Mystery of the Haunted Mine

8 Search for the Derrotero

A lone lugubrious figure was perched on the fence in front of the Cole house when Gary drove up in the truck. Tucker C. Browne looked like a dejected stork sitting there. He brightened when he saw Gary. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

Gary grinned. "Mr. Platt isn't running his route tomorrow, so he gave me the day off with pay, Tuck."

Gary got out of the truck. He looked back at Fred Platt. "Are you sure you can drive all right, Mr. Platt?"

The peddler nodded. "So long as I don't have to drive too much. I got some business in The Wells and other places I can take care of without too much driving. Say hello to your mother and father, Gary."

"They ain't here," Tuck said, inelegantly. "That's why I'm here. Your father's back started bothering him, and your mother had to drive him to the V. A. Hospital in Tucson. They left early this morning. They won't be back until Sunday evening if they don't keep your father there, Gary. Your mother asked me to come out and stay at the place until you got back. Between you and me I was hoping you'd come back today or tonight. I wasn't looking forward to staying here alone tonight."

"Afraid of Asesino?" asked Fred. He grinned.

Tuck shrugged. "I never like being around the Espectros alone, Mr. Platt. Besides, lots of people think this place is haunted too. There were so many killings around here in the old days."

"Hokey," said Gary.

Fred eased his way into the driver's seat. "Oh, I don't know," he said quietly. "Lots of things we don't know about haunts and suchlike. Once in a while I see things out in the desert at night I ain't sure about."

"Like Asesino?" asked Tuck in delight. "Hawww!"

"Like Asesino," agreed Fred. He glanced quickly at Gary. "You can tell him when I leave, Gary."

Gary nodded. "He won't be so cocky then."

Fred looked toward the house. "Well, now you've got plenty of time to search for the Lost Espectro, haven't you?"

"That's the idea," said Tuck brightly.

"Too bad that ol' derrotero vanished," said the peddler. "I always figured one of two things could have happened to it. It was either stolen when your folks wasn't around here, Gary, or it's still here some place."

"Yeh," said Gary dryly. "But where? We've looked all over the house, outbuildings, fence post holes, and even around the Springs. No luck. Not even a clue."

"Keep looking," said Fred. "Tuck, you go into the back of the truck and help yourself to a box of candy bars. You look peaked."

Tuck obeyed with a speed a little short of light. He grinned as he came to the front of the truck. "Thanks a lot, Mr. Platt."

"Forget it. I was a growing boy myself once. Keep looking for that derrotero, boys. You're bound to find it."

"I got some ideas on that myself," said Tuck.

Fred started the truck and drove off. Tuck held out the candy box to Gary. "Help yourself, amigo. On the house."

Gary took a bar and peeled it, but his eyes were on the hazy Espectros. "We've got three days," he said thoughtfully. "When do you have to be home?"

"Doesn't matter," said Tuck around the last half of his first bar. "My folks know I'm out here. I usually am weekends anyway. Worked all week long at Bennie's Barbecue, so I got some spending loot."

"I'll bet Bennie lost on the deal," said Gary.

Tuck peeled his second bar. "Well I got to admit he told me to take it easy on the french fries."

"Let's get some chow," said Gary. "I have a few things I want to tell you."

They ate in the kitchen while Gary told Tuck of his experiences and particularly of Jerry Black.

Tuck constructed his third ham sandwich. "This thing gets more confusing every time we talk it over. I always wondered why Jim Kermit never seemed to be interested in the Lost Espectro, being the man with a buck that he is. Maybe Jerry Black is right at that. Jim just might claim those markings were phonies to keep nosy people away from Cholla Canyon."

"On the other hand," said Gary, "maybe Jerry is making Jim look suspicious to keep nosy people from wondering what he's doing all the time up in the mountains."

"Yeh," said Tuck around a mouthful of bread and ham. "But somehow I want to believe in those two symbols you found in Cholla."

"They look real enough to me."

Tuck swallowed hard. "But I've always heard that Cholla is a dead end somewhere in the Espectros."

Gary finished his sandwich and leaned back in his chair. "It looked to me like there had been a landslide in there. There's something beyond that slide, Tuck."

"Yeh, like Asesino maybe. You really think Fred saw him?"

"Quien sabe? He saw somebody—somebody that liked Elberta peaches. Like the somebody who stays in that cave now and then. Tuck, I tell you, those boot prints I saw were fresh!"

"Maybe Jim Kermit was up there ahead of you."

"I was at his place before dawn, Tuck. I was with him until we entered the canyons and there wasn't any place he could have gotten ahead of me. No, those boot prints were made by someone else. Maybe by the person who has been staying in that cave."

"Like Jerry maybe?"

Gary shrugged. "He keeps pretty much to himself. No one seems to know much about him, even Fred Platt, and Fred seems to know something about everybody."

Tuck nodded. "But this Jerry keeps coming back to my mind, amigo. I remember him all right. Looks a hole right through you. Man, he's a natural suspect for my money."

"That's just it, Tuck! He's just too much of a natural! Asesino was part Apache; Jerry is full-blooded. Asesino really knew those mountains; so does Jerry. Asesino was a dead shot; Jerry was a sniper in the Marines. Asesino was a lone wolf; Jerry likes to stay by himself. Asesino didn't seem to be much concerned about the superstitions the Apaches attach to the Espectros; Jerry doesn't seem much concerned either. Asesino was bitter against the white man; Jerry is bitter as well. Asesino quite likely carried a .50/110 caliber Winchester and I found an empty .50/110 hull at Jerry's place."

"Sounds like a lot of circumstantial evidence," said Tuck wisely. He began to prepare a fourth sandwich, cutting into the ham with the skill of a surgeon. "It's just too pat. Besides, and don't ask me why, I happen to like Jerry Black."

"Me too," agreed Gary.

"You keep talking about Asesino in the past tense," said Tuck. "Why? Maybe Fred Platt really saw him."

"Fred Platt isn't a liar, Tuck. He actually knew Asesino years ago. So, Asesino swipes a box of .50/110 caliber cartridges from Fred's truck and three cans of Elbertas. Fred said Asesino loved Elbertas."

"Phooey," said Tuck. He mustarded, ketchupped, lettuced and mayonnaised his sandwich. "Big deal! I love Elbertas! You like 'em! Why even Sue eats them like popcorn! Lije Purtis would walk ten miles to get a can of Elbertas." Tuck's voice died away and his eyes widened. "Lije Purtis!" he added in an odd voice.

"The man who doesn't know how to use a gun," said Gary.

"At a distance a man who looked as ragged and dirty as Lije could sure look like he'd been in the mountains a long time. Maybe Fred got mixed up. He was scared you said, and he was quite a ways from the truck."

"I know two characters in this house who are more mixed up than he is," said Gary dryly.

"Have you thought any more about that crazy derrotero?"

"I think about it all the time," said Gary. "Like Fred said, it was either stolen when my folks weren't around or it's still here. It just has to be one or the other!"

"Big help," said Tuck. "Where'd we leave those candy bars?"

Gary left Tuck and walked into the living room. It was getting dark outside. He sat down in his father's big chair, a legacy of Grandfather Cole's. Gary closed his eyes. His head ached with thinking about that lost derrotero. If it was hidden in the house, it surely must have been well hidden; Gary and his father had once conducted a systematic search for it, and Gary's mother had even helped them. It had been no use.

Yet something rankled at the back of his mind. He had been an infant when the derrotero vanished. It had been about the time his mother decided to move into town to stay with her widowed father who hadn't been feeling too well. With Pete Cole in the hospital, the Cole Ranch was a right lonely place for a young mother and a baby boy.

Gary could hear Tuck calling to Lobo to feed him the ham bone. The big dog barked as he raced toward the back porch of the ranch house. Then Gary could hear Tuck in deep conversation with the dog. Tuck liked that. It let him do all the talking. He was telling the dog he'd have to work for the bone.

"Nineteen forty-six," said Gary aloud. He started and sat up. Why had he said that date?

He could hear Lobo chasing Tuck around the house and the bloodcurdling cries of the lean one were enough to send a chill down the spine of Asesino.

He stood up and paced back and forth. "I was only a baby then. That was the year my mother took me to stay at The Wells." He stared at the wall and smashed a fist into his other palm. He certainly could not remember staying with his grandfather there. Grandfather Hart, the retired high school principal of Cottonwood Wells Union High School, had died the first year Gary had started school. Gary could remember him. He always seemed to have a pipe in one hand and a book in the other. Where Great-grandfather Cole had been a man who had probed into the mysterious Espectros to make his precious derrotero and to find traces of the old Spanish and Mexican miners by tracking them down, Grandfather Hart had been strictly an armchair explorer, although his interest in lost treasures and in the Espectro was every bit as keen as that of Greatgrandfather Cole's.

There was a tremendous crashing noise outside and the sound of splashing water while Lobo barked in delight. Gary walked to the window. A pair of skinny legs protruded from the water trough and then Tuck Browne's lean face showed above the edge of the trough. He climbed out, sluicing water from every stitch of his clothing. He limped toward the house. Lobo barked again. Tuck turned. "You did that on purpose, Lobo," he said, and tossed him the wet ham bone.

The Hart house, now unoccupied, still stood on a side street in The Wells. It had been left to Gary's mother and she had kept it, always thinking that when the day came for the ranch to be sold, the family could move into the Hart house. The house had been rented several times but never for very long. There were more modern rentals in the newer part of The Wells.

"Tuck," said Gary.

The lean one was wringing out his trousers. "Yeh?" he said in soppy disgust.

"We're going to take a ride!"

"To where?"

"My grandfather's old house in The Wells."

"Nothing there," said Tuck.

"I have a feeling we've been looking in the wrong place for the derrotero, Tuck! The derrotero vanished about 1946; in 1946 my father was still in the hospital, and my mother and I were staying with Grandfather Hart."

Tuck stopped wringing. "By jiminy!" he said quietly. "Grandfather Hart was loco about such things. You think maybe the chart was taken there and forgotten?"

"I'll take a chance that it might be there."

"Keno! Let me change my clothes!"

Gary got the jeep and was waiting for Tuck. He ordered Lobo to stay behind and drove out onto the darkening road. There was an intense eagerness within him. Nothing had been changed in the old house. Every now and then Gary would go into town and clean up the grounds of the place, cut the lawns, and sometimes, accompanied by Tuck, he'd stay the night in the gloomy old house. Not once had he ever considered that the derrotero might be hidden there.

It was quite dark when they pulled up in front of the old house, dreaming on its quiet side street. Gary unlocked the double front door and it creaked open.

"Always thought this place was haunted," said Tuck.

"You think every place is haunted," said Gary. "I'll go in alone if you're chicken."

"Who me? Fearless Browne? 'Lead on, Mac-Duff!'"

The street lamp shone through the stained glass at the top of the big door and made an eerie reddish pattern on the faded wallpaper. Gary quickly led the way up the wide creaking stairs. "I figure we'd better hunt in the library," he said. "That's where Grandpa Hart spent most of his time."

The library was in the front of the house, across the hall from the huge master bedroom. Gary walked into the dim room faintly lighted by the street lamp. He lighted an oil lamp and turned to look at the serried ranks of bookshelves that entirely lined the big room. "I've heard of papers being hidden in hollowed out books," he said.

"Sounds like a story from Poe," said Tuck. "Hollowed out books! Hooooey!"

"You got any better ideas?"

"Let's look for hollowed out books."

An hour passed while the two boys took down one book at a time and examined it. Their hands were black with dust, and dust floated about the room and swirled about the draft of hot air rising from the lamp on the table.

"Man," said Tuck in grudging admiration, "your grandpap was sure a readin' man."

Gary nodded. He had reached the end of one row of shelves, and he reached for the first book in the next row. His hand stopped part way and he stared at the row of books.

"What is it, Gary?" asked Tuck.

"Look, Tuck," said Gary. "Every book on these shelves is marked with fingerprints."

Tuck eyed the books. "Yeh," he said. "When was the last time any of your family were in here?"

"Early last spring — and we didn't dust the books as I recall."

Tuck whistled softly. "Someone was pawing around in here then," he said. He raised the lamp. "Look, Gary. That whole wall of books back there have been handled too. Lookit the finger marks on 'em!"

A cold feeling came over Gary. Someone had been in there then. Someone who might have gotten the same idea that had occurred to Gary.

"Ghosts," said Tuck.

"Ghost don't leave fingerprints!" snapped Gary.

"Take it easy! I was only joking, amigo."

Gary shook his head. He was getting discouraged. Maybe this idea was a bust too. Everything connected with the story of the Lost Espectro seemed to be a bust.

Tuck walked to the end shelf, close to the door. Here the books still had their coating of dust. He grinned. "Just supposing that clod who was looking through these books stopped a little short of finding the derrotero?" he asked.

"Those holes in your thick head make your voice sound funnier than usual."

Tuck reached up and withdrew a heavy volume. He hefted it. "Seems lighter than it should be," he said. He lifted the front cover and looked down at the book. For a moment his face was set and frozen. "Gary," he said in a hoarse voice.

"Don't tell me you've found it?" cracked Gary. He started to reach for another book.

"Gary!"

Gary turned quickly. Tuck handed him the thick volume. The inside had been neatly cut out and the edges of the pages glued together. Within the cavity was a folded square of heavy paper. Gary slowly placed the book on the table and just as slowly removed the paper. He carefully opened it.

"Gary?" said Tuck.

Gary swallowed and then nodded. "Yeh," he said. "May I never speak again if I call you loco, no matter how much I believe it!"

"You're sure that is it?"

Gary spread the chart flat on the table beneath the lamp light. He had seen enough samples of his great-grandfather's handwriting to recognize it instantly on the derrotero. In the lower right-hand corner was his great-grandfather's signature. "Yes," he said quietly. "This is it all right, Tuck."

"Let's get out of this creepy place then."

Gary nodded. He folded the derrotero and replaced it inside the book, then thrust the book under his arm. He doused the light. Tuck walked past the table, glancing out a window as he did so "Gary!" he said.

"What is it?"

Tuck stepped back from the window. "I'm almost sure I saw someone walking toward the porch."

Gary eased open the library door and moved to the head of the stairs. Tuck came up behind him. It was very quiet — almost too quiet. The faint light of the nearest street lamp came through the painted glass at the top of the front door. The doorknob turned slowly with a little grating noise. The door swung open and the shadowy outline of a man could be seen standing there. He looked toward the stairwell, his face shaded beneath his hat brim. He seemed to be listening. He moved a little and something shone dully in the darkness. A gun or a knife, Gary was sure. The man took a step forward; his hand reached for the stair rail.

Gary took a long chance. "Who is it?" he called out sharply. "Speak up or I start shooting!"

The man spun on a heel and darted awkwardly toward the door. His boots thudded on the porch and then on the stairs. Gary foolishly plunged down the stairs, three at a time. He burst through the doorway and saw a shadowy figure disappear into thick shrubbery at the corner. Gary dashed across the lawn and slipped on slick grass. He came down hard and the book flew from his grasp. Tuck grabbed the book. He looked at the place where the stranger had vanished. "No use chasing him," he said.

Gary disgustedly wiped his muddy hands on the grass. A leaky faucet had allowed a pool to form and the water had soaked into the ground. Gary stood up. The street lamp shone on the wet spot. Boot prints showed clearly, and they were not Gary's prints. Gary bent to look at the strange prints; the left boot print had a clearly marked double crescent of nails and the heel had been nailed crookedly in place. Cold sweat broke out on Gary's face.

"What's wrong?" asked Tuck.

"Let's get out of here!" said Gary. He walked to the house and locked the front door. He ran to the jeep and started the motor. He put the jeep into gear and flicked on the headlights. Something moved quickly in the thick shrubbery at the corner. Gary swung the jeep in as short a turning arc as he could and shifted to second. He was at the corner before he ventured a look back down the shadowy street. There was nothing to be seen. But whoever was hiding in the shrubbery had quite likely seen the book Tuck had picked up.

"Who do you think it was?" asked Tuck.

"It wasn't the Fuller Brush man, amigo."

"No." Tuck peered down the street as Gary turned a corner. "What scared you back there?"

Gary stopped at a stop sign, then drove on again toward the highway. "You remember the boot prints I saw up near that cave?"

"Yes?" Tuck started. He whistled softly. "The same?"

"The same," said Gary.

"Can't this bucket go any faster?"

Gary immediately demonstrated that it could. He wanted to get home and get his hand on his rifle now that they had the derrotero. "If you ever find it, keep it to yourself," Jerry Black had advised Gary. "There are men around these mountains who'd do anything to get their hands on it. Kill even. …"