Chapter III

Jim Bailey’s first night as Jim Meade was fraught with bad dreams and bed-bugs. Stampeding cattle and bucking horses trampled him into the dust while Mary Deal hung suspended over the side of a cliff, her skirt twisted into a manzanita snag. Jim wanted to be a hero, and save her, but his former landlady showed up and chased him through the brush. However, the bugs were very real.

The bank had notified Ace and Dick Haverty to come in at ten o’clock that morning to listen to the reading of Clint Haverty’s will, and they were in, dressed in their Sunday clothes, looking very uncomfortable. They were a hulking pair of unshaved, unwashed cattlemen, expecting nothing from the estate of their uncle.

Ed McLean, the attorney, was there. No one had invited Mary Deal. Thomas Estabrook, the white-haired banker, was there, grim-visaged, as became a banker. Ed McLean, after a short preamble extolling the virtues of Clinton Haverty, opened the sealed envelope. The will was short and to the point, witnessed by the postmaster and the proprietor of the hotel.

It left the Lazy H ranch--buildings, furniture, all live-stock and money in the bank--to Jim Meade, son of his sister, Gale, and Henry Meade, last heard of in Denver, Colorado. It gave Ace and Dick Haverty each a silver dollar, but did not even mention Mary Deal. Mace Adams, the grizzled sheriff of Pinnacle City, was in at the reading.

“I have never heard of Jim Meade,” Estabrook said. “Didn’t Clint say anything to you about him, Ed?”

“I asked him about Meade, when he signed the will,” replied the lawyer. “He said, ‘It is up to you to find him.’ I have no idea where to look, Mr. Estabrook. Of course, we can--”

“Wait a minute!” exclaimed the sheriff. “Meade? Why, there’s a stranger at the hotel, and I’m sure he signed that name.”

“That,” said McLean, “would be a coincidence.”

“That would be my opinion, too,” said the banker meaningly.

The sheriff found Jim Bailey at the hotel, sprawled in a chair, reading an old paper.

“Your name is Meade--Jim Meade?”

“Why yes,” nodded Jim. He saw the insigna of office on the sheriff’s vest, and swallowed painfully.

“Come up to the bank with me,” said the sheriff. “If your name is Meade, we need you.”

Jim Bailey got slowly to his feet. “The--the bank hasn’t been robbed, has it?” he asked haltingly.

“Not yet,” smiled the sheriff. “This is about a will.”

Jim Bailey went with him. The presence of Ed McLean was reassuring, at least. The two Havertys looked at him indifferently.

“He says his name is Jim Meade,” announced the sheriff.

“I see,” mused the banker. “Your name is Jim Meade?”

* * * * *

Jim Bailey nodded. “What is all this about?” he asked.

“Do you claim that you are the nephew of Clinton Haverty?” asked McLean pompously.

“Clinton Haverty?” parroted Jim. “Why, I--I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” snorted the banker. “What are you doing in Pinnacle City, young man?”

“I happen to be minding my own business,” retorted Jim hotly. He didn’t like the attitude of Thomas Estabrook, and showed it.

“Let me handle this,” suggested the lawyer. “We understand that you are Jim Meade. The question is--are you related to the late Clinton Haverty?”

“I told you that I don’t know. I have heard that I had some relatives in this country, but I don’t know their names. I came here, looking for work.”

“What sort of work?” asked the banker.

“I am a bookkeeper.”

“Where and when were you born?” asked McLean.

“In Denver,” replied Jim. “I am twenty-seven.”

“That checks,” said McLean. “What was your mother’s maiden name--her first name?”

“Gale,” replied Jim quietly. The effect was good. “My mother died about nine years ago.”

* * * * *

It suddenly occurred to Jim that it was ridiculous for him not to know that his mother’s name had been Haverty, but no one asked him.

“What was your father’s given name?” the banker asked.

“Henry,” replied Jim Bailey. “He died fifteen years ago.”

The banker sighed and looked at McLean, who was lighting his pipe.

“What is this all about--or am I not supposed to know?” Jim demanded.

“Young man,” replied the banker, “Clinton Haverty died a few weeks ago and the bulk of his holdings have been left to a Jim Meade, who was born in Denver, twenty-seven years ago. It is very coincidental that you should come here at this time, but your answers seem definite. Of course, this will cannot be probated for a while, at least until the judge recovers from an illness. The court will, of course, demand all possible proof before accepting you as the legal heir to the Lazy H. The reading of this will was held up by me until such a time as Mary Deal could be present. I supposed, of course, that she would be mentioned. However, Mr. McLean neglected to tell me that she was not included.”

“I don’t know what to say,” said Jim Bailey. “I had no idea of anything like this. It rather--er--floors me, gentlemen.”

“All we git is a silver dollar apiece, eh?” grunted Ace Haverty. “That wasn’t worth ridin’ in for!”

“In these clothes, too!” added Dick Haverty.

“You didn’t expect he’d leave you anything, did you?” asked the banker curiously.

“Not ’less he had some loose debts hangin’ around,” replied Ace. Dick roared with laughter, slapping his leg.

“That’s a good’n!” he gasped. “Ace, yo’re a dinger!”

“I believe that is all, gentlemen,” said the lawyer. “Nothing more can be done until the will is offered for probate.”

“How about giving Meade a job in the bank?” asked McLean. It would do away with the problem of expense money.

The banker shook his head.

“There is no opening,” he replied, “and if there was, I’d have to know a lot about a man--a lot more than we know about Mr. Meade.”

Jim Bailey went back to the hotel, feeling that the banker was suspicious. Jim knew now what McLean’s game was and wondered just what he would have to do for McLean, in case he got the Lazy H. But Jim was not without certain fears. If they ever did discover his real identity, or prove that he was not Jim Meade--Jim Bailey didn’t like to think about it. He was anxious to have a long talk with Ed McLean, but realized McLean had to be careful.

It didn’t take long for the news of the will to become known. The general opinion was that Clint Haverty had done entirely wrong in not including Mary Deal in the will. As far as the two Haverty boys were concerned, they got too much. Tellurium Woods, the Lazy H cook, and Archie Haas, horse wrangler, came to Pinnacle City after dark. These two had stayed away from liquor up to the limit of their ability. They met with Cactus Spears, the deputy sheriff, who was a fraternal soul, dogged by thirst. Cactus was small, wiry, with a long nose and inquiring eyebrows. Archibald Haas was a long-armed, big-footed person, whose I.Q. was just below zero, but companionable. These three entered the Antelope Saloon and spaced themselves closely against the bar.

They drank soberly and solemnly, bowing to each other before each drink. Sam Ballew, the bartender, looked upon them with evident apprehension. They had started this way before and ended up in a blaze of glory.

“I unnerstand the Lazy H is roundin’ up t’morrow,” Cactus said.

“Thaz true,” replied Tellurium. “We’ve gotta count all the li’l dogies. The bank wants it.”

“Wha’ they goin’ do with ’em?” asked Archibald, “Put ’em in the shafe?”

It wasn’t funny. Even the bartender didn’t laugh.

“I shuppose you have heard ’bout Mary not bein’ mentioned in Clint’s will,” Cactus said.

“Heaven’s m’ home!” gasped Tellurium. “You mean-- Cactus, old friend, yo’re lyin’ to me. You mean--yuh do?”

* * * * *

Patiently Cactus told them of the will and its contents. Archibald cried on the bar, but Tellurium, built of more solid fiber, cursed the name of Meade. In fact, he went back far beyond the immediate ancestry of Jim Meade, and laid the family tree out cold. When he had finished, or rather, run out of wind, Cactus added:

“If that gallinipper thinks he can come here and take things away from that li’l gal--he’s mishtaken.”

“Absholutely and positive,” agreed Tellurium. “We’ll run him out of here sho fasht that it’ll take sheven days of brill’nt shunshine to let his shadder catch up with him.”

“I vote f’r immediate mashacree,” piped up Archibald.

“Oh, yo’re jus’ im--im--petuous,” said Cactus. “Tha’s all--jist an ingpetuous pershon. Ol’ impetuous.”

“I’m Archibald,” corrected the horse-wrangler.

“Gotta go eashy,” warned Tellurium. “Might scare him. Wait’ll he goes to bed. Then we’ll schneak in on him.”

“Tha’s shenshible,” agreed Cactus. “Then what’ll we do to ’im?”

“Don’t rush me,” replied Tellurium. “I’ve got wonnerful ideas, but don’ rush me, Cactus. Let’s have ’nother dram.”

They had several. Luckily Mace Adams, the sheriff, didn’t find his deputy. He had warned Cactus to keep away from strong drink. It impaired the dignity of the office. It didn’t help Cactus’ own dignity either, because he became more bow-legged than ever. But they had decided to visit the iniquities of Clint Haverty on the victim of his choice.

“’F I didn’ do shomethin’,” declared Tellurium, “I could never look that sweet young lady in the fasch again.”

“I’m with you to the bitter end,” declared Cactus.

“Bit ’er end?” queried Archibald. “Esplain it to me, Tellurium.”

“Have ’nother drink, Archibald,” invited Cactus. “You’ve got to be drunk to obscure yore natural stupidity. Yore natural reshources are depleted, don’t-cha know it.”

“I’m jus’ a horsh-wrangler,” sobbed Archibald.

“Well, jus’ don’t tell the horshes, or you’ll have trouble with ’em.”

“The horshes know me,” said Archibald.

“Don’t get too familiar with ’em,” advised Cactus. “The firs’ thing you know they’ll be wranglin’ you. Have drink?”

“It makes me sick, thinkin’ about Mary,” said Tellurium.

“Don’t worry,” advised Cactus. “We’ll do her proud.”

Jim Bailey was getting ready for bed, when his door banged open and the three men came in. Cactus had a gun in his hand, waving it in wide circles, while Tellurium had a lariat-rope. Archibald was too drunk to more than lend his moral support to the project. Jim Bailey was clad in some old pajamas, and it might be recorded that the entrance of these men frightened him.

“Schtop runnin’ ’round like that!” Cactus ordered.

“I’m not moving,” assured Jim Bailey.

“Good!” grunted Tellurium, shaking out the loop.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Jim. “What have I done?”

“It’s that will,” explained Tellurium. “You ain’t gonna git it, I’ll tell yuh that. This is yore finish, Misser Meade.”

Tellurium suddenly flung the loop. Perhaps Tellurium’s sense of direction was no better than Cactus’, because the loop missed Jim Bailey by three feet and circled the lamp on the table. The next moment the room was as dark as a dungeon.

For the next twenty seconds or more, there was only the sound of strong men in mortal combat, the crash of a chair, the upsetting of the table. Then Tellurium’s voice rang in triumph.

“I’ve got him! C’mon, grab the rope, and we’ll drag him out.”

* * * * *

Willing hands helped him in the dark. They yanked the door open, dragged their struggling victim the length of the dark hall and down the stairs. It was a soundless voyage, except for the scuffling feet, the dragging of the victim. Old Hank Voigt, the hotelkeeper, gazed in open-mouthed wonder, his glasses balanced on the end of his long nose, as they came down the stairs.

The three men were almost at the bottom of the stairs, before their victim, roped around the legs, came bumping down behind them, taking the brunt of the bumping on that part of him designed by nature for such things as bumps.

Cactus backed over a chair and went sprawling, and the other two ceased hauling when the victim landed on the floor-level.

“Wh-what’s goin’ on here?” blurted Old Hank. “What’s Archibald done?”

Tellurium leaned against the desk, panting wearily, blinking. Beside him, hanging onto the rope, was Jim Bailey, his pajamas flopping. At the foot of the stairs sat Archibald Haas, his two legs roped, a pained expression on his face, together with a fast-swelling eye. Cactus got slowly to his feet. Tellurium stared at Jim Bailey, looked over at Archibald and said:

“Didja ever see such hair on a dog?”

“Dog?” queried Jim Bailey blankly.

“You!” snorted Tellurium. “What’r you doin’, hangin’ onto that rope, feller?”

Jim Bailey swallowed heavily. “You--you said, ‘Grab the rope,’ and I--I grabbed.”

“Who hit me?” asked Archibald, getting loose and to his very unsteady feet. “I crave to know who hit me--that’s what I’ve got a cravin’ t’ know.”

Cactus sat down in a chair, tears running down his cheeks. Tellurium shrugged helplessly, while Jim Bailey leaned against the counter and tried to reason out a few things. Hank Voigt said:

“Young feller, you better go back and hide yore shame. There’s a two-foot rip in the back of them drawers.”

Jim Bailey went up the stairs in nothing flat, clutching at his rear. Tellurium looked Archibald over critically.

“Archibald, if yo’re through foolin’, we’ll go home,” he said.

“I’d love it,” said Archibald soberly. “Yuh know, when I’m in the city I jist cain’t re-lax.”

Jim Bailey went back to his room, righted the table and managed to light the lamp. The chimney was broken, but the rest of the lamp was all right. Some oil had spilled, and the place smelled of kerosene, but Jim was too upset to care. Those men might have killed him.

He could not quite figure out just why he helped them haul Archibald Haas down the stairs. Perhaps he had been a bit confused. He was about to blow out the guttering lamp and go to bed, when someone knocked softly on his door.

It was Ed McLean, the lawyer. He glanced at the lamp, sniffed disgustedly and sat down.

“I came up the back stairs,” he explained. “Didn’t want to be seen coming up here. What happened a while ago? I heard Cactus Spears trying to explain it to the sheriff.”

Jim Bailey told him what his experience had been, and McLean’s comment was, “Drunken fools!”

“Not too drunk,” corrected Jim nervously. “I don’t like it. What is this deal, McLean? I am beginning to realize that you want control of this estate--but what do I get?”

“Keep your voice down,” warned the lawyer. “These walls are mighty thin. You get control of the Lazy H. After that, I get financial backing and buy you out. Simple, isn’t it?”

“You buy me out, eh?” said Jim quietly. “How much?”

* * * * *

Ed McLean looked narrowly at Jim. Maybe this wasn’t as easy as it had looked.

“How much do you expect?” he asked.

“All I can get. Tonight has proved to me that I am not here for my health.”

“Oh, they were just drunk.”

“You die just as dead when a drunk kills you, McLean. What about this Mary Deal?”

“She has no legal claims. She wasn’t even legally adopted.”

“I’m not talking about that. Why didn’t this Haverty person name her in the will?”

McLean shrugged his shoulders, and Jim continued:

“That banker is suspicious, McLean. The will should have been read two weeks ago. Me being here right on the dot is a coincidence that the banker doesn’t want to swallow. And another thing I’d like to mention. If that banker stops to think things over, he’ll realize I should have known that my mother’s maiden name was Haverty. Me knowing I had relatives around here and not knowing the name!”

McLean scowled thoughtfully. “Bob Hawley said you were dumb,” he remarked.

“I am, McLean. If I wasn’t I’d leave here tomorrow. Just what will I make out of this deal?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“I see. From what I can learn, listening around, there must be more cash than that in the local bank. The ranch and cattle are worth over a hundred thousand. There was something else. I heard two men talking in the lobby and one said, ‘The best gold prospect of them all is located on the Lazy H.”

“A prospect doesn’t mean a paying mine,” said McLean.

“Taking it all in all, isn’t ten thousand small money for my share of the deal, McLean?”

“All right,” said the lawyer grimly. “How much do you want?”

“At least half.”

“Ridiculous!”

Jim Bailey shrugged. “Fifty percent. Without me you are lost.”

Finally the lawyer nodded. “All right. I’d like to punch Bob Hawley right in the nose.”

“He would probably take it lying down,” said Bailey dryly. “You make out the papers, McLean.”

“Papers? You--do you--wait a minute! You mean papers on our agreement?”

“Why not?” asked Jim. “I’m afraid we don’t trust each other.”

“We better!” snapped the lawyer, getting to his feet. “There will be no papers.”

“Suit yourself. I might claim more than fifty percent. In fact, I might take over the whole of the estate.”

“Listen, my friend,” warned the lawyer, “you play the game my way or you won’t get anything. I’m not threatening you--I’m merely stating facts. Accidents happen. Think it over, and I’ll talk with you later. Doublecrossing won’t pay dividends in this part of the country.”

McLean walked out and closed the door. This time Bailey locked it and went to bed. He pounded the pillow into shape and lay down. He wasn’t in the habit of talking to himself, but he did say:

“Cliff De Haven, I don’t wish you any bad luck, but I do wish you had lived to take over this job.”