Ben gulped a swig from his bottle. His white beard wagged, opened in a grin of pleased content. His filmy little blue eyes gleamed and watered.
“Friends!” he opined. “All friends! Ev’body my friends!” He took another drink, looked mysterious, beamed on everybody present. “Going to let you all in on secret,” he declared. “Going to tell you where I got gold!”
The crowd drew closer, eyes flickering from the heap of nuggets on the bar to old Ben’s face.
“The sun shines bright on my ol’ Kaintucky home!” boomed Mr. Sutler, beating time with his nearly empty bottle. The crowd gave a hollow groan. Mr. Sutler smiled happily. “Gents, you’d never guess!” he chortled. “No, sir, you’d never guess!”
“We ain’t good at guessing, Ben,” somebody pleaded.
“Reckon that’s right,” Mr. Sutler agreed unexpectedly. “Ain’t going to make my friends guess, nohow. Gents, I got this gold out of the darndest hole in the Guadalupes. She come from Jericho Valley!”
There was a stunned silence. “But, Ben!” somebody protested at length, “there ain’t nothing in Jericho Valley but snakes and arsenic springs and falling rocks. Ain’t safe to even walk through there.”
“She come out of Jericho Valley,” old Ben reiterated stubbornly. “That’s where I got her. And there’s plenty more—more’n plenty more. Enough for the whole town, and then some. Rec’lect them shale banks down underneath the cliffs? Well, them shale banks are as thick with gold as a John Chinaman pudding is with raisins. That’s where I got her, gents. Help yourselves!”
The bartender suddenly shucked off his apron and tossed it under the bar. He went over the bar in one jump.
“Gents,” he bawled as he went through the swinging doors so fast the paint smoked, “gents, I’m resigning! Help yourselves!”
A wild yell greeted this announcement—and the stampede was on!
It was a humdinger. Old Ben Sutler didn’t exaggerate when he declared the shale banks in Jericho Valley were as thick with nuggets and “wires” as a cow cook’s pudding with raisins. Getting it out was hard and dangerous work, but the claims men staked were unbelievably rich.
In consequence, things happened to Sotol. The sleepy cowtown, drowsing in the sun, awoke with a screech and a yowl. Its population doubled, tripled, quadrupled and kept growing. New buildings went up so fast a gent who had been plumb at home on Sunday night got lost in the same section on Tuesday morning.
Old Sam Yelverton, to his utter dismay, found himself the owner of the most prosperous business in the county. He had to hire new bartenders, many of them, more dance-floor girls, waiters and dealers. In despair he hired a head dealer to look after the games and keep order. The head dealer, Crane Arnold by name, was a lean, sinewy individual with an affable manner, a pleasant word for everybody, whether the individual had a hundred dollars to spend or only a dollar, and a genius for stopping trouble before it really got started. He could be hard, if necessary, and his mild blue eyes could turn flinty when the occasion warranted. But he seemed to prefer to be quiet and courteous and friendly at all times. He got himself a reputation and the admiration of old Sam his first night in town by easily outplaying Yelverton and several of his cronies at stud poker—which was no light thing for any man to do. That’s why Sam hired him.
Under Crane Arnold’s hand, the games were absolutely straight. A man was safe in the Dun Cow no matter how much gold he had on him or how drunk he got, more than could be said for some other of the town’s places of entertainment. Arnold’s reputation as a square-shooter grew and business in the Dun Cow got better and better. Sam Yelverton, who couldn’t begin to spend what he already had, found himself making more money hand over fist, and collecting added worries and responsibilities with every dollar that plunked into his tills. Finally, in despair and disgust, he sold out to Crane Arnold, on long time payments. Henceforth, happy and satisfied, Sam Yelverton drank and played poker in the Dun Cow as of old, and had nothing to worry about.
Crane Arnold also appeared to have nothing to worry about. The Dun Cow continued to prosper and Arnold had no trouble meeting his notes when they fell due. His face habitually wore an expression of peace and content.
But there wasn’t much peace in Sotol and its environs, and there were plenty who were not contented. There were killings in the streets of Sotol and killings, some of them mysterious, in arid, heat-scorched Jericho Valley. Fights and killings, however, were to be expected in a gold-rush town. What gave the reputable business men and the sheriff more concern were holdups and killings along the formerly little-traveled Mojo Trail. The Mojo was the shortest route, and the one always open, no matter what the season or the weather, to Boraco, the railroad town. Before the gold discovery, only shipping herds and supply wagons used the Mojo frequently. Now things were different. The supply wagons, many more of them, freighting wares to take care of the greatly increased demand for merchandise, still rumbled down the mountainside, and the trail herds still used it. But in addition there was the transportation of precious metal from Sotol and all too often the metal never reached its destination. Gentlemen with no respect for property rights took care of that, often in a daring and ingenious manner.
All sorts of schemes were tried to thwart the robbers, but all too frequently the robbers saw through the strategems and set them at naught. The businessmen, gold shippers and other honest citizens howled to the unresponsive Heavens and showered maledictions on the hapless head of Sheriff Clem Baxter who added to his force of deputies, to no avail.
And in the course of the weeks and months, Sotol developed another less sinister and more intriguing mystery—the mystery of Ben Sutler’s gold.
Old Ben staked no claims, nor was he ever seen to toil under the ever-present menace of the overhanging cliffs and slopes that towered over the shale banks. But Ben continued to bring in gold. None of the Jericho Valley claims, rich though they were, ever produced such nuggets and “wires” as old Ben poured upon the bar of the Dun Cow. When asked where he got them he’d chuckle creakily and twinkle his filmy blue eyes. For days at a time he would loaf about town drinking and gambling and giving away money. Then one night he would vanish. Weeks might pass, or only days, and he would reappear, always with a plump poke.
Men tried to trail Sutler to his hidden mine, but the old prospector was wily and nobody knew the hills as he did. While the baffled searchers were still combing the brakes and canyons Ben would reappear with his creaky chuckle and his filled poke.
And then Ben Sutler disappeared and did not return. Days grew to weeks, to months. There was a chill of early autumn in the air at night and the season was fast approaching when mining in Jericho Valley would be impossible.
A howl, louder and more indignant than even those of the harrassed gold shippers, went up. Men felt they had been defrauded. Something had happened to Ben Sutler, and with it something had happened to the secret of Ben Sutler’s gold. A fresh storm of wrath descended on the grizzled head of Sheriff Clem Baxter. In desperation the sheriff wrote an urgent letter to Captain Jim McNelty, imploring Rangers to police the section and clean out the owlhoots.
And then, some days later, Sheriff Baxter learned something. Just what he learned nobody ever knew for sure. For Clem Baxter was a secretive man and did not see fit to take anybody into his confidence. He merely told Clifton Yates, his newly-appointed chief deputy, that he was taking a ride and would see him later. Alone, the sturdy old peace officer rode to sinister Jericho Valley to keep his rendezvous with death.
Chapter Four
THE
