Curse of Texas Gold: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott
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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 SUN WAS SETTING in scarlet and gold behind the gray wall of the Guadalupes when Walt Slade rode into Sotol. His face was lined and weary, but his eyes were bright, his carriage erect. Shadow’s glossy coat was streaked with sweat and powdered with dust. However, he, too, showed no other signs of an exhaustive trek and a nerve shattering race with death.
In front of a weatherbeaten building, Slade pulled to a halt. Across the large window was legended, SHERIFF’S OFFICE—Clem Baxter, Sheriff.
As Slade looked at the building, which was unlighted and the door closed, a voice spoke pleasantly behind him, “Looking for somebody, cowboy?”
The sheriff’s front window, with darkness behind it, provided a fair simulacrum of a mirror. In it Slade had watched the speaker approach, noting with interest that he wore a badge on his shirt front and that his holster was “tied down.” He was a fairly tall man with a frank-looking face marked by keen eyes that were, like his hair, dark in contrast to his otherwise blond coloring.
Slade turned in his saddle and glanced down at the man as if seeing him for the first time. “Why, yes,” he replied. “I was looking for the sheriff.”
“He’s not here,” said the other. “Rode out of town a little while ago, over to one of the ranches west of here, I suppose. He didn’t mention where he was going. Perhaps I’ll do. I’m Clifton Yates, one of his deputies.”
“Yes, I suppose you will,” Slade conceded. “I just wanted to report that there are three dead men lying at the foot of the east wall of the big canyon about sixteen miles southeast of here on the Mojo Trail. And another one at the foot of the west wall right opposite.”
The deputy’s eyes widened. He recoiled a step and stared at Slade. “How’s that again?” he asked, a bit dazedly it seemed to Slade. “Four dead men? How do you know they’re dead?”
“Well, for one thing, if they aren’t, they sure grew wings on the way down,” Slade replied drily. “The wagon the three were riding is down there, too, smashed to flinders, and the horses to a pulp. They went over that five-hundred foot cliff.”
“Good God!” gasped the deputy. “Horses ran away, I suppose.”
“Yes, they ran away, all right,” Slade conceded. “The horses were alive when they went over the cliff. The men were not.”
Deputy Yates appeared utterly bewildered, which, Slade was forced to admit, was not unreasonable under the circumstances.
“Listen, cowboy, will you please explain what