THE days which immediately followed the trial of Clement Dawn were heart-breaking ones for the Basin ranchers. Horace Moley sued for judgment against the Cinchbuckle and secured it. The other spreads had been deeded to him; now the Cinchbuckle was sold by the sheriff and bid in by Steve Moley. Together Steve and his father owned the entire Basin. The ranchers had been given a month in which to settle up their affairs, pack their personal belongings, and get out.
Barry and his two cowboys were making a final tour of the property in a last effort to determine just what the valuable thing was they were sure the Basin held. The matter intrigued Barry; he was convinced that Moley would never have gone to the lengths he had for the simple purpose of acquiring cattle range.
“You say there were no signs of gold or silver?” questioned Nip.
“Not a sign; and I don’t know what else it could be.” Barry rode for a short space in silence, mentally going over every inch of ground he had covered, searching for the tiniest clue to Slater’s secret. The man had found something, and had been paid five thousand dollars for his find; Barry was positive of that. The memory came to him of a dank, stagnant pool which stank, and suddenly he jerked erect in the saddle.
“Come with me,” he said tersely, and headed for the line cabin.
Not a word could they get out of him until they stood by the side of the evil-smelling pool. Barry scanned the surface of the water and exclaimed aloud.
“That’s it! That’s the secret! And I sat here a half hour and didn’t see it.”
“See what?” asked Nip.
Barry pointed. “That film over there. No wonder the motto was ‘Buy, steal, or kill’! How blind I’ve been! And now Moley—”
“What in heck are you talkin’ about? What film?”
“You’re dumb as I am, Nip. That rainbow film on the top of the water over in that dark corner. It’s there plain as day and cryin’ to be noticed. You can even smell it.”
“Smell it?” Nip sniffed the air, then stiffened like a pointer. “Holy bobcats! Tuck, you clanged fool, it’s oil!”
“Oil!”
Barry spoke bitterly. “Oil. The whole Basin’s undermined with it, likely. And if we had only used our eyes and our noses we could have got plenty of capital to take care of those notes. Now Maley and his son are headed towards millions while the ones to whom it really belongs are without even homes to live in!”
He turned to them suddenly. “Boys, keep this to yourselves. Maley got possession by fraud; somewhere he must have tripped up. We missed out on Frothingham and Hodge and Groody; but there must be somebody alive that we can squeeze evidence from.”
“Who could it be besides Steve?”
“My step-father for one. It’s a slim chance; Horace Moley would hardly trust him, but he was paid ten thousand dollars for somethin’. Boys, I’m gain’ after him right now.”
He rode off without another word, and for a long time the two cowboys sat at the edge of the pool and studied the film on its surface.
“Tuck,” sighed Nip, “we’re the two biggest fools unhung. We set tight while Barry was puttin’ ice packs on Ace’s feet and looked right at a hundred million dollars without seein’ it. Maley sure rooked us good. And he killed Slater so’s he wouldn’t have to share it.”
“Be a damn’ good joke on him if Slater had rooked him,” said Tuck savagely.
“How’d he do it? He couldn’t keep pourin’ oil on top of the water right along, and there’s enough overflow to the creek to run it off.”
There was a period of silence; then—“I know one way he could do it,” said Nip, and proceeded to explain.
Barry, in the meanwhile, had started his search. He did not believe his step-father would go very far, and dismissed at once the possibility of his fleeing to Mexico. He met people in Mescal who had seen Chet Lewis ride north. At Hartsville he learned that Lewis had purchased some supplies. From Hartsville he traced him to Juniper, and there lost him; but north of Juniper was the large town of Benson, and here Barry began a systematic search which finally led him to his man.
Chet was seated in an obscure table in the corner of a saloon. He was slumped in his chair and his head was lowered. For Chet was lonesome; even with a thousand dollars he was lonesome. He had lost his home and what friends he had, and he must stretch that thousand a long way. Here he didn’t know a soul and was afraid to scrape up an acquaintance lest the money be taken from him. He heard the rasp of a chair on the far side of his table and looked up. Barry Weston was standing there watching him.
With a cry of alarm Chet started to his feet, but Barry reached out and gripped him by the wrist. “Sit down, Chet; I’m not goin’ to hurt you. I just want to ask you some questions.”
Chet sank back into the chair, and Barry seated himself opposite him.
“Chet, you gave Horace Moley a note, didn’t you?”
“Why—why, yes; I reckon I did.”
“Do you know what use he made of it? He presented it to my mother for payment, and she, not having the money, deeded the Flying W over to him. That is how she stood by you, Chet, after the dirty way you treated her.”
Chet was sputtering. “But—but, Barry, she hadn’t oughta done that! The note wasn’t for much.”
Barry smiled mirthlessly. “No, not much; just a mere ten thousand dollars.”
“Ten thousand dollars! Barry, that ain’t so! That note was for one thousand dollars. I swear it was!”
Barry’s eyes kindled. “One thousand! Chet, are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I signed it, didn’t I? And I sure can read. Maley paid me one thousand dollars; I got most of it yet.”
“Why did he pay you that amount? Tell the truth now!”
Chet did. “I thought they were goin’ to take you away and warn you not to come back,” he whined. “Honest I did, Barry.”
“Forget it.” Again Barry had failed to uncover any evidence of fraud on Moley’s part, so far as acquiring the Basin land was concerned; but he had something to hold over the lawyer if Lewis were speaking the truth: forgery.
“Chet, if you’re lyin’ to me I’ll forget you’re my mother’s husband!”
“I ain’t lyin’. He gave me one thousand dollars, and I signed a note for that amount. I’ll face him if you say so.”
Barry got up. “Get your horse and we’ll ride.”
They reached Mescal early in the morning and continued on to the Flying W. Barry’s mother produced the canceled note, and Chet scanned it briefly.
“That looks like my signature, but it ain’t. I never signed this note.”
“Then it’s forgery.” Barry’s eyes were glinting. “I believe we have the wolf by the nape of the neck at last. Lola, where are Nip and Tuck?”
“They are gone long tam, Bar-ree. The day you lef’ they come ’ere and get the shovel and the peek. Nex’ day they come back, mak me feex them mach food, an’ go away weeth the wagon. I’m not see them seence.”
“If they show up send them to Mescal. Come on, Chet.”
Back to town they rode and stopped at the sheriff’s office. Here they repeated the story of the forged note. Matt’s face lighted up.
“Barry, you got him hooked. He’ll be a long time explainin’ this away. I’ll go with you.”
Horace Maley opened the door to his office. The faintest perceptible start was the only sign to betray any apprehension he might have felt at sight of Chet Lewis.
“I’m quite busy today,” he said. “Can’t you return later?”
“This business won’t wait,” Barry told him, and pushed by him into the room. The others followed, and Maley reluctantly seated himself at his desk.
“It’s about this note for ten thousand dollars,” said Barry, and spread the paper on the desk before Moley. “Chet Lewis declares the signature has been forged.”
“Chet Lewis lies,” said Moley calmly. “I paid him ten thousand dollars for improvements on the Flyin’ W.”
“Chet didn’t own the Flyin’ W.”
“His wife did. I took a chance on her honoring the note. You must admit my judgment was good.” Maley had entirely recovered his confidence.
“Your judgment was excellent, Maley. The whole plan was a good one. Tom Slater found oil in the Basin—”
“Oil!” exclaimed both Matt and Lewis.
“Yes, oil. You, Maley, paid him five thousand for the secret and then had Tug Groody rub him out so he wouldn’t talk. You started a bank with Frothingham the apparent owner. He lent money recklessly on demand notes. When the money was spent, he disappeared and you turn up the real owner. You pose as a man greatly wronged, and call the notes to save you from ruin. They are not honored, and the collateral is forfeited. You now own the whole Basin, you and your son, and the oil which lies under it. Well worked out, Maley; and absolutely foolproof.”
Maley answered tightly. “You’ll pay for those wild statements, Weston! I’ll sue you for everything you own or hope to own.”
Barry laughed bitterly. “Go ahead and sue; you’ve already taken everything. All that is left to me is the satisfaction of branding you the dirty crook you are. Wallow in your oil if you want to; but make up your mind to spend some of your life behind the bars for forgery. Where’s that other note? The one Chet really signed?”
“This is the only note. Now get out of my office, all of you. Here! What are you doing?” For Barry, ignoring the command, had stepped past the desk and was drawing open the heavy iron door to the safe.
Moley sprang up, but Matt Billings gave him a shove which sent him back into his chair. “Set quiet, Horace. It’s your turn to squirm.”
“You too, eh? A fine sheriff you are! Here is a man thrusting himself unbidden into my office and going through my private papers. I’ll have you removed from office for this.”
Matt only glared at him, and Horace was forced to sit idly and fume while Barry systematically went through his papers.
“Here it is,” Weston said at last. “A note for one thousand dollars.”
Chet Lewis examined it and nodded. “That’s the one I signed.”
“I reckon, Horace,” said Barry quietly, “that you’d better deed the Flyin’ W back to my mother.”
Moley sprang to his feet, his face blazing. “I’ll do nothing of the sort! This is a frame-up, and I’ll fight it to the last court. The Flying W is mine, legally mine, and so is the rest of the Basin. Yes, there is oil there, and I intend to have it. Every barrel—every pint! And when I get it, I’ll hound you and every miserable cur in your pack until I put them where they belong!”
The office door opened, and two men entered.
“Did I hear somethin’ about oil?” asked Nip.
Barry looked at them. Their eyes were very bright and they seemed to be laboring under some excitement.
Nip spoke to Tuck. “Did you hear what I heard? He’s gonna git every barrel—every pint! Oh, my gosh! What a joke.”
Moley spoke sharply. “Joke? What do you mean?”
Nip answered pityingly. “Horace, in some ways you’re a smart man; but in others you’re a plain clanged fool. Do you think a fella like Slater would part with a secret like that for five thousand dollars? He sure rooked you good! And you countin’ on all that oil, all them untold millions locked in the bosom of Mother Earth! Oh, my gosh!”
Moley leaped forward and seized him. “What are you saying?” he demanded harshly. “Talk, damn you! What are you hinting at?”
Nip brushed him aside. “Hands off, sucker, you’ll git me dirty. I ain’t hintin’ at nothin’; I’m talkin’ right out in meetin’. There’s more oil in that lamp over there than in the whole clanged Basin. Slater just rooked you for five thousand bucks.”
Moley gasped, staggered back against the desk. “You’re lying! The seepage—I saw it with my own eyes; not once, but many times. He couldn’t have put it there and kept it there for a year.”
“Hold your damned tongue!” came a harsh command from the doorway. Steve Moley had entered the room. “What’s this you’re talkin’ about, Nip?”
Horace was pale and shaken. “They say there is no oil, Stevie. I can’t believe it.”
“They’re lyin’. They’re makin’ a fool of you. Can’t you see it’s a put-up job to make you admit—” He broke off suddenly.
“Admit what?” snapped Barry.
“Nothin’.”
“Steve,” said Nip, “if it wasn’t such a good joke on you I’d call your hand. Better look for yourself before you call any more names.”
“Look where?”
“Where do you think? In that little pond near the Cinchbuckle south line cabin. Come on; let’s all take a look.”
Horace Maley’s face was pinched and drawn. “See? They know about the pool, Stevie. I must see; I must see for myself!”
They passed out of the office together, Barry and Matt bright-eyed, Nip and Tuck chuckling over their joke, the lawyer and his son harsh-faced and anxious. Maley’s buggy was prepared and a pick and shovel tossed into the box. Horace driving the rig and the other six riding, they started on their trip.
It was noon when they reached the cabin. Here they got down and pushed their way through the brush to the edge of the stagnant pool. It’s green-scummed surface was placid; the tell-tale film of oil still spread itself across the little corner Slater had first pointed out.
The two cowboys led the way to a point some ten feet above the surface of the water and silently indicated the freshly turned earth.
“We opened her up once,” said Nip, “but it was such a good joke that we covered it again. Start diggin’, Horace.”
It was Horace who seized the pick and started to work. Steve shoveled. They did not have far to dig. Presently the pick struck wood, and a little later the head of a barrel was uncovered.
“Keep diggin’,” said Tuck grinning. “Might as well git the whole of the bad news in a lump.”
Shoveling feverishly, Steve uncovered the front of the barrel; then stood staring down at his feet. He swore harshly and climbed from the hole. Without a word he strode away, crashing through the brush, and a moment later they heard the thud of his horse’s hoofs.
Horace Maley looked into the hole, and as he gazed he seemed to grow infinitely older. The lines in his lean face became deeper, the mouth drew down at the corners, the whole lank frame seemed to shrink.
“See how it’s worked?” asked Nip cheerfully. “Right here is a nice big barrel of crude oil, buried above the water line. From the bunghole in the bottom runs a rubber hose. If you dig it up you’ll see that it ends below the surface of the pond. The oil from the barrel runs through the hose and slowly seeps through the ground into the pool. There, bein’ lighter than water, it rises to the top and spreads itself in that purty film which led our friend Horace to commit all kinds of meanness. Nice, ain’t it?”
The life seemed to return to Horace Maley. Eyes blazing, jaws tight, he cursed the man he blamed for the tragedy. “The damned double-crosser! The cursed rattlesnake! The poisonous skunk! He fooled me—tricked me—bled me! Blast his lying heart!”
Matt Billings was grinning. “Go on, Horace; git it outa your system. It’s so illuminatin’ to hear a pious soul like you talk about foolin’ and trickin’ and bleedin’. And when you run plumb outa steam, you can drive back to Mescal and see if the judge will turn you loose on bail. I reckon you can gather from that that I’m arrestin’ you for forgery.”