The Silver Tombstone

Chapter Twelve

At six in the morning, Johnny Fletcher, who had been driving the last two hundred miles, braked the car to a stop in front of a restaurant and nudged Sam Cragg who was dozing fitfully beside him.

“Breakfast time!”

Sam Cragg groaned and opened his eyes. He twisted himself and winced as cramped muscles protested. “Are we still in California?” he asked.

“The sign says it’s Tonapah, Nevada — but it looks just like all the other towns we passed through the last two hundred miles.”

They got out of the car and went into the restaurant. It was a long narrow room with a counter running down one side and a row of slot machines down the other.

“Yeah,” said Johnny, “it’s Nevada.”

He took a quarter from his pocket, dropped it into the nearest slot machine, pulled down the lever and continued on to a stool. The slot machine whirred, there was a click... and a stream of quarters poured down the slot into the cup. Two or three spilled overboard and hit the floor. Johnny was off the stool and in a single bound reached the slot machine.

He scooped out quarters, picked up the ones that had spilled on the floor. He began counting them. “Twenty quarters — five bucks,” he announced after a moment to the dumbfounded Sam Cragg. “How long has this been going on?”

“It happens all the time,” said the waiter behind the counter. “Somethin’ wrong with that machine. Fella came in here yesterday, put in a quarter and hit the jackpot... Got seventy-four bucks.”

Johnny was already putting a quarter into the machine.

Ten minutes later he climbed back on the stool at the counter, a wiser, sadder man. He had fed back the twenty quarters, originally won, and another twelve dollars.

“When we get out of here,” he said to Sam Cragg, “kick me where it hurts.”

“I think you’re wrong to quit now,” Sam said. “The jackpot’s just about full. The next quarter might tip it.”

“Ahrrr!” He signaled to the waiter. “Let’s have that coffee now.”

“Sure,” said the waiter. “Would you be interested in rolling the bones? The cook’s going off duty in five minutes and he likes a game before he goes home.” He grinned apologetically. “On account of the places are only open nights and he works at night and don’t get a chance to gamble.”

“Twelve bucks for a coffee is good enough for me,” Johnny retorted. “As a matter of fact, I’m thinking of starting a petition to outlaw gambling in the state of Nevada.”

“They do that,” said the waiter, “and we’ll close up this place. What do you think we make our money on here?” He pointed at the slot machines.

He brought the coffee, so black and strong that the thin milk he set out did no more than lighten it two or three shades.

...At noon Johnny was swinging the Chevrolet around the beautiful grades just south of Boulder Dam. For twenty minutes it was like riding a roller coaster — up a steep grade, down, around a curve, then another. But suddenly the car rolled down the last grade and the black macadam road stretched ahead like a black ribbon down the straightest, flattest, longest stretch of road Johnny and Sam had ever seen-fifty-some miles, to Kingman. Now, Johnny really let out the Chevrolet — seventy-five miles an hour, eighty and even eighty-five.

The little car ate up the miles. By six o’clock they were in Phoenix. They had dinner at a small restaurant, then climbed into the car, turned on the headlights and started for Tucson.

At eleven-thirty Tuscon was behind them, but Johnny Fletcher was about ready to throw in the sponge. He had slept only fitfully the night before, during the times that Sam Cragg drove. He was even relieved therefore, when a clanking somewhere in the innards of the Chevrolet promised a forced halt to their journey. But it was ten minutes before they saw a light ahead and the clanking by that time had become serious.

He tooled the car into the little wayside filling station which showed a light.

He and Sam got out of the car and for a moment the car and the filling station seemed to swirl around him. Then his head cleared and he started for the door of the station. The light, he saw now, was not in the station itself, but in a room behind it.

He tried the door of the station and discovered it was locked. He rattled the doorknob, then pounded on the door. The clamor produced no results.

Behind Johnny, Sam muttered under his breath. It sounded something like, “God-damn country.”

“The country’s all right,” snarled Johnny. “It’s the people in it.” He took a deep breath and yelled suddenly: “Hey, wake up, inside!”

Sam began kicking at the door.

A figure finally appeared in the doorway of the room behind the station.

“Whaddya want?” it asked in a voice perfectly audible.

“Some service,” Johnny yelled back.

The man inside shook his head. “Place is closed for the night.”

“This is an emergency,” Johnny cried. “Open up.”

“Won’t,” was the reply. “Go ’way.”

Sam Cragg picked up a rock and poised it in his hand. “Open up or I’ll heave this through the window!” he threatened.

That produced results. The man inside switched on a light in the filling station and came to the door. He opened it — and thrust out a revolver about fourteen inches long.

“You’ll do what, Mister?” he asked coolly.

Johnny and Sam moved back three feet as if struck by lightning. Johnny grinned sickishly. “Take it easy!”

The man with the gun — a real ancient — showed a few blackened teeth. “A couple of tough hombres, eh?”

“Uh-uh, not me,” said Sam Cragg, eying the big gun. “I was only joking.”

“This place is all glass,” said the old man. “I don’t like people who throw stones — not with me living in a glass house. Catch on?”

“Sure,” said Johnny. “But we’re in trouble. Something’s wrong with our car—”

“I own this place,” said the old man. “But my mechanic does the work — and he quits at nine o’clock.”

“Then we’re stuck,” said Johnny. “How far is it to the next town?”

“Plenty.”

Johnny groaned. “Guess we’ll have to take a chance.” Sam nodded gloomily and they climbed back into the car. The old man came to the door and watched them.

Johnny stepped on the starter. Nothing happened. He tried again. There was still no response.

“Well,” said Johnny, “that settles if. We sleep in the car.”

“You can come inside,” the old man offered, surprisingly enough.

Johnny and Sam climbed out of the car and followed the old man into the filling station. A lean man with walrus mustaches came out of the back room.

“Somethin’ wrong with their car, Lafe,” the old filling station proprietor said. “You can look at it in the morning.”

Johnny exclaimed, “Is he your mechanic?”

“Yeah, sure,” replied the old man.

“Then why can’t he look at the car now?”

“ ’Cause it’s after his working hours, that’s why.”

Lafe nodded agreement. “You probably need your valves ground, that’s all.”

Johnny gritted his teeth. “Look, folks, it’s twelve o’clock at night; we’re stuck here in the middle of the desert; I understand there isn’t a town in miles—”

“Twenty-eight,” said Lafe, laconically.

“All right,” said Johnny, “twenty-eight miles. It’s after working hours. So we’ll pay you extra.”

Lafe shook his head. “A man can only work so many hours a day. I’ll grind your valves in the morning.”

“They don’t need grinding,” exclaimed Johnny. “There’s something broken — the motor won’t start.”

“Valves,” insisted Lafe, “cost you thirty-two bucks.”

“That’s a holdup!” burst out Sam.

Lafe shrugged. The old man smacked his leg with the barrel of his long gun. “Why don’t you try somewhere else?”

“Because the car won’t start!” snapped Johnny. Then he sighed in sudden surrender. “All right — thirty-two bucks.”

“In the morning,” said Lafe. “Grinding valves is a big job.”

“Maybe it isn’t the valves. It could be something just wrong with the starter.”

Lafe shook his head. Then he grinned. “It’s the valves... on account of it’s twenty-eight miles to the next town.”

“Might as well come in and set,” invited the oldster.

He went into the room behind the station. The others followed. Johnny noted that the place was fitted up as a combination kitchen and bedroom; at least it contained two bunks, a stove and a table. Scattered on the table was a pack of cards.

The old man gestured to the cards. “Me and Lafe was just finishing a rubber.”

“A rubber?” Johnny asked.

“Yeah, we’re playin’ some newfangled game. Don’t know much about it.”

He seated himself at the table and Lafe went to the other side. He picked up the cards and dealt. Johnny looked at Sam, then shrugged and pulled up a chair to kibitz.

Lafe dealt clumsily. He played even worse and after eight or ten draws the old man went down with ten and caught Lafe with twenty-two points.

“That finishes the game,” the oldster exulted. He began figuring the score. “You owe me eight forty-five,” he said, after awhile.

Lafe grunted and produced the money. Johnny’s eyes narrowed.

“What’re you playing for?”

“Two cents a point.” The old man shook his head. “First time I’ve won in a week. Lafe doubles his pay.”

“Mmm,” said Johnny. “...I saw some fellows playing this game a few weeks ago. Looked interesting...”

“Like to try a rubber?”

Johnny, looking at Sam, saw the latter wince. “For two cents a point? I’m not much of a gambler...”

“By the way,” said the old man, “my name’s Johnson — Luke Johnson... Tell you what I’ll do. Your bill’ll be thirty-two dollars tomorrow. I’ll play you a rubber, double or nothing...”

Johnny pretended to hesitate, then finally nodded. “That’s a bet.”

Luke Johnson picked up the cards, squared them. “Low man deals.”

He cut a deuce and Johnny a king.

Johnson dealt, even more clumsily than had Lafe awhile ago. Johnny picked up his hand, discovered that he had a pair of jacks and nothing else.

“Double for blitz, of course,” said Johnson. “If you blitz me you get the work done for nothing and I give you thirty-two dollars, in addition.”

“And if I lose?”

“Then you pay one twenty-eight.”

Johnny swallowed hard and looked again at his hand. “All right,” he said.

“I’ve got nine points,” said Johnson, putting down his hand.

Johnny cried out in consternation. “I didn’t even get a chance to draw.”

Johnson shrugged. “All luck, this game. Sheer luck... Let’s see, you got forty, forty-eight, fifty-six, sixty-one points.” He grinned wickedly. “Thirty-nine points more and I’m out.”

“What?” cried Johnny. “We’re playing three games across.”

“Uh-uh. A game’s a hundred points...”

“Each game,” protested Johnny. “But we’re playing three games — everybody plays three games.”

“Never heard of it. A single game’s all we ever play. Look—” he scooped up the score between himself and Lafe. “See?”

Johnny looked and didn’t like it. Another lucky hand... and he would lose one hundred and twenty-eight dollars... more money than he and Sam had between them.

Lafe hitched up his chair beside Johnny. “This is gonna be good,” he said, breathing down Johnny’s neck.

Sam pulled up a chair beside old Johnson. He caught Johnny’s eye and nodded significantly. The old man dealt the cards, spilling them once while shuffling. Johnny sorted out his hand: three treys, two fives, two kings, two queens and a ten. Not a bad hand if he connected.

He drew a jack and discarded it. Johnson picked it up and threw a five. Johnny scooped it up and discarded a ten.

“Gin,” said Johnson.

“No!” howled Johnny.

“Yes,” chuckled the old boy. He looked at the cards that Johnny dropped. “Forty points — and twenty for gin. That’s sixty and a blitz. You owe me one twenty-eight...”

“For two hands...”

“Okay, Johnny,” said Sam Cragg. His hand brushed against Luke Johnson’s hip, grabbed the old Frontier model in the belt and whipped it out.

Johnson kicked back his chair and sprang to his feet. Sam slipped sidewards and waved the gun at first Johnson, then Lafe. “A thieves’ den!” he cried.

“That gun ain’t loaded,” said Johnson calmly. He went to a wall telephone and took down the receiver.

“Get away from that phone!” Sam snapped.

Johnson began dialing. “Hello, Highway Patrol,” he said.

“Get away!” Sam roared.

“This is Luke Johnson,” Johnson said into the telephone. “There’re a couple of stickup artists here...”

Sam averted the muzzle of the gun and pulled the trigger. A click was the only result. He howled in rage and threw the gun to the floor. Johnson said, “Excuse me a minute,” into the phone, then reached to a shelf nearby. He whirled on Sam with a twin to the other Frontier model.

“This one is loaded,” he said. He lowered the muzzle, pulled the trigger. A terrific explosion rocked the little room and splinters flew from the table. “See?”

Sam was already hurtling through the door into the filling station. Johnny knocked the table aside and followed. Old man Johnson calmly sent a bullet after Johnny.

Sam was whipping open the outer door when Johnny came through from the rear room, but so great was Johnny’s speed, that he collided with Sam just outside the door.