The Silver Tombstone

Chapter Eighteen

The grey dawn was already breaking, Johnny noted. He shook his head. Mike Henderson was probably already at the telephone. Within ten minutes, Joe Cotter would be out. There wasn’t enough time.

Or was there.

A station wagon stood inside an open garage. Johnny glanced quickly at Sam and headed for the vehicle. The keys were in it, which would save them the couple of minutes it would have taken them to fashion a wire spark-jumper.

“You’ll notice,” said Sam, as he climbed into the station wagon beside Johnny, “I ain’t even afraid of stealing a car any more.”

“We’re only borrowing this for a little while.”

The starter caught instantly and Johnny backed the station wagon out of the garage, turned it on the macadam and headed for a wire gate fifty feet away.

He stopped in front of the gate and Sam sprang out and opened it. They didn’t bother to close it. Johnny turned the car left, in the direction of Hansonville. Sam grunted.

“All right, I hope we run into him.”

“Joe?”

“Who else?”

They sped through the little hamlet and negotiated the graveled road to Tombstone probably faster than it had ever been covered before.

At Tombstone they turned left once more on the main paved road. The speedometer indicated sixty-five a minute after they left the town and Johnny pressed his foot down upon the accelerator. The needle shot up to seventy, advanced to seventy-five, then eighty. It hovered there for a little while, then Johnny began easing off. When the needle got down to sixty, Sam looked at him puzzled.

“Ought to be hitting it any minute,” Johnny said.

“Hitting what?”

“The filling station where we left our car...”

“What do you want to go back there for?” Sam ejaculated.

“To pick up our car — naturally. That’s why I borrowed the money from Laura Henderson... Ha!”

He began braking and then swung the car to the left, off the road into the filling station. It was dark, but there were two cars parked at the side of the station; one a battered jalopy, the other the Chevrolet that Johnny and Sam had deserted so precipitately the night before.

Johnny kept the motor running, but blasted the night with the horn. Sam patted the stock of the shotgun.

A light appeared in the living quarters behind the station. Johnny pressed down two or three times more on the horn, then shut off the motor.

“Okay, Sam,” he said, “but keep the gun behind you for a minute.”

A light went on in the filling station, revealing the old proprietor. He was wearing a long nightshirt and gesturing angrily.

“Go ’way,” he shouted.

Johnny stepped up to the glass door so the man inside could recognize him. He put his hand up to the glass, to show the money in it.

“Open up,” he yelled back. “I want to pay you the money I owe you.”

The old man’s assistant appeared, clad also in a nightshirt, but carrying the old man’s long revolver. Luke Johnson came to the door and unlocked it.

“What’re you trying to pull?” he demanded.

“I want my car,” Johnny said. “I owe you one twenty-eight; here’s your money.”

“Well, I’ll be a Gila monster!” sputtered the old man. He took the money from Johnny’s hand, began counting it.

“I hope you ground the valves,” Johnny said pointedly, “because I’ve paid for the job and if you haven’t done the work I’ll report you to the Automobile Club.”

“I ground them yesterday,” said Lafe, “but I discovered that your generator was shot. I put a new one in; cost you twenty-eight fifty...”

Sam brought the shotgun out from behind his back. “How much?”

Lafe took one look and dropped the revolver. Johnny scooped it up. “Now give me the key to my car.”

The two filling station men backed into the station. “The state police are still looking for you two,” the oldster said. “You wanta be careful...”

“We are,” said Johnny, “that’s why we’re doing things your way. You won some money from me and I’ve paid it. But we’re not going to stand for any more holdups. So give me my car key and we’ll be on our way...”

The old man started for the back room. “That’s fair enough.”

Johnny kept close on Johnson’s heels, leaving Sam in the filling station with the assistant.

Johnson had a little trouble locating the Chevrolet key. But he found it after a moment on the table; underneath a paper-bound booklet, entitled, Fifty Simple Card Tricks.

Johnny scowled when he saw the book. “Card tricks, eh? And your cards, too.”

The old man showed his teeth in a wide grin. “I’m only learning, but I got the false shuffle down pretty good. And my one-handed cut ain’t bad.”

Johnny grabbed him with one hand and with the other reached into his nightshirt. He brought out the bills he had given him a moment ago. The old man howled to high heaven. “That’s robbery!”

“What do you call what you did to me?”

“Gambling — anything goes in gambling. It says in the book, ‘never give a sucker a break!’ ”

“The sucker’s making his own break this time,” said Johnny. “Here’s thirty bucks for the valve-grinding job — although I doubt if your stooge even ground them.”

“I’ll get the state police after you,” the old man threatened.

“Thanks for reminding me of them,” said Johnny. He stepped to the telephone, took hold of the receiver and ripped the cord from the instrument.

“Now you can practice your card tricks, without being interrupted.” He stepped into the other room, nodded to Sam. “You drive the station wagon.”

They left the filling station with the old proprietor in the doorway shouting dire threats at them. Johnny climbed into the Chevrolet. The motor started with the first touch on the starter button.

He reached over to the glove compartment, opened it and grunted in satisfaction as he took out a book — Tombstone Days. He waved to Sam Cragg and rolled the Chevrolet out onto the highway.

He shifted into high and stepped hard on the gas pedal. He gave the little car everything it had for a mile, then began braking.

Sam Cragg pulled up beside him after a moment. “Turn the bus around, heading the other way, then leave it there.”

Sam turned the car, then came over to the Chevrolet. “What’s the idea of that?”

“Joe Cotter. He’s overdue and he knows we left in Henderson’s station wagon. I’m hoping he’ll think we deserted the bus and started out across the sand... Damn! I think that’s him now.”

Far down the road headlights appeared. Johnny slid over in the seat, indicating that he wanted Sam Cragg to drive. Sam climbed in behind the wheel.

“I thought we were through running from Joe Cotter.”

“I need a little time. Step on it.”

“Where to?”

“Back to Hansonville.”

The headlights were growing larger and in a moment flashed past Sam and Johnny, moving at such speed, however, that they could not identify the occupant of the car. But looking back, Johnny saw the tail-lights become redder and knew that the car was stopping for the station wagon.

“Okay,” he said, and reached up to switch on the overhead light. Sam exclaimed.

“Don’t do that — I can’t see as well.”

“See as well as you can. I’ve got to read.”

“At a time like this?”

“If I’d had sense enough to read more before, we might never have gotten into this jam,” Johnny retorted. “I’m more and more convinced that the solution to this business is right here in this book.”

Sam grunted beside him and Johnny opened the book. He turned to the index and found his place. He began reading:

...Crime certainly didn’t pay for Jim Fargo, but his friend who was enriched by his death, erected a tombstone over his grave that shamed the surviving relatives of more illustrious personages. The tombstone was fully eight feet tall and Hansonville boasted that it was solid silver, dug from the Silver Tombstone mine. This story was given credence for some time by the fact that an armed guard was posted at the grave. But one night, certain persons got the guard drunk and attacked the tombstone with hammers and chisels. Their reward was a handful of base lead and thereafter the remains of Jim Fargo slumbered in the ground without the tread of a guard overhead...

Johnny’s eyes jerked up from the book; Sam Cragg was braking the car, preparatory to turning right on the Hansonville road. Johnny saw that full daylight was only a few minutes away.

“Let me know when we get to Hansonville,” he said and dropped his eyes once more to the book.

But there was only one more sentence. “Today, Jim Walker is living in his fine mansion near the Silver Tombstone, actively supervising the operations of his famous mine.”

Tombstone Days having been published in 1886, the author did not know that the Silver Tombstone went into borrasca within a few months and was abandoned.

Johnny Fletcher closed the book and stared at the road ahead in frowning concentration. The car began slowing up.

“There she is, Johnny!”

Johnny roused himself. “Stop and let me take the wheel.”

The exchange of seats was quickly made and Johnny drove carefully into the hamlet of Hansonville. It was broad daylight, but the village was still asleep.

Once through the town Johnny drove faster and passed the grounds of the Hansonville mine without slowing up. But as he neared the Silver Tombstone he began applying the brakes.

“Johnny!” exclaimed Sam. “We’re not going down in the mine again, are we?”

“I hope not,” said johnny grimly as he shut off the engine. He got out of the car, then turned back. “The shotgun, Sam!”

Sam already had it in his hands. He climbed out of the car, scowled as he looked toward the mine shaft.

“Do you see anything of a house around here?” Johnny asked.

Sam looked suspiciously at Johnny. “What kind of a house?”

“A mansion. It says in this book that Jim Walker built a mansion here.” He held up the copy.

“If there’s a mansion anywhere around here,” said Sam, “it’s hiding under a rock.”

“Or behind one.” Johnny looked at the mound behind the mine shaft. “Let’s take a look.”

They started for the mine shaft, Sam glanced darkly at the shaft as they passed. Johnny stopped a moment, then, trying to decide whether to climb the mountain of shale and slag, or circle it. He finally determined on the latter course and started toward the left, in the direction away from the Hansonville mine.

It took several minutes to circle the mountain, but before they completed the circuit, Johnny stopped and sniffed the crisp morning air. “Smoke,” he announced.

Sam’s face set in grim lines. He stepped ahead, the shotgun held at the ready. Fifty feet more and they both saw it — Jim Walker’s “mansion.”

Fifty years is a long time on the desert. Of Jim Walker’s old home there remained only the stone walls — and those were buried in the sand to a depth of two or three feet, up to and even above the levels of the glassless windows. Once, no doubt, Walker’s house had been a showplace, but now it was a heap of stone and rubble.

In front of what had once been the main door was a small fire and huddled over this was Dan Tompkins, erstwhile desert rat. Ho was frying bacon in a blackened pan.

He was a little more engrossed in his job than he should have been, for Johnny and Sam were less than twenty yards away before Tompkins became aware of their presence. Then he set down the frying pan and in the same movement reached toward his hip. His hand stopped in mid-air, however, as he saw the muzzle of Sam’s shotgun covering him.

“Well, for the lova Geronimo!” he exclaimed loudly. “If it ain’t my old pals, Johnny Fletcher and Sam Cragg!”

“Watch him, Sam!” Johnny exclaimed. He dashed past Dan Tompkins and sprang through the doorway. He was just in time to catch Charles Ralston on his knees, trying frantically to open a Boston bag.

Johnny kicked the bag out of his reach. “Outside, chum!”

“Who do you think you’re pushing around?” Ralston demanded.

“I wasn’t pushing you around,” said Johnny. “Not yet. But it’s an idea.” He raised his foot and kicked Charles Ralston where a man is supposed to be kicked. Ralston went sprawling through the door. Johnny followed.

“So now you two have paired up,” he said, when he came outside once more.

Tompkins moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Mr. Ralston sold me a half interest in the Silver Tombstone. He was willing to make me an attractive offer on account of my experience in mining.”

“What’d he sell you — a half interest in the Arizona air?”

Ralston began to bluster. “Look here, Fletcher—”

“It’s too early in the morning to look,” Johnny snapped. “I suggest you and Tompkins start looking... somewhere else.”

Tompkins shook his head sadly. “That’s what I get for bein’ decent to you boys.”

“Stop it, Tompkins,” Johnny cut in impatiently. “That stuff was all around out in Hollywood, but a lot of sand has blown over the desert since then and I haven’t got very much time. You gave me a lot of baloney about...”

He stopped, his eyes fixed on the ground. There were three tin plates beside the fire. He started to turn and then Joe Cotter came leaping out of the house.

Johnny tried to cry out a warning to Sam Cragg, but Cotter’s flailing right hand struck him a terrific blow on the side of the head and Johnny hit the sand so hard that he almost turned a somersault. He was still down when the shotgun boomed.

Johnny scrambled to his knees, then threw himself flat once more. The shotgun, thrown away by Sam, missed his head by inches. Johnny’s face was still in the sand, when he heard the thud of bone and muscle meeting bone and muscle as Sam and Joe Cotter collided.

He heaved up on his hands and saw the two men locked in the long-delayed struggle. He got to his feet and looked quickly to Charles Ralston and Dan Tompkins, both of whom were watching the fighters with expressions of awe.