Corey Fames, a lawman who preferred to handle all his business quietly, pounded his desk with a clenched fist and roared, “Quiet! Everybody shut up.”
There had been uproar and confusion in the law office from the moment of the deputies’ arrival with their prisoners, and with several towners in tow. The tall Texans were loudly telling Stabile exactly what they thought of his powers of detection, his standard of intelligence and the mating habits of his ancestors. Just as loudly, Stabile was ordering the junior deputies to lock the prisoners up. And, above all this, the persistent Harv Purley was trying to get a word in edgeways.
It took Fames some little time to win silence.
“Now,” he breathed, “let me hear it quietly—one detail at a time.” He eyed Stabile impatiently. “Who got killed?”
“The old prospector,” frowned Stabile. “Jordy Cabot.”
The marshal’s face clouded over.
“That’s rough,” he grunted. “Poor old Jordy ...” He shook his head. “All right—so you arrested these two strangers. Who are they?”
“Didn’t get around to asking their names,” shrugged Stabile. “All I know is I found ’em with Jordy.”
“The names,” said Larry, “are Valentine and Emerson.”
Fames made a choking sound, resumed his chair and began gnawing at his fingernails.
“I knew it,” he mumbled. “It’s a rough town, this Blanco Roca, but I’ve been keeping the peace. Twenty years I’ve been a lawman—and never yet ran into the Texas Hell-Raisers. Figured I could serve this last term and then retire peaceful—and never meet Valentine and Emerson. But I was fooling myself. I should’ve known it’d happen—sooner or later.”
“Don’t let it faze you,” shrugged Larry, as he dug out his makings. “We ain’t half as dangerous as folks think.”
“Hey!” grinned Brad Paulson. “Larry and Stretch. How about that?”
“Gosh—I’ve been hearing tales of these hombres since I was knee-high to a jackrabbit,” murmured Robbie Meyers.
“I don’t care who they are,” scowled Stabile. “I still say they butchered poor old Jordy Cabot!”
“You keep sayin’ that ...” Larry scratched a match, lit his cigarette and squinted at Stabile through the smoke-haze, “and I’ll ram that shiny tin badge down your doggone throat.”
“The hell with you ...!” gasped Stabile.
“Simmer down, Wade,” chided Fames.
“And now,” smiled Harv Purley, “maybe you’ll listen to what I got to say.”
“Who’s he?” enquired Stretch.
“Purley’s the name.” The owner accorded the Texans a genial grin, tucked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. “Harv Purley to you. I’m in the travel business—manage the Wells Fargo office here.” He turned to the marshal. “Corey, you might as well turn these gents loose, here and now.” “Purley,” scowled Stabile, “I’m getting awful weary of you butting into this deal.”
“Ease up,” warned Fames. “You got no call to talk that way to Harv. He’s president of the Temperance League here in Blanco Roca, and a mighty respected citizen.” He nodded to the Wells Fargo man. “Go ahead, Harv. Say your piece.”
“It just happens,” explained Purley, “I was on the depot porch with these friends of mine ...” He indicated his cronies. “Guess you’re acquainted with the other leaders of our temperance movement—Mr. Kelly, Mr. Cooper, Mr. McKenzie ...”
“Good honest citizens,” Fames acknowledged. “Go on, Harv.”
“We saw these Texas gents ride in,” continued Purley. He frowned ponderously, rubbed at his prominent nose. “And I’ll tell you what else we saw. We saw old Jordy trying to get out of the alley. A mighty sorry sight he was too. All bloody. Then somebody hauled him back into the alley, and Mr. Valentine and Mr. Emerson cooled their saddles, and went running in after ’em. By the time we made it to that side of the street, the killers were on the run, and these gents were checking Jordy over. That—uh—that’s when Deputy Stabile arrived—and started jumping to conclusions.”
“That’s all?” frowned the marshal.
“Isn’t that enough?” challenged Purley. “As sure as I’m a teetotaler, these Texas gents are innocent.”
“You satisfied now?” Larry challenged Fames.
Fames ignored him for the time being—or tried to. “Harv,” he prodded, “how many men attacked Old Jordy?”
“It was too dark to see,” frowned Purley. “Three or four, maybe.”
“We tangled with ’em,” said Larry, “but I couldn’t tell you how many there were. We were fightin’ blind in there.”
Fames nodded slowly, heaved a sigh, and said, “I can’t rightly hold you—and I don’t know which is worse: having you in my jail—or having you loose on the streets of Blanco Roca.”
“Obliged to you,” Larry told Purley.
“My pleasure,” beamed Purley.
Purley and his cronies nodded farewell to the Texans and sauntered from the office. To the deputies, Fames said, “Start checking around—try and get a lead on the men who knifed old Jordy.” He eyed Stabile sourly.
“I was certain-sure ...” began Stabile.
“You were wrong, Wade,” Fames pointed out. “You owe these hombres an apology.”
“The hell with them,” snapped Stabile.
He turned on his heel and strode out. The younger deputies made quite a ceremony of returning the Texans’ armory, after which they hustled away to begin their investigation. Fames rose up, trudged to his safe and unlocked it. While the Texans buckled on their hardware, he tore the flap of the envelope, extracted the document given him by the dead man and checked for the name of next-of-kin.
“Anna Layton,” he mused. “Jordy’s daughter. Helluva lousy chore this’ll be—breaking the bad news to her. Well ...” He reached for his hat, “I’d best get it over and done with.”
“Before you go,” said Larry, “there’s somethin’ we have to ask you.”
“Ask it fast,” frowned Fames.
“We got a baby ...” began Larry.
“Congratulations,” shrugged Fames.
“Hell!” protested Stretch. “He ain’t our baby!”
“A maverick,” explained Larry. “Party of Piutes brought him to us. The kid’s white, so we took him off their hands. Could be the mother is right here in Blanco Roca.”
“A white baby ...” Fames eyed them incredulously.
“Some Blanco Roca woman gave the baby to a Piute that came here to trade,” said Larry.
“That,” declared Fames, “is just about the craziest think I ever heard of.” He rubbed at his jaw, frowned perplexedly. “It couldn’t be kidnapping, that’s for sure. And, if some Blanco Roca baby was missing, I’d be bound to hear about it.”
“That’s what I figured,” nodded Larry. “Well? Has anybody reported a baby missin’?”
“No.” Fames shook his head emphatically. “I’ve been marshal of this burg quite a spell, and there’s just never been a case of baby-stealing here. Seems to me, Valentine, those Indians tricked you somehow.”
“It didn’t smell like a trick,” argued Larry.
“Well,” said Fames, “I still can’t help you. Of course, if I should hear anything …”
“All right,” shrugged Larry. “But, meantime, we need a place to stay. We don’t mind campin’ out of town, most times, but not when we got a baby on our hands.”
“Can’t help you there either,” said Fames. “Every hotel in Blanco Roca is full to the roof—even the two-bit flophouses. But you could ask around. Maybe somebody’ll take pity on you.” On his way to the door, he paused, struck by a new thought. “Where is the kid anyway?”
That question was answered immediately. Into the office came Ezekiel Yates, tagged by his eldest daughter, and Carolyn was tenderly toting the small enigma.
“Howdy, Zeke,” grunted Fames.
“Howdy, Marshal,” nodded Yates. He stared curiously at the Texans. “You the gents that belong to this young ’un?”
“We’re his godfathers,” explained Larry, “kind of.”
“What’s going on?” Yates asked the lawman. “I asked around for these gents, and heard tell they got arrested.”
“That was a mistake,” said Fames. “They’ve been cleared.” He thrust the last will and testament of Jordan Cabot into his hip pocket, donned his Stetson. “You folks’ll have to excuse me now. I got a chore to tend.” From the doorway, he though to perform introductions. “This is Zeke Yates and his daughter Carolyn. Zeke, maybe you’ve heard of these hombres. Valentine and Emerson.”
He trudged away, leaving Yates and the girl staring at the strangers. Carolyn’s eyes were aglow.
“Larry and Stretch?” she breathed. “Honest?”
“Well,” grinned Larry, “we’re honest enough—most of the time.” He took the babe from her. Sam grinned up at him. “Miss Carolyn, we’re mighty obliged to you.”
“I guess she’s heard tell of us,” Stretch smugly asserted.
“Heard of you?” frowned Yates. “Heck. She’s been listenin’ to all the wild stories about you, readin’ about you in the newspapers and, by golly, she cut your pictures out of the Carson City Star a couple years back and nailed ’em to the parlor wall!”
“You’re braver than Buffalo Bill,” Carolyn solemnly informed Larry. “And you ...” She turned to Stretch, “I bet you can shoot straighter than Wes Hardin or Bill Hickok or—or anybody.”
“Right friendly little critter.” Yates nodded to the babe. “How’d you come by him?”
“The Injuns gave him to us,” said Stretch.
Yates blinked uncertainly, shrugged, and said, “Well—ask a silly question, get a silly answer. You gents fixin’ to stay on in Blanco Roca?”
“Long enough,” said Larry, “to find out who the little feller belongs to.”
“Sure sorry I can’t help you,” said Yates. “Haven’t heard tell of any local folks losin’ a baby.”
He escorted his daughter to the doorway. From there, she smiled back at the Texans and murmured, “Goodbye, Mr. Valentine—Mr. Emerson.”
Father and daughter departed. For a few moments, Larry stood frowning at the vacant doorway.
“Best we start lookin’ around,” he told Stretch. “Got to find shelter for Sam.”
Ten minutes after quitting the law office, Wade Stabile entered the High Strike Bar, a small saloon in the downtown area. From just inside the batwings, he nodded to one of the three rough-looking men occupying a corner table. Then, unobtrusively, he retreated to the boardwalk. The man signaled came out to join him. He was scrawny and beady-eyed, with a grizzled beard adorning his unprepossessing features.
“Not here, Stabile,” he grunted. “The side alley.”
“Why sure, Bowes.” Stabile grinned knowingly. “Side alleys are your specialty, huh?”
“That ain’t funny,” growled Russ Bowes.
They moved into the gloom of the side alley. Stabile lit a cigar and said, “Hand it over. Markham’ll be getting impatient.”
“You think I got that consarned map?” challenged Bowes. “Hell, I’d of took it to Markham by now. We didn’t have time to check Cabot’s pockets before them two strangers jumped us.”
Stabile cursed luridly. “Three of you—against one burnt-out old desert-rat. An easy chore—and you had to bungle it!”
“The old fool fought like crazy!” protested Bowes. “He’d of yelled his damned head off if I hadn’t knifed him. And then, just when I was about to search him, all hell busted loose. We had to cut and run.”
“You got any idea who you were running from?” prodded Stabile. “Well, I’ll tell you. Just two hombres. A couple of smart-alecks name of Valentine and Emerson.”
“Never heard of ’em.”
“Well—that’s not important any more. What matters is the map, and it’s likely still in his clothes.”
“They toted him to Wilkie’s Funeral Parlor. I saw ’em.”
“All right. I’ll get down to Wilkie’s right away. Meantime, you and those two sidekicks of yours keep your mouths shut and your noses clean. I’ll let you know when Garth wants to parlay again.”
“Fair enough, Stabile. But you better find that doggone map.” Bowes grinned blandly. “Me and Dixon and Flegg—we hanker for our share of that Moon Mountain silver.”
“You’ll get your share,” Stabile assured him, as he strode from the alley.
The Wilkie establishment was located two blocks further downtown. Within minutes of his short conference with the killer, Stabile was hustling into the undertaker’s workroom to bark queries at the mortician. Where were the dead man’s clothes? Had Wilkie searched them yet?
“Haven’t got around to it yet.” The undertaker gestured to the mortal remains of the old prospector, now occupying a long table and covered by a sheet.
“This is his stuff?” demanded Stabile, as he approached the shapeless bundle in the near corner.
“That,” nodded Wilkie, “and whatever’s on the burro. It’s hitched outside.”
Stabile made a thorough examination of the shabby garments, then hurried outside and checked the pack roll, the contents of the bags slung to the burro’s back. Nothing. Not a sign of the map. From the front doorway, Wilkie frowned out at him and asked, “Who pays for this funeral? The daughter?”
“What daughter?” challenged Stabile.
“Girl that sings at the Bonanza,” said Wilkie. “You recall her? She’s the one hitched up with that gambler a while back—feller that got killed over Utah way.”
“Oh, sure.” Stabile nodded impatiently. “I recall her now. Well, maybe she can afford a cheap funeral for her old man.”
He headed for the big saloon, in urgent haste. His mood was grim, but, when he entered Blanco Roca’s noisiest house of entertainment, his saturnine countenance wore its customary impassive mask. He talked to the proprietor at the bar, quietly, casually.
“She’s all broken up,” Bennett confided.
“Marshal still with her?” asked Stabile.
“Been and gone,” said Bennett. “I told her she could take the night off.”
“Well,” frowned Stabile, “I don’t like to intrude on her at a time like this, but maybe she’s thought of something—maybe she can give us a clue.”
“Wouldn’t Fames have questioned her already?” suggested Bennett.
“Could be,” shrugged Stabile. “But I aim to be sure.”
“He was in here earlier,” offered Bennett.
“Old Jordy?” prodded Stabile.
“Uh huh,” nodded Bennett. “Visited with her a spell.”
Stabile glanced towards the stairs and did some deep thinking. Bennett, ever eager to curry favor with the law, gave him a cigar and a light, and asked, “You want to talk to her?”
“Reckon I’d better,” drawled Stabile.
“Last room along the gallery,” said Bennett.
When the deputy knocked at her door, Anna was hard at work, plying her needle diligently, her vision blurred by her tears. She had begun the chore within minutes of Fames’ leaving her. Hadn’t her father stressed the importance of his one and only map? And wasn’t it likely that he had been murdered for it? Men had been killed for less, in many mining camps.
Her feelings were mixed and, though her nerves had suffered a jolt, she was trying to think clearly. She assumed her father had talked too freely, had bragged of his good fortune in the presence of opportunists, which could mean that others were aware of the existence of the map. The fact that Jordy Cabot had visited his daughter that evening was no secret. In time, the killers would think about this—and maybe guess the map had been passed to her for safekeeping.
At Stabile’s knock, she hastily refolded the map and thrust it into her bodice, draped the shawl over the back of her chair and nudged her sewing basket out of sight under the bed. Then, tensely, she asked, “Who is it?”
“Deputy Stabile,” he replied. “Begging your pardon for the intrusion, Miss Anna. Got a few questions to ask.”
She went to the door, unlocked and opened it. Stabile sauntered in with his hat in his hands, helped himself to the chair she’d been using, so that his head rested against the shawl. She closed the door, sank into the other chair and eyed him enquiringly.
“Tough,” he sympathized, “what happened to your old man. You got my sympathy.” His eyes seemed to be probing clear through her. “How’re you feeling?”
“How does any woman feel,” she countered, “at a time like this?”
“Sure.” He nodded moodily. “Well—life goes on, Miss Anna, and I got my duty to think of. Got to make a try at finding the men that killed old Jordy.”
“I’ve already told the marshal everything I know,” she pointed out.
“Figured you might have thought of something since Corey questioned you,” he explained.
“Well,” said Anna, “I haven’t.”
To Fames, she had said nothing about the map, or her father’s discovery of the rich silver deposits of Moon Mountain. ‘Don’t trust anybody’—that was her policy now.
“Jordy visited with you tonight.” Stabile made it a statement, not a question.
“That’s right,” she nodded.
“What did you talk about?”
“The usual things.” Perhaps her reply was too quick, too ready. “How I’d been getting along without him—things like that.”
“Nothing about where he’d been,” he demanded, “or what he’d done?”
“He didn’t talk about himself,” she lied. “Why, Deputy Stabile? Why do you ask?”
“We got no leads at all,” he shrugged, “as to why your father was murdered. I thought maybe he talked about some old enemy of his. If you can think of anybody ...”
“I can’t,” she firmly assured him. “My father had no enemies.”
“If that’s so …” He grinned mirthlessly, “… old Jordy was a mighty unusual feller. There aren’t many who can claim they don’t have an enemy in the world.”
“Deputy Stabile,” frowned Anna. “I’ve suffered a great shock and I’m very tired.”
“Yeah, sure.” He got to his feet. For a fleeting moment, his narrowed eyes scanned the room, questing. Then, ambling to the door, he muttered, “Sorry to bust in on you. If you think of anything that might help us, come see us at the marshal’s office.”
She rose up, closed the door after him and carefully locked it. Then, quickly, she retrieved her sewing basket and resumed her chair. The map was unfolded and placed on the table. By lamplight, she could clearly follow the simple lines and characters sketched by her father.
The shawl had been intended for her baby. She had worked a floral pattern into the heavy silk during the latter stages of her pregnancy. A pleasing confusion of red flowers against the deep blue of the silk. Now, the garment so quickly discarded that chill evening—when the midwife had broken the sad news—had been brought to light again, and for a specific purpose. To copy the original map on to a fresh sheet of paper would prove futile—even dangerous—or so she thought. Her father’s murderers might search her room, and that search would certainly be thorough.
And so Anna Layton, despite the sorry condition of her nerves, had devised a strategy that would defeat the men who had so savagely butchered her father. Every detail of the map was being duplicated on the blue shawl, in fine thread.