“Well, I’m plumb weary of squattin’ in a hotel room,” said Pat. “What I crave is to be ridin’ out—maybe askin’ a few questions. I’m never gonna rest easy till I’ve found that skunk Baggot.”
“I want to think things out, before we go hunting Baggot,” muttered Jim, as he straddled a chair.
“What kind of things?” demanded Pat. He had wandered into the adjoining room, to fetch his gunbelt. Now, after strapping it about his loins, he loafed across to the right of the other door; he had hung his Stetson there. “Just what’s on your mind now?”
“This Shelley joker,” mused Jim. “A special agent of the Treasury.”
“What about him?” asked Pat.
“Just this about him,” drawled Jim. “Of all the departments of the United States government, the Treasury is most apt to buy into this kind of a deal. Maybe the Secret Service will take a hand. I don’t know about them, but one thing’s for sure. The Treasury always tangles with counterfeiters.”
“You mean Shelley’s here because ...” Pat’s eyes gleamed, “because the Baggot gang is here—somewhere?”
“That’s a possibility,” nodded Jim. “After all, we’ve only been hunting Baggot a short time—but Shelley? He could have been after Baggot for months.”
“We help the government—the policia.” Benito shook his head dolefully; the shame of it was too much for him. “This is very sad—very depressing. The spirits of my father and grandfather will never forgive me.”
Pat propped his back against the wall and began rolling a cigarette from the makings tossed to him by Jim. He was still standing to the right of the door so that, when it was suddenly kicked open, he was concealed from view of the man striding in.
Benito gave vent to a startled gasp and froze. Jim folded his arms on the chair-back and eyed Shelley steadily, making no attempt to rise. The government man took one pace into the room and came to a halt, his .45 weaving in a half-arc to cover both Jim and the Mex. Quietly, Jim said: “You didn’t need to kick it open, Shelley. It’s more polite to knock.”
“I’ll take no back-talk from you, big man,” growled Shelley. “All I want is straight answers—savvy?”
“From behind a six-shooter,” drawled Jim, “you can afford to demand anything.”
“You claim you found my wallet—I don’t believe you!” breathed Shelley.
“Shelley,” frowned Jim, “never call me a liar—even when I am lying. It irritates me.”
The blunt audacity of that reprimand took Shelley by surprise. He blinked suspiciously at Jim and asked, “What was that again?”
And now he was set upon by the man whose presence had been concealed by the open door. Pat leapt at him from the side, grasping at his gun-hand. Simultaneously Jim rose up and hurled himself forward, and his considerable weight was more than enough to throw both Shelley and Pat off-balance. One of Shelley’s flailing arms smote Benito and, in a welter of sweating torsos and threshing legs, all four men crashed to the floor.
Chapter Nine
A Joining of Forces
Somebody’s elbow—he never learned whose—smote Pat McNear’s face, starting his eyes watering and his nose bleeding. He rolled clear of the melee, cursing luridly. Shelley’s handsome, gleaming six-gun slithered across the floor and, as its owner tried to crawl to it, Jim rose to his knees, seized him by his coat-collar and hauled him upright. Mumbling complaints in his native tongue, Benito scuttled into a corner.
“Stop struggling!” Jim chided the special investigator. “I don’t want to have to put you to sleep but, by glory, I will if I have to!”
He exhibited his right fist. Shelley examined it critically and made a wise decision; discretion might prove to be the better part of valor. And besides, Jim’s other hand still imprisoned him by his coat-collar; he had no hope of reaching his fallen weapon.
Pat had trudged to the wash-basin and was now dabbing at his bloodied nose with a damp towel, while indignantly demanding to be told, “Who hit who?”
“Shelley—get a hold of yourself,” growled Jim.
“You have a hold of me, damnitall,” protested Shelley.
“We have no quarrel with you—if you’d only realize it,” muttered Jim. “The plain truth is we’re all on the same side.”
Shelley eyed him warily. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning we have our hearts set on finding those counterfeiters,” Jim told him. “I’ll bet the government is plenty interested, but ...”
“But so are we,” mumbled Pat.
“Why?” challenged Shelley. “Come on. Let’s hear a fast and logical answer, and maybe I’ll believe you.”
“That’s Pat McNear,” offered Jim, nodding to the bloody-nosed cowhand. “He lost his job with a spread called the CG—and his last chance to marry the boss’ daughter—because he sold five hundred head of prime beeves and took useless paper as payment. He was hoodwinked by the counterfeiters.”
“And you’re helping him to look for them?” prodded Shelley. “Why, Rand? Sweet charity, maybe? You’re just an honest, true-blue trouble-shooter who craves to see justice done? You should pardon me for having doubts, Rand. I’ve known very few genuine Good Samaritans. Almost every man has an axe to grind—and what’s yours?”
“A killer,” said Jim. “The sidewinder-tinhorn who killed Lieutenant Christopher Rand of the Eleventh Cavalry.”
“Rand ...” Shelley repeated the name thoughtfully. “You’re related?”
“He was my brother,” Jim told him. “I was a sergeant in the same outfit.”
“Unlimited leave,” demanded Shelley, “or an honorable discharge?”
“Honorable discharge,” said Jim.
“That does it,” growled Shelley, grimly triumphant. “I can spot a faked certificate of discharge from a distance of twenty yards. Let’s see yours, Rand.”
Jim released his grip, gestured for Shelley to seat himself. He then ambled across to where Shelley’s gun had fallen, picked it up and returned it to its owner.
“We’ll call that a gesture of goodwill, for a starter,” he suggested.
Shelley’s eyes were still alert, still narrowed in suspicion, as he holstered his Colt. Delving into his saddlebags, Jim produced an oilskin-wrapped bundle of documents. Having unwrapped them, he extracted one and passed it to Shelley, who examined it with great care.
“Satisfied?”
“Uh huh. I guess so.”
“Don’t fret about me, Shelley. I wouldn’t be fool enough to impersonate a cavalry sergeant.”
“You think cavalry sergeants are something special?” jibed Shelley.
Jim grinned knowingly, and asked, “What kind of a sergeant were you—before you became a Treasury agent?”
“I might’ve been an officer for all you know,” frowned Shelley.
“Go ahead then,” invited Jim. “Start bragging.”
A faint grin lit Shelley’s face, but only for a brief moment. “I was an infantry sergeant—the Fourth Ohio Volunteers.” He returned the document. “All right now, Rand, about this tinhorn who murdered your brother, what’s his connection with the counterfeiters?”
“I only know that he’s travelling with the men who swindled Pat out of the pay-herd,” said Jim.
“But how do you know?” demanded Shelley.
“Pat made a positive identification.” Jim offered the picture of Jenner for Shelley’s inspection. “That’s him. He called himself Jenner when he shot Chris. The boss-swindler referred to him as Burch.”
“That’s a good picture of him,” declared Pat, whose nose had finally ceased to bleed.
“Don’t you secret agents ever get weary of working alone?” challenged Jim, as he retrieved the sketch. “It seems to me we have a lot in common, Shelley. We’re all hunting the same bunch.”
“It’s different with me,” muttered Shelley. “I’m under orders. There’s a reward—I bet you know there’s a reward—and I’ve seen many an investigation go haywire, because bounty-hunters butted in an
d fouled up the whole deal. You have to admit this is a chore for a professional investigator.”
“Baggot had nine sidekicks when he cheated CG out of a pay-herd,” Jim pointed out. “There were a half-dozen drovers, as well as the three dudes who, like Baggot, pretended to be cattle-buyers. That makes ten in all, Shelley. How’s your arithmetic? I’m saying you’ll need a few reliable guns to back your play, when it comes to the showdown.”
“Well …” Shelley slumped lower in his chair, crossed his legs and began checking his vest pockets. “Damn and blast. What became of my cigars?” He searched further, and his expression became agitated. “Great balls of fire! My wallet! It’s gone again …!”
“Take it easy,” sighed Jim. Without even looking at the little man huddled in the far corner, he snapped his fingers. “Let’s have it, cucaracha.”
“Que ...?” blinked Benito.
“Mr. Shelley’s wallet—also his cigars,” drawled Jim. “You speak in riddles,” Benito protested.
“Don’t worry,” Jim soothed the dumbfounded government man. “This won’t take but a minute.”
Shelley’s eyebrows shot up, as Jim strode to the corner, grasped a fistful of Benito’s camisa and hauled him into the center of the room. He tugged at the sash girding the Mex’s midriff until it came free, and to the floor fell Shelley’s wallet, a half-dozen cigars and a box of vestas. Then, on an afterthought, Jim checked Benito’s pockets and located other items of note—his own gold watch, a St. Christopher medal that had been presented to him by a certain young lady, his own wallet.
“You never give up, do you?” he chided, as he pocketed his personal effects.
“So that’s how you came by my wallet?” gasped Shelley.
“I apologize for Benito,” shrugged Jim. He returned the Mex to the corner, propelling him by the toe of his boot. “It’s like a disease with him.”
“Well, damnitall ...!” began Shelley.
“You can’t afford to waste time by swearing out a complaint against the Mex,” opined Jim. “You’d have to stick close to town, be ready to give evidence at the trial, and that would tie you down, wouldn’t it?”
“Quite the diplomat, aren’t you?” scowled Shelley.
“You mentioned a reward,” said Jim. “Just as a matter of interest, how much is the government offering?”
“The bounty is a big one,” frowned Shelley, “but then the problem is a big one. The plates used by these counterfeiters are near perfect. If their printer keeps on producing, the entire country will be flooded with the stuff. The national economy would be threatened. I’m not exaggerating, Rand. So now you know why the government is offering ten thousand ...”
“Holy sufferin’ Sarah!” breathed Pat.
“Ai caramba!” gasped Benito.
“That’s—all the money in the world!” asserted Pat.
“Not really, cowboy,” drawled Jim. “But it sure adds up to a handy parcel—and you’ll need every cent of it.”
“You mean ...?” blinked Pat.
“I mean you have to pay Gardner for the cattle he lost,” said Jim. “And you’ll need enough left over to buy land, build a house and set yourself up as an independent cattleman. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”
“That’s it, sure enough.” Pat nodded vehemently. “But, by golly, I didn’t think I could do it—until now.”
“You said it yourself,” Jim reminded him. “Gardner would never consent to your marrying Molly—unless you square all accounts.” He re-seated himself, accepted the cigar offered him by Shelley and scratched a match for it. “And now let’s get down to cases. You’ve just won yourself three volunteer deputies, Shelley, like it or not.”
“That’s a harrowing thought,” muttered Shelley, “when I remember one of you is apt to steal the saddle from under me—while I’m riding.”
He stared at Benito in distrust and wonderment. Jim chuckled softly and assured him, “I’ll guarantee to keep the Mex under control.”
“I suppose I ought to be thanking him,” mused Shelley. “It’s damned ironic. He’s a sneak-thief—yet I’m beholden to him.” In a few terse sentences, he recounted his furtive visit to the Carrick spread, his capture by one of Carrick’s guards and his subsequent interview with the ranching mine-owner. “When that guard checked my pockets, I figured my last hour had come. They have a lot at stake, these counterfeiters. They’d think nothing of liquidating a government investigator—in such a way that his body would never be found.”
“Your only identification is in the wallet?” prodded Jim.
“That’s it,” nodded Shelley. He glanced at Benito again. “It’s the damnedest feeling. I don’t know whether to cuss the Mex or shake his hand.”
“I wouldn’t advise you to shake his hand,” drawled Jim. “He’s apt to steal the ring off your finger and the sleeve off your shirt. It’s just as I told you before—a kind of disease. He can’t help himself.” He crossed his long legs, eyed the government man expectantly. “Well, do you want to go on playing a lone hand—or will you get smart and accept some help?”
“You said you tagged ten men all the way from Quinn County,” prodded Shelley.
“And lost their tracks just before we found Tascosa,” nodded Jim. “There was a storm, and the whole territory was swept clean by a high wind.”
“Describe the men who swindled you,” Shelley invited Pat.
The cowhand was only too willing to oblige and, when he had finished, Shelley nodded knowingly and remarked, “It all adds up. The black beard and the smoked glasses—a very useful and effective disguise.”
“Mister,” frowned Pat, “them whiskers were genuine—I’d swear to that.”
“I don’t doubt it,” shrugged Shelley. “But your bearded swindler and the man I have in mind could be one and the same. A beard can be shaved.” To Jim, he explained, “The Carrick spread was almost deserted these past few weeks. That’s one significant coincidence—and there are others.”
“Carrick,” mused Jim. “The sheriff’s friend. I met him at the law office when I showed Rowenstock the picture of Jenner. Come to think of it, I showed it to Carrick, too. And his sidekick.”
“What sidekick?” frowned Shelley.
“A nervous jasper,” Jim recalled, “name of Emhart.”
“Well,” said Shelley, “Emhart has good reason to be nervous. I was watching when they paid their call on Rowenstock, and I believe I know who Emhart really is.”
“You’ve been keeping an eye on Rowenstock’s office?” asked Jim.
“Rowenstock is Carrick’s friend,” said Shelley. “Just how good a friend—well—I won’t make any guesses. It always saddens me to see an old-time lawman rubbing shoulders with a man of Carrick’s caliber.”
“This Carrick—you talk like you hate his insides,” observed Pat.
“Let me put it this way,” growled Shelley. “The man called Emhart could be Martin Hartnell. Now, that name mightn’t mean anything to you, but I assure you it stands for trouble as far as the Treasury is concerned. Hartnell was once an employee of the government, holding a position of trust. He’s an engraver. He was assistant to the chief engraver, the man who designed most of the banknotes now in use throughout America.”
“Holy smokes!” breathed Pat.
“Keep talking, Shelley,” urged Jim. “You have our undivided attention.”
“Can’t you guess the rest of it?” Shelley grinned wryly. “Hartnell resigned his position and, less than a year later, was arrested, tried and convicted. He had set up his own counterfeiting plant. Quite a stiff term they handed him—but now he’s on the loose again. He was discharged about eighteen months ago, and now what? The country is again in danger of being flooded with counterfeit dollars. The obvious inference is that Hartnell is back in business, but on a bigger scale.”
“No wonder he acted nervous.” This thought suddenly struck Jim with compelling clarity. “No wonder he sweated when I showed them Jenner’s picture. Pat had already identif
ied Jenner as one of the four who posed as cattle buyers in Quinn County. It must have been quite a jolt for Emhart—and for Carrick—to have a picture of Jenner shoved under their noses.”
“Jenner could be a recent recruit to the gang,” opined Shelley. “Carrick may not have known that Jenner is wanted for murder.”
Slowly, Jim rose to his feet.
“You saw Carrick’s mine?”
“I saw it,” nodded Shelley, “at Carrick’s invitation—which means there was nothing of an incriminating nature inside—naturally. But I’m convinced the Carrick outfit is the center of the whole operation. The printing equipment wasn’t in that mine shaft, so I can only conclude it’s hidden inside the ranch-house, or maybe in a cellar …”
“Or maybe there’s more than one tunnel up the mountainside,” said Jim.
“I saw only one shaft-head,” frowned Shelley.
“A shaft-head can be camouflaged,” Jim countered. “Shelley, I don’t know any reason why we should wait. You’re entitled to the co-operation of the local law, so why don’t we round up Rowenstock and his deputies, ride to the Carrick spread and turn it inside out?”
“The hell of it is,” complained Shelley, “I’m not sure I can trust old Rowenstock. His friendship with Carrick is hardly in his favor. Since my arrival in Tascosa, I’ve taken pains to stay out of Rowenstock’s way. I didn’t dare reveal myself to him, because I have no guarantee that he isn’t in league with Carrick.”
Jim’s face clouded over. He cursed softly, as he confided, “I’m sorry, Shelley, but the sheriff does know about you. At least he knows your name, and he knows you’re a Treasury investigator.”
“How in blazes ...?” began Shelley.
“I wanted to return your wallet,” Jim sadly explained. “Taking it for granted that Rowenstock would know where to find you, I went to him and asked ...”
“Hell’s bells!” breathed Shelley.
He might have said more, but for the sudden sound carried to them from the street below. The clatter of hooves was hardly an unusual sound, hardly a novelty. And yet, on this occasion, it affected all four men in the same way; there was an ominous quality to it. Benito grimaced uneasily. Pat gnawed at his underlip. Shelley stood up and joined Jim, who had moved to the window.
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