“My wife will understand,” Smokey assured him. But he added, under his breath, “I hope!”
Marj called quietly to Larry, “Texas—the little feller’s asleep.”
“Bueno,” grunted Larry. With Smokey following, he ambled across to the table and retrieved the precious bundle. “Thanks for settlin’ him down.”
Glancing toward the table where Stretch sat, he noticed Stretch had fallen asleep. Stretch had lowered his head to the tabletop. He was slumbering peacefully, when Larry shook his shoulder. He came awake with his hands on his gun-butts, and mumbled, “Piutes!”
“Piutes to you too,” growled Larry. “Rise your butt out of that chair, big feller. We got us a place to stay.”
“Where we goin’?” demanded Stretch.
“With him.” Larry nodded to Smokey.
They quit the saloon, crossed the narrow alley to the front porch of the “Bugle Call” building. Smokey unlocked the door, found a lamp and got it working, then ushered them past his paper-littered desk and the old hand-press, across to the stairs.
“Quietly now,” he begged, as they began climbing to the floor above. “Little Esther doesn’t appreciate to be woken up.”
“Sounds to me,” drawled Stretch, “like little Esther is the boss around here.”
“Friend,” grunted Smokey, “you ain’t foolin’.”
After climbing the stairs, they moved into a small, neatly furnished parlor. Smokey placed the lamp on the table and, simultaneously, a connecting door opened and Esther Leonard moved in from the bedroom. She, too, was toting a lamp. A robe was wrapped about her night-attire. She was small, auburn-haired and dark-eyed, a head shorter than her spouse. As for the Texans, they towered over her. She frowned up at them, then at her husband, then at the bundle in Larry’s arms, and voiced what seemed a mighty reasonable question.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“Esther, my dear one …” Smokey became effusive, “… we tried to come in quietly without waking you. I want you to meet a couple friends of mine. Boys, this is my wife, and let me tell you there isn’t a finer woman in all of Nevada Territory. She ...”
“Who,” demanded Esther, “are these men?”
“The tallest one is Stretch Emerson,” offered Smokey, “and the other one is none other than Larry Valentine.”
“Those names,” said Esther, “sound familiar.”
“Why, sure,” grinned Smokey. “You’ve heard of them, Esther, honey.”
“There have been times,” she countered, “when I thought they existed only in your imagination.”
Explanations seemed called for, and Smokey appeared tongue-tied before his small but formidable spouse, so Larry elected himself spokesman. Thus, the Leonards found themselves listening to a detailed account of the drifters’ meeting with the Piutes. Larry told them everything there was to know, because it occurred to him that a newspaperman would be one of the first to hear of a missing child.
But the Leonards’ answer was a repetition of the marshal’s.
“I know nothing about it,” frowned Smokey. “To the best of my knowledge, there’s been no talk of a missing baby.”
“Perhaps the Indians lied,” suggested Esther.
“Well—I don’t know about that,” muttered Larry. “I got me a sneakin’ hunch they were tellin’ the gospel truth.”
“The child has been fed?” demanded Esther.
“Yes, ma’am,” nodded Larry.
“Very well.” She came to him, gently lifted the sleeping babe from his arms. “I’ll make him comfortable in the bedroom, and my husband will bring blankets for you. You’ll have to sleep on the floor, but ...”
“We won’t mind at all, ma’am,” Stretch assured her, “and we’re powerful obliged to you.”
By midnight, the Texans were deep in slumber, wrapped in blankets and occupying a sizeable area of the Leonards’ parlor floor. It had been quite a day for them, one way or another.
The Bonanza closed its doors at tw-thirty a.m. Twenty-five minutes later, this area of the boomtown was tomb-quiet, and conditions appeared perfect for the nefarious mission assigned to Russ Bowes and his unsavory cohorts. The three hardcases moved quietly into the alley separating the saloon from the “Bugle Call” building and, after donning hoods, two of them climbed the fire-stairs to the balcony of Anna Layton’s room. The third, hatchet-jawed, squint-eyed Gil Flegg, remained in the alley to keep watch.
Bowes snapped the catch with the blade of his Bowie and raised the window. They climbed into the room, lowered the shade. Dixon scratched a match, found the lamp and got it working. With his eyes gleaming through the holes in his improvised hood, Bowes crept to the bed. Softly, he spoke to the sleeping woman, and she awoke to the nightmare of his masked face hovering over hers, the point of the knife touching her exposed throat. She opened her mouth to scream. He clamped his left hand over it, and muttered, “Your first scream’ll be your last—you savvy that? One holler—and you’re dead!”
Anna stared up at him, sick with terror. He chuckled, and asked, “What’s it gonna be? Do you talk gentle—and live? Or do you scream—and die?”
He drew his hand from her mouth. The point of the Bowie still pricked the white skin of her throat. She licked her lips, gasped a challenge.
“What—what do you—want ...?”
“The map of Moon Mountain,” he told her. “There has to be a map, so don’t try lyin’ to me, lady. The old man gave it to you. You’ll hand it over fast, and no arguments.”
“I don’t know ...!” she began.
He snarled an oath, raised his left hand and struck at her face. Her cheek smarted from the blow. She groaned, closed her eyes. Dixon was moving about the room, his eyes questing. A chair was nudged aside. The shawl was picked up and flung into a corner. She saw it crumpled there, when she opened her eyes again. She was in fear for her life, yet triumphant.
Triumphant because, before retiring, she had finished her sewing chore. Every detail of the map had been transferred to the shawl. She had omitted only the compass points. And then, on an impulse, she had made a second copy on paper. At first glance, that copy might satisfy a thief. It was not, however, an exact replica of the original.
She had altered the direction of her father’s route, and had added lines that would surely confuse any man who attempted to use the chart. Yes, that second copy would be useless, but the possessor would not realize as much until he was far beyond the foothills of the Calaveras. As for the original map, she had reduced it to ashes.
“Talk straight!” rasped Bowes. “I want that map, pronto.”
“I—can’t talk ...” she panted, “… with that knife at my throat!”
He lowered the knife, grasped her bare shoulder and hauled her to a sitting posture.
“You cached it,” he breathed. “Where?”
“Under—under the—mattress.”
Chuckling, he dragged her from the bed.
“Hog-tie her,” he ordered Dixon, “and gag her tight.” He raised the mattress. Dixon brought the lamp across, and it took Bowes only a few moments to locate the rumpled sheet of paper. He spread it out, studied it intently. Anna had painstakingly duplicated her father’s spidery printing, the words: “JORDAN CABOT—HIS CHART.”
“This is it,” he breathed.
“We’re gonna be rich,” sniggered Dixon.
“Do like I told you,” muttered Bowes, as he pocketed the paper. “Rope her good.”
Dixon made, short work of securing her ankles and wrists with the sheets. For a gag, he used the shawl, winding it about her face and knotting it tightly behind her neck. They left her huddled on the floor and, in their haste to make good their escape, omitted to extinguish the lamp. Even while they were clambering out on to the balcony, she was struggling to free herself, wriggling toward the overturned chair.
The silk stretched somewhat, as she rubbed it against the end of a chair-leg. She felt the rough wood scratching her face, and knew the leg had c
aught the silk. Back and forth, she moved her head, and the shawl loosened.
The marauders had quit the alley and were disappearing into the shadows on the far side of Main Street, when her scream rose on the early morning air. It didn’t carry far—but far enough. It aroused the Leonards, and the tall troubleshooters in the parlor. Also, it aroused the two men in the bedroom further along the gallery. Eddie Bennett and his boss-barkeep slept on the premises.
In a matter of seconds, Larry and Stretch had pulled on their boots and were hefting their hardware. The bedroom door opened to reveal Smokey and his spouse, eyeing them expectantly. Larry strode to the window, stared across the alley.
“Over there,” he told Stretch. “A woman screamin’.”
“Well?” prodded Stretch. “What’re we waitin’ for?”
Abruptly, the Texans disappeared. Little Esther blinked bewilderedly towards the stairs, and murmured, “Godfrey Daniel!”
“What did I tell you?” grinned Smokey. “Never a dull moment from now on! By golly, Esther, they’re a journalist’s dream come true!”
When it came to answering the cries of damsels in distress, the drifters weren’t the kind to stand on ceremony. Larry had already established that the scream had come from the lighted window opposite the Leonard’s parlor. In double-quick time, they descended into the alley and climbed the stairs to Anna’s balcony. Larry swung through the open window with Stretch close behind. They brandished their cocked Colts, eyed the two men and the woman. Bennett and Jaeger had barged into the room only a few moments before. Anna was huddled in a chair, a robe covering her torn nightgown, her hair disheveled. She was sobbing.
Bennett blinked apprehensively at the Texans’ hardware, and told them, “Toby and me heard her scream. We still don’t know what happened. She’s too broken up to talk, Valentine.”
“Stretch and me heard her, too,” nodded Larry.
Anna raised her eyes. Her sobbing eased, as she intently studied the tall strangers.
“Valentine—Stretch? Are you—the Valentine and Emerson I’ve heard about?”
“That’s them, in person,” Jaeger assured her.
“Anna—what happened to you?” demanded Bennett. “Looks like she had visitors,” observed Jaeger. “The uninvited kind.”
“Yes.” She nodded slowly. “Somebody—broke in.”
“You get a good look at ’em?” asked Bennett. “I’ll send Toby for the marshal, and we’ll ...”
“Don’t bother,” she sighed. “It wouldn’t help. They’ve had time to get away.” She drew her robe tighter about her, gestured to the door. “Eddie—Toby—would you please leave? I want to talk to these men—in private.”
“Well,” said Jaeger, “you’ll be safe enough with Larry and Stretch. C’mon, Eddie.”
He headed for the door. Bennett, his curiosity still unsatisfied, had no option but to follow. When the door swung shut behind them, Anna invited the Texans to seat themselves. Larry helped himself to the other chair. Stretch perched on the edge of the bed. They eyed her enquiringly.
“I’m Anna Layton,” she told them. “The old man you were accused of killing—Marshal Fames told me all about it ...”
“And?” prodded Larry.
“He was my father,” she explained.
“That’s rough,” grunted Larry. “We’re sure sorry, ma’am.”
“I know your reputation,” she frowned. “You’ve helped many another woman ...”
“Just what kind of help do you need?” demanded Larry.
“Protection,” she sighed. “An armed bodyguard. Yes. I think it will come to that.” She clasped her hands in her lap, matched stares with him. “I’m going to confide in you, Mr. Valentine.”
“In that case,” he grinned, “skip the ‘Mister’.”
“Twice,” grunted Stretch.
“All right, Larry—Stretch,” she nodded. “It’s quite a story, and I wouldn’t dare tell it to anybody else, but your reputation—well—I know I can trust you. And, heaven knows, I will need your help.”
“You’ll get it,” Larry assured her. “Keep talkin’.”
And talk she did, quickly, breathlessly, but concisely. She talked of her brief reunion with her father, stressed the importance of the map he had entrusted to her care, and the significance of the attack she had suffered a short time ago.
“It’s clear enough, isn’t it?” she challenged. “These men must have been my father’s murderers. They killed him for his map. When they couldn’t find it, they guessed he’d left it with me.”
“So, pretty soon,” opined Larry, “they’ll be headed into the Calaveras—on their way to Moon Mountain and a fortune in silver.”
“They’ll head for the mountains,” she nodded, “but they’ll never find Moon Mountain. Not with the map they stole from me. It was a copy—and a false copy at that. I made it just before I went to bed.”
“That was smart thinkin’,” approved Larry, “riggin’ a fake map. Now look, I wouldn’t ask you where you hid the real map. That’s none of my business. But what I am askin’ is did you hide it good?”
“It’s in a safe place,” she murmured. “Don’t worry, Larry. They could never find it.”
“But you figure they’ll come lookin’ for it again?” he asked.
“They’re bound to—when they realize I’ve tricked them.” She rose from her chair, walked slowly to the window and stared down into the dark alley. “I think I’ll have seven days of peace, Larry. Eight at most. It shouldn’t take any longer for them to reach the mountains, discover their map is useless, then come back to Blanco Roca. And so—seven days from now—I’ll be needing bodyguards.”
“We’ll be around,” grinned Larry.
“Loaded for bear,” growled Stretch.
Larry stopped grinning, as a new thought occurred to him.
“We could maybe nail those killers,” he suggested, “long before your seven days is up. Chances are they’ll start out tomorrow, wouldn’t you say? All right. All we have to do is keep our eyes peeled, watch for a bunch of hombres headin’ out of town—westward.”
“No,” said Anna. “It won’t be that easy. Every day, dozens of prospectors pass through Blanco Roca on their way to the mountains. And I can’t identify the men who attacked me. Could you challenge every westbound rider, Larry? I’m afraid not. Too many of them.”
“So,” said Larry, “we give ’em time to come home. Seven days from now, any time you peek over your shoulder …” he grinned reassuringly, “… all you’ll see is Texans.”
“I’ll be deeply indebted to you,” she declared. “There’s so much I’ll have to do, if I’m to profit from Dad’s claim.”
“Your claim now,” Larry corrected.
“Yes,” she sighed. “Mine. My chance for a decent future.”
“Women can’t prospect for silver,” he pointed out. “You’ll have to hire help.”
“Well,” she frowned, “I’ll worry about that later. I don’t dare make any plans until Dad’s killers have been arrested. While ever they’re free, I’ll be in danger.” She returned to her chair, but did not seat herself. Eyeing her covertly, Larry noted she was trembling again. Here was one mighty nervous female—and small wonder. “I’d insist on paying for your services,” she told them. “Maybe a percentage of the silver, when I can arrange to have it mined.”
“That’s somethin’ else we can fret about later,” drawled Larry. “Meantime, maybe you can do somethin’ for us.”
“If I can help ...” she began.
“You happen to know of any woman hereabouts,” asked Larry, “that lost a baby?”
Before his eyes, she recoiled. It was as though he had struck her a physical blow. The color drained from her cheeks. As he took her arm and helped her into a chair, she began a plea.
“Please! I’m sorry—”
“We got this little feller from the Injuns,” muttered Stretch. “He’s all by his lonesome, ’cept for us. All we’re tryin’ to do is find
out about the ...”
She closed her eyes as if in a faint.
Stretch frowned at Larry, who shrugged and said, “Better leave her be. She’s all wrought up.” He patted her shoulder. “I don’t reckon you’ll have any more trouble tonight. If it makes you feel any easier, just remember me and Stretch’ll be close by—right across the alley in the Leonards’ parlor.”
“I’ll remember,” she sighed. Then, as they moved toward the window, her eyes fell upon the crumpled heap of blue silk by the wall. On an impulse, she murmured, “That shawl—take it.”
“You don’t owe us anything,” Larry protested.
“I’m not giving it away.” She gestured impatiently. “I’m just loaning it. You can use it—for the baby.”
“Sam’ll appreciate it,” declared Stretch. He picked up the shawl, admired it a moment, then folded it and slung it over his shoulder. “Mighty purty, ma’am.”
“A baby should have a shawl ...” She seemed recovered again. “Take care of it, but remember ...”
“Why, sure,” nodded Larry. “It’s just a loan. You can have it back any time you want, and you’ll know where to find us.”
Six – Anatomy of a Double-Cross
The Leonards listened with interest to Larry’s report of their conversation with Anna Layton. Smokey, with his pipe jutting at a rakish angle, was eager to commit all details to paper, but Larry bluntly told him, “You won’t print a word of it.”
“Nor speak of it,” Esther warmly agreed. She eyed her spouse sternly. “We must keep silent about this. If those murderers suspected a trick, Mrs. Layton would be in grave danger.”
“Sure, sure.” The newspaperman nodded in grudging agreement. “Secret information—not for publication.” He frowned at the glowing bowl of his briar. “But quite a story, by golly.”
She fondled the square of silk, admired the design worked into it. “Such beautiful needlework.”
“Mighty sad, when you stop to think of it,” muttered Smokey. “Esther, I guess you know who that thing was meant for.”
“Yes.” Esther sighed heavily. “No wonder she apparently looked faint when Mr. Valentine tried to tell her about the baby.”
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