“Duke and Arnie …” Elrigg snapped his fingers, “we’re going down. Jud—and you, Fields, stay here.”
He lowered himself into the shaft, got a footing on the rungs of the ladder and began his descent. Trenton waited for him to reach bottom before following. Vincent, the last to descend, stood leaning against the ladder and gaping about him.
They were in a dirt-walled chamber some fifteen feet square. To its rear, a narrow opening marked the entrance to a tunnel. The chamber contained naught but a spade, a broken pick-axe—and the pile of small sacks against the side wall. Morrow had already checked one of those sacks—hence his jubilation.
“Look at it!” he gasped,
“Great day in the mornin’!” breathed Vincent.
“Not just dust!” panted Morrow. “Nuggets! All them sacks—fulla nuggets! It’s a fortune, Elrigg. Hell’s bells ...!” He began gathering up the sacks and stuffing them into his pockets. Elrigg and Vincent promptly followed his example and, in a matter of minutes, their clothes sagged from the weight of the precious metal.
“We’re rich!” exulted Morrow. “Rich as kings!”
“Sure, sure,” nodded Elrigg. “We’ve got it made, but—”
“But what?” challenged Vincent.
“Let’s not lose our heads,” warned Elrigg. “All the gold we’ve found is useless to us—not worth a handful of sand—unless we can find food. That’s clear enough, isn’t it? We can spend this gold, but we can’t eat it. Without provisions and extra water, we’ll never quit this desert alive.”
Grudgingly, Vincent conceded, “You’re dead right.”
“And,” Elrigg continued, “we’ll surely find all the food we need, if we go careful.” He gestured to the remaining sacks “Somebody mined this stuff. Maybe one man. Maybe a whole group. And you can bet your lives they don’t work hungry. They have ample provisions.”
“So we find ’em, huh?” prodded Morrow. “Put a gun on ’em and help ourselves to enough grub to take us outa this consarned death-trap?”
“That’s the general idea,” nodded Elrigg. “All right, Arnie. Kill that lamp and let’s get back to Jud and the wife-killer. And ...” He grinned complacently, “we’d better climb this ladder one at a time—since we weigh a sight more than when we came down.”
“That’s for sure!” chuckled Vincent.
He extinguished the lamp and followed Elrigg and Morrow up the ladder, conscious of the heaviness of his clothes, but rejoicing in it. On level ground, Elrigg Offered Bush and Fields a brief explanation. The ’breed was as impassive as ever, and Fields seemed only mildly interested. All he said was:
“Elrigg is right. The gold isn’t important to us, unless we find more food and water.”
“We’ll find …” began Elrigg. He broke off abruptly, raised a finger to his mouth. “Quiet!”
“What ...?” frowned Morrow.
“I thought I heard something!” whispered Elrigg. “Back there in the brush—a rustling sound. Stay right here. I’ll be back.”
He emptied his holster and hustled into the mesquite, moving towards the source of the sound. For five minutes, he searched diligently, but all to no avail, In the matter of making himself scarce in a hurry, the ghost of Fortuna had no equal, a fact already known to the Texans and the Newbolds. Elrigg retraced his steps to rejoin his cronies. “Nothing,” he tersely reported. “I must have imagined it.”
“All right, Cleave,” frowned Trenton. “What’s our next move?”
“We’re checking the town,” Elrigg announced, “building by building. Jud, you rig a picket-line for the horses. We’re leaving them hidden here in the brush. Duke, you stick with me. We’ll divide ourselves into three pairs. Arnie and Wes can take this side of town, Jud and Fields the far end. You and I will cut across the street and check every building on the other side.”
While Bush secured the horses, Elrigg ensured that their armory was evenly distributed. He wore a Colt. So did Trenton. Morrow was hefting the shotgun, Vincent and Fields the carbines. Each pair would be capable of quick and deadly defense, should it become necessary.
“Ready?” he called to the ’breed.
“Ready,” grunted Bush. “We go now.”
Furtively, they circled the silent town and began closing in, while in the room she shared with her mother and sisters, Sarah Ann Newbold bemoaned her discomfort and despaired of wooing slumber. It was the itching, she told herself. She wasn’t accustomed to the feel of a film of alkali on her exposed flesh.
She yearned for the luxury of a hot bath, though she realized that such yearning was futile. But that well, the well out back of the hotel—why not? A cake of soap and a pail of water was all she needed. One of the men would be on guard at the rear door, and she would be seen. But why not her father?
Having made her decision, she rummaged among the few articles she had salvaged from the looted coach and located her soap. Then, quietly, she tiptoed from the room. As she descended the stairs, Stretch sat up, blinking at her.
“It’s me—Sarah Ann,” she whispered. “Would it be all right for me to—uh—sneak out back ...?”
“What for?” he demanded.
“Just to wash,” she explained. “Oh, Stretch, I feel so downright dusty—and that’s a terrible feeling for a woman. I can’t sleep ...”
“She can go,” Larry quietly called to them. “Her pa’s out there, so he can keep an eye on her.”
She heaved a grateful sigh and hurried into the rear passage. Larry returned to his scrutiny of the street. Stretch yawned, made to lower his head, then suddenly jerked himself to a sitting posture.
“Runt ...!”
“I heard it,” growled Larry, as he got to his feet. “You wake Bart. I’ll rouse Tom.”
The stage-driver, despite his state of apprehension, had managed to fall asleep. While shaking his shoulder, Larry again heard the sound. It came from the general direction of the kitchen, or maybe above, or beyond—or below. A sound with a hint of urgency to it. A scuffling and creaking.
“Whatsamatter?” mumbled Tom.
“Squat by the door and keep your eyes peeled,” muttered Larry. “We’ve just heard something, and we have to check on it.”
Simultaneously, Bart was coming awake and grunting a query. Stretch was about to answer him, when the sound was repeated for the second time.
“What the hell ...?” began Bart.
“We’re going back there and take a look,” called Larry. “You and Tom stay on your toes.” He crooked a finger at his partner. “Let’s go.”
The Texans crept into the hotel kitchen with their nerves a’tingle, while, in the rear yard, Sarah Ann drew a brimming pail from the well. Her father, squatting on a box by the rear entrance with a rifle across his knees, traded a few quiet words with her.
“We’ll soon be rid of the dust, my dear,” he opined. “Our Texas friends will guide us safely to Vine City.”
“I’m sure we can rely on Larry and Stretch,” she agreed, as she cupped water in her hands and splashed her face. “And Bart. Let’s not forget Bart.”
She loosened the top of her gown and began soaping her face and arms. He dropped his gaze to the Winchester resting on his knees and wondered if he possessed the strength and courage to use it, should the need arise.
Thirty yards away, huddled behind a rotting tool-crate, Elrigg and Trenton surveyed the area behind the hotel and held a whispered conference. It seemed incredible that they should again stumble upon the passengers from the looted stage, but there could be no doubting the evidence of their eyes.
“That’s the same old man,” Trenton asserted.
“And one of the women,” frowned Elrigg.
“But how could they make it this far? And look, Cleave. You see what the old man’s holding? How in blazes did he get a rifle?”
That query gave Elrigg food for thought.
“They’re all here, Duke. That’s obvious enough. And they look hale and hearty, which means they must’ve eaten.�
�
“The rifle, Cleave. The rifle!”
“Yes. They’re armed. And how could that happen? Only one explanation. They were rescued and brought here.”
“Well—how many men rescued them? That’s what I’d like to know!”
“We’ll find out, Duke.”
“They have food—and food is what we need. How do we get it away from them? We could fight them for it, but ...”
“But we don’t know how many guns we’d be up against. No, Duke, I’d as lief do it the easy way, give us an edge. We’ll force them to surrender their provisions—and their weapons.”
“All right, all right! If you’ve figured a plan ...”
“A very simple plan, Cleave, and very effective. I don’t see how we can lose. It shouldn’t be too difficult for you—sneaking up on the old man, putting him to sleep and grabbing that rifle.”
“And you?”
“The girl is my target. A hostage—savvy? They won’t dare make a wrong move while we’re holding one of their women. I’ll grab her while you take care of the old man. Then we’ll join up with the others and stake out opposite the hotel. It’s a cinch the other passengers are inside—sleeping probably. Or maybe a couple are wide awake, standing guard. It has to be fast and it has to be quiet, Cleave.”
“I’m ready,” breathed Trenton.
They broke cover and, hugging the shadows, advanced on their intended victims. A few moments later, Theodore roused from his reverie and glanced towards the well. Sarah Ann was vigorously plying a towel, drying her face and shoulders. His breath caught in his throat. He began rising, grimly aware that a human form was materializing directly behind his unsuspecting daughter. He saw arms reaching for her, as he tightened his grip on the rifle and opened his mouth to call a warning.
And then, abruptly the oblivion claimed him. Something hard and metallic smote him with jarring force. His derby, badly dented, was driven down to his ears. He knew a brief spasm of pain, but nothing more. As he slumped to the ground, Sarah Ann began turning, her eyes dilated in shock. Elrigg forestalled her scream with characteristic brutality. His bunched left struck her hard behind the left ear, knocking her senseless.
~*~
In the kitchen, the Texans stood face to face, listening intently. Again the creaking sound. Not here in this room, but somewhere below.
“A cellar,” breathed Larry. “Why in hell didn’t I think of it before?”
They hadn’t lit a lamp, and had no intention of doing so. By feel, they explored the dusty floor and located the outline of a trapdoor. Stretch got his fingers to it and raised it an inch. Right away, yellow light filtered through.
“He’s down there,” scowled Larry. “And the hell with him. This time, he ain’t gettin’ away from us. Raise that doggone trapdoor, big feller.”
Stretch raised the wooden square and set it to one side. He was now staring down into a cellar and, from this angle, it appeared no different to any other cellar he had seen. There was a ladder. Quickly, he lowered himself into the aperture and began his descent.
His boots negotiated the first rung and the second. The third gave way. He cursed, grasped at the edge of the floor, then let go, to pitch feet-first into the cellar. Larry added a few curses of his own and hustled to follow, swinging his legs over and hanging by his hands, then dropping. His fall was broken by Stretch, who was directly below him and doubled over.
On the dirt floor, they tangled in disorder. Larry, the first to roll clear, came to his knees with his right fist gun- filled and snapped a warning to the figure in the corner.
“Move an inch—just one cotton-pickin’ inch—and you’re gravebait!”
The huddled figure froze. Stretch raised himself to a sitting posture and joined his partner in a thoughtful appraisal of their captive. The little man had produced those creaking noises in his efforts to prise up the lid of a large, wooden box—labeled “Dynamite”. He was crouched with his gnarled hands still gripping the crowbar, his bright brown eyes surveying them expectantly, a shabby wisp of masculinity, very old, but as they well knew, very spry. His matted hair, drooping moustache and flowing beard were dirty white. Such portions of his face as were visible were the color of old leather, deeply wrinkled. His patched shirt and dusty pants seemed to be several sizes too large for him.
He loosed his grip on the crowbar and rose to his full height, revealing himself as a mere runt, five feet one inch at most. The butt, hammer section and portion of the cylinder of a Colt protruded from his waistband. One of the old percussion models, an Army Colt of 1860. A Henry repeater lay on the floor some short distance from his scuffed boots.
“So this is him,” grinned Stretch, “this sawed-off old hellion—the Fortuna ghost.” He sketched an ironic salute. “Howdy, Spooky.”
“Howdy,” countered the little man, in a thin, quavery voice. And then, raising his bushy eyebrows, he stared in puzzlement at Stretch, and asked, “How’d you know my name?”
Larry chuckled softly.
“You mean that’s your real name, old-timer?”
“It’s what my old pards used to call me,” frowned the little man. “But that was a long time back—when Fortuna was a rip-snortin’ gold-town. I had plenty pards then. Now—there ain’t nobody but me. I’m the only one stayed behind.” He showed his few surviving teeth in a guileless grin. “Spooky McGraw’s my handle. Texas-born, I am. Knew you boys was Texans, too, when I heard you talkin’.”
“So he’s a Texan!” mused Stretch.
“He’s a Texan,” nodded Larry, “and that makes it worse.” He eyed the old man sternly. “I made a deal with you—you sassy old varmint. You had nothin’ to fear from us. Why’d you have to faze the women again, laughin’ like crazy outside their bedroom door?”
“After you been doin’ it ten-fifteen years,” shrugged Spooky, “it gets to be a habit.”
“Some fine habits, you got, doggone you,” snorted Stretch. “Hangin’ dummies—rattlesnakes in the closet ...”
“Man’s got a right to pertect what’s his’n,” insisted Spooky. “Fortuna mightn’t look fancy to you, but it’s home to me. I been workin’ right along, ever since them other prospectors up and quit. Workin’ right along steady. Finally struck it rich, I did. Yup. A right purty pay-vein. ’Course, I wouldn’t let on ’bout it to nobody else—but you bein’ a couple do-right Texas boys ...”
“That’s us,” Stretch gravely assured him. “A couple do-right Texas boys.”
“Stretch,” frowned Larry, “take his hogleg—just in case. The Henry, too.”
Stretch stepped forward. The old man raised his arms and stood passive, while Stretch jerked the Army Colt from his waistband and picked up the rifle. Larry said:
“I had all kinds of ideas about what I’d do to you, if I caught up with you. I was gonna kick you from one end of the street to the other and bat you with a six-gun barrel, and nail your flea-bit hide to a barn-wall. You got it comin’, Spooky. You had no right to scare our women and take pot-shots at us. We hoofed it a long way to reach Fortuna, and all we wanted was water and shelter—not your doggone gold. What’s yours is yours. We ain’t thieves.”
“Yup,” grunted Spooky. “I finally got that figured out. Wasn’t gonna faze you no more, and that’s gospel.”
“You near got yourself killed,” Larry pointed out. “You dodged into that shack just one jump ahead of a forty-five slug.”
“That’s nothin’,” shrugged Spooky. “I been dodgin’ bullets all my life. All I had to do was jump in there and hide under the floor. Got a shaft—another hideout-hole—under that there shack. Got hideout-holes all over town.”
“Yeah,” sighed Larry. “It figures.”
“There’s shafts and tunnels runnin’ every whichaway under Fortuna,” Spooky informed them. “If you know where to find ’em, and where they lead to, it’s easy to get hid in a hurry. You can get lost muy pronto, travel as far as you please ...”
“And likely bust outa the woodwork in somebody e
lse’s bedroom,” chuckled Stretch.
“You never need to fret ’bout Spooky McGraw,” asserted Spooky. “He knows where he’s going.”
“Spooky,” frowned Larry, “you got any notion where you’re goin’ right now?”
The old man licked his lips, shrugged resignedly. “Reckon that’s up to you, Tex.”
“The name’s Valentine,” said Larry. “Larry Valentine. And the spare-built hombre is my sidekick, Stretch Emerson.”
“Proud to meetcha,” offered Spooky.
And, again, he showed them that hesitant, toothy grin. Stretch shook his head sadly, darted a glance at Larry, and said, “What the hell, runt? No use cussin’ this old pack-rat. He’s too old to savvy.”
“Well—uh—whatcha gonna do to me?” demanded Spooky.
“For a starter,” said Larry, “you’re comin’ back upstairs with us. I want those other folks to take a good look at you. I’ve been tellin’ ’em there’s no such thing as a ghost and ...”
“There is, too!” protested Spooky. “Me, f’rinstance. I’m a ghost. Been workin’ at it for years, ain’t I?”
Larry dribbled smoke through his nostrils and subjected the cellar to a thoughtful once-over. When he led the stage-passengers out of Fortuna, they wouldn’t travel hungry; that was obvious. Plenty of provisions stored here. Cases of canned food. A barrel of dried apples. Sacks of flour and cornmeal.
It occurred to him, then, to query the “ghost” about the unopened box.
“Why’d you want the dynamite, Spooky? You weren’t thinkin’ of blowin’ us sky-high, I hope?”
“Already told you,” frowned Spooky, “I got no grudge agin you and your friends—’specially when you say you ain’t gonna rob me. It’s them others I gotta take care of.”
Stretch jerked a thumb towards the section of wall behind the little man, and Larry noted the opening. He nodded understandingly.
“Yeah—that’s how he got in. Another tunnel.”
“Had to get here fast,” mumbled Spooky. “Need that dynamite, on accounta the odds is gonna be heavy. There’s six of ’em, and ...”
“Six of who?” Larry sharply challenged.
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