“My Gawd! Was she there too? Funny, I had a notion Green was chasm’ somebody; that explains it.”
“Explains what, you idiot? Tell a straight tale,” Garstone said impatiently.
“Me an’ Rat was scrappin’ with Green when, all unexpected, he grabs a chunk o’ the fire, shoves it in our faces, an’ runs hell for leather into that hole over there, with us on his tail. It’s a kind o’ underground passage, black as the inside of a nigger, but we could see his light dancin’ ahead so we kept on. It was chancy work, runnin’ in the dark, an’ he was goin’ fast. We couldn’t gain any, so we spilled lead, but that didn’t stop him. Then he seemed to slow down, an’ his torch dropped an’ went out.”
Flint paused to draw a deep breath, and resumed, “Rat was a bit in front, an’ called me to hurry. Afore I can git to him, there’s an awful screech, follered by another, kind o’ smothered, like it came from deep down. I yelled to Rat but got no answer, so I crept forward on han’s an’ knees, feelin’ the floor in front till—there ain’t no floor. I struck a match, an’ I was kneelin’ on the edge of a big crack, wide—an’ deep? well, I’d ‘a’ figured it dropped clear to hell if I hadn’t heard runnin’ water below.”
His ghastly effort to be facetious drew no smile from his audience.
“What do you suppose happened?” Garstone asked sharply. “I guess Green an’ the gal got catched in the trap, an pore of Rat blundered in after ‘em.”
Garstone’s face showed no emotion. “We’ll look at this place,” he said.
“Turn me loose,” Dan pleaded. “I give you my word I won’t try anythin’—I just wanta help.”
“No doubt—help yourself,” was the sneering reply. “Flint, you and Lake keep an eye on the prisoners, see that they don’t `try anything.’ You come with me, Bundy.”
Armed with lights, the pair traversed the tunnel and reached the chasm. The foreman lowered his torch and pointed to some small footprints.
“She got as far as this, anyway,” he remarked. “Obviously,” Garstone agreed curtly.
He stepped to the brink of the rift and stood peering down into the abysmal depths, listening to the murmur of the subterranean river hundreds of feet below. Callous as he was, the vision of Beth, young, beautiful, instinct with life, hurtling to a dreadful death in the darkness chilled him. But the feeling soon passed; there were many other women in the world, and ere long, his crafty brain was considering how he might turn even this tragedy to his advantage.
“It would seem that Flint was right,” he said. “A fine athlete could get over, if he knew the danger was there, but with the girl …” He shook his head to complete the sentence. “Bad news for Zeb; she was his only relative.”
“If he cashes, who gits the Wagon-wheel?” Bundy enquired. “I have an interest in it,”
Garstone told him. “I shall arrange with the bank to take over the ranch.”
“Trenton ain’t gone yet,” was the sour reminder.
“True, but I do not think he will recover.”
“Well, if he don’t, an’ you git the Wagon-wheel for the mortgage on it, you’ll owe me somethin’,” the foreman said brazenly.
“Yes, I shall owe you a lot, Bundy, and I always pay my debts,” Garstone replied.
“Singular spot this; I should say that anyone so unfortunate as to fall in there, would never be seen again, alive or dead. Well, we can do nothing; let’s get back.”
The foreman was more than willing; his companion’s tone made him uncomfortable. One who accepted the tragic loss of his lady-love so cold-bloodedly would have little hesitation in sending a man he feared to keep her company. Garstone, physically, was more than his match if it came to a tussle. So, until they were well away from that gaping black gulf, Bundy carried his torch in the left hand, keeping his right close to his gun.
The cave was as they had left it, save that the early light of day was stealing in. Flint and Lake were busy at the fire, preparing breakfast. The captives sat or lay in a group apart. Garstone went to inspect them, something in the manner of a conqueror. The sentries had been brought in.
“Sorry to find you in such bad company, Malachi,” he said.
“I couldn’t prevent you and your friends, coming,” the doctor retorted. “Did you discover anything about Miss Trenton?”
“I am afraid there is no hope,” Garstone said. “I imagine that, fleeing down the tunnel in a distraught state of mind, the approach of Green—also running away, these gunmen are all cowards at heart—would seem like pursuit and hasten her destruction. He also appears to have perished, for which I am sorry; a rope would have been a more fitting end.”
“You quite shore they weren’t killed by yore toughs, an’ that Flint’s yarn isn’t just a cover-up?” Dan asked, adding with a reckless disregard of the fact that the man was one of his gaolers, “Lyin’ is the thing Flint does best.”’ The big man turned away without answering, and went to where Trenton was lying. Dan got a poisonous glare from the receiver of his compliment, but that did not worry him. The bottom had dropped out of his world, and though he tried to persuade himself this was due to the loss of his friend and ranch, he knew it was not so; a dark-eyed slip of a girl, with an oval, slightly tanned face, and firm lips which could smile so sweetly, meant more than all. He had striven to erect a barrier between them, and, so far as he was concerned, had failed. And now, Death had done a better job. He could see that slender young body, battered and broken, the plaything of some rough torrent in the dark depths of the earth. He closed his eyes in an effort to shut out the picture, and groaned. “Hurt, Dan?” Malachi whispered.
“Yeah, but it’s somethin’ you can’t cure, Phil.”
The doctor understood. “Don’t give up hope yet,” he consoled. “I’ve a lot of faith in Green.”
“That’s th’ talk, Doc,” Yorky chipped in. He was next the rancher. “Jim’ll show up—he’d git outa hell if th’ lid was on. Me? I’m awright; th’ big stiff knocked me cold, that’s all. One day he’ll come up agin a feller his own size an’ run like a scalded cat.”
Garstone, who had returned in time to hear this unsolicited testimonial, kicked the author of it savagely in the ribs. “Keep your dirty tongue still, you city vermin,” he flared, and to Malachi, “I am releasing you to nurse Trenton. Come over now, I don’t like the look of him.” He cut the doctor’s bonds, and added, “If you take any other advantage of your freedom, you’ll be shot.”
Malachi’s eyes were blazing. “Garstone, if ever I have the pleasure of performing an operation upon you, I shall forget my profession and do the world a service,” he said. “Meaning you’d murder me, eh?”
“Yes, but I should call it an èxecution.’”
Garstone’s laugh was ugly. “No wonder Zeb is not getting better,” he fleered.
The wounded man was motionless, eyes closed. The doctor turned down the blankets, examined the wrappings, and felt the pulse.
“He’s no worse,” was his decision.
“But he hasn’t got his sense back,” Garstone expostulated. “He opened his eyes just now and didn’t know me.”
“Which might indicate that he had,” Malachi said caustically. “I am doing all I can to remedy your foolish blunder—if it was one.”
“What the devil do you mean by that?” Garstone demanded. “By God, I’ll—.”
“You know what I mean, and your threats don’t frighten or interest me. The Almighty gave you a fine big body, and by a mischance put into it the soul of a louse.”
Turning on his heel, he walked back to his companions, leaving the Easterner white with fury, and yet a little afraid of this quiet-spoken, acid-tongued man who defied him so openly.
The fellow knew too much, and must be dealt with. The approach of Bundy gave him an idea.
“Just been talking to Malachi,” he remarked carelessly. “He seems to think his patient will pull through.”
“Good,” the foreman replied, trying to speak as though he meant it. “I hope he
’s right.”
“You have every reason to, for if Trenton doesn’t recover it becomes murder, and as the doctor knows who fired the shot, his evidence would be—awkward.”
Both fear and suspicion were in the look Bundy darted at the speaker.“How in hell—?” he began.
“I didn’t tell him, my friend,” Garstone interposed. “These scientific gentry have their methods, and the nature of a wound may tell them much. Did you have anything to say to me?”
“The boys wanta know when we start searchin’ out the gold.”
Garstone did not reply at once; recent developments had altered the situation. Now that he found himself practically sole possessor of the secret, he was not eager to unearth the booty.
His cunning brain had been busy with the idea of securing the whole of it for himself, but he could see no way no safe way. He had told his followers that he could find it, and if he did
not ….
So he replied jovially:
“No time like the present, there’s plenty of light now. Get the men and the tools.”
Walking to the centre of the cave, he gazed up at the dark, domed roof from which hung scores of stalactites, like gigantic icicles their points sheathed in steel by the incoming daylight.
They were of varying size, and one—almost in the middle—exceeded the others in girth and length.
“The finger of the ages, indeed,” he mused. “Strange; nature toils for millions of years to make this marvel, and a gambler uses it to mark his hoard—I hope.” And as the men came up,
“We’ll try here.”
Flint, stepping forward with his pick, glanced up. “Hope the shock won’t shake that damn spike down on me,” he grinned.
“You needn’t worry, it would take an earthquake, and a big one at that, to shift it,”
Garstone assured him.
The man swung the tool, brought it down, and dropped it; the resounding clang of metal upon rock was followed by an oath from the striker, whose arms were jarred to numbness. Lake took up the pick and tapped all over the spot indicated; in no place did it penetrate more than an inch or so, and he threw it aside in disgust.
“That ain’t no use—giant powder’s what we need,” he said.
“Shore you got the right location?” Bundy asked.
“Certain,” Garstone replied, with a confidence he was far from feeling, and not unmindful of the doubtful looks directed at him. “Clear the muck away and let’s have a view of this rock.”
This was done, exposing an uneven stone floor which promised little. Garstone was puzzled. Was there a further clue which Trenton had not mentioned? He did not know, but the demeanour of his companions was beginning to disturb him. Flint flung down the spade he had been using and commenced to roll a smoke.
“Wonder how long it took the fella to dig a hole here?” he speculated.
“Mebbe he found one ready,” Lake suggested. “Then he’d just have to plant the dinero an’ ask the rock to kindly grow over it.”
Bundy laughed sneeringly, but the sarcasm brought a ‘glint into Garstone’s eyes. “Even the bray of an ass may be useful,” he snapped, and, snatching off his hat began slapping the cleared space vigorously, sending the dust flying in clouds. The others watched his antics in amazement, fully convinced that ,he had suddenly gone mad. On his knees, he studied the ground closely, and then rose.
“I was right,” he said exultingly, and pointed to a crack which the displaced dust had revealed. “There’s a loose piece, and I’m betting it’s the lid of the treasure-chest.”
This magically renewed their activity. Bundy seized the pick, drove the point into the crack, and threw his weight on it. A small, roughly rectangular section of the floor moved. Flint went to the foreman’s assistance, and they managed to lever up one side. Garstone bent, got his fingers under the raised portion, and with a mighty heave overturned what proved to be a flattish slab of stone. Beneath was a shallow hole, and in it a stout rawhide satchel. At the sight Flint let out a whoop and made a grab, but the big man pushed him back.
“Hands off,” he said. “The first thing is to find out what the contents are, and it is for me to do that.”
He lifted the satchel, and undid the two straps by which it was secured.
“It’s heavy, but not so large as I expected,” he said, but went no further with the opening; his gaze was on the place from which he had taken it. “You were right, Lake, that’s a natural hollow. All he had to do was find a lid to more or less fit; the dust would do the rest. A perfect hiding-place—it might have remained undiscovered for a thousand years.”
“Seein’ it ain’t, s’posin’ we git on with the business,” Bundy suggested impatiently.
Garstone had to comply. Squatting round, their avid gaze following his every movement, the others waited. He might have been a conjurer, about to perform an intricate trick, and perhaps the fear that he would was at the back of their minds; honour among thieves is only proverbially prevalent. Their attention entirely occupied, they failed to see Malachi creep round the wall of the cavern, glance at his principal charge, and slip out.
Garstone’s hand came from the bag holding a short roll of paper which, unwrapped, revealed, a row of golden coins. He counted them, and the musical chink as they dropped from one hand to the other, set the eyes of his audience aflame. “Fifty yellow boys—double eagles—a good start,” he announced. He rolled them up again, and reached out a second, so obviously a replica of the first in size and weight that he did not trouble to open it. One by one, similar packages appeared until a score were stacked beside him on the ground. The men were breathing hard, so absorbed by the fascination of a visible fortune as to render them an easy prey had the prisoners been free. The lure of the gold held them; they could not wrench their eyes from it.
“Twenty thousand bucks,” Bundy said thickly. “That bag ain’t empty yet.”
“I’m aware of the fact,” Garstone replied, “But the dollars should more than satisfy our claim, and the rest belongs to Trenton.”
“To hell with Trenton,” the foreman growled. “We found, an’ we keep it.”
“That goes,” Lake added. “Out with it—Boss.”
The last word was a palpable jeer, and Garstone knew it. He looked at Flint, but saw no support in that quarter. There was nothing for it but to continue. A thick wad of paper currency came next, bills of large denomination mostly, all of which had to be duly counted; they amounted to forty thousand dollars. Then, two at a time, Garstone handed out small buckskin bags, heavy, and tightly tied. He opened one, and gloated over the yellow dust within. Gold! His lips curled into a sneer as he reflected that men had sweated under a blistering sun to fill those bags, only to throw them away on the turn of a card. The men passed them round, hefting them, and grinning widely; they were in high good humour.
“Can’t tell what they’re worth without scales, but I’d guess all o’ ten thousand,” Bundy remarked. “We can take three apiece.”
Garstone began to replace the treasure in the satchel. “It will be handier to carry in this,” he said. “We can divide later, after cleaning up here.”
Rather to his surprise, they made no protest, and the fact caused him some inquietude.
Had they a secret understanding to obtain his share? Well, that was a game at which more than one could play. He looked round. “Any suggestions for dealing with our friends yonder?”
“Send ‘em to look for Rattray,” Bundy proposed.
Garstone, who saw at once that such an infamous act would leave him at the mercy of his companions, promptly objected. “I am opposed to violent measures unless they are necessary, and safe,” he said. “This would be dangerous—very dangerous. No, when wee go, they will remain—alive. Of course, they will free themselves, but with no weapons or horses, and three sick people to tend, it will be -a long time before they return to Rainbow, and then it will be too late—our story will have been told, and we shall be in possession.”
; “You don’t suggest we should burden ourselves with a dying man?”
“Shore not, but we gotta do some explainin’.”
“Quite simple,” was the reply. “We came in search of the Cache, and found it. The Circle Dot—of whose presence in the mountains we were, of course, ignorant—attacked and tried to rob us. They killed Trenton, his niece, and Rattray. We beat them off.”
“Straight as a string,” Flint grinned.
“How come they wiped out the gal?” Bundy wanted to know.
“She tried to escape in the fight, Green pursued her, and they ran into trouble.”
“Which fits the facts,” Lake put in. “Yo’re a pretty neat liar, Garstone; I gotta hand it to you.”
The Easterner forgot to thank him for the compliment, but did not fail to note that the fellow had regained his air of insolent familiarity; it was another danger-signal.
“What’s come o’ that damn doctor?” Bundy asked. Garstone strode over to the prisoners.
“Where’s Malachi?”
“Haven’t a notion, an’ if I had, I shouldn’t tell you,” Dan replied.
“Sore, eh?” the big man gibed. “So would I be, after sitting on the top of seventy thousand dollars for over a week, and losing it.” His contemptuous gaze went to the trussed-up form of Yorky. “Makes you hunger for your open road again, doesn’t it, hobo?”
The boy did not reply—he had no desire to be booted—but as the bully turned away, he muttered, “Aw, go an’ swaller yoreself an’ be sick, ye …” He trailed off into a brief biography of Garstone, whose origin, appearance, habits, and future were luridly described.
“If cussin’ would help, you’d be a whole team an’ a spare hoss,” was Dover’s dry comment, when the tirade ended.
“It eases a fella some,” Yorky excused. “Do you figure th’ Doc has skipped, Boss?”
“He’s no quitter,” Dan told him.
“What they goin’ to do with us?”
“Can’t say. Scared, son?”
“I dunno,” Yorky admitted. “Couple o’ months back I wouldn’t ‘a’ cared, but now …” He was silent for a moment. “A man must take his medicine, Jim allus said.”
Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) Page 20