Skeleton Lode (3 page)

“Damn considerate of him to get the word out,” Dallas said. “Every owl-hoot from New Orleans to San Diego will be lookin’ for Hoss, wantin’ his claim.”

“Don’t be so quick to blame the assayer,” replied Wheaton. “Peterson only mentioned it to me because Hoss has been gone more’n six months. Why would he leave evidence of a big strike like that and make no move to register the claim? Peterson thinks something may have happened to Hoss, and I think he may be right. You gents are closer to him than anybody else, and that’s why I’m tellin’ you this. Has he ever said anything to you about a strike, or about leavin’ some rich ore with the assayer?”

“No to both questions,” Dallas said. “We staked him as usual, and we haven’t seen him since.”

“You’re leadin’ up to something, Sheriff,” said Arlo. “What?”

“This,” Wheaton said. “Sure as hell, something’s happened to Henry Logan, and but for you gents, I can’t think of a soul who’d ride off into the Superstitions to look for him.”

Arlo and Dallas looked at one another. With the saloon
gone, and without the necessary money for wagons and teams, what else did they have to do? Even if old age or Apaches had caught up with Hoss Logan, they could at least find the old man’s bones and bury him proper. As friends, they owed him that.

“All right,” Arlo said. “We’ll have to round up some grub, but come mornin’, we’ll ride out and look around some.”

With the dawn, however, circumstances changed. Arlo and Dallas were awakened by the braying of a mule—Hoss Logan’s mule. Astride the gaunt little beast sat Paiute, the mute Indian. Without so much as looking at Arlo and Dallas, Paiute slid off the poor mule. He wore moccasins, out-at-the-knees Levi’s, a dirty red flannel shirt, and a black, uncreased high-crowned hat over his gray braids. When Paiute finally did look at them, it was without expression. From the front pocket of his Levi’s, he took a soft pouch of leather, closed with a drawstring and presented it to Arlo. The bag was small but heavy, and Arlo removed a chunk of ore the size of his hand.

“My God!” said Dallas. “I’ve seen gold ore before, but nothin’ like that.”

“There’s something else in here,” Arlo said, extracting a paper that had been folded many times to fit into the pouch. It proved to be two sheets of rough tablet paper. The first page was a letter, printed in pencil. Dallas crowded close, and they both began to read.

“Damn!” said Arlo. “He expects us to go lookin’ for a mine littered with bones, takin’ with us a pair of underage females and their sidewinder of a stepdaddy.”

“Hoss didn’t say how his brother died,” Dallas said, “but I get the feelin’ this Gary Davis might have had something to do with it. You reckon Paiute knows where Hoss is?”

“Hell,” said Arlo. “I ain’t sure Paiute knows where he is himself.”

The object of their conversation sat with his back against a pine tree, staring vacantly ahead.

“Well,” Dallas finally said, “we’re old Hoss’s last hope where those poor girls are concerned. Let’s look at our half of the map.”

The map seemed pitifully inadequate. There was a jagged line with a half circle above it, with an arrow pointing away from the half circle. At the barb of the arrow there was an inverted V, and above that a crude death’s head. There was nothing more.

“Does that tell you anything?” Arlo asked.

“Yeah,” said Dallas. “Hoss is givin’ us credit for bein’ a hell of a lot smarter than we are. What do you make of it?”

“I think this
is
the map. AH of it. As Hoss figured, this scheming Gary Davis will have to work with us.”

“Or kill us,” Dallas said. “Hoss mentioned that, too. What he didn’t say is whether or not he sent an ore sample to Missouri.”

“You can be sure he didn’t,” said Arlo. “That accounts for the ore sample he left with the assayer. Hoss wanted to be dead sure this Gary Davis rides into the Superstitions. By the time he gets to us, he’ll have a bur under his tail as big as Texas.”

“I reckon we’ll end up shootin’ the varmint,” Dallas said. “Maybe that’s the price we’re payin’ for half a gold mine. Where do we go from here?”

“As much as I hate to,” said Arlo, “we’ll have to ride to Phoenix and tell the sheriff about this. Otherwise, he’ll be expecting us to begin a search for Hoss. If we take this letter from Hoss as gospel—and there’s no reason not to—then we’ve eliminated the need for a search. Instead of lookin’ for Hoss, we’ll be lookin’ for the gold.”

“Damn the luck,” Dallas spat. “We let the sheriff read this letter, and we’re lettin’ him in on the gold.”

“Forget about the sheriff,” replied Arlo. “Even if we
could
keep him in the dark, there’s no way we can keep a lid on this. Next thing you know, them underage Logan females and their coyote of a stepdaddy will be here, and God knows what kind of stink they’ll stir up.”

“Well,” Dallas sighed, “long as we got to, let’s ride in and talk to the sheriff. We can stock up on grub while we’re there.”

After ensuring that Paiute had enough sustenance, the pair saddled their horses and rode out, leaving the mute Indian seated with his back to the pine. Reaching Phoenix, Arlo and Dallas went straight to the sheriff’s office and found Wheaton alone. Without a word, Arlo handed the sheriff the hand-printed letter from Hoss Logan.

“He mentions gold ore and half a map,” said Wheaton, after reading the letter.

“All right,” Arlo sighed, producing the leather poke with the ore and the strange map. “I reckon you might as well know as much as we do, because I got a gut feeling this thing may blow up into one hell of a mess.”

“I expect you’re right,” said the sheriff, “and before it’s done, you may be almighty glad you leveled with me. From what Hoss has written, this Gary Davis is a lifelong enemy. Why did Hoss send half the map to these Logan girls, knowin’ their stepdaddy would get his hands on it? That part don’t make sense.”

“Neither does leavin’ gold-rich ore with the assayer for six months and not registering the claim,” Arlo said.

“Old Hoss planned all this,” said Dallas. “He must have had some reason.”

“There’s a wild card somewhere in the deck,” agreed the sheriff, “and Hoss is countin’ on you boys findin’ it. Once this Gary Davis shows up, you’d best not let him shuffle the cards. Stick around the Logan cabin, and I’ll send word when your new partner from Missouri arrives. What are you goin’ to do with the old Indian?”

“I don’t know,” Arlo said. “He’s no help to us.”

“Let’s bring him to town,” Dallas said with a grin. “He can bunk in the
juzgado.”

“Like hell,” said Sheriff Wheaton. “I ain’t runnin’ a mission.”

Arlo and Dallas went to a general store and bought supplies for two weeks.

“We’ll have to do some serious buying before we ride into the Superstitions,” said Arlo, “but we might as well wait till these folks from Missouri show up with the rest of the map. They may not even want to ride with us.”

“I hope they don’t show up broke, expectin’ us to supply horses and grub,” said Dallas.

“I hope they do,” Arlo replied. “That will be reason enough to leave them in town and search for the gold on our own.”

“You know better than that,” said Dallas. “This bunch will already have a good case of gold fever, and if they have to, they’ll crawl to the Superstitions on their knees.”

When Arlo and Dallas reached the cabin, they found the mule cropping grass, but the aged Indian was nowhere in sight.

“He couldn’t have gone too far on foot,” Dallas said.

“Maybe he went down to Saguaro Lake to take a bath,” said Arlo. “He sure could use one.”

Paiute
had
been to the lake, and when he returned an hour later, he had a dozen big trout strung on a rawhide thong.

“Well,” Arlo sighed, “I reckon we got us an Indian. Thank God he’s not as worthless as he looks.”

Two weeks after Paiute had brought the message from Hoss, Sheriff Wheaton sent a rider to the Logan cabin with a summons for Arlo and Dallas. What remained of Hoss’s blood kin had arrived. When Arlo and Dallas reached the sheriff’s office, they found the lawman looking grim.

“You’re in for it, boys,” Wheaton said. “They’re at the Frontier Hotel, and there’s six of ’em. The Logan girls are beauties, but the rest—my God! This woman, mother to the Logan girls, is gussied up like the Queen of England. Her nose is heisted so high, in a hard rain she’d drown. Gary Davis, her new husband, ain’t no Missouri shorthorn. He’s a curly wolf if I ever seen one, totin’ a tied-down Colt. There’s a scrawny little varmint called Barry Rust, who’s a friend to Davis, and he’s carry in’ a hideout gun under his coat. Then there’s R. J. Bollinger, a gunslingin’ killer of some repute. I’ve heard of
him. Seems the sidewinder was run out of Texas by the Rangers.”

“You learned a mighty lot in a hurry,” said Dallas.

“Routine,” Wheaton said. “I make it a point to meet the stage so’s I know who’s new in town. When strangers are lookin’ for somethin’ or somebody, an’ they see me standin’ there, it ain’t unusual for ’em to ask questions of me. Sometimes I am the first in town to know who they are an’ why they’re here.”

“Well, you know why this bunch is here,” Arlo said. “You’re in this deep enough that you’re entitled to set in on whatever happens at the hotel. Come on.”

“This varmint Barry Rust done most of the talkin’,” said the sheriff. “Talks down to you, like he’s just a cut or two below God.”

Gary Davis, his wife, and the Logan girls had taken a three-room suite, while Rust and Bollinger were sharing an adjoining room. It was Davis that answered the sheriff’s knock. His thick-muscled frame would have made a grizzly envious. He wore an expensive suit, with a gaudy red tie over a ruffled boiled shirt, and polished black boots that shone in the light from the lamp. The Colt at his hip looked well used. His thick black hair and chin whiskers showed some gray, and on his lips was a hint of a smile that failed to reach his dark eyes. He simply nodded when the sheriff introduced Arlo and Dallas.

“We have a sitting room here,” Davis said. “We’ll talk there.” He stepped aside, allowing Arlo and Dallas to enter, but blocked Wheaton’s way. “Sorry, Sheriff,” he said, “but this is a private meeting.”

“Not
that
private,” Arlo snapped. “We invited Sheriff Wheaton to sit in. He stays.”

“Excuse me, then,” said Davis with poor grace, “while I fetch my associates.”

Davis left the door open, stepped into the hall, and knocked on the door of another room. Returning with two men, he introduced Barry Rust and R. J. Bollinger. Rust was the shortest man in the room, a startling contrast in stature to Davis and Bollinger. Rust’s shoes were
low-cut black patent, his suit solid black over a gray shirt and a navy tie. The very top of his head was bald, and his lips turned down at the corners as though he had never smiled in his life. Bollinger had adopted an obnoxious swagger, and his wolf grin seemed calculated to convince Arlo, Dallas, and Sheriff Wheaton that he, R. J. Bollinger, knew something the visiting trio did not. He wore scuffed high-heeled boots, Levi’s, and a red flannel shirt open at the throat. His fancy gray Stetson had a thin band of silver, and the polished walnut grips of his Colt gleamed in the lamplight. The six men eyed one another warily, nobody quite sure what the next move should be. Sheriff Wheaton was the first to speak.

“Arlo an’ Dallas ain’t met the Logan girls an’ their mother.”

“This is business that don’t concern females,” replied Davis stiffly.

“I reckon you can speak for Mrs. Davis,” Arlo said, “but not for Kelly and Kelsey Logan. Until we meet them, this medicine show stops dead in its tracks.”

Bollinger strode across the room until he stood face-to-face with Arlo.

“I don’t like you, bucko,” snarled the gunman.