CHAPTER XXXIII
POCKETED
Hiram Hooker, knowing well the story of Jerkline Jo's having been foundas a baby girl in a deserted camp on the desert, had easily been ableto convince old Basil Filer that she was the young woman he had beensearching for so long.
They had spent half the night in planning in their desert camp.Hiram's frank, open nature tended to breed confidence in the mostpessimistic of men; and when he told Filer of the wonderful characterof Jerkline Jo and assured him that, despite his past rascality, hewould be handsomely rewarded by her, the helpless old man agreed to allthat he proposed.
Knowing that the prospector would not reach Ragtown for a long timewith his sauntering burros, Hiram was for making a copy of what theprecious paper contained and hurrying on ahead, to overtake Jo as soonas possible, and suggest that she make arrangements for a strip to thelost claims before starting back from Julia. To this the desert ratagreed; but when they were ready for Hiram to make a copy it wasdiscovered that neither man had a scrap of paper, or even a pencil.
There was nothing to be done then, if the original plan was to becarried out, but for Basil Filer to surrender into Hiram's keeping thedocument. This, with many misgivings, Filer consented to do.
So they broke camp early next morning, and Hiram hurried on ahead withthe original in his pocket. The old man was to traipse along afterhim, and in all probability would reach Ragtown before Hiram hadovertaken Jo.
Al Drummond passed Hiram in his car as he was nearing his journey's endlate that afternoon; but of course Hiram thought nothing of this, asDrummond and his car made a familiar sight about the country. Hiramhad decided to ask Tweet to carry him in his machine until Jerkline Johad been overtaken, which would probably occur between the foot of themountains and Artesian Ranch on the other side. Then Tweet wouldreturn, and Hiram would ride on with the outfit and reveal to the girlwhat he had heard of the strange thing she had worn concealed under herlustrous hair since she was two years old.
Hiram knew about how Drummond and Lucy had stumbled onto the truth,which Jerkline Jo herself had not even dreamed of.
What the old prospector had told him of his "dream" convinced Hiramthat Lucy had got wind of the secret and had cleverly posed as the lostchild grown up, and had been able to draw Filer's story out of him. Hehad said that in his dream he had been shown something on the girl'sscalp, under her hair, that looked like tattooing. Hiram reasoned thatDrummond could have dotted Lucy's scalp with a pen and ink sufficientto convince the old desert rat that she was the girl he was seeking.Then he had told his story, but had been in some way renderedunconscious and disposed of before he could demand the clipping ofLucy's hair and the shaving of her scalp. No doubt, while he wasunconscious, Drummond and Lucy had made a copy of what was on the paper.
To Hiram's great disappointment he found on reaching Ragtown late thatafternoon that Twitter-or-Tweet had driven to Los Angeles on business.He hunted about for another machine, but there seemed to be none intown that he could hire. There was Drummond's, of course, but to dealwith him was out of the question.
"Hello, Hiram boy!" Lucy called sweetly as he walked past the shootinggallery. "You look worried. Whassa malla? Jo fired you?"
"Not yet," said Hiram briefly. "I was looking for a machine so that Icould catch up with the outfit, but can't seem to locate one."
"Not many about town this time of year," she commented. "Did you getso cuckooed Jo had to leave you behind to sober up, Wild Cat? And nowyou've got to chase her, eh? 'Fraid Heine or some of 'em'll get heraway from you if you don't stick around--that it?"
To this Hiram smiled with cold politeness, but, made no reply, passingon down the street.
He would be forced to wait until morning. Then, provided Tweet had notreturned, he would have to ride Babe over the mountains and reachJerkline Jo at least before she had started back. After all, there wasno great hurry. The gold had lain where it did for countlesscenturies. It would continue to lie so for a few days more, perhaps.
Tweet did not return that night, and at dawn Hiram was away toward themountains on the black mare, the precious paper secreted in his shirt.He was ten miles from Ragtown before it occurred to him what a fool hehad been in not making a copy of it. Any one of a hundred things mighthappen to it. Still, the crazy prospector had carried it through allthe years and had lost it.
He wondered if it would not be a practical idea to commit it to memory.Why, certainly--that was the thing to do.
He was nearing such foothills as the abrupt mountain range boasted whenhe decided not only to memorize it, but to make a copy on an envelopewhich was in his pocket. It had covered a letter from Uncle SebastianBurris, Hiram's benefactor, up there in Mendocino County. He had foundit awaiting him the night before at Ragtown. He and Uncle Sebastianhad kept up a correspondence ever since Hiram had come south.
Although he had no pencil, it occurred to him that he could write withthe lead bullet of one of his revolver cartridges, which simple feat hehad often performed in idle moments in the woods up home.
Dismounting, he lowered the bridle rein over Babe's head, and sat downon the ground. He took out Uncle Sebastian's letter, and with hispocket-knife slit the envelope till it provided him with a square ofpaper. He laid the worn original--a yellow piece of tough sheepskinpaper--on a flat rock beside him. He took a cartridge from his beltand began to copy the reddish writing.
He had just completed the task when there came a sudden terrific roarin his ears, and before he knew what was happening a desert twister hadswept down upon him in all its fury.
It passed swiftly, and through half-blinded eyes Hiram saw that theoriginal had been whisked from the rock on which it had lain as if bymagic.
Fortunately he had held to his copy instinctively; but he had notcompared it with the original. He might have made some small but vitalmistake. Away over the desert twisted the miniature cyclone, and heknew that, spinning around with it, was the sheepskin. Ratherfoolishly in his excitement he grabbed his six-shooter from its holsterand slapped it down upon his copy to protect it from another suchcatastrophe, and, still half-blinded, vaulted to the saddle and set themare at a dead run in the wake of the whirlwind.
Then it was that Al Drummond, who had been slowly creeping through thegreasewood bushes toward Hiram, arose with a yelp of triumph and ran tothe weighted-down copy of the precious directions.
Out there in the whirlwind the original was fleeing rapidly away fromthe frantic rider, with the chances many to one that it would not berecovered. Here in Drummond's hand was the only copy in existence,except the one already in his and Lucy's possession. It was plain thatHiram had not previously made another copy, else why would he havestopped here on the desert to draft this one? Also, by the same token,it was plain that Hiram had not memorized the contents. Basil Filermight have done so, it was true; but, then, Tehachapi Hank would attendto Basil Filer.
Quickly Drummond stooped and touched the blaze of a match to theenvelope, and in a few minutes only a crinkled bit of black, charredpaper lay on the ground.
"Pete!" he called, and from the greasewood another man arose andhurried toward him.
"Look!" Drummond cried exultantly, pointing to the burned paper."There's what's left of the copy he was making. And here's his gun--heused it to weigh down the copy when he raced away after the whirlwind.Run for the horses. We'll get after him and get the original away fromhim, if he gets it. Then, if Hank gets Filer--which he certainlywill--we'll have the only copies in existence!"
Pete, the bosom friend of Tehachapi Hank, turned about and ran uptoward the fringe of junipers that concealed their horses, brought downthe day before from the mountains. Drummond, while he waited, gazedafter the strange chase, and noted that the fleet black mare wassteadily overtaking the moving funnel of dust which represented thewhirlwind.
"By golly, if he can ride into the thing and break it, or keep up withit till it breaks itself, he'll get the sheepskin!" Drummond mutte
red."But he won't keep it. He's left his gun. He's our meat now!"
Then Pete rode up rapidly, leading Drummond's mount, and next momentthey were on the dead run in pursuit of Hiram.
Time and again, as they drew nearer, they saw Hiram deliberately ridingthe mare through the whirlwind, trying to break it. The thing seemed adevil, alive and diabolically bent on eluding him. It changed coursefrom right to left, but the cow pony was as quick as it was; and itseemed to the racing spectators that she enjoyed the game. Hiram wasso intent on his task, so frequently blinded by the whirlwind, whilehis ears were filled with its roar, that to ride almost upon himwithout his knowledge of it was an easy task for Pete and Drummond.
They were very close to him, then, when at last the mare's lunges brokethe whirlwind, and a scattered cloud of dust hid horse and rider.Whether or not Hiram had rescued the paper they could not tell, butthey spurred their horses on.
The dust settled, and close at hand they saw Hiram, dismounted. At thesame instant he seemed to hear the thunder of hoofs, and glanced theirway. He took a couple of steps and grasped his mare's bridle, and wasstanding unconcernedly at her head When they raced up, both trainingsixshooters on him.
"Stick 'em up, Hooker!" ordered Drummond. "This means business atlast."
Totally unarmed, Hiram grinned and slowly elevated his hands.
Watching him closely, Drummond and Pete dismounted, and, still keepingtheir sixes trained on Hiram's stomach, approached him.
"Well, Hooker," Drummond said sneeringly, "we meet again, don't we?You see, we've showed our hand at last--and it's a pretty good one,too. You're onto us, anyway, I guess, so from now on we'll fight inthe open. Did you get the sheepskin?"
Hiram reverted to his provincial drawl, as was his habit in moments ofgreat stress.
"No, she got plumb away from me," he said. "She got outa the whirlwindback there somewheres, or else she's gone on with what's left o' thetwister."
"I was afraid you wasn't going to say that, Hooker," Drummond said."Well, let me show you something. Do you recognize this gat?"
Hiram looked uneasily at a third big six-shooter, which Drummond hadproduced as he spoke.
"I reckon she was mine a while back," he said with a gulp.
"Exactly. And what you left it to hold down, Hooker, has gone up insmoke."
"You got---- You burned----"
"Got and burned is right, Hooker. But I don't just like your tone. Ifyou were on the stage, Brother Hiram, I think you'd get the hook.'Hook Hooker!' the audience might yell. Don't you think I'm funny attimes, Gentle Wild Cat? It's just my pleasant little way of informingyou that I consider you a poor actor. 'You got--you burned' was prettyfair, Hi-ram, but not quite good enough. So we're going to search youand make sure you didn't get the sheepskin out of the whirlwind."
"I didn't get it," Hiram said sulkily. "She's gone forever."
"She is in any event, Hooker. But we have a copy at Ragtown--don'tforget that. Now let go these reins and step over here. And be mightycareful, Hi-ram--mighty careful. My friend here is a nervous man witha six-gun."
Obediently Hiram dropped the mare's reins and stepped away from herhead. Drummond laid the two revolvers at some distance away from themon the ground, so that, while he was searching Hiram, the latter wouldhave no opportunity to grab one from him and turn the tables.
"Keep 'em up," he ordered; and, while Pete trained his gun on Hiram,Drummond searched his prisoner from head to foot.
"Guess you told the truth," he said. "Still, a fellow never can tell.You're a pretty foxy guy at times. Strip, Hooker.
"I guess you did tell the truth," Drummond said a few minutes laterafter a thorough search had been made. "Still I'm not through yet.You saw us coming and had time to hide it, if you found it."
He stepped to the mare and went over her saddle, even turning the cheekstraps of the bridle inside out, and pawing through her heavy mane andtail. He looked and felt in her ears. He held her nostrils with hisfingers until she jerked up her head and snorted out a blast of held-inair.
"Guess that would have shot out any paper in her nostrils," he remarked.
"They say this Jo's a hoss trainer," suggested Pete. "Maybe the mare'sa trick hoss. Look in her mouth Drummond."
Drummond did this, but found it empty. He studied a minute, his eyesclosed thoughtfully, then threw off the saddle and examined thesheepskin lining, _tapaderos_, jockeys, skirts.
Now for fifteen minutes he walked about over the ground. It was hardand firm here--almost as smooth as the surface of a dry lake, with noloose sand in which the paper might be concealed and little desertgrowth.
Returning he lifted the mare's feet one by one, then faced Hiram again.
"Open your mouth," he commanded; and Hiram obeyed, displaying an emptycavity.
"Well, ole hoss, I guess the game's up for you folks," Drummond saidchuckling. "I never thought we'd be lucky enough to get rid of theoriginal. So now we'll leave you to put on your clothes and go yourway. You may see Jerkline Jo and tell her your little story; and youtwo can discuss what's best to do. When you've decided, come to me andwe'll dicker with you."
"How 'bout takin' 'im into the mountains?" asked Pete in a low voice.
"No, that won't be necessary now. We need him to put the case beforeJerkline Jo. I'm against violence, anyway, in the main. And I'm not ahog, like a certain person I might mention if it weren't for Hooker'soverhearing it. We'll let him go, and dicker later. Half suits me."
Drummond climbed into the saddle, and the two wheeled their horses androde away.
Hiram began to dress.
"Look, Hooker!" called Drummond from a distance. "I'll drop your gunright here."
Hiram nodded and continued putting on his clothes, then resaddled themare.
Then when the departing riders were mere specks in the distance hestepped to Babe's head, reached his fingers up one of her nostrils, andpulled out the wadded sheepskin document.
"A heap o' fellas call themselves hossmen that don't know about thatlittle pocket in a hoss' nose," came his whimsical Mendocino drawl."She could snort all day, but the pocket ain't connected with hernostrils." He patted Babe's glossy neck. "Li'l' black mare," hecrooned into her furry ear, "le's go find Jo!"
The She Boss: A Western Story Page 33