Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) (35 page)

 
          
“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.