The Silver Tombstone

Chapter Fourteen

Following the stream, a half mile from the Indian village, Sam and Johnny came upon a little-traveled desert road. A weathered wooden sign on a sagging post read: Tombstone, 8 miles.

They took a last, long drink of water, then struck out toward Tombstone. It was surprising how quickly they had recovered from the dehydrating of the morning sun. A quart or so of water and they were almost as good as before. A little more tired, perhaps. But with the knowledge that their destination was only eight miles away and that they were on the right road, their fatigue fell away from them.

In a little more than two hours the desert road climbed a steep hill and at the top of it cut a paved highway. Shortly ahead was a sign: Boot hill Cemetery. Johnny and Sam walked over to it, read some inscriptions on the stones.

“Nobody here we know,” Johnny commented.

“You didn’t expect anyone, did you?”

Johnny shook his head. “Some of our people had grandfathers.”

A short distance ahead and they were in Tombstone proper, a bleak, dying town that retained little of its onetime glory. A street or two of crumbling adobe and brick houses, a few stores; a couple of rundown motels that catered to a few tourists who wanted to spend a night in a once glorious boom town.

They turned into a drugstore and ordered a coke and a ham sandwich apiece. The soda jerk, a grizzled man of about fifty, sized them up, while they ate. “Like to buy some postcards?” he asked.

“Why?” Johnny asked.

“Great old town, Tombstone,” was the reply. He pointed to the window. “Right out there Buckskin Frank Leslie shot down Billy Claiborne. And over there, behind that building is the O. K. Corral, scene of the most celebrated gun fight of the Old West, the battle between the Earps and the McLowerys and the Clantons...”

“You seem pretty well posted on the old days.”

The soda jerk shrugged. “Can’t help it; tourists ask you questions. Been a lot of books written about Tombstone...”

“Ever hear of one called Tombstone Days?”

“No, but we got one here called just Tombstone. Cost you only...”

“Thanks,” said Johnny, “but I’m thinking of writing a book about Tombstone myself and I’d rather not read any more books about it. Might confuse me. I’d like to talk to some old-timers, though — fellows who were here when it was all happening...”

“Man you want’s Old Bill Sage. He slapped Curly Bill’s face one time. He also took Wyatt Earp’s gun away from him.” The man behind the counter chuckled. “To hear him tell it.”

“Liar, eh?”

“Sure, but he was here during the old days.”

“Might be worth talking to. Where’ll I find him?”

“Over on Tough Nut Street. Can’t miss him. He’ll be sitting’ out on the porch... white beard about a foot long.”

“Thanks.”

They left the drugstore and at the corner turned into Tough Nut Street. They had no difficulty finding Old Bill Sage, for he was, as the soda clerk had told them, seated in an ancient rocking chair, a full white beard covering his entire chest and bright, blue eyes taking in Johnny and Sam as they approached.

“Mr. Sage?” Johnny asked, as they came up.

“Bill Sage,” the ancient replied. “You’ve come to see me about my mine, eh?”

“Why, no,” Johnny said. “Just thought we’d stop by and talk about the old days...”

“What old days?”

“Why, the days when Tombstone was...”

Bill Sage spat out a stream of tobacco juice. “Trying’ to knock down the price, huh? Well, lemme tell you, it won’t work. I’ve had a lot of experience with mine promoters in my time and you can’t get away with it. I’ve been here since the beginning and I’ve seen them come and go...”

“I don’t doubt it, but I only wanted to ask you...”

“Yeah,” cut in the old man. “You’re not interested in the price. You only want to run down Tombstone, call it a ghost town and such nonsense. Then when you get me all discouraged, you offer me about half what the mine’s worth.”

“I’m not interested in buying a mine,” Johnny protested, “and I don’t give a damn if Tombstone is a ghost town today...”

“See!” cried Bill Sage triumphantly. He fixed his bright blue eyes on Sam Cragg. “You’re one of the Hansonviile cowboys...”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. I can spot you fellows a mile away. Call yourselves cowboys and you ain’t nothin’ more nor less than rustlers, that’s what you are.”

Sam Cragg caught Johnny’s eye and gestured with his head, to indicate that they were wasting their time with a senile old coot. The old man caught the gesture, however, and sprang to his feet.

“I saw that!” he yelled. “I saw it and I ain’t afraid of you. And that goes for Curly Bill and Jim Fargo, too. Go and tell them to come around here if they got the sand. Me and Wyatt’ll handle them, if they got the nerve to show their faces in Tombstone.”

“Look,” said Johnny Fletcher patiently, “we’re on your side. We don’t care for Jim Fargo ourselves...”

“Good thing you don’t, ’cause if there’s one man I aim to kill me one of these days it’s Jim Fargo...”

“You said it, Bill,” Johnny agreed. “I’ve got no use for Jim Fargo. Or Jim Walker either, for that matter.”

“Walker, bah! Him and his Silver Tombstone. My Little Boston’s got more silver in a ton of ore than there is in Walker’s whole mine.”

A Buick convertible with the top down turned the corner a short distance away and skidded up in front of the house where Johnny and Sam were being abused by Bill Sage. A young, olive-skinned man of about thirty got out from behind the wheel and came toward the house. He showed fine white teeth in a huge grin.

“Hi, Bill!” he said cheerfully.

Bill Sage grinned back at the new arrival. “ ’Lo, Danny.” He pointed a gnarled thumb at first Johnny, then Sam. “Couple of slickers tryin’ to get my mine.”

“Don’t let ’em do it, Grandpa,” said Danny. He winked at Johnny, then held out his hand. “My name’s Danny Sage.” As Johnny looked surprised, “Yep, I’m an Indian. Half, anyway. My mother was a full-blooded Hopi.”

He chuckled suddenly. “Scared the hell out of you, didn’t I?”

“Huh?”

“This morning.” As Johnny still looked blank Danny Sage suddenly stooped forward, put one hand behind him and began a mock Indian dance. At the same time he patted one hand over him mouth and made a burlesqued Indian call.

Johnny gasped. “The snake-dancer!”

Sam Cragg cried out, “You’re kidding.”

“Not now,” laughed Danny Sage. “But I was kidding this morning. You guys looked so funny when you popped up — guess you thought you’d stumbled in on some secret Indian ceremonies. As a matter of fact, I was trying to get some pictures for one of the picture magazines, to go along with an article I’m doing. Indian stuff.” He shrugged. “The family was trying to help me out, by putting on one of the old time shows...”

Johnny was still dubious. “But you were the bird who had the rattlesnake in his mouth.”

“Sure. Why not? The old boys used to do it. I can do anything they did...”

“Smart boy, Danny,” said Old Man Sage. “Graduated from college before he was twenty.”

Danny Sage winked again at Johnny. He seemed to like to wink. “What’s this about a mine? You really interested in buying one?”

“Yes,” said Johnny, “but not your grandfather’s.”

“There’re a hundred mines around Tombstone; you can have almost any of them for about a dollar down. Of course if you want one with silver, that’s another matter...”

“I’m interested in only one mine — the Silver Tombstone...”

“That slag dump!” scoffed Old Bill.

“As a matter of fact,” said Danny Sage, “The Silver Tombstone isn’t in Tombstone; it’s down south of Hansonville...”

“I know. I just stopped in to ask your grandfather about some of the old-timers around here...”

“Who?”

“Jim Walker... Jim Fargo...”

“Fargo’s dead,” suddenly exclaimed Bill Sage. “I remember the week before he died. Had a little run-in with him...”

“Sure, grandpa,” said Danny Sage. “Look, I’ll be over this evening to see you.” He inclined his head toward his car. “I’ll run you over to the Silver Tombstone...”

Johnny accepted the invitation promptly. “That’s damn decent...”

“Not at all. Owe you something for that gag this morning...”

He started for the car. Johnny followed promptly, but Sam went reluctantly. Before he climbed in he examined the interior of the car with care and when Danny Sage raised an inquiring eyebrow, Sam scowled: “Snakes. Just lookin’ to make sure there aren’t any in the car.”

Danny laughed. “I give you my word, pal.”

The three of them got into the car, making a tight squeeze. Danny started the motor, shifted into high and made a quick U turn. He waved to his grandfather, then stepped on the gas pedal.

“Gramp’s a great guy,” he said, as the car roared away. “But he’s eight-three and he gets mixed up.”

“I found that out,” replied Johnny. “What about that mine of his?”

Danny Sage made a wry face. “He hasn’t had a mine since around 1899 — and it was shut down then for ten years. Most of the mines in Tombstone either played out in the late ’eighties or were flooded. Some of the old-timers have the theory that if the mines could be drained they’d be as rich as ever. But I don’t know...”

The car was already through Tombstone and Danny made a sharp left turn onto an unpaved road. “What’d you want to know about Jim Fargo?” he asked suddenly.

“According to a piece I read in a book, the Silver Tombstone was discovered by his friend, Jim Walker, when he dug a grave to bury Fargo...”

“That’s the story Walker told,” Danny Sage said. “But it wasn’t true.”

“How do you know it wasn’t?”

“I wrote a thesis on the old mines, for my master’s degree,” grinned Danny. “Did a lot of research for it — among my mother’s people. They know things the white folks don’t. They were around here. Nobody paid much attention to them, but they knew what was going on... Fargo knew about the silver all the time. He told Walker... and Walker bumped him off to get the mine.”

“That isn’t the way I read it in a book called Tombstone Days.”

“No, it isn’t. I read the book myself and might have swallowed that story, but ten years ago, when I wrote my thesis, my mother’s uncle, Old Chief Vincento, was still alive. He told me the real story. He saw Walker do it.”

“Saw him kill Fargo?” Johnny asked sharply.

Danny Sage nodded. “Yep!”

“Funny he didn’t turn Walker in...”

“Why would he have done that?”

“Well, why wouldn’t he?”

Danny looked sidewards at Johnny. “You don’t know Indians, pal. Not the old-timers. They thought the white people were crazy scratching for gold and silver. And the whites...” he frowned a little. “Well, they thought the Indians were savages. An Indian wouldn’t have been believed. Not in 1883...”

He pointed ahead. “There’s Hansonville.”