“It makes a man think,” sighed Stretch.
“Take this lamp,” said Larry. “Set it on the table.”
He began a careful examination of the cellar, searching for he knew not what. The conviction was even stronger now. It hadn’t been thirst that had compelled Quint Everard to pay this cellar a furtive visit. The gambler had another reason, unless Larry was greatly mistaken.
For a while, he checked the stocks of wooden boxes. All contained bottled Whiskey on layers of straw. Every barrel, when knocked with the barrel of his Colt, gave off a sound that suggested it was filled to capacity. He pulled crates into the center of the floor and began examining the walls. There were half-inch cracks between each plank. By match light, he ascertained that the planks had been nailed to cross-beams at top and bottom and, beyond the half-inch separations, he could see naught but earth.
When he paused in the far corner, he became conscious of a faint but positive draft. Air was being blown towards him. He eyed the planks intently.
“Big feller,” he grunted. “Fetch the lamp.”
Stretch loafed across to join him, toting the lamp. By its light, Larry studied the nails. He plucked at one of them and, without much effort, tugged it from its hole. “You see this?” he challenged.
“Uh huh,” nodded Stretch. “Every nail is loose. I’d say them planks have been pulled away and put back again.”
“You feel anything?” Larry demanded.
“Feel chilled,” complained Stretch.
“That’s because you’re standin’ in a draft,” muttered Larry.
“I’ve seen that look on your face before, runt,” accused Stretch. “You’re thinkin’ again.”
“Bet your life I’m thinkin’,” growled Larry. He jerked a thumb. “Hustle back to the stairs. Holler for Curly.”
Stretch obeyed. From the bottom of the stairs, he yelled to the barkeep and, a few moments later, Curly appeared. Larry had only the one question to ask.
“Think back, Curly. The day you came down here and found Everard—where was he?”
“Right here in the cellar,” blinked Curly, “just like I told the boss.”
“I mean exactly whereabouts?” frowned Larry.
“Well,” shrugged Curly, “that’s easy for me to remember, on account of you’re standin’ in the exact same place.”
“All right, Curly,” nodded Larry. “Much obliged.”
The barkeep climbed the stairs again and, as soon as he was out of sight, Larry drawled another order.
“Go lower the trapdoor, big feller.”
Stretch climbed up and pulled the trapdoor back into position, then descended again and came across to stand beside Larry.
“So now what?” he asked.
“So now,” Larry patiently explained, “I’m thinkin’ again. I’m thinkin’ this draft has to come from somewhere.”
“Yup. You’re dead right.”
Larry unsheathed his Bowie, began prizing the nails from the top ends of the upright planks. Automatically, Stretch followed his example, flopping to his knees and working on the nails at the bottom end. Within ten minutes, they were dumping a handful of nails onto a barrelhead. Larry then tugged at one of the planks. It came away easily, and beyond, they saw naught but darkness. Stretch held the lamp closer, to illuminate portion of the opening. A startled oath erupted from him.
Chapter Eight
“Jerry Raymond Wasn’t Foolin’ “
Larry Valentine was whistling softly between his teeth, a cheerful tune. He always felt this way—cheerful, filled with anticipation—when any of his hunches paid off. Stretch swallowed a lump in his throat, and nervously enquired:
“What—uh—what d’you suppose we’re gonna find in there?”
“Only one way to find out.”
“You mean,” blinked Stretch, “go in and take a look-see?”
“I don’t mean we should stay here and do nothin’ but guess,” growled Larry. “C’mon, help me budge these other boards.”
When they had removed five planks, a sizeable aperture was revealed. To venture beyond, they would have to stoop, but not much.
“It looks like …” began Stretch.
“Yeah.” Larry nodded emphatically. “Like the entrance to a tunnel. And that’s exactly what it is.” Abruptly, he stepped into the opening. “Tag me—and hold that lamp high.”
The tunnel wasn’t all that narrow. They could move along side by side and, after the first ten feet, they were able to walk erect; the floor dipped. Downward they moved, slowly, cautiously. Every six feet or so, Larry called a halt. He was checking the dirt floor of the shaft, and with keen interest.
“How about that?” He invited Stretch to study the marks. “Boot prints.”
“Aimin’ straight ahead,” Stretch observed.
“And back again,” Larry pointed out. “Well—are you in a bettin’ mood?”
“Not right now,” frowned Stretch. “Speak your hunch, runt, but I’ll take no bets.”
“My hunch,” said Larry, “is these bookmarks were made by Quint Everard.”
“I ain’t arguin’,” muttered Stretch, “because you’re likely right.”
They moved onward for another twelve yards. To either side, they noted the rusted, long-abandoned tools—a pickaxe, two spades, a couple of rotted pails, a dust-caked canteen. The cooling breeze still caressed their faces, when Larry again called a halt. They had reached an intersection. Here, they found the entrances to three other tunnels.
“We goin’ on?” demanded Stretch.
“No,” said Larry. “This is as far as we go.” He indicated the floor again. “Because this is as far as Everard came.”
“That’s a fact,” Stretch eagerly agreed. “Look there. He sashayed over to the wall, then turned right round and moseyed back to the cellar. Now why’d he do that?”
Larry stepped close to the wall, squinting intently.
“Bring that lamp closer,” he ordered.
Standing shoulder to shoulder, and with Stretch holding the lamp high, they studied the marks in the rock wall. The light wavered, because Stretch’s raised hand was trembling now.
“Runt! D’you see what I see?”
Throughout their checkered careers, they had worked at many trades. As prospectors, they had been none too successful, but could still qualify as experienced gold-seekers. They could recognize a pay-vein for what it was. The signs were unmistakable.
“A quartz lode,” breathed Larry. “The genuine article, amigo.”
“Yup,” grunted Stretch. “Raw yeller—just waitin’ to be chipped out. Well, well, well! Hey! He must’ve found it, too!”
“He’d have to be blind not to see it,” muttered Larry. He put a hand on his partner’s arm. “All right. We’re goin’ back now.”
“Wait till we tell Big Dora!” chuckled Stretch. “She don’t it—but she’s sittin’ on a goldmine!”
“We’ll tell her—sure,” nodded Larry, as they began retracing their steps. “But it has to be said quiet—savvy? I’m startin’ to get a few more ideas, and I ain’t in a mood to advertise. Whatever I tell Dora, it’s just between the three of us.”
They returned to the cellar. At Larry’s insistence, they went to pains to replace the planks. Every nail was forced back into position before they climbed the stairs to the kitchen. In the barroom, Larry bought and downed a double-shot of rye. He needed it. In deference to his recent experience of Hagen’s Special, Stretch settled for a short beer.
Thus fortified, they hustled up to Big Dora’s office to break the news. Her voice was soft and shook a little, as she bade them enter, so they moved quietly. She was still seated at the desk, dabbing at her eyes, and her makeup was streaked.
“I ought never look at these old pictures,” she sighed. “It’s no use livin’ in the past, huh, Larry?”
They advanced to the desk and accepted her invitation to examine the pictures of her dead husband and very much alive daughter. Noting the appealing face of
the two-year-old, Larry was moved to remark:
“I’ll bet she grew up to be a mighty good-lookin’ woman.”
“I’ve seen her pictures in the papers many times,” murmured Dora. “And, believe me, she’s a looker. As beautiful a lady as you’ll ever see.” Abruptly, she restored the photographs to the desk drawer. “Did I say a lady? That’s puttin’ it mild. Leona is high class, and then some.”
“We’ve got something to tell you …” began Larry.
She talked on, as though she hadn’t heard him.
“Can you blame me—for not wantin’ her to know who I am? I’ll say her real momma is dead. That’d be kinder, huh, Larry?”
“Whatever you want to tell her,” he frowned, “is okay by us. Look, Dora, about your cellar …”
“Oh?” She roused from her reverie. “You’ve been down there. Well, how does it look to you?”
“Before I tell you what we found down there,” said Larry, “there’s somethin’ I have to find out.” He perched on a corner of the desk and began building a smoke. “How long ago did you start up in business—I mean here at this saloon?”
“That was a little under two years back,” she told him, “right when the old town was boomin’—couple weeks after the big pay-lodes were struck on Good Luck Mountain. There were hundreds of prospectors pourin’ in, and I could see this was one fine time for buildin’ a saloon—a big one, you know?”
“You own this hunk of land?” Larry demanded.
“Sure,” she nodded. “The land we built on, and twenty square yards around it. Why?”
“Who sold you the land?” asked Larry.
‘It’s funny you should ask that.” She smiled, sighed reminiscently. “I’ve never forgotten old Jerry Raymond, because he was a likeable jasper. Too bad about Jerry. He hankered to sell his property fast. Wanted to get his hands on some hard cash so he could leave somethin’ for his kinfolks back in Oregon.”
“Was he one of the original prospectors?” prodded Larry.
“I don’t know if Jerry ever dug for gold,” She frowned. “New Strike was just a two-bit minin’ camp before the big boom started. He used to run a livery stable on this very site. We tore down the old barn, built this saloon where the barn and corrals used to be.”
“But, first,” guessed Larry, “you dug yourself a cellar.”
To his surprise, the big woman shook her head.
“No. It was Jerry dug the cellar, a long time back.”
“A feller that’s runnin’ a livery stable,” he protested, “doesn’t need so big a cellar.”
“Didn’t you notice it’s cold down there?” she countered. “Jerry sure did need a cellar—and a sizeable one at that. You see, he used to do a little butcherin’ on the side. He used to hang beef in that cellar. Well, after he sold out to me, Curly took a look down there and said we wouldn’t have to change a thing. It’d do fine for a liquor cellar, because it had a stone floor and the walls were boarded up.”
The Texans exchanged thoughtful glances.
“You want to hear any more?” asked Dora.
“Just one thing,” said Larry. “Did old Jerry ask a high price?”
“He sure didn’t sell cheap,” she declared. “But I didn’t try to bargain with him. Poor old jasper—he’d found out he was dyin’. Some—uh—incurable thing. He hadn’t made a fortune from the stable or the beef business, and he was frettin’ about his family. Seems they were havin’ a rough time in Oregon.” She nodded wistfully, as she recalled. “He died—only a few days after we finished buildin’ this saloon. I was with him. Me, Curly, a preacher and Doc Hibler. One thing I’m glad about, Larry. He died happy. I’d paid him in cash, and he shipped the cash back to Oregon, so he knew his kinfolks were out of debt. A real square-shootin’ old hombre was Jerry Raymond. I remember the last thing he said to me—just before he died. ‘Dora,’ he said, ‘I made you pay plenty for my land, but you won’t regret it, because I’ve sold you a goldmine.’ And he wasn’t lyin’, Larry. This saloon really is a goldmine. There ain’t a joy house in town that shows as big a profit as this one.”
She raised her eyebrows then, because Stretch couldn’t suppress a chuckle.
“Did I say somethin’ funny?” she challenged.
“Nope,” grunted Larry, “and neither did Jerry Raymond. He really meant what he said.”
“I don’t savvy what you’re gettin’ at,” she frowned.
“Jerry Raymond wasn’t foolin’,” said Larry. “He did sell you a gold mine.” Before proceeding, he drawled a warning. “Everything I’m gonna tell you—keep it quiet, Dora. Don’t blab to anybody—not even your own hired help—till I figure it’s safe.”
“You’re lettin’ me in on a secret?” she asked.
“It’ll be your secret,” he stressed, “even more than ours.”
“All right,” she Shrugged. “I’m no blabbermouth, so go ahead, tell me.”
Larry told her, in a few terse, compelling sentences. She slumped lower in her chair, blinking incredulously. And, for some little time thereafter, she was speechless. When she finally found her voice, she softly asked:
“Are you sure?”
“We’re sure,” nodded Larry.
“It ain’t the first time we’ve seen that happy yeller,” drawled Stretch. “This is the genuine stuff, Dora. As purty a pay-vein as we ever laid eyes on.”
She didn’t appear any too enthusiastic. Surprised. Grateful. But not really elated.
“It won’t make any difference,” she murmured. “Oh, I ain’t sayin’ it won’t be good for me, bein’ able to start my own minin’ outfit and all. It’s just—well—nothin’ else has changed. I still couldn’t tell Leona the truth. It’d take more than gold to make a lady of me.” And now a new thought occurred to her. She eyed Larry intently. “I’ll keep my mouth shut, just like you said. But why, Larry? Why does it have to be a secret?”
“It don’t have to be a secret forever.” said Larry.
“For how long then?” she demanded.
“Long enough,” he frowned, “for me to get a few things figured out.”
“For instance?” she prodded.
“For instance …” he stared thoughtfully at the glowing tip of his cigarette, “you tell me this Osmond hombre has been hustlin’ you, doin’ his damnedest to make you sell out.”
“That’s for sure,” She nodded. “First there was this thing about the mayor gettin’ a letter from Leona, and Osmond claimin’ he could stop the mayor from givin’ her the word. Then The Professor got himself in this gosh-awful mess, and Osmond offered to bribe some feller …”
“What feller?” demanded Larry.
“Any feller!” she shrugged. “Any galoot who’d swear he stole Everard’s fancy hardware—right after the shootin’. That way, we could claim it was self-defense, you know?”
“So,” mused Larry, “it sounds like there’s nothin’ Osmond wouldn’t do—to force you into sellin’.”
“What’s on your mind, runt?” frowned Stretch.
“I’m thinkin’,” said Larry, “about those boot marks we found in the old shaft.” He stared hard at Dora. “You recall how long ago Curly found Everard in your cellar?”
“I told you before,” said Dora. “It was around three months back.”
“All right,” drawled Larry. “Now—it’s my hunch Everard found that tunnel. The boot marks we found—Everard made ’em. We tagged those tracks, Dora, and they led us clear to the pay-vein, then back to the cellar. When Curly came down those stairs and spotted him, Everard was standin’ in the corner, right where the tunnel begins. He probably pushed the planks back where they belong just before Curly came down.”
“Sure,” she agreed. “That could be.”
“Think now,” he frowned. “When did Osmond first make you an offer?”
She eyed him blankly.
“Hold on now, Larry, you must be on the wrong track. As far as I know, Everard and Osmond weren’t even acquainted.”
&nbs
p; “As far as you know,” Larry grimly repeated. “Go on, Dora. Tell me how long ago it was. Just when did Osmond start propositionin’ you?”
Before answering, the big woman did some deep thinking. Stretch was fidgeting impatiently, but Larry’s face was serene. The hunch was strong. He could be wrong—but he didn’t think so.
“As I recall,” said Dora, “it was about that same time.”
“Before or after Curly found Everard in your cellar?” challenged Larry.
“After,” she assured him.
“Is that the clincher?” Stretch asked Larry.
“I wish it was,” growled Larry. “but it ain’t gonna be quite that easy. To figure Everard was tied in with Osmond is one thing. To prove it is somethin’ else.”
“Are you sayin’ Osmond knows about the gold?” prodded Dora.
“He hankers to own your land,” Larry pointed out. “Why? Because he’d like to be operatin’ two saloons?”
“Two saloons means twice the profit,” said Dora. “That could be his reason, Larry.”
“It could be his reason,” shrugged Larry, “but I don’t think so. I’d rather play my hunch. He knows about the gold, and there’s only one way he could know. Everard told him.”
“The Professor claims he was jumped by a couple hombres,” mused Stretch. “Could them two hombres be Osmond and his sidekick?”
Dora exhaled noisily. From her point of view, the situation was becoming more than a little complicated. But, to Larry, it all seemed quite logical.
“What we have to do now,” he told her, “is prove that Everard was tied in with this Osmond jasper.”
“You make it sound so all-fired easy,” she frowned.
“I don’t claim it’s gonna be easy,” said Larry, “but it has to be done.”
“What do we do?” demanded Stretch. “Snoop around the Gold Queen? Ask a lotta questions? Try to find out if Everard was visitin’ Osmond on the quiet?”
“That’d do for a starter,” nodded Larry. “Only we have to go slow and careful, big feller. I don’t want Osmond and his partner to get suspicious.”
During the next hours, and for many hours thereafter, the Texas Trouble-Shooters applied themselves to what promised to become a fruitless chore. They needed to establish that there had been some connection between the taciturn Quint Everard and the owners of the Gold Queen. Dora herself knew of no such connection. Neither, it seemed, did anybody else. They talked with aged locals whittling in the shade of an awning directly opposite the Gold Queen Saloon, and not one of these old-timers recalled ever seeing Everard enter that establishment. They questioned the proprietor of a livery stable, the back entrance of which commanded a view of the saloon’s rear door, with the same result.
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