The Project Gutenberg eBook of Henry goes prehistoric

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Title: Henry goes prehistoric

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Illustrator: Kuhlhoff

Release date: January 22, 2025 [eBook #75176]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Short Stories, Inc, 1948

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HENRY GOES PREHISTORIC ***

HENRY GOES PREHISTORIC

By W. C. Tuttle

The Sheriff of Tonto City Could Expect Anything to Come Out of the Night in Wild Horse Valley—Even an Idea

“Judge” Van Treece was mad; so mad that he deliberately threw his beloved, and badly dog-eared copy of Shakespeare, across the office, where it fluttered to the floor, like a wounded duck. He didn’t even look at the poor thing, as he sat, tilted back in an old chair, his high heels hooked around a rung of his chair, which brought his bony, overall-clad knees, almost up to his chin. Judge had the features of a tragedian, and just now he glared his hate at nobody in particular.

Henry Harrison Conroy, the sheriff of Tonto City, got up from his creaking desk chair, retrieved the dog-eared copy and placed it on his desk. While Judge was inches over six feet in height, and as skinny as a sand-hill crane, Henry Harrison Conroy was barely five feet, seven inches in his high-heel boots. However, Henry was fashioned after the specifications of the well-known Humpty Dumpty. Henry had very little hair, a face like a full moon, small eyes and the biggest nose that ever gleamed above the footlights in vaudeville. That nose had been known from one end of most vaudeville chains to the other, featured, in fact.

He looked quizzically at Judge, as he sat down.

“After all, Judge,” he said, “you can not blame William Shakespeare.”

“I have,” declared Judge hollowly, looking straight ahead, “a notion of resigning. I still have my pride, sir. My body may belong to Wild Horse Valley, but my soul is still my own.”

“Ah, yes—pride and soul; resignation—no!” mumbled Henry. “No, that is not the solution, Judge. There must be some other way to handle the situation. We’ll fight this out to the bitter end.”

“So you think there will be a bitter end, Henry?”

“Let us look calmly upon the matter at hand,” suggested Henry. “I must admit that those Commissioners are irksome. They did decry our lack of ability in coping with the crime wave, which seems to be washing upon our shores. It is very unfortunate that recent gold strikes have filled Tonto City to overflowing with some damnable riff-raff, which always drifts in with new gold strikes, like buzzards after a dead animal. Our once-peaceful pueblo of Tonto is filled with covetous folk, who work not, neither do they spin. And we, you and I, Judge, are the Keepers of the Peace—such as it is.”

“Keepers of the Peace,” repeated Judge. “I like that, sir. But that is not what the Clarion called us. Isn’t bad enough to read such damnable, scurrilous, infamous—er—”

“Enlightening,” suggested Henry calmly.

“Well,” sighed Judge, “I was about to indicate that I did not relish the reading of the editorial by the Commissioners. Damme, they didn’t have to read it aloud to us! We had read it. It is deplorable that a chuckleheaded nincompoop like James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly can influence public opinion. He suggests that we resign at once. And damme, that Board of Commissioners agreed with him. In fact, they—well, were you going to say something?”

“No,” replied Henry calmly, “I merely opened my mouth for air.”

“Well, do you not resent the attitude of the three Commissioners, Henry? Are you a man or a mouse, sir?”

“Biology,” sighed Henry, “is in my favor; I have but two legs.”

“Will you please hand me that book?” asked Judge. “I hate to ask it, but my damn legs are so cramped that I would never be able to regain this position again. Thank you, sir—you are kind.”

Judging from appearances there was little wonder that the Scorpion Bend Clarion called these two men, plus Oscar Johnson, their jailer, the Shame of Arizona. Oscar was a giant Swede of tremendous strength, but low IQ.

When vaudeville waned and faded from American stages, Henry Harrison Conroy, like thousands of other vaudevillians, was out of work. An uncle, whom he had never heard about before, died in Wild Horse Valley, leaving Henry as sole owner of the JHC cattle ranch. Henry knew nothing about the cattle country, but he accepted his inheritance, came to Tonto City, wearing tailored clothes, spats, pearl-colored derby hat, and twirling a gold-headed cane.

Arizona loved Henry at once. His courtly manner, sense of ridiculous humor, and enormous thirst intrigued them. He took over the JHC, much to their delight, and really went Arizona himself. Shortly after he became acclimated an election came along, and, as a good joke, the cowboys got together and wrote Henry’s name on their ballots. The next morning he found that he was sheriff of Wild Horse County. A cowboy summed it up in his statement that, “We’ve shore played a joke on this county.”

Henry saw the humor of the situation clearly. In Tonto City lived Judge Van Treece, who had never been a judge, but a really fine attorney, until an insatiable thirst made him a derelict. Henry, as a humorous gesture, and also because he liked Judge, appointed Judge as his deputy. And as an extra gesture, he appointed Oscar Johnson, a horse-wrangler, as jailer. It completed as queer a trio of peace officers as any county ever had. Men laughed and made fun of them, but, as a matter of fact, they had managed to keep crime at a rather low ebb in Wild Horse Valley, until now, when things were getting out of hand, due to an influx of rather unsavory characters, lured by new gold strikes.

Judge had barely settled in his chair, thumbing the pages of his old book, when John Campbell, the big, prosecuting attorney came in. Campbell had been present with the Commissioners, when Henry and his staff had been severely taken to task.

“One gloat out of you, John, and I shall cram this copy of the Bard of Avon down your gullet,” declared Judge soberly.

John Campbell laughed shortly. “I don’t blame you, Judge. No, I came not to gloat, gentlemen.”

“To bury Caesar?” queried Henry quietly.

“No, Henry. I talked with those men after we left here. They are merely barking, not biting—as yet. As a matter of fact, Henry, this Mr. Thomas Akers, the gentleman from Scorpion Bend, has an axe to grind. He is stumping for his cousin, Pete Gonyer. If you can be induced to resign, or if he can talk the others into forcing you out of office for cause, he hopes to have Pete Gonyer appointed as sheriff of Wild Horse Valley.”

“That broken-nosed high-pockets!” snorted Judge. “Why, that—”

“So Pete Gonyer, owner of the Circle G, is a cousin of our esteemed Commissioner from Scorpion Bend, eh?” remarked Henry. “Now I see the light. And Mr. Thomas Akers is a friend of James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly, ye editor of ye Clarion.”

“In fact,” added Campbell, “Mr. Akers rents the Clarion building to Mr. Pelly.”

“Astoundingly simple,” snorted Judge. “Back-scratching!”

John Campbell laughed. “All you have to do now, Henry,” he said, “is to put a halt to all this high-grading and gold stealing in Wild Horse Valley. Personally, I don’t envy you the job.”

John Campbell went back up the street, leaving Henry and Judge, looking at each other. A team and vehicle drew up in front of the office, and two men got out. One of them was of featherweight size, with a murderous-looking mustache, bow-legs—and a gallon jug. The other was tall and thin, tired-eyed, buck-teeth and inquiring eyebrows. The smaller one was Frijole Bill Cullison, the cook at Henry’s JHC ranch, and the other was Slim Pickins, Henry’s lone cowpoke.

They went slowly into the office, with Frijole in the lead, carrying the jug in front of him in both hands, like a man bearing a valuable gift—or something dangerous. Both Henry and Judge turned quickly, looking at the procession, which came to a halt in front of the desk, where Frijole carefully set the jug. Then they both backed away and stood at attention.

“Damnable mumbo-jumbo!” snorted Judge.

Frijole winced. “Don’t say that, Judge,” he pleaded. “You are now in the presence of the finest batch ever made. Twelve hours of age, and as prime as anythin’ that ever come out of a pot. That, gentlemen, is m’ masterpiece. Put yore ear agin that jug, and yuh can hear her hum, like a wire in the wind.”

Slim just stood there, grinning foolishly, eyebrows arched.

“Well done, thou good and faithful servant. What is in it this time?” Henry asked quietly.

“The soul of a great distiller,” replied Frijole gravely. “M’ life’s work is done. If the world knew what I know—”

“We would all be half-witted,” added Judge soberly.

The jug looked innocent enough. Henry touched it with his finger. Frijole said, “Slim, you tell ’em what happened to Bill Shakespeare.”

“Have done!” exclaimed Judge. “Not that, Frijole. I can swallow your prune whiskey, but not the fantastic tales of that damnable rooster. I do not believe a word of it—even from Slim.”

“I cain’t tell it,” whispered Slim. “You go ahead, Frijole.”

“The two biggest liars in Arizona,” sighed Judge.

“I believe,” stated Henry soberly. “Go ahead, Frijole.”

“Well, this ain’t no lie,” declared Frijole. “I seen it with m’ own eyes. Yuh see, Henry, I’ve been ’sperimentin’ on a new mash. I fermented some maguey, like they make tequila, mixed it with some spuds, and a batch of Indian corn.”

“Don’t leave out the horse liniment,” suggested Judge.

“No, I didn’t, Judge. When that batch of mash got to the whistlin’ point, I put in the liniment and then I—”

“No one is interested in a recipe,” interrupted Judge. “Get down to the distorted facts.”

Frijole grinned slowly. “Well, yeah—I shouldn’t expose my formula. I won’t tell yuh how me and Slim had that mash in a keg, with a anvil on top of it, and it blowed the anvil plumb through the kitchen roof, and when it hit—” Frijole whispered huskily, “that anvil was shrunk to the size of a tack-hammer. I won’t tell that part of it, ’cause it’s hard to believe. Anyway, you know how fond Bill Shakespeare, the rooster, is of mash. I was so scared of him a-gettin’ this mash and killin’ himself that I put it in a sack and hung it in a tree, aimin’ to dry it out and burn it. But do you know what happened? It leaked—and there was Bill, settin’ on his hind-end under the tree, bill open, drinkin’ in the drippin’s.

“By the time I seen him, Bill was swelled up like a balloon. His crop was plumb filled with mash-drippin’s, and he was as loaded as a lumber-jack on pay-day. He staggered away from the sack, with joy in his soul and rubber in his legs. The hens all kept away from Bill—them a-settin’ on the corral fence in executive session, while Bill goes lookin’ for what he may devour.

“Well, sir, there’s a old diamond-back, which lives in the day-wash, and I suspect he’s livin’ partly off baby chickens. He’s a old sockdolager, with about twenty rattles. Bill finds him out in the weeds behind the little chicken house, and the first thing I know, here’s that big rattler, all cocked and primed, buzzin’ his tail, a-warnin’ Bill Shakespeare to stay back.

“I know that Bill don’t like that rattler, but he ain’t never been able to figure out jist how to whip the crippled crawler. I just says to m’self, ‘Bill, yo’re a goner this time, if yuh don’t back-track real pronto.’ But Bill don’t back-track. He staggers in close, and that dog-gone rattler hits him square in the crop. Then he rears back and socks poor old Bill another. I kinda shut m’ eyes and turns away. I—I love that old featherless son-of-a-gun.” Frijole choked a little.

Henry was leaning across the desk. “So Bill died, eh?” he said.

“Nossir,” replied Frijole, “he didn’t. Bill walked away, kinda proud-like and went down to the corral—and yuh don’t have to believe me, Henry, but a few moments later that big rattler went into convulsions, and died on the spot.”

“Slim!” exclaimed Judge sharply. Slim jerked convulsively.

“Slim, did you see all this?” asked Judge.

“No, I didn’t exactly see it, Judge,” replied Slim soberly. “Yuh see, I was out in the blacksmith shop, tryin’ to make a couple new iron lids for the cook-stove. When we was makin’ this mash, it kinda boiled over on the stove and et up two lids, jist like a Piute eats hotcakes. Why, I jist got in the steam of that batch, and it et all the rivets out of m’ overalls.”

Henry put one hand on the jug and shut his eyes. “I can see it all,” he said soberly. “A wonderful tale—and well told, Frijole. Thanks to you, Slim, for the additions. Judge, if you will be kind enough to procure the cups—”

The testing of a new batch of Frijole’s distillation was a ceremony. They drank from tin cups which held almost a half-pint. Sometimes Henry or Judge offered a toast, but usually they merely nodded to each other, held the cups high, and drank swiftly. This was no liquor to be sipped.

For several moments after the drink no one spoke. In fact, it was a physical impossibility. Slim’s whisper came first—“Don’t anybody light a match!”

Gradually as they recovered speech and action, Henry said, “That is proof positive, gentlemen.”

“What does it prove?” husked Judge.

“It proves the story of Bill Shakespeare and the snake, sir.”

“And I,” said Judge soberly, “feel sorry for the snake.”

“And why, may I ask, sir?”

“For wasting its efforts. One strike would have been enough.”

Rumors of new, rich strikes were common in Tonto City, most of them were false, but a man brought a story of a rich strike to the sheriff’s office. Old Ben Todd, a veteran prospector of Wild Horse Valley, had struck a bonanza. He was spending raw gold in the saloons; not the washed nuggets of a placer mine, but chunks of gold from a quartz vein. Henry tried to find Old Ben. He liked the eccentric old-timer, and had done favors for him. Not that Henry wanted any part of Old Ben’s find, but did consider that the old man might need protection.

However, he was unable to locate Ben. He talked with a bartender in the King’s Castle Saloon, who had seen Ben’s gold, and the bartender said it was true. Old Ben had his pockets full of the stuff, and was drinking heavily.

The Yellow Warrior mine had been the hardest hit by thieves. It was the oldest mine in the valley, and had been once virtually abandoned as through, but a small syndicate of eastern men had purchased it and struck a new vein, which was so rich that high-graders had managed to steal the bulk of the output. Not only had they swiped the jewelry-ore piecemeal, but had broken in and got away with twelve sacks of selected stuff, ready to ship.

An organized bandit gang had made it difficult to send gold or payrolls over the regular channels, and the sheriff’s office had not been able to cope with all the various crimes against the law. Bob Stickler, manager of the Yellow Warrior, was one of the leading agitators against the present regime of Henry Harrison Conroy. Stickler wanted protection—not a comedy trio.

The Three Partners and the Smoke Tree mine were not complaining vociferously. They had little high-grade stuff to steal, but they were concerned over the robbery of the Yellow Warrior payroll.

The Yellow Warrior syndicate had also purchased the King’s Castle Saloon, which was being operated by Mack Greer, a newcomer to Tonto City. Henry sighed over the changes in Tonto. He told Judge, “When a man complains about changes in his community, he must be getting old.”

“You are,” nodded Judge soberly.

“I am not!” Henry was emphatic, and added quietly, “I love peace and quiet. This damnable town clatters like a tin-pan shivaree for twenty-four hours, on end. Let us go out to the ranch and put our feet on the porch-railing, Judge. I would enjoy the song of a little bird.”

They were an incongruous couple on horseback. Judge rode a short-coupled roan, and his long feet almost reached the ground, while Henry perched high on a leggy sorrel, his legs reaching only to the middle of the lanky animal. Judge hated a saddle. In fact, he rarely used the stirrups, preferring to let his legs dangle loosely, and instead of the high-heel boots he wore what was known as Congress-gaiters, well-worn and the elastic sides gaping.

Oscar Johnson was left in charge. The giant Swede, who dwarfed that little office, nodded solemnly when Henry said they were going to the ranch.

“Ay vill run it, Hanry,” he said, “and Ay hope Tames Vadsworth Longfeller Telly comes ha’ar. Ay have bone to pick vit him.”

“What bone is that, Oscar?” asked Henry.

“His,” replied Oscar blandly.

There was nothing ornate about the JHC ranchhouse. The old frame house tilted west, while the front porch tilted east, and the railing around the porch sagged to the north. Frijole had a mulligan stew on the stove, and more of his devil’s brew in a jug.

Thunder and Lightning Mendoza, two of Henry’s general helpers, sprawled on the shady side of the house. “Henry don’t need those two any more than he needs shoe-laces for a boot,” Judge had said.

“I love every bit of ivory in their unused heads,” declared Henry. “They amuse me.”

Henry looked them over soberly. He loved to question them as to just what they had done for the past week. Lightning seemed to be the more intelligent of the two.

“Oh, we feex the corral,” he said expansively. “Put out ol’ fence-pos’, leave een a new ones. Cut leetle wood. Ver’ busy pippil.”

“Sure,” agreed Thunder. “Ver’ nice jobs—I theenk. You know Profeezil?”

Henry scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Profeezil?” he asked.

“Sure,” grinned Lightning. “Profeezil. Got the long leg, glass on hees eye.”

“Aw, he means Professor Fossil,” informed Slim Pickins.

“Sure,” grinned Thunder. “We see heem.”

“He came past here a while ago,” said Slim, “packin’ a short pick and a sack of rocks.”

“Oh, yes,” murmured Henry. “Professor Fossil.”

His right name was Charles Winston Norbert, Archaeologist. He was tall, thin and slightly stooped, possibly from carrying rock specimens. He had been in Wild Horse Valley for weeks, and had taken up his temporary abode at the Circle G ranch, from where he sampled the country. Even Pete Gonyer considered the man slightly touched in the head. Nearly every day he brought in a sack of samples, which he studied carefully, making voluminous notes in his book.

“Except for eddication,” declared Frijole, “he’d make a first-class shepherd. He’s got the legs for it.”

“Mucho loco,” declared Lightning. “Rock too damn h’avy.”

“Ver’ seely pippil,” added Thunder. “He theenk feesh leeve on rock.”

“Fossil fish,” explained Henry.

“Sure—weeth a peek—not weeth a hooks,” said Lightning.

“I think it is about time to surrender,” sighed Judge.

They were in bed that night, when Oscar Johnson came out there, knocking so hard on the front door that the whole house shook. Frijole opened the door, and said Oscar, “Val, hallo dere, Freeholey. Ay yust come out.”

“That’s what I thought, when I heard yuh knock. What’s wrong? Have the Norwegians taken Tonto City?”

“Norvegians! Ay can lick any Norvegian Ay ever—oh, hallo, Hanry!”

Henry had stepped from his room, clad only in his full-length underwear, which had been made full-length for a full-length man. Henry was one succession of wrinkles.

“What is wrong, Oscar?” he asked.

“Oh, Ay forgot,” said Oscar, “Ol’ Ben Todd is dead.”

Henry paddled out a little closer. “Ben Todd?” he asked. “You mean to say that Ben Todd is dead?”

“Ay have de opinion of Doctor Bogart”

“What killed him?”

“Buckshot—t’rough a vindow.”

“My goodness! Judge! Oh, Judge! Frijole, saddle our horses! Judge! Wake up! We have a murder!”

Judge mumbled something about not being a Recording Angel, as he struggled into his clothes. Frijole had gone to saddle their two horses.

“Ben Todd vars in his little shack,” said Oscar, “and somebody shoots bockshot t’rough de vindow at him. Ay t’ink he vars dronk, but yust de same, he died.”

“That’s queer!” declared Henry, struggling with his boots.

“Nothing queer about murder,” said Judge. “Sordid, I’d say.”

“Possibly, Judge. But why kill Old Ben? He was—oh, I forgot about the new strike they say he made!”

“He vars spending gold,” said Oscar.

“Ay saw it.”

“Chunks of raw gold,” remarked Judge. “I saw some of it. Crushed out of gray quartz. And now he’s dead.”

“You have your shoes on the wrong feet, Judge,” said Henry.

“It might change our luck,” said Judge. “Let ’em stay.”

The body of the old prospector had not been moved. Doctor Bogart, the coroner, was waiting for them. Ben Todd had a little, old shack a short distance off the main street, where he batched, when in town. A load of buckshot had blown out one of the windows, and Ben Todd was sprawled on his bed. Evidently he had been killed, just as he was about to retire.

His pockets still held several chunks of gold, possibly worth twenty dollars, but he had no money. On a shelf was an old, tin tobacco box, in which were some odds and ends, and in it was a folded paper. Henry unfolded it on the table. It was Ben Todd’s will, written in an inky sprawl, and said:

I hereby give every thing I own to Violet La Verne because she grub-staked me. I ain’t got no relatives.

—Ben Todd.

“Violet La Verne?” queried Doctor Bogart.

“One of the King’s Castle damsels,” said Henry grimly. “You know her, Judge.”

“Why me?” asked Judge testily. “Everybody knows her.”

“So she staked Ben Todd,” muttered Henry.

“The will isn’t dated,” remarked the doctor.

“No, that is true, Doc—but, still, it is a will.”

“And Ben Todd was murdered,” pointed out Judge. “Just one more incentive for a Clarion editorial.”

“I read that last one,” said the doctor. “Something should be done to muzzle Mr. Pelly. We better get some help to move the body. You take charge of that will, Henry.”

“Probably worthless,” said Judge. “He had nothing to leave.”

“You forget his rich strike,” said Henry. “He may have plenty.”

“Yes, I forgot,” admitted Judge. “At least he had enough to get himself blasted off this mortal coil—or presumed to have.”

There was no use going back to the ranch, so they went up to their room at the Tonto Hotel. It was miserably hot up there. Judge kicked off his gaiters, flung his hat in a corner and sat down, a miserable specimen of the genus homo.

Henry said nothing, sitting there on the edge of the bed, deep in thought. Judge got up slowly and went over to a small closet, where he picked up a jug and shook it carefully. Henry said slowly:

“‘And lately, by the tavern door agape,

Came shining through the dusk an Angel

Shape bearing a vessel on his shoulder;

And he bid me taste of it; and ’twas the Grape.’”

“Omar,” said Judge, “had the right idea, but in our case it was prune-juice and horse liniment. Have a small portion, sir.”

“About three inches in a bath-tub,” nodded Henry soberly.

Tonto City was not greatly perturbed over the murder of Old Ben Todd. Henry gave the will to John Campbell, the prosecutor, who said that if Ben left anything of value it must be given to Violet La Verne. Henry went to the county recorder’s office and looked over the records, but Ben Todd had not recorded a mining claim for over a year.

Later in the day he found the girl in the honkatonk at the King’s Castle, and sat down with her. Violet had little resemblance to her namesake. She was of undeterminate age, blonde, by choice, with dark roots showing.

“Did you call me over to buy me a drink?” she asked curiously.

“I have no objections, my dear,” said Henry soberly, “but alcohol was not my main reason. You knew Old Ben Todd, I believe.”

“Yes. I grub-staked him. Gave him fifty dollars. He said he’d cut me in on any strike he made.”

“You knew he was killed last night, did you not?”

Her eyes narrowed a little. “I heard he was,” she nodded.

“It is true, my dear—he was murdered. But evidently Ben Todd was as good as his word—he—that is, you are his sole heir. He wrote a will, in which you get everything he had.”

“He did, eh?” Violet leaned across the table. “What?”

“Who knows? I understand that he made a rich strike.”

“He was throwing money around. That is, he was throwing gold. It must have been a rich strike—don’t you think?”

“Didn’t he tell you where it was?” asked Henry.

Violet shook her head. “He didn’t tell me anything. But if he made a strike, he must have—I don’t know what you call it—”

“Recorded it?” asked Henry, and she nodded quickly.

“That’s what I meant,” she said. “He must have done that.”

“Unfortunately—no,” said Henry quietly. “I examined the record book, and Ben Todd did not record his location notice—if he ever made one out. My dear lady, I’m afraid that it will go down in history as the Lost Todd mine, along with many more.”

Violet La Verne looked bleakly at Henry.

“Then I don’t get anything for my fifty bucks, eh?”

“The clothes he had on, a pocket-knife, a six-shooter, very old and very battered, a mule—I believe. I’m not sure of the mule—but who is? Oh, yes, about twenty .45 caliber cartridges, somewhat corroded. I believe that covers his assets.”

Violet La Verne got up from the table. “What about that drink?” said Henry.

But Violet La Verne walked away, not even looking back. Mack Greer, the new manager of the place, came over and sat on the edge of the table. Greer was rather handsome, tall, slender.

“What about Ben Todd? I heard he was murdered,” he remarked.

Henry nodded thoughtfully. “That is true, Mr. Greer. You see, he left his entire estate to Violet La Verne.”

“Yea-a-a-ah?” whispered the gambler. “That’s fine. I heard that she grub-staked him.”

“It mentioned that in the will.”

“It did, eh? Well, he had plenty of raw gold, and he said there was plenty more where that came from.”

“It must have been rich,” said Henry, “if all the tales are true. He had only a few nuggets left, and no money.”

“That grub-stake was a lucky hunch for Violet,” said Greer.

“That’s what she thought,” said Henry.

“What do you mean, Sheriff—thought?”

“Yuh see, Mr. Greer,” explained Henry carefully, “Ben Todd forgot to record his claim. There isn’t even a location notice to prove that he ever located a gold claim.”

The gambler looked keenly at Henry. “You mean—he never put his claim on record at all; that nobody knows where it is located?”

“That seems to be a fact, sir. Unless Ben Todd imparted the knowledge verbally to someone—the secret died with him. That man with the shotgun was premature.”

“It would seem so,” agreed Greer.

Henry was crossing the street to his office, when he saw two men just entering the place. Henry groaned quietly. One of the men was Thomas Akers, merchant of Scorpion Bend, and a member of the Board of Commissioners, while the other was James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly, editor of the Scorpion Bend Clarion, and the pet obsession of the sheriff’s office. Judge and Oscar were both in the office.

Henry came up to the doorway as quietly as possible, and heard Judge say:

“We are not allowed to announce the name of the murderer of Ben Todd, until Sheriff Conroy gives his permission, sir.”

“You mean—you—er—know?” asked Pelly in a whisper.

“Ay know von t’ing—” rumbled Oscar’s voice, and the creak of a chair indicated that the giant Swede was getting up.

Henry had started to enter the office, when a flying Pelly hit him squarely in the middle. Pelly was more or less of a lightweight, but with a distinct muzzle-velocity. He caromed off the bosom of Henry Harrison Conroy, landed on the seat of his pants, from where he turned over twice and sprawled flat on his back in the dusty street.

Henry was knocked speechless for the moment. Thomas Akers came out swiftly, skidded a heel on the threshold, and came down to a sitting position with rather a dull thud. It knocked his hat down over his eyes, and he just sat there, wheezing audibly. It was all rather embarrassing. Judge and Oscar came to the doorway. Judge had tears in his eyes, but they were not from sympathy.

“All Ay done vars get up,” declared Oscar stolidly.

James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly sat up in the dust, looking dazedly around, until his eyes centered on Thomas Akers. Then he said accusingly, “I told you it wouldn’t do any good.”

Akers got up, too. He braced one hand against a side of the doorway and felt behind him, his hat still over his eyes. Then he took off his hat, fanned himself a little and stared at J. W. L. Pelly, who was trying to brush off the dust.

“Gentlemen,” said Henry huskily, “I believe I am entitled to an explanation.”

“A what?” husked Pelly. “Explanation of what?”

“Of your attack on me, sir. Do not deny it! I start to enter my own office, and you fly at me—actually fly, sir! You are not satisfied with slanderous attacks on me in your filthy newspaper—you attack me physically. And you, Mr. Akers! Why did you jump up and down in the doorway of my office, blocking me from entering? Damnable discourteous, to say the least.”

Thomas Akers opened and shut his mouth several times, but no explanation came forth. He seemed in pain.

“As I told you before, it didn’t do any good, Mr. Akers,” Pelly said.

After Pelly delivered his “I told you so,” he started back up the street, flexing his knees, like a place-kicker getting ready to boot a football. After a moment of indecision, Mr. Akers followed him.

Henry stepped into the office, leaned against his desk and gave way to his emotions. Judge sat down, bent over as though in prayer, and groaned painfully, “I—I can’t stand it! As long as I live, I shall never forget what I just witnessed.”

Henry managed to fall into his deskchair, his moon-like face glistening with tears.

“Ay vill be dorned! Did somet’ng go wrong, Hanry,” said Oscar Johnson soberly.

“Something,” choked Henry, “went just right, Oscar.”

“Das is gude,” said Oscar. “Ay vill get de yug.”

They had finished their drink, when John Campbell came in. The big, good-natured prosecutor, looked at the tin-cups and smiled but shook his head. He had experienced a drink of Frijole’s brew, and wanted none of it.

“I just came up from Doctor Bogart’s place, where Mr. Akers and Mr. Pelly were consulting medical science,” he said.

“O-o-o-oh!” said the surprised Henry. “And what ails them?”

“That seems problematical, Henry,” laughed the lawyer. “Their testimony is contradictory. Mr. Akers is of the opinion that he must have slipped, while Mr. Pelly favors an attack theory. However, Mr. Akers does not remember any attack.”

“And what was Doctor Bogart’s diagnosis, John?”

“He advised a pillow for Mr. Akers and a sense of humor for Mr. Telly.”

“Oil Ay did vars get oop,” declared Oscar soberly.

“Well,” laughed Campbell, “I guess the incident is closed. By the way, Telly hinted that you know the name of the murderer of Ben Todd.”

“That,” said Judge, “is as far-fetched as his attack theory. I merely told them I was not allowed to name the killer, until the sheriff gave his permission.”

“And I,” smiled Henry, “am very close-mouthed, John.”

It was late that afternoon, and Henry and Judge were standing in front of the general store, when Pete Gonyer and Professor Fossil came to town in a buckboard. Pete Gonyer was of medium size, swarthy, possibly forty years of age. Professor Charles Winston Norbert, jokingly called Professor Fossil, was well over six feet in height, bony and angular, with a deeply-lined face, and wearing thick-lense glasses.

Pete Gonyer went over to the King’s Castle Saloon, while the Professor came to the store. Henry had never met the man, but Judge had, and he introduced Henry.

“And how are the fossils coming, Professor?” asked Henry.

“I beg pardon, sir—but fossils do not come—they have been here for aeons.”

“Sorry—my mistake,” said Henry.

“I presume that you meant to ask if I had been successful. Yes, I believe I have, thank you.”

“The fossil fish of this valley—are they of the upper Palaeozoic or of the Mesozoic rocks, Professor?”

Professor Fossil looked keenly at Henry Harrison Conroy.

“That I shall have to determine,” he replied. “I have them classified as to location and depth, and I can assure you that I have some wonderful specimens.”

“Perhaps I am foolish to ask you, sir,” said Henry, “but have you found a specimen of the Ichtus Fillari?”

“No, I haven’t, sir—much to my regret. I doubt if any exists in this local formation. However, I am still searching.”

“I wish you luck, sir,” said Henry soberly.

“Yes—thank you, gentlemen. Well, I must do a little shopping.”

Henry and Judge went on over to the hotel porch, where they sat down to wait for the supper bell to ring.

“Henry, what in the name of all that is holy, is an Ichtus Fillari?” asked Judge.

“I am not exactly sure myself,” replied Henry soberly. “It must have been a fish.”

“Have you ever seen one, Henry?”

“Judge, I give you my word, I never even heard of one before.”

“You—you made that name up, sir?”

“I believe I did, Judge. I feel that it is possible to create a fossil fish that even an archaeologist hasn’t found yet.”

“Hm-m-m-m,” hummed Judge thoughtfully. “I had no idea you had ever studied such things. Palaeozoic and Mesozoic rocks. Your knowledge amazes me, Henry. I wonder what Professor Fossil thinks of your—shall we say, knowledge of archaeology?”

“It might be rather interesting to know,” said Henry quietly. “Somewhere, sometime I read an article on prehistoric rocks. The names of the Palaeozoic and the Mesozoic came to mind, and I used them in the right spot, it seems. Hm-m-m-m-m. I seem to remember something—”

“It is my opinion,” remarked Judge, “that if you have any urge of concentration, you might well try thinking of something that will clear up the local crime situation. What happened a million years ago will have little bearing on high-grading and murder.”

“Perhaps you are right, Judge. Ah, there is the dinner-bell. I jump from the Palaeozoic to—well, to hash.”

The inquest over the body of Ben Todd attracted few people. Violet La Verne was called as a witness, because of the fact that she had been the sole heir to Ben Todd’s estate. She was defiant, tight-lipped, but stated that she had grub-staked Ben Todd about a month ago.

“Did Ben Todd tell you he had made a rich strike?” Doctor Bogart asked her.

“He never talked to me,” she replied.

“How much money did you give Ben Todd, Miss La Verne?”

“I don’t know—hundred dollars, I guess.”

“You told the sheriff that you gave him fifty dollars.”

“Did I? Maybe I did. What’s the difference?”

“Mathematically—fifty dollars,” said the doctor dryly.

“All right,” she said angrily, “it don’t make any difference. I lose—and the amount is my business.”

“Did you know that Ben Todd had made you his sole heir?”

“No!” emphatically. “He said he’d split with me—if he found a mine. Why should I be a witness in this—I don’t know who shot the old coot.”

They excused Violet La Verne, and she swept out of the courtroom. The six-man jury grinned and brought in the usual verdict, killed by a person, or persons, unknown.

“That woman knows something,” declared Judge quietly.

“At her age—and occupation—she should,” agreed Henry.

As they walked back to the office Judge said:

“If that La Verne woman knew that Ben Todd had willed everything he owned to her—”

“But she says she didn’t, Judge.”

“My dear, Henry, you are a trusting soul. What is her word worth? She lied about the amount she gave Ben Todd.”

“Only a matter of fifty dollars, Judge. It is possible that the woman is poor in mathematics.”

“We are all entitled to our theories, sir,” said Judge, “and mine is that somebody was greatly surprised and pained when they discovered that Ben Todd did not locate and record that gold mine.”

“It would, I believe,” said Henry soberly, “have added to his estate.”

“As Shakespeare said,” smiled Judge, “there is something rotten in Denmark.”

“At least, it is worth a sniff or two,” said Henry.

In the afternoon mail came a notice from the express company that a new buckboard, consigned to the JHC ranch, had arrived in Scorpion Bend, and was ready for delivery.

“Something more for those half-wits to destroy, Henry,” remarked Judge.

“I hope they will be careful, Judge. This one has yellow wheels, red body, and is appropriately decorated.”

“I shudder to think what it will have after Frijole, Slim or Oscar have a try at it. We should keep it here in the livery-stable, and only use it on state occasions.”

“Such as?” queried Henry.

“Well—going between here and the ranch, for instance. You know how I hate to ride a horse. Possibly we could use it for a trip to Scorpion Bend.”

“It might give Mr. Pelly an idea for a new editorial,” laughed Henry. “The Shame of Arizona on Yellow Wheels.”

“Anyway,” sighed Judge, “it is money wasted. Those prune-juicers at the JHC have no regard for property. I shudder to think what that buckboard will look like in a week.”

“Well,” said Henry soberly, “when I told Frijole what I had ordered, he said that he would protect it with his life. Frijole, I believe, likes nice things. Slim also has a feeling for art. Why, I’ve seen him stand for long periods of time in front of that picture in the King’s Castle, studying it intently.”

“What picture?” asked Judge curiously.

“The one at the end of the bar-room, Judge. A beer advertisement, I believe. It depicts a member of the female sex, leaning over a rock, peering into a spring. Rather nicely done, too.”

“Oh, that!” snorted Judge. “I happened to note Slim Pickins studying the print at close range, and I asked him if he was interested in the technique of the artist, and he said, ‘Hell, no! I’m tryin’ to see what she’s a-lookin’ at.’”

Henry grinned slowly. “Maybe Slim is a realist, Judge.”

John Campbell dropped in and they discussed the inquest for a while, but finally Campbell said:

“You probably don’t know it yet, Henry, but the Commissioners are holding a special meeting tomorrow afternoon at Scorpion Bend. I have not been asked to attend.”

Henry looked at the big lawyer thoughtfully, but did not comment. The implication was plain. They were going to decide to ask for his resignation.

After a long pause, the lawyer went on. “I hear that James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly is spending a few days at the Circle G, where Mr. Thomas Akers has also been the guest of Peter Gonyer. I heard that they bought a case of bourbon from the King’s Castle.”

“Mr. Akers,” remarked Henry, “is the chairman. But will the others vote with him, John?”

“I don’t know, Henry—but I’m afraid they will.”

Frijole, Slim and Oscar came in from the ranch, driving a young team to a battered old buckboard. Judge said, “You can look at that equipage and know what that new buckboard will look like in a few days.”

They met the three men on the sidewalk and Henry said to Frijole, “You take the team over to the livery-stable and hitch them to a spring-wagon. We are going to Scorpion Bend to bring back our new buckboard.”

“Vit yellow veels?” asked Oscar. “Yudas, Ay von’t to see it.”

“Who is going?” asked Judge quickly.

“Don’t you want to go, Judge?” asked Frijole.

“Ride over Lobo Canyon grades with any of you three doing the driving—at night?”

“I shall do the driving, Judge,” assured Henry soberly. “We shall be back before morning.”

“In that event,” said Judge firmly. “I shall stay right here in Tonto City. You drive! And how on earth will you bring that pristine vehicle back, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“Tie her on behind and trail her home,” said Slim.

Judge shrugged. “I still shall stay here,” he decided.

They secured the two-seated spring-wagon, and with Henry at the lines, seated with Frijole, they rode away, with Oscar and Slim Pickins on the back seat, holding a gallon jug between them.

“Ay am crazy to see a bockboard vit yellow veels,” declared Oscar.

“Yo’re crazy,” agreed Slim soberly. “The rest is superfluous.”

“This is not a pleasure trip,” informed Henry. “For your information, Oscar, the Commissioners are meeting tomorrow in Scorpion Bend to decide to ask me to resign as sheriff of Tonto. It will mean that you are out of a job, along with Judge and me.”

“Ay vill now open de yug,” stated Oscar.

“No,” said Henry, “we will not do any drinking—yet.”

“Ay vant to be yoyous, ven Ay get to Scorpion Bend, Henry. Ay am going to have a vord vit Mr. Pelly.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Pelly is at the Circle G ranch, Oscar.”

“Ya-a-a-ah! Das son-of-a-gon! Vaal, Ay am so downhorted that Ay must have drink.”

“Oh, go ahead,” said Henry. “You’d do it sooner or later.”

They were able to travel the Lobo Grades in daylight, on their way to Scorpion Bend, a picturesque but dangerous road, which wound around the cliffs above Loco Canyon, only wide enough for one vehicle, except at rare intervals, where there was barely room for two-wheeled vehicles to pass each other. Jack-knife turns, where the road ahead was blocked from view, until completely around the turn, increased the hazard, even in daylight. Sheer cliffs blocked the inside, but there was no guardrail on the other side.

It was after dark, when they arrived at Scorpion Bend. Frijole, Slim and Oscar were rather mellow, but Henry did not take a drink. He declared, “I am going to make this trip in safety, if it is the last thing I ever do.”

“Tha’s a good idea,” agreed Slim. “I admire any man who is wishful to get back alive.”

They ate supper, and Henry tried to get the boys to go up to the depot, but they didn’t want to go back too early.

“Man, when we go back,” said Frijole, “we don’t want nothin’ else on the grade.”

So Henry waited. There was a dance in Scorpion Bend, and it was after ten o’clock when Henry managed to gather his brood and go to the depot after the new buckboard. A peevish depot agent accepted the money from Henry, and unlocked the storeroom. The whole buckboard was crated, wheels separate, and Henry’s helpers were in no condition to do mechanical labor.

They managed to move everything outside, borrowed the agent’s lantern and hammer. There was a monkey-wrench in the spring-wagon, and, after an infinite lot of argumentative labor, they got the wheels and tongue on the buckboard. It glistened like a circus wagon in the lamplight. With a section of chain they fastened the tongue to the rear axle of the wagon, and were all ready for the trip to Tonto City.

Slim and Oscar declared that they were going to ride in the buckboard, and Henry was too weary to argue.

“It’s all right, Henry. If the blamed thing busts loose, they can take care of it—until found,” said Frijole.

“I believe you are right, Frijole.”

They drove slowly, until satisfied that the coupling was sufficient, and then headed for Tonto City at their usual pace, which was a cross between a harness race and a runaway. They heard Slim yelling to Henry to stay on the road, but paid no attention. At the foot of the grade they stopped for inspection. Slim said wearily, “I’m shore glad yuh stopped. Every time we tried to take a drink out of the jug—we can’t. Man, I never rode in anything as rough as this buckboard. Oscar’s very sick.”

“Ay am sea-sick,” gasped Oscar. “Some-t’ing is wrong vit us.”

The buckboard seemed intact, unmarked. Henry and Frijole lighted matches and looked things over. Slim asked, “What’s wrong with it, Frijole?”

“Not a blamed thing. Cork up that jug—we’re travelin’.”

“I dunno,” said Slim. “I’ve rode a lot of things in m’ life, but this’n has got em all beat. How are yuh, Oscar?”

“Viggly,” whispered Oscar.

They drove on. Frijole was chuckling, and Henry said, “What is so funny?”

“That buckboard,” choked the little cook. “We got a hind wheel and a front wheel on each end. No wonder Oscar feels viggly!”

“My goodness!” exclaimed Henry. “Hadn’t we better remedy that?”

“No. It can’t hurt anythin’—except their feelin’s. Keep goin’.”

There was no moon, and a slight overcast ruined the starlight for illumination. Henry had to trust to the team entirely. On the first sharp turn they felt a decided jerk, and heard a crash. The team stopped short, when Henry applied the brake.

“W’ere de ha’al do you t’ink you are going?” wailed Oscar.

“I see!” grunted Henry. “Sharp turn, and the buckboard did not make it in time. Hm-m-m-m!”

Oscar and Slim were scratching matches at the buckboard, and Slim came up to report, “You almost knocked the hubs off both wheels, scratched the body and some of the spokes pretty bad.”

“I shall try and do better on the next one,” promised Henry.

“Yeah,” said Slim, “you do that. Yuh can roll when ready.”

As they started on Henry said, “I shall swing wider on the next curve, Frijole.”

“Could yuh see where yuh swung?” asked Frijole.

“No, I could not, but I’ll swing wider next time.”

“Not with me on this side—yuh won’t. Even in the dark I could look straight down into that canyon, and I seen a eagle’s nest with six aigs in it.”

“Well, I don’t want to knock all the paint off that vehicle.”

Frijole had taken the jug from the buckboard, and now he drew out the cork. They were on an upgrade, and at the top was the worst jack-knife curve on the whole road. Frijole said,

“Have a snort, Henry—it might cushion yore fall.”

Henry shoved on the brake very tight and stopped the team.

“Cushion my fall!” he snorted. “The idea!”

“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!”

Henry managed to straighten up. Judge was above him, hands up above his shoulders. There were two men now, and one of them had a gun pointed at Henry. Taking a deep breath, Henry managed to negotiate the slope. Judge sank down on a rock, panting heavily. One of the men yanked the gun from Judge’s holster, and came to Henry to disarm him.

“Where’s yore gun?” he asked sharply.

“I—I lost it,” panted Henry. “Let me sit down—please.”

There were two men, both masked, watching Henry and Judge.

“What are you two doin’ here in the canyon?” asked one of them.

“We are on an errand of mercy,” replied Henry painfully.

“Yeah? What do yuh mean?”

“A man fell into the canyon last night, and we are searching for his body.”

“Well, ain’t you nice and kind. Who are you?”

“I am the sheriff, sir,” replied Henry. He was getting his wind back now. The man laughed.

“Sheriff, eh?” he snarled. “A fine sheriff, you are! Well, Fatty, yo’re all through.”

“So you knew about it, too, eh?” remarked Henry.

“Knew about what?” asked the masked man.

“About the Commissioners going to force me to resign.”

“They are, huh? Well, we’ll save paper and ink for ’em, feller.”

He turned and called, “One of you fellers fetch a rope.”

And as he turned to speak Henry slid off the rock, hit that slope, and went sliding. The man yelled for him to stop. Perhaps he thought it was an accident. At any rate it only required a second or two, before Henry slid onto his gun, grabbed it with both hands, crashed feet-first into the brush and turned over. He had dust in his eyes and misery in his body, but he lifted the gun and shot point-blank at the man at the top of the slope. At that moment Judge fell backwards on the rock, both feet in the air. The man jerked back and yelled:

“Damn him, he hit me! Look out—he’s got a gun!”

Henry scrambled to his feet and went into the brush, away from that slope, coming up among some huge boulders. He reloaded his gun, ears alert for sounds. A man was cursing viciously.

“I’ll get him—don’tcha worry about that!” he said.

“He outsmarted yuh once,” said another voice. “Where’d he get that gun? Where’s the other one?”

“Get away from that openin’, you fool! He’s down at the foot of that slope.”

“Where’d he hit yuh?”

“My right arm. Damn him, I’ve got to shoot left-handed.”

For a while there was no noise, no conversation. Then somebody began throwing rocks into the brush—rocks about the size of a baseball. One of them crashed off a rock and filled Henry’s eyes with rock-dust. Then a man’s voice said harshly:

“Aw, that won’t do no good. We’ve got to git above ’em and shoot down. Yuh can’t see a damn thing in this brush.”

“You do it—I can’t. That arm hurts—yeow! Look out! They’re throwin’ rocks, too! That’n hit me in the back. Get down!”

For several minutes there was not a sound. Henry hugged the rocks and listened. He knew that any movement must make a noise. Then he heard a man crashing brush, stumbling, panting. He stopped at the foot of the slope, but went on up, his breathing plainly audible. Henry tried to see who he was, but the brush was too thick. Then he heard a thud, a muffled cry, and a crash.

“Who was that?” one of the masked men called.

“I presume it was one of your friends,” replied Judge’s voice. “He stopped a rock. Now, if you will kindly show yourselves—”

“You blasted old fool!” snarled one of the men, and fired three shots in Judge’s general direction, but all it brought was a derisive laugh from the deputy.

Henry, peering through the brush, saw a movement, caught a flash of color. He steadied the gun over the rock, holding it in both hands, and squeezed the trigger. The rattling report brought a yell of pain, and a general scurrying around in the brush. A man was cursing, and Henry heard him say:

“We’ve got to git out of here, I tell yuh! I’ve got some busted ribs. If the boys ain’t finished—we can’t help it.”

“Lettin’ two old fossils like that whip us,” complained the other man. “Pull yore shirt tight over them ribs, can’tcha?”

From far up the canyon came the rattling report of a gun.

“He-e-ey! What’s goin’ on up there?” came from one of the men.

“C’mon! That don’t sound good!”

Henry could hear the two men going up through the brush. He backed out and called to Judge. After a few moments he heard Judge say, “I just wanted to be sure they had really gone, sir. Are you all right, Henry?”

“The latest reports from outlying precincts,” replied Henry, “would indicate that I am not running too well. Who did you hit?”

“He is there at the top of the slope, where we were captured.”

Henry managed to climb up there, where Judge was looking down at his victim. Judge and Henry looked at each other, and Judge said blankly:

“Where does Bob Stickler fit into the pattern of things?”

“I don’t know,” replied Henry. “Why did he come here, I wonder. Look at that knot on his head! Judge, if he came here to help us, I’m sorry, but if he came to help the other team, I’m mighty glad for your pitching ability. Listen!”

The canyon echoed with more shots. Henry scratched his head and squinted thoughtfully at Judge. By mutual consent they moved into the brush, where Judge picked and hefted another rock.

“Or Slingshot Van Treece,” he said grimly.

“I hit two of them,” said Henry.

“Knowing how well you shoot,” said Judge, “I believe in miracles.”

“I suppose the meeting is on now,” remarked Henry. “Mr. Akers is on his feet, extolling the virtues of Peter Gonyer. By the way, I wonder what became of James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly?”

“And Professor Fossil,” added Judge.

Henry was staring into space, and now he gasped, “I have it!”

“You—uh—have what?” whispered Judge.

“Palaeozoic and Mesozoic,” whispered Henry. “There are no fossils in the Mesozoic.”

Judge shook his head. “Probably just a slight recurrence of shock,” he said quietly. “You should have stayed in bed.”

“He said he would have to determine, Judge. Ridiculous!”

“You take the rock and let me have the gun, Henry.”

“No, I—”

Another splattering of shots, but closer now. A man was running wildly down through the brush, and they saw him now. Hatless, his clothes torn, tall, thin, running clumsily, trying to look back. He wasn’t looking for anyone ahead of him, and he was heading for Henry and Judge. He jerked to a stop, gun raised, when Henry hit him in a clumsy football tackle. In fact, Henry missed him with both hands, but his ample girth struck the man just behind the knees with terrific force, and he went down backwards, flinging his gun far into the brush.

Both of them were knocked out. Judge went over carefully and looked them both over. Henry sat up, his face purple, as he tried to wheeze air back into his tortured lungs, but the other man lay quiet, arms outstretched, breathing heavily. Henry’s gun was on the ground, and Judge picked it up.

Another man was running down through the brush toward them. Judge cocked the gun, his face grim, as the man came ahead, really smashing his way. He crashed into the opening, stumbled to a stop, and stood there staring at Judge. It was Oscar Johnson, torn, disheveled, but very much in earnest.

He came on and squatted on his heels beside Judge. Henry was beginning to recover. Oscar looked at the other man, and a slow grin spread across his big face.

“Ay vill be yiggered, Yudge!” he exclaimed.

Henry drew a deep breath, and whispered, “Professor Fossil.”

“Yah,” grinned Oscar. “Ay vass chasing him, Hanry. By golly, das faller can run!”

“You—were—chasing—him?” panted Henry.

“Yah, sure. How are you, Hanry?”

“I do not know, Oscar. I doubt if I shall ever know again. How on earth did you get down here?”

“Oh, that vass easy. Freeholey know the odder trail. Ve caught all free of dem, Hanry.”

“All three of them?” queried Henry weakly. “Three, you said?”

“Yah—su-re. Couple of dem vere vounded, but Pete Gonyer, he vars all right, until he vent crazy and tried to shoot us. Who is that yigger over dere, Yudge?”

“That,” replied Judge, “is Bob Stickler.”

“Yudas Priest! How did he get here, Yudge?”

Judge shook his head. “He just came, Oscar.”

“Three?” queried Henry. “Pete Gonyer and who else?”

“Lou Greer and Yud Bailey.”

“Jud Bailey? Oscar, Bailey is dead!”

“No-o-o,” drawled Oscar. “All he got is bullet in his arm.”

“But—why—didn’t he go into the canyon last night?”

“He yumped,” said Oscar. “Ve missed him, and he valked to de ranch.”

Bob Stickler stirred and managed to sit up. He rubbed his head and stared around, looking at each of them separately, as though trying to reason out what this was all about. Then he tilted his head and looked up at the canyon walls. The professor was moving his arms and legs, as he recovered. The three men watched them. Consciousness came quickly to the professor, and with it came realization. Then he sat up, flexing his legs.

Stickler started to get up, but Oscar went over to him, and the manager of the Yellow Warrior sat down again.

“Yust stay like you vere,” said Oscar.

Another man was coming down the canyon. It was Frijole. He broke into the open, gun in hand, and stood there, staring at them.

“Velcome de party, Freeholey,” grinned Oscar.

“Yeah,” said Frijole, and came on slowly, staring at the professor and Bob Stickler.

“Slim’s got the others,” said Frijole. “They’re roped. Where in hell did these two come from?”

“Mr. Stickler came up the canyon,” said Judge, “and I hit him with a rock. Mr. Fossil came down the canyon, and Henry tackled him around the knees.”

“Nice work!” grunted Frijole. “We found ’em, startin’ up the trail, Henry. They’ve got four pack-horses, loaded with—do you want to tell ’em, Professor?”

Professor Fossil didn’t. Henry said, “Loaded with jewelry ore from the Yellow Warrior, Frijole?”

“You knowed, Henry?”

“No—I merely guessed. What’d your version, Stickler?”

“I am not talkin’,” said Stickler sullenly.

“Pete Gonyer was the leader of the gang,” said Frijole. “That dad-blamed Jud Bailey confessed. He thinks he’s goin’ to die from a bullet in the arm. Where-at is yore horses, Henry?”

“About a mile from the other end of the canyon. You know where it makes a sharp right-hand turn? You do? Well, the horses are on the left-hand side, in a little thicket. But how—?”

“We’ll get ’em from the other end—later. Let’s drift.”

Both Stickler and the professor were able to walk. Less than a quarter of a mile up the canyon they found the others. They unpacked the horses and tied Pete Gonyer to a saddle. He was in bad shape, as were the others, but they were able to get back to the grades.

They had the four pack-horses, and seven saddle-horses. The trail was bad, but they got up to the main road without mishap, just as the valley-bound stage came into view. The driver pulled up beside them and looked with amazement at the cavalcade.

Out from inside the stage came Tom Akers and two others of the Board of Commissioners, staring, mumbling. Akers said:

“What happened to Pete Gonyer? Conroy, what does this mean?”

“It means,” replied Henry wearily, “that we have busted up the high-graders—and Mr. Gonyer, whom you were going to appoint as sheriff in my stead, was the leader. Professor Fossil was here, merely to be able to ship samples back to his home—samples of Yellow Warrior gold. Mr. Stickler handled things for them at the mine. You see—”

“My God!” gasped Akers. “It can’t be true!”

“It looks true to me,” said one of the Commissioners dryly. “Congratulations, Sheriff Conroy.”

“I don’t understand,” complained Akers. “Pete Gonyer isn’t that sort of man. Why, I’d bet my soul—”

“If you do not mind, gentlemen,” interrupted Henry, “you will ride horseback the rest of the way, and we will use the stage as an ambulance. Later we will recover the Yellow Warrior gold.”

The cavalcade came into Tonto City, the stage almost an hour late, and drew up at Doctor Bogart’s house, where the wounded were unloaded. James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly was there, trying to find out what on earth had happened.

“Did you,” he asked Akers, “hold that meeting and decide to remove Henry Conroy?”

Tom Akers looked bleakly at Pelly, but said nothing. This was no time to talk of resignations. He followed them to the jail with Stickler and the professor. Stickler said, “I’ll sue the county for false arrest, Conroy. You can’t prove anything against me.”

“We shall try, sir,” said Henry wearily. “What do you think, Professor?”

“After what has happened,” replied the professor soberly, “I’m sure you will try.”

With their prisoners behind the bars, Henry led the way over to the King’s Castle. There was quite a crowd in there, discussing what had happened. Mack Greer, the manager, saw Henry and came to him.

“Good work, sheriff,” he said. “Mighty good work.”

“All praise aside, sir,” said Henry soberly, “I would like to see Violet La Verne.”

Greer looked curiously at Henry and at the other men with him. Then he turned to one of the other girls, who had come in close, and asked, “Where is Violet?”

“She’s up in her room, packing up, Mack—she’s quit.”

They trooped up the stairs and knocked on her door.

“All right—in a minute. Take that rig around to the back and I’ll meet you out there,” said a voice from inside.

“She hired a livery rig to take her to Scorpion Bend,” whispered one of the curious girls. Henry nodded.

Then the door opened and Violet La Verne stood there, staring at the crowd. She was dressed for traveling, and had an old valise in her hand.

“Who shot Ben Todd?” asked Henry quietly.

The valise dropped from her hand and she closed her eyes for a moment. Henry went on kindly:

“You see, my dear, I happen to know that Ben Todd couldn’t read nor write; so that will had to be a fake. All the rest of the gang are either in jail or being probed for lead, so you might as well talk and save what skin you have left.”

“Stickler killed him,” she whispered huskily. “I grub-staked Ben Todd—I—I honestly did. Stickler wrote that will. He thought Todd had struck it rich and that he’d record the location—but it—it wasn’t recorded—because it wasn’t a mine—he stole two sacks of high-grade ore from the Circle G. That’s the truth—and—and nothing but the—”

And then Violet La Verne went flat in a faint.

Back in the office, thirty minutes later, Henry, Judge, Oscar, Slim and Frijole sat there a tin-cup in hand. They were a bedraggled crew. Stickler had confessed—and the troubles of the sheriff’s office were over for the time being.

“You see,” explained Henry, “about a year ago I helped Ben Todd make out a location notice. He could neither read nor write, and I felt very sure that he could not learn in a year. That was their first blunder. I suspected theft of that gold by Todd, because he did not record his claim. Todd was careful.”

“But why did you suspect the professor?” asked Judge.

“His lack of knowledge of the rocks, Judge; and he was supposed to be an archaeologist. I am not versed in it, but somewhere I had read of them, and I’m sure that either the Palaeozoic or the Mesozoic rock contains no fossils, while the other is filled with them. I believe the Palaeozoic is the blank rock. But, Judge, the professor said he would have to classify them.”

“And what other clues?” asked Judge.

“Well, when the professor escaped from Doctor Bogart’s place last night, I realized that he was going to warn Pete Gonyer; so I—well, Judge, I decided to beat them to the fossils.”

“Speaking of rocks,” said Judge soberly, “I wonder just what I hit Stickler with.”

“Well, here’s luck,” said Frijole. “Everythin’ turned out fine.”

“You forget somet’ing, Freeholey,” said Oscar soberly.

“What was that, Oscar?”

“Das lef’ front wheel of the bockboard.”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 25, 1948 issue of Short Stories.

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