and injured! Only two bodies identified. Robert Hawley, a private detective. The other was, according to the police, Jim Bailey, address unknown. Partly-burned papers in his pocket and a wrist watch positively identified him. Hawley was identified by unburned articles in his possession.

Jim Bailey leaned against a post and drew a deep breath. His suit! His watch! He looked vacantly at the traffic along the street. Jim Bailey was dead--it said so in the paper. Walking in sort of a daze he went back to his room. Address unknown. He sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to realize what had happened. Jim Bailey was dead. That was a good joke.

He started to light a cigaret, then remembered the letter for Cliff De Haven. It was there on the table. There was no letterhead on the envelope, and the postmark was blurred. He opened the letter and looked it over. Cliff would never read it. It said:

You will find transportation waiting for you at the S. P. ticket office. Come to Pinnacle City and contact me at once. Office on the main street. Bob Hawley says you can do the job. Remember, your name is Jim Meade. Don’t talk with anyone, until we can get together on this deal, and don’t mention anything that Bob has told you. Wear no fancy clothes--you’re supposed to be in meager circumstances.

Ed McLean.

Jim Bailey read it twice and then sat there, an unlighted cigaret between his lips. This must have been the deal that Cliff had mentioned. He studied the postmark again and now he could see that it was Pinnacle City, Arizona. What sort of a deal was this, he wondered? Cliff was supposed to go to Pinnacle City, take the name of Meade--and what else?

Pinnacle City sounded interesting, like a small town. Jim Bailey had always lived in a big city. A sudden thought caused him to squint at the faded wall-paper of his room. Just suppose this Ed McLean had never--of course he had never seen Cliff De Haven. Bob Hawley had told McLean about Cliff. Why not take a chance? No job, no home, no ties of any kind. Jim Bailey grinned slowly.

“Wear no fancy clothes,” he quoted aloud. “You’re supposed to be in meager circumstances. Brother, you meant me!”

He took his almost-empty suit-case and left the house. There was no one in the lobby. He walked to the ticket office, where he asked about the transportation. After being shunted from desk to desk, he was sent into an office, where the man said:

“Have you anything for identification?”

Jim Bailey shook his head. “Not a thing. Oh, yes--this letter.”

It was the one sent to Cliff De Haven. The man looked at it.

“You look honest, young man,” he said smiling. “Here is your ticket, and here is the ten dollars expense money.”

Jim Bailey walked out of the office and headed for the depot.

“Good-by, Jim Bailey,” he said to himself. “I feel like a new man. Maybe I’ll just get kicked in the pants, maybe they’ll dump me into a nice Arizona jail. That is in the hands of the gods. There is one angle, though, in which I can excel--and that is in forgetting that my name ever was Cliff De Haven. If I live and prosper, I’ll send ten dollars to that landlady.”

The town of Northport is twenty-five miles north of Pinnacle City. Passengers for Pinnacle City get off the train at Northport, and take the stage. Northport itself is no metropolis, with its one street and few false-fronted buildings. Jim Bailey looked it over and decided it would be a good place to get out of at once. However, the stage would not leave for an hour, so he sat down in the little stage-depot and tried to enjoy a smoke.

The nearer he got to Pinnacle City the less he thought of this personal masquerade he was going to attend.

* * * * *

Northport was depressing. At least it was until a young lady came from the depot, carrying a valise, which she placed on a seat. She was little over five feet tall, with dark, wavy hair, a beautiful olive complexion, and wonderful eyes. Jim Bailey decided that there wasn’t anything wrong with those lips either. Jim Bailey admired beauty, but was woefully girl-shy. He had felt that a girl was a luxury far beyond his pocket-book.

An old timer came into the depot, grizzled, bow-legged, clad in overalls, flannel shirt and high-heeled boots. He stared at the girl for a moment and blurted:

“Mary Deal--or I’m a sizzlin’ sidewinder!”

“You’re not, Uncle Len,” laughed the girl. “How are you?”

“I’m finer’n frawg-hair, Mary. Golly, I’m shore glad to see yuh. It’s been--uh-h-h-h--Mary, I plumb forgot.”

“About Uncle Clint?” asked the girl. The man nodded.

“Why didn’t somebody send me a wire?” she asked. “Even a letter might have given me time to get here. I never knew it had happened for over two weeks after he was buried.”

The stage driver nodded sadly. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Ed McLean was to have let yuh know, Mary. He knowed you was at college. He said he just forgot.”

“Well, I suppose it can’t be helped,” she said. “But I did want to be here, you see. After all he did for me--”

“Yeah, I know. It was too bad, Mary. Is that yore valise? I’ll put it on the stage.”

The driver looked at Jim Bailey.

“Are you my other passenger?” he asked.

“I believe I am, sir,” replied Jim.

“Good! My name’s Carson. What’s yours?”

“My name is Jim Meade.”

“Fine. Mary Deal, meet Jim Meade.”

They both smiled. Len Carson said, “I like to make my passengers used to each other. It’s a long ways to Pinnacle City.”

[Illustration: “Mary Deal, meet Jim Meade”]

“Can’t I ride on the seat with you, Uncle Len?” asked Mary.

“I’d shore love to have yuh,” replied the driver, “but I can’t. Company passed a rule agin it, Mary. Four, five weeks ago I had a whisky drummer on the seat with me. Hit a chuck-hole and lost m’ drummer. Hung him up by the seat of the pants on a manzanita snag, ten feet down on the side of Coyote Canyon. If he hadn’t been wearin’ awful tough britches, I’d have lost him. He sued the stage company for ten thousand dollars, but they settled for a hundred and a new pair of pants. Sorry, but I cain’t take chances, Mary. Women’s clothes wouldn’t hold up nothin’, snagged on a manzanita.”

Mary laughed and got into the old stage. Jim followed her in, and the stage headed for Pinnacle City. Len Carson was a wild driver, but he had never wrecked a stage. It was the first time that Jim had ever ridden over a road like that, and it rather frightened him, but Mary only laughed.

“Why are you going to Pinnacle City?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” replied Jim. “My plans are rather vague.”

“I haven’t been there for over eight months,” she said. “I’ve been away to school.”

“Is your home in Pinnacle City?” he asked.

“It was,” she replied. “I don’t know what will happen now.”

Jim looked at her curiously, and she explained.

“I have no father or mother. Clint Haverty adopted me several years ago. He was wonderful to me. He died a few weeks ago, but no one notified me in time to attend his funeral. I came as soon as I heard about him.”

“That wasn’t a fair deal,” said Jim.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Was he a relative?”

Mary shook her head. “No, we were not related in any way. Uncle Clint knew my mother, and when she died I went to live at the Lazy H. But he’s dead now and I don’t know what will happen.”

“Has he any relatives?”

“He has two cousins in Pinnacle City, Ace and Dick Haverty. They own the Box Four H outfit. Uncle Clint never liked them.”

“This Box Four H and the Lazy H, and all that is Greek to me,” confessed Jim. “I have never been out of a city in my life before. I suppose they are places where cattle are raised.”

“That’s right, Mr. Meade. You’ll soon learn. Have you ever ridden a horse?”

“No, I never have. Is it difficult?”

“I don’t know,” said the girl smiling. “I’ve worked with horses ever since I can remember. You will learn--the hard way.”

“Everything I have ever learned was the hard way,” Jim admitted.

II

In spite of the dust and the rough road, the ride to Pinnacle City seemed short to Jim Bailey. Pinnacle City was booming with some new mining strikes. Jim left his valise in the stage depot and located Ed McLean’s office.

The lawyer was short, fat and nearly bald. Seated behind his desk, he looked at Jim Bailey thoughtfully. This young man didn’t exactly look like ready money.

“Well, young man, what can I do for you?” he asked.

“I am Jim Meade,” replied Bailey soberly.

McLean twitched visibly and his pale-blue eyes blinked.

“Jim Meade?” he asked. “You--uh--ah, yes, Jim Meade. Well, I--”

“I am answering your letter,” explained Jim.

“Oh!” the lawyer’s relief was explosive. “For a moment, I had an idea--sit down! I want to look at you. Hm-m-m-m. You don’t look very prosperous, but that is good.”

McLean leaned back in his chair, an expression of satisfaction on his face. Apparently Jim Bailey met with his approval.

“You’ll do,” he half-whispered. “Have you met anybody--talked with anybody?”

“I met a girl on the stage. Mary Deal.”

“Did she come in this morning?” asked McLean quickly. “I was expecting her, but I didn’t know when she was coming. Did she talk with you?”

“Yes, some. I told her my name was Meade.”

“Hm-m-m! Still, that name wouldn’t mean anything to her.”

“You were expecting her?”

“Yes--I wrote to her. But forget girls. This deal is a big one, and we can’t afford to miss out on it, my friend. How are you fixed for funds?”

“I am not.”

“I see. Well, go easy. Here is fifty dollars. Your room will not cost over a dollar a day. Don’t drink, don’t gamble. Let me handle everything. And above all, don’t try to explain anything.”

“Isn’t that a rather ridiculous order?” asked Jim. “After all, what could I explain?”

“True. But if anybody asks you questions about where you come from and what you are doing here--evade them.”

“When do I learn what this deal is all about?” asked Jim.

“Didn’t Hawley tell you anything about it?”

Jim shook his head, wondering if Hawley should have told him.

“Does Hawley get a cut out of the deal?” he asked.

“I’ll take care of Hawley. As soon as we can get together, I’ll explain everything. Too many people come in here. I’ll get in touch with you tonight, if I can, and we’ll go into the deal.”

Jim got his suit-case at the stage depot and secured a room at the hotel. He signed the register with the name of Jim Meade, and gave his address as San Francisco. The lobby was full of roughly-dressed men, some of them wearing chaps and spurs--and guns. Jim Bailey didn’t like that idea. He stopped at the top of the stairs and saw several of them examine the register.

“I feel like a criminal,” he told himself, “and I haven’t done a thing--yet.”

The food was good in the little restaurant, but Jim spent most of his time watching the people. In all his life he had never seen as many hard-looking men, but they seemed good-natured, having a good time. There were cowboys, cattlemen, miners, prospectors, and a sprinkling of dapper-looking gamblers. Just after dark he met Ed McLean on the street.

“I’ve been looking for you, Jim,” the lawyer said. “We can’t talk tonight, but I typed out some stuff for you to memorize. Put this in your pocket and study it in your room. See you tomorrow.”

Jim went back to his room and studied the paper. It read:

You are Jim Meade, born twenty-seven years ago in Denver, Colo. Your mother was Gale Haverty, your father was Henry Meade. He was a small merchant, and died fifteen years ago. Your mother died nine years ago. You heard vaguely of relatives in the Pinnacle country, and came here, hoping to get work.

Jim studied the few lines carefully. It still didn’t make sense. He repeated it over to himself several times, tore the note into small pieces and sifted them out the window, where they blew away in the breeze.

“Haverty?” queried Jim to himself. “That’s the name of the man who died and left the big ranch--the one Mary--” He stopped and thought things over. “But where does Jim Meade enter into the deal? Maybe Jim Bailey is getting in over his head. Well, I’ve got to know a lot more about it than this, before I get excited.”

* * * * *

Mary Deal sat on the big porch of the Lazy H and talked things over with Tellurium Woods, the old cook, who had been there for years. Tellurium was as wide as he was high, and he was only five feet, three inches tall. Except for a tuft above each ear, Tellurium was as bald as a billiard-ball.

“You’ll jist have to blame Ed McLean for not bein’ told about Clint dyin’,” sighed Tellurium. “I reckon he was too busy to do much thinkin’. Ed McLean and the Cattlemen’s Bank are the executioners of the will, which ain’t been read yet. I heard it was to be read tomorrow. You’ll get the Lazy H--that’s a cinch. Clint wouldn’t give Ace and Dick Haverty the sleeves out of his vest.”

Mary had no comments. A rider came up to the ranch-house and drew up at the porch. The rider was tall and thin, with a long, rather humorous-looking face. He took off his sombrero and grinned at them.

“I’m lookin’ for the ramrod of this spread,” he said quietly.

“If I ain’t mistaken, pardner,” replied Tellurium, “you’ll find Tex Parker down around the corrals.”

“Much obliged, mister--and ma’am,” he said soberly, and rode down across the yard.

“There goes Arizona,” said Mary.

“Huh? I didn’t git it.”

Mary laughed. “When I was at school, I thought of Arizona a lot, Tellurium--and Arizona was always a tall cowpoke on a long-legged horse, squinting into the sun.”

“Yeah, I know what yuh mean. That hombre looks like real folks, and he packs his gun low and handy. I like his grin.”

The tall cowboy found Tex Parker at the stable. Tex was a raw-boned cowboy, hard-faced, with little sense of humor. He sized up the stranger questioningly.

“Yo’re Tex Parker? Good! I’m knowed as Skeeter. Smith is the last designation. Glad to meet yuh.”

Skeeter Smith dismounted and leaned against the fence. “What can I do for yuh, Smith?” asked the foreman.

“A job,” replied Skeeter. “I was up in Pinnacle City, kinda askin’ around, and somebody told me that the bank was runnin’ the Lazy H; so I went to see the head-man of the bank, and he said you was startin’ a roundup next week.”

“I see,” said Parker. He didn’t like the idea of the bank taking things over like that. After all, nothing had been settled.

“I’m just a pilgrim,” said Skeeter. “Kinda moseyin’ around all the time, lookin’ at things and places. Right nice lookin’ spread you’ve got here. I’ve been rated as a top-hand with cows.”

Tex Parker smiled. “You pack yore gun awful low for jist a pilgrim,” he remarked.

“Long arms,” said Skeeter soberly. “Kinda lazy, too. Hate to have to crook m’ elbow too much. How about a job for a while?”

The foreman nodded. “All right, Smith. I’ll show yuh a bunk, and you can dump yore war-bag. Start workin’ in the mornin’.”

“Right nice and pleasant of yuh, Parker. Thanks.”

Skeeter Smith left his war-bag in the bunk-house, got on his horse and headed back for Pinnacle City. Tex Parker was thoughtful, as he went back to the stable.

“I’d like to know who that rannahan is,” he remarked to himself. “Pilgrim! Oh, well, all I want is a good cow-hand--and he talks like a good one.”

On the porch Tellurium and Mary were talking about Len Carson, the stage-driver.

“Ol’ Len’s a character,” laughed the cook. “I think he was exaggeratin’ about the drummer. I don’t believe he ever fell into Coyote Canyon. I heard the drummer made a derogatory re-mark about some woman in Pinnacle City, and Len knocked him off the seat. Didja hear about Len gettin’ held up? No?

“Yeah, that happened about a month ago. Two fellers stuck up the stage. Got away with some gold from the Santa Isabella mine, and some registered mail, I heard. Had masks on. Len wasn’t able to say who they looked like.”

“Len never told me about it,” said Mary. “In fact, we didn’t have much chance to talk.”

“You mentioned a passenger named Meade,” said Tellurium. “Yuh know, I’ve been thinkin’ about that name, and I kinda remembered Clint speakin’ of somebody named Meade. It seems to me that it was some relate of his’n, but I can’t be sure.”

“I suppose there are a lot of people by that name,” said Mary.

“Yeah, I reckon there must be. Well, I’ve got to start cookin’.”

Tellurium bow-legged his way into the house, headed for the kitchen. He whistled off-key, but with enthusiasm.

III

Jim Bailey’s first night as Jim Meade was fraught with bad dreams and bed-bugs. Stampeding cattle and bucking horses trampled him into the dust while Mary Deal hung suspended over the side of a cliff, her skirt twisted into a manzanita snag. Jim wanted to be a hero, and save her, but his former landlady showed up and chased him through the brush. However, the bugs were very real.

The bank had notified Ace and Dick Haverty to come in at ten o’clock that morning to listen to the reading of Clint Haverty’s will, and they were in, dressed in their Sunday clothes, looking very uncomfortable. They were a hulking pair of unshaved, unwashed cattlemen, expecting nothing from the estate of their uncle.

Ed McLean, the attorney, was there. No one had invited Mary Deal. Thomas Estabrook, the white-haired banker, was there, grim-visaged, as became a banker. Ed McLean, after a short preamble extolling the virtues of Clinton Haverty, opened the sealed envelope. The will was short and to the point, witnessed by the postmaster and the proprietor of the hotel.

It left the Lazy H ranch--buildings, furniture, all live-stock and money in the bank--to Jim Meade, son of his sister, Gale, and Henry Meade, last heard of in Denver, Colorado. It gave Ace and Dick Haverty each a silver dollar, but did not even mention Mary Deal. Mace Adams, the grizzled sheriff of Pinnacle City, was in at the reading.

“I have never heard of Jim Meade,” Estabrook said. “Didn’t Clint say anything to you about him, Ed?”

“I asked him about Meade, when he signed the will,” replied the lawyer. “He said, ‘It is up to you to find him.’ I have no idea where to look, Mr. Estabrook. Of course, we can--”