“Stuck!” Stabile heard him saying. “Can’t move any farther—unless we sprout wings and fly over this bluff. I’m saying we’ve been tricked! Bowes must’ve rigged a few changes—before he let you copy the map!”
Stabile promptly broke cover, riding across thick grass towards the base of the rock wall, his right fist full of cocked .45. The plotters, engrossed in their heated debate, were unaware of his approach—until his harsh challenge smote their ears.
“Raise ’em—you sneaking polecats!”
Halsey started convulsively and leapt to his feet. The Markhams rose slowly and were careful to keep their hands clear of their sides.
“Steady now, Wade.” Garth frowned at the leveled weapon, licked his lips and tried to summon up a smile. “No need for you to take on this way.”
“You weren’t coming back to divvy up with me,” accused Stabile. “No use lying, Markham. I checked your place—yours and Halsey’s. You didn’t leave a thing behind.”
“Is that what’s fazing you?” drawled Garth. “Well now, that’s easily explained.”
“I’ll bet!” breathed Stabile.
“We all value our personal possessions,” Garth pointed out, “and you have to admit Blanco Roca’s lawmen aren’t the smartest in Nevada. Many a townsman has been robbed, and the thieves never apprehended, the stolen goods never retrieved. We simply brought all our gear along for safe keeping.”
“You knew I couldn’t send a posse after you,” muttered Stabile, “without putting a noose around my own neck.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions, Wade,” chided Garth. “Put that gun away. Turn that horse and head back to town. When Fames realizes you’re gone, he might ...”
“Fames thinks I’m out hunting a wanted man,” said Stabile. “I wasn’t taking any chances on him getting curious.” He dropped his gaze to the map, as he hammered down and holstered his Colt. “And I’ll take no chances with you jaspers either. Reckon I’ll stick with you, from here on.”
“Why, sure,” nodded Kane. “Glad to have you along. We’re all in this thing together.”
“Much good that it does us,” scowled Halsey.
“We’re in trouble, Wade,” sighed Garth. He bit the end off a cigar, scratched a match for it and gestured to the map. “Somebody played me for a sucker. Cabot’s daughter. Or Bowes. Or even old Jordy himself.”
“You’re sure this map’s no good?” demanded Stabile.
“We’ve followed a straight line,” Garth told him. “It’s supposed to take us five miles due west from these ridges to the south—five miles without obstacles.”
“And this,” explained Kane, “is as far as we could follow it. Two miles—and now this damn-blasted rock wall!”
“Bowes switched maps, maybe,” mused Stabile.
“Give me time to think about it,” begged Garth Markham.
“Sundown in a little while,” muttered the lawyer. “We haven’t eaten since morning.”
“Might as well fix supper,” shrugged Kane.
It wasn’t until some twenty-five minutes later, when the elder brother was squatting by the cook-fire and prodding beans with a fork, that the solution occurred to him.
“Try this on for size,” he challenged his companions. “The original map probably was a hundred per cent accurate. As I said at the time, Jordy Cabot would’ve taken pains to make a true map. Without it, he might never have found his way back to his claim.”
“Makes sense,” agreed Kane.
“Bowes was an efficient killer,” Garth continued, “but he carried his brains in his holster. I doubt if he had the intelligence to devise such a strategy—I mean changing the map he stole from the girl. Oh, he took a map from her sure enough—but it wasn’t the right map.”
“That leaves the girl,” frowned Halsey. “She alone has the original! She made a copy—the copy she surrendered to Bowes!”
“So here we are,” fumed Kane, “with nothing to show for all our plans!”
“Let’s not lose our heads,” smiled Garth. “It may yet be possible for us to achieve our purpose.”
“We’ll never find Moon Mountain,” argued Kane, “without the true map.”
“We won’t.” Garth winked slyly. “But others will.”
“Meaning who?” demanded Stabile.
“I couldn’t begin to guess,” shrugged Garth, “but there’ll be somebody. Figure it out for yourself. Of what value is the map to Anna Layton—unless she uses it? Obviously, she must enlist the aid of some trusted friend or friends—experienced prospectors who’ll follow the map to the Cabot claim and mine enough silver to make her rich. Well? Any arguments?”
“If that’s what she intends doing,” reflected Halsey, “you may be sure she’ll lose no time. She’ll act quickly.”
“Seems to me,” protested Stabile, “you’re taking a heap for granted.”
“Not at all,” countered Garth. “It’s all very logical. Moreover, we stand a good chance of intercepting Mrs. Layton’s hired help.”
“I don’t know about that,” frowned Kane. “It’s a big hunk of country we’re travelling.”
“But one thing we may be sure of,” declared Garth. “The only men venturing west of the foothills would have to be her associates—equipped with the true map. Who else would dare?”
“Loners have been trying it for years,” countered Stabile.
“We won’t be looking for loners,” drawled Garth. “We’ll be watching for a well-equipped party—maybe a half-dozen or more, with mules and ample provisions.” He rose to his feet and stared westward, shading his eyes against the sun-glare. “Who knows? Our luck might hold. What we need is a lookout post—very high in this region. From there, we could keep a wide area under constant observation.”
Through the gathering dusk, the four conspirators advanced to the base of a high butte. The ascent would be treacherous—even more so in darkness. They camped at the base of the butte and, in the early morning, readied their animals for the long climb.
Meanwhile, the eager but inept Smokey Leonard proved conclusively that he was no skilled gun-handler. That morning, after breaking camp, Anna Layton’s volunteer helpers encountered danger for the first time. They were traversing a high-walled canyon when the horses began neighing shrilly—a warning signal instantly obeyed by the veteran trouble-shooters.
The cougar, a tawny giant capable of tearing a horse to pieces, was poised on a rock-ledge to the right of the trail, snarling a challenge. Larry deftly slid his Winchester from its sheath and rose in his stirrups. Simultaneously, Smokey manfully attempted a fast draw, dragging the Walker from his sagging waistband—along with twelve inches of shirttail. The weapon was cocked and, in his excitement, his index finger tightened too soon.
What followed was chaotic, and near fatal for Stretch Emerson. The .44 load missed the taller Texan’s head by less than an inch. The recoil, for which Smokey was unprepared, sent him plummeting back over the bay’s rump, still clutching the mighty Walker. Up on the rock-ledge, the cougar unleashed a roar, turned and bounded away.
As he slid his rifle back into its sheath, Larry scowled at his partner and enquired, “What the hell’s the matter with you? You froze or somethin’?”
“G-G-Get that doggone c-cannon offa Smokey!” stammered Stretch. “I felt the air-wind of that slug! It burned my neck!”
“Smokey!” yelled Larry. “You all right?”
To which the prone scribe plaintively replied, “How—how did I get back here?”
Ten – Crisis at Moon Mountain
He didn’t look like a dauntless adventurer at this moment—sitting in the dust with the Walker hugged to his chest and humiliation stamped on his face. Stretch cussed him at length, but Larry couldn’t find it in his heart to support his sidekick’s profanity. Grinning, but eyeing the big man warily, he advanced on Smokey and asked, “Is that thing still cocked?”
“Well,” frowned Smokey, “not anymore.”
“Rise up careful,” advi
sed Larry, “and stow the Walker in your saddlebag.”
“I suppose that would be wiser,” sighed Smokey, as he resumed the perpendicular.
“Wiser,” nodded Larry, “than totin’ it in your pants. It might get cocked accidental—and blow off half your doggone backside.”
“If I ever see you heftin’ that cannon again ...!” raged Stretch.
“I surely apologize, Stretch,” mumbled Smokey.
The Walker was consigned to the right-side saddlebag of the bay. Smokey hadn’t been overly particular while hiring his travel-gear, and that saddlebag had no flap. The big gun now reposed in a sagging sack of frayed leather, to be forgotten—until a certain vital moment in the not too distant future.
For two more days, the Texans and their new sidekick moved on through the high country, drawing ever closer to their goal. There could be no doubting the accuracy of old Jordy s directions because, at intervals, they found his markers—a tree-trunk gashed by his Bowie, a mound of small boulders, a narrow path cut through brush. Everything tallied with the map, and Larry estimated that another twenty-four hours would bring them to that mystery-shrouded peak sought by so many before them.
Towards noon of the third day, when they broke from a stand of aspen and began advancing across a rock-littered plateau, they were spotted by the four men positioned atop the butte. The distance was considerable, but Stabile’s eyesight was keen. All too clearly, he recognized the first two riders.
“Those proddy Texans,” he breathed. “Valentine and Emerson.”
“The third man?” prodded Halsey.
“Smokey Leonard.” Kane grinned derisively. “That two-bit scribbler.”
“Would the Layton woman,” wondered Stabile, “turn over her map to those drifters?”
“Those drifters,” opined Garth, “aren’t drifting now. They know where they’re going. What’s more, they’re leading pack mules.” He retreated from the rim of the bluff, rose to his feet. “It’s too strong a coincidence to be ignored.”
“They’re following a map,” guessed Halsey.
“The same map we ought to be following,” muttered Kane.
“I believe we’ve found what we were waiting for, my friends,” smiled Garth. “We’ll go down now.”
When, at noon, Larry called a halt, the conspirators were hard on their trail. After watering their animals, the Texans and the journalist kindled a fire and rustled up a fast lunch. Due west, they could see the peak.
“Mighty close now,” observed Larry.
“That has to be it,” nodded Smokey. ‘‘Moon Mountain—the richest bonanza of all.”
“Quite a mountain,” mused Larry.
“Look at the waterfall.” Smokey pointed. “By Julius Caesar, there’s a sight to heat the blood of an artist.”
“We’ll reach it,” Larry calmly predicted, “inside a couple more hours. Easy country now, between us and the mountain.”
They broke camp and pressed on, never looking backwards, while the Markhams and their cronies continued their cautious advance. Beyond the plateau, they descended to a thick belt of brush, the last obstacle to be penetrated. The plotters followed, not halting until they had reached the westernmost fringe of the brush.
Dead ahead, some ninety yards away, they could see their quarry—the stalled mules, the three men sitting their mounts, consulting their chart in the very shadow of the waterfall. Where the waters finished their tumbling descent, a deep creek began, tracing its winding course away to the southeast. The ground to either side was covered with thick grass, and there was cover aplenty along the left bank.
“How much farther are they going?” Stabile wondered.
“I have the feeling,” frowned Garth, “that they’ve come to the end of their trail.”
“That—that’s Moon Mountain!” breathed Halsey. “But what do they do now? Must they climb it—follow its base—or what?”
“According to all the rumors,” muttered Garth, “Moon Mountain is hollow. The silver is somewhere inside. Anyway, we don’t have to ponder the mystery. Let them solve it.”
“Let ’em find the silver,” prodded Stabile, “then move in and take it away from ’em?”
“We take the silver,” muttered Halsey, “and make very sure these men are silenced forever. Yes. That’s the only way.”
“Plenty cover,” observed Stabile. “We could sneak in close.”
“And we don’t have to go on foot,” Garth pointed out. “The noise of that waterfall will muffle any sounds made by our horses. We’ll leave the mules here.”
“Lead on, Garth,” grinned Kane.
They quit the brush, hustled their mounts to the left bank of the creek and continued their advance, hugging every available inch of cover. As they drew closer to the conferring trio, the tumbling of the cataract increased in volume. They were only thirty yards from the other party, with the brush still effectively concealing them, when Garth Markham again called a halt.
Smokey had been studying the map with great diligence. He offered his opinion now.
“This has to be the end of the line. The indications are clear. This is as far as we’re supposed to go!”
“Well, doggone it,” frowned Stretch, “we’ve found the right mountain—but what about the silver?”
“There’ll be some kind of opening,” opined Larry. “Like the mouth of a cave, kind of. Or a cleft in the rocks.”
Larry checked the map again, stared thoughtfully at the cataract and gave voice to his hunch. “How do we know the rock-wall is solid,” he challenged, “in back of that waterfall?”
“We don’t,” shrugged Smokey.
“But it likely is,” asserted Stretch.
“Or it mightn’t be,” countered Larry. “There might just be an opening behind all that water—a gateway that we can’t see from here. Anyway ...” He dismounted and doffed his Stetson, “… I aim to find out.”
Larry hung his hat, shirt and gunbelt over his saddle horn, tugged off his boots and moved to the edge of the bank.
Garth Markham nudged his brother and asked, tensely, “Can you guess what he’s about to do?”
“It’s plain enough,” nodded Kane. “He figures there’s a way through to the insides of the mountain—maybe in back of the waterfall.”
Warily at first, then with increasing confidence, Larry swam for the welter of pounding water and rising spray. If his hunch was correct, a fragile old man had passed beneath this thundering wall of water without suffering any injury—and probably leading a mule to boot. He filled his lungs and surged forward, swimming strongly. The impact of the falling water was powerful, but he could withstand it. The roar was deafening, as he struggled through to the mysterious beyond.
And mysterious was too mild a word. With the waterfall behind him, he found himself viewing an awe-inspiring phenomenon. He had passed through a natural opening into a gigantic cave from the walls of which light danced in bewildering profusion—sunlight that filtered through the shimmering screen of tumbling water at the cave-entrance. And why wouldn’t the sunlight reflect from those walls?
Only a portion of the cavern floor was underwater. He climbed onto flat rock, trudged to the nearest wall and eyed it intently. Silver—almost in its raw state.
He found the section from which old Jordy had chipped his samples, and portion of a dry plank into which Anna’s father had cut the triumphant inscription: “JORDAN CABOT—HIS CLAIM.” With his heartbeat quickening, he lowered himself into the water and swam to the entrance.
From their hiding place, the unsuspected onlookers saw his head and shoulders break the surface. He moved to the bank, began climbing to dry ground. As he did so, he yelled his news. The words didn’t reach Garth Markham clearly, but their meaning was obvious. He growled a command to his cohorts, emptied his holster. His brother, the lawyer and the rogue lawman followed suit.
“It really is hollow?” demanded Smokey.
“And we can move through easy!” called Larry. “Hell’s bells, t
he walls are shiftin’ with it! You’ve never seen the like in all your born days ...!”
He stopped talking abruptly, half-in, half-out of the water, because he had spotted the four oncoming riders. Then, just as he was about to yell a warning to his partner, he heard the booming of a six-gun rising louder than the din of the waterfall. Something hard and fiery coursed across his bowed back. The bullet had gashed him.
The bullet had been triggered by Garth Markham, who chuckled harshly, as Larry threw up his hands and flopped back into the water.
“Freeze, Emerson!” yelled Stabile. “You’re covered!”
An explosive oath erupted from the taller Texan. His startled gaze was moving from the swirling waters to the four newcomers, and back to the waters again. In vain, he waited for Larry’s head to break the surface.
The intruders moved closer, grinning triumphantly. Less, than ten yards separated them from the stunned Stretch and Smokey, when Garth Markham barked his commands.
“Keep your hands high,” he ordered Stretch. Then, after a quick glance at Smokey’s ungirded loins, “You—unstrap his side arms and throw them in the creek. Do it carefully!”
“You—shot Larry ...” blinked Smokey.
He stared aghast at the fast-moving waters. Still no sign of Larry Valentine. Between clenched teeth, Stretch said, “Do it, Smokey. They ain’t givin’ you no choice.”
Smokey obeyed—with a groan of despair. The twin .45s of Stretch Emerson, still holstered, were hurled into the waters, after which Markham gestured to the gunbelt hanging from the sorrel’s saddlehorn.
“That one, too!” he yelled. “Get rid of it!”
Again, Smokey obeyed.
“I’m sorry, Stretch ...” he began, but Stretch didn’t hear him.
The taller Texan had eyes only for the weapons that covered him. He was thinking of his partner—but watching those guns. Had that first bullet put an end to the hectic career of Larry Valentine? Maybe—and maybe not. If Larry were merely wounded, and still capable of movement, they might yet turn the tables on these sidewinders.
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