Part 5

Ed McLean stared grimly into space. His plans were shattered if this foolish kid persisted in not doing his part.

“You’re letting a pretty face keep you from a fortune,” he said.

“We will leave the woman out of it, McLean. I’m walking out. Even if the Haverty brothers get the Lazy H--I can’t help it.”

“So that is your final word, eh, Bailey?”

“That is final, McLean.”

“All right, you’re the loser,” said the lawyer and started over to get into the buggy. “I’ll see you in court,” he said, and drove away.

“He’ll see me in court?” queried Jim to himself. “What has he got under his hat, I wonder?”

He walked up to the house and met Archibald Haas.

“How about some pistol practice, Jim?”

Jim smiled. “Are you willing to take chances?”

“Shore--if yuh want to try it. A feller never knows when he’ll need a gun. It’s good to be able to shoot.”

“Yes, I believe you are right, Archibald; I’ll get the gun. One never does know when a gun might be useful.”

* * * * *

Archibald led the way far down a dry-wash, where even the worst shot in Arizona would not endanger lives. After an hour of instructions, Archibald threw the undamaged tin can into the brush. “Ten feet, or a hundred, yuh miss ’em all plenty far,” he said.

“That last shot would have killed a man,” said Jim.

“Yeah, I know--but I ducked. You ain’t cut out for no gunman, Jim. You shut yore eyes, grit yore teeth, and git stiff enough to skate on. Then the gun jumps out of yore hand and I spend my val’able time, diggin’ the sand out of it. Didja ever try a shotgun?”

“Would I do better with one?”

“Well, yuh couldn’t do any worse.”

Jim flopped disgustedly on the porch, and tossed the gun aside. Tellurium came out, wiping his hands on his apron, grinning a little.

“Mucho boom--no hit, eh?” he remarked.

“That’s right. I simply cannot shoot a six-shooter, Tellurium.”

“Well, it’s a good thing to find out. Mary went to town a while ago. She wondered if you’d like to go along, but you was too busy throwin’ lead and I wouldn’t go and get yuh--too dangerous.”

“I’d have been honored to go with her,” said Jim. “Sorry. When will she be back?”

“I dunno. She said she might go down and visit with Mrs. Voigt for a while; mebbe stay for supper--she didn’t know. Was McLean around, checkin’ up to find out who robbed him last night?”

“No, I don’t believe he was,” laughed Jim. “He said they did not get anything of value from his safe.”

“I jist wondered,” said Tellurium, and went into the house.

Jim sat there and thought it over. He knew that Tellurium and Archibald had gone to town last night. Could those two old timers have been one of the two pairs of masked men? It would be like them to do a thing like that, trying to help Mary Deal. But who were the other two, he wondered?

Mary Deal did not come home for supper, but no one was concerned. Tellurium sat up until midnight, waiting for her, but she did not come. Jim heard Tellurium moving about the main room and came out to see what was wrong. The old alarm clock on Jim’s dresser showed the time to be almost half-past twelve. Tellurium was standing at a window, peering out into the night.

“What is wrong?” asked Jim. The cook turned away from the window and looked at Jim.

“Mary ain’t home yet,” he said, a worried note in his voice. “She wouldn’t stay this late--alone--not unless she said she’d stay there all night.”

“What could happen to her?” asked Jim anxiously.

Tellurium shrugged. “_Quien sabe?_ Put on yore pants, kid, we’re headin’ for town--me and you.”

Tellurium hitched up the buckboard team, and they headed for Pinnacle City. Tellurium knew where the Voigt family lived; so he hammered on the door until Mrs. Voigt came. Mary had eaten supper with them, and had left about seven o’clock. She had said that she was going home.

It was too late to seek more information; so they drove back to the ranch, hoping that Mary might be home, but she was not; so Tellurium went to the bunk-house and awakened the boys. They all gathered in the main room, where they talked it over.

“She rode Irish,” said Tellurium. “He’d come home.”

The boys nodded.

“No one would harm Mary,” Tex Parker said.

“Maybe she fell off the horse, or was thrown,” suggested Jim.

“Mary is a good rider,” said Dell Howard, “and Irish never bucked in his life. Mary broke him thataway.”

“All right,” said Tex, “we’ve got to do somethin’. Tellurium, you and Jim stay here--the rest of us go to town. We’ll search along the road, and check on everybody in town. Somebody must have seen her after she left Voigt’s place. C’mon boys.”

They hurried out, heading for the stable.

“You might as well go to bed, Jim,” Tellurium said. “No use settin’ up.”

“This,” replied Jim, “is no time to sleep.”

* * * * *

It was a long night. Dell Howard and Buck Ives came back for breakfast and to see if Mary had returned.

“We can’t find any trace of her in Pinnacle City,” Dell told them. “We’re makin’ up two posses for the search.”

“I’m goin’ with yuh,” declared Tellurium. “I’d go crazy, not doin’ anythin’. Jim can take care of the ranch.”

“I’d like to go along,” said Jim.

“You’d do us more good right here,” said Dell.

The three of them rode away in a cloud of dust. Jim wandered around the place, not knowing what to do. Dell Howard had tossed the ranch mail on the table, and Jim glanced at it. There was a paper from Phoenix, a small mail-order catalogue, and one letter in a plain brown envelope. Jim looked at the name, a puzzled expression on his face. It was addressed to Jim Meade, care of the Lazy H, Pinnacle City, Arizona.

Slowly he opened it, wondering who would write him. Inside was a single sheet of soiled paper, on which had been written in ink, the letters faded;

YOU STICK ON THIS DEAL AS AGREED OR SHE WON’T NEVER COME BACK.

It was unsigned, undated. Jim sat down in a chair and stared at the open doorway, the paper clutched in his hand.

“Stick to the deal, or she won’t never come back,” he whispered. “That must be McLean’s work.”

He read the note again, holding it to the light, the ink was that weak. He heard a horse walking across the yard outside. He shoved the paper into his pocket and went to the doorway. It was Irish, Mary’s saddle-horse, the reins tied up. Irish nickered at him, and he went out to the animal, which seemed to be all right.

Jim tied Irish to the porch-rail and went into the house. He had no idea just what he was going to do, but he was going to do something. He put on those hated, high-heel boots, borrowed an old belt and holster, and buckled on his .41. Anything was better than sitting there at the ranch-house.

Mary’s stirrup leathers were too short, but luckily, they were of the buckle-type, and he was able to lengthen them. Irish didn’t seem to mind. In fact, the little bay gelding rubbed his nose against Jim’s elbow.

“You came home, Irish,” said Jim, “so why can’t you take me to Mary?”

The horse made no audible reply. Jim remembered that he had forgotten to load the gun, so he filled the cylinder with stub-nosed .41’s, replaced it in the holster, and headed down past the stable. He was going back the way he had gone when Blondy was shot. It might be the wrong way, but it was the only way he had ever traveled on a horse. Anyway, he reasoned, with the hills full of searching riders, one was as good as another.

It seemed that Mace Brown, the sheriff, had enlisted every rider in the country, split them into three sections, and given each one a certain territory. No one had any idea of what had happened to Mary, nor where to search. It was a blind trail, but the men were all anxious for action.

Ed McLean stood grimly in his office and watched the riders sweep out of Pinnacle City. He had been forced to play his ace-in-the-hole, and he wondered how Jim Bailey had reacted. He was sure they had left Bailey at the Lazy H, because he was not worth taking along on the search. There was not a scrap of evidence to connect McLean with the disappearance of Mary Deal and if the worst came to the worst--McLean shrugged. After all, he must protect himself. The court would consider that will tomorrow, and now he was very sure that Jim Bailey would not back out of his part in the deception.

There was only one angle that worried McLean and that was the possibility that Jim Bailey never received that letter. It was an annoying thought, and he finally decided to ride out to the Lazy H and have a few words with Bailey. He saddled his horse and rode out, only to find the ranch-house deserted. He went in and looked around. On the floor of the main room, near a table, was the opened envelope in which the note had been mailed.

McLean put the envelope in his pocket, a grin on his fat lips. No one would ever be able to identify the penciled writing on that envelope, and as far as the note was concerned, McLean was not afraid of that. After satisfying himself that no one was at the ranch, he rode back to Pinnacle City.

X

Near sunset, Jim Bailey began to take stock of his situation. He had ridden miles, but had not seen a human being and just now he had no idea where he was. He had lost all sense of direction, but strangely enough, was not worried. The fact that darkness comes swiftly after sundown had no terrors for him.

He rode along a cow-trail, angling up around the point of a hill, and saw a group of buildings below him. He drew up, partly screened by the tall brush. The place consisted of a roughly-built ranch-house, of two or three rooms, a series of tumble-down corrals and a huge, sway-backed stable. Two loose horses browsed around the littered yard.

As Jim looked the place over, two riders came in from behind the house, traveling slowly. Suddenly one of them pointed out past the stable. A moment later the other rider reined swiftly to the right and galloped down past the corrals and drew up in the heavy brush between Jim and the ranch-house. Jim could not see him, but sensed he had concealed himself. The other rider dismounted, dropped his reins to the ground and went into the house.

The actions of the two men seemed strange to Jim Bailey. In a few minutes five riders came in past the stable and drew up at the house. He saw the man come outside, bareheaded, and talk with them. After a short conversation he went back, got his hat, climbed into his saddle, and rode away with them.

Jim felt that these five men were one of the searching parties and that this man had joined them. But why did the other one hide from them, he wondered? After a few minutes he saw the other man ride back past the corrals, dismount at the house and go inside.

Jim decided not to go down there. He had noticed there was a road leading away from the ranch, and he surmised that it would lead to Pinnacle City. The man was in there quite a while, but finally came out, carrying a sizable bundle, which he tied on the back of his saddle. The man seemed to be keeping watch of the surroundings and after he mounted his horse he kept turning his head, looking things over.

Then he turned his horse and headed back the same way they had come to the ranch. Why Jim Bailey elected to follow this man, he had no idea. He rode off the point of the hill and swung in behind the horseman who rode slowly, but in the opposite direction from Pinnacle City.

Jim Bailey kept the man in sight through a long, brushy swale, following a well-used cow-trail. It was growing darker all the time, but he could still see the man after they went out of the swale. He was bearing off across rough country, and Jim was afraid he would lose track of him. He didn’t dare hurry. Objects became more indistinct, until suddenly he realized it was dark. The last he saw of the other rider, he was heading over some broken country, and holding a fairly straight line.

There was a full moon, but its effect was of little value this early in the evening. Jim stopped and tried to take stock of his position. After looking around he had no idea which way he had come. Irish was perfectly willing to rest.

“If we go on,” Jim said aloud, “we can’t be more lost than we are now. Just why I followed that man I don’t know, Irish. Well, he must have a destination in mind and that is what I need most right now--a destination.”

* * * * *

So Irish went on, dodging brush and piles of rock, circling brushy washouts, until Jim suddenly realized that he was on the rim of a mighty canyon. Far across the canyon he could see moonlight shining on the cliffs. Somewhere a coyote lifted its voice in displeasure, and Jim’s spine tickled a little. Another and still another added their voices, until they sounded like gabbling geese.

Jim turned Irish gently and started along the rim. Stunted pines and huge, gnarled manzanitas grew along the rim. The flinty rock scraped under Irish’s shod hoofs. Suddenly a horse nickered ahead. The animal was tied to a manzanita snag, standing full in the moonlight. It was the horse Jim had followed.

He rode into the shadow of some small pines and dismounted. He tied Irish securely and went back to the other horse. The rider was not there, but Jim found an old trail down the sharp side of the cliff. At that, it wasn’t much of a trail, but even in the moonlight he could see the fresh scrapes of boot-marks.

Jim looked the situation over carefully. Twenty feet down, the trail was in absolute darkness.

“Suppose Mary is down there,” he said to himself. “Suppose they hid her down there. Why would that man go down the trail, unless he had a very urgent reason--and what could the reason be? This man hid from the posse, while the other went along. That, in itself, looked suspicious.”

He looked at the moon, at the depths of the canyon, and added, half-aloud:

“While asking questions, Bailey--what in the devil are you doing up here--all alone--and lost?”

Shivering a little, he slid off the rim and started down the trail, leaning in against the bank, carefully digging his high-heels into the dirt and against the rocky projections. Jim Bailey was frightened. The light had gone now, and he had to go slowly, feeling his way. It seemed hours since he had left the rim. It was like going down a slanting ladder, feeling ahead for each rung. Something scraped against his cheek, and he stopped, groping around with his left hand. It was a rope.

It was larger than an ordinary lariat, and he was able to discover that it was tied around some sort of an old snag. Cautiously he investigated. Just below him the trail broke almost sheer. Evidently the rope was there to help men go down the impossible part of that trail. Below was only a dark mass, like a lot of houses piled on top of each other.

Jim took a deep breath, grasped the rope tightly, turned around and went down slowly, his feet seeking purchase on the side of the wall. It was hard on his hands, that rough rope, but he was making progress slowly. He had gone down about a dozen feet, when he felt a heavy tug on the rope. He thought for a moment that he had been discovered, but a continuous tugging indicated that someone was coming up the rope. Jim thought wildly of trying to go back, but it was impossible. One of his flailing legs caught around the rope, giving it one turn, and he started down fast. The rope burned his hands, but he didn’t even feel it. Suddenly he crashed into somebody.

The rest of the descent was rather hazy for Jim Bailey. He lost control of the rope with his left hand, his right was jerked loose and he went into space for a few feet, landing in sliding rubble, to bring up sharply on a smooth space, against a rock.

All he had heard from the other man was a startled curse when he had crashed into him, but he knew the other was not far away. Jim realized he had cut his cheek, because the blood was trickling into his mouth, and his hands felt as though they had been burned. Still he was sure no bones had been broken.

* * * * *

But Jim Bailey stayed put. He was in a dark corner and he was not going to move until the other man started something. His gun had stayed in his holster, and now he took it out. The feel of that gun was reassuring, even if he knew he couldn’t hit anything with it.

Then he heard the other man off to his right. He was cursing in an undertone, his rough clothes rasping against rock. Then he lifted his voice to a conversational level and said:

“Who is it? _Quien es?_”

Jim did not answer. The man cursed some more, flinging rocks into the dark spots. One barely missed Jim’s head, and it made him mad. He picked up a shattered part of the rock and flung it back at the man. Judging from the response, it must have registered, but the man wasn’t sure from what direction it had come.

“Come out of there, or I’ll kill yuh!” rasped the man.

Jim thought he had been seen, but a moment later the man fired a shot, almost at right-angles to where Jim was hidden. The man was evidently searching out the darkest spots for his bullets. Jim hunched lower, the old .41 gripped in both hands.

_Wham!_ The man fired again and the bullet smashed into the rocks almost directly behind Jim, who swung the muzzle of his gun, shut his eyes and yanked the trigger. The .41 blasted flame, almost jumped out of Jim’s two-handed grip, and the hidden man yelped, either in pain or surprise.

“Don’t tell me I hit something!” exclaimed Jim, aloud.

The man didn’t say; he was cursing bitterly, and Jim heard him rasping around over the rocks. Anyway, he wasn’t doing any more shooting. Jim eased his position cautiously, watching further up the rocks, where the moonlight streaked them with blue. From the sounds it seemed as though the man was trying to get away.

Jim suddenly realized that if his enemy were able to get back to that rope, and climb up to the trail, he might take the rope along. Without the rope it might be impossible ever to get back to the rim. The thought made him panicky for a moment, and he crawled out into the moonlit strip. But nothing happened.

Trying to find his way back, he almost went over the sheer edge of the cliff. Peering down, he could see, possibly a hundred feet below, to where the moonlight streaked the rocks. He edged his way back and a loose rock, the size of a football, crashed beside him. Several pieces banged into him, but not against his head. Quickly he slid into the heavy shadow again, thankful to be alive, but realizing that the other man was above him now.

Jim worked cautiously now. He could hear the man once in a while, but was unable to locate him exactly. Jim suddenly realized how tired he was. His face was swollen, his hands swollen too, and he had bruises too numerous to mention. He found loose rock, which gave under his knees as he crawled carefully upward. He remembered that he had landed in loose rock and dirt. Perhaps this was the place.

Above him he could hear the rasp and scrape of what sounded like someone sliding on rock. He stood up, and something brushed his arm. It was the rope again. He grabbed for it, but it was yanked out of his hands. The man had reached the trail and taken the rope.

In sudden desperation Jim braced against the wall, cocked his gun, gripped it in both hands and shot almost straight up. There was no target, nothing to shoot at. He jerked back, losing his footing for the moment, and a fraction of a second later a heavy object crashed into him, and his consciousness went out in a shower of shooting stars.

XI

He had no idea how long he was unconscious, except that the angle of the moonlight had changed. He sat up, trying to remember where he was. It was very confusing for a while, until memory came back. There was a cut on his head, and a numb feeling in his legs, but the numbness was caused by the twisted position he had occupied for an uncertain length of time.

After a while he was able to move around, and he decided that no bones were broken. Just below him on a moonlit ledge was a bright object, which turned out to be a perfectly good six-shooter, three chambers loaded. To the right was the edge of the cliff, where he had almost fallen in the darkness. Suddenly he realized that the man had fallen from the trail, crashed into him and gone over the edge.

It was a sickening thought, realizing he had shot a man. He went slowly back on the ledge. The moonlight illuminated it now, and he stood looking at it. He remembered something about the ancient cliff dwellers, and wondered if this was one of the places where they had lived. Some of the ancient walls were still there. He crawled through a broken place and into what might have been another room of the dwelling.

Full in the moonlight, sitting against the wall, gagged and blindfolded, her arms and legs tied, sat Mary Deal. Very little of her face was visible, but Jim knew who she was. Clumsily he took away the bandages and ropes. His hands were too swollen to let him work fast or surely.

“How are you, Mary?” he asked.

But Mary wasn’t able to answer, because her jaws were cramped. He could see the moonlight glitter on the tears down her cheeks, and he said, “Well, my gosh.”

She was trying to rub her jaw with her hands, but her hands wouldn’t work. Jim helped her, carefully massaging her jaw, until she could speak.

“I’m all right, Jim,” she said huskily.

But she wasn’t all right. Returning circulation is painful. Jim rubbed her hands and fingers.

“Where did you come from?” she asked.

“The ranch,” he replied. “I know where I came from, but I do not know where I am.”

“This is Destruction Canyon, Jim. The deepest in the country.”

“It looks deep,” he said. “Did they hurt you?”

“No--not much. What became of that man? I heard shots--”

“I shot him,” said Jim simply.

“You shot him?” Her tone was incredulous.

“Accidentally--but with certain intentions,” he said. “You see, he was up on the trail, trying to take the rope away; so I--I sort of shot up the rope, as you might say. He fell into the canyon. Do you know who he was, Mary?”

“No. They caught me just outside town in the dark. They blindfolded me and put a cloth in my mouth. I remember that rope. They tied it under my arms and let me down here. But how did you find me, Jim--you of all people?”

“Irish came home,” he said. “They all went hunting you and left me at the ranch; so I rode Irish. We followed that man.”

“They are hunting for me?” she asked.

“Every man in the country. What is in that sack?”

Mary didn’t know. Jim dumped the contents and found that it was food--canned food and some cold biscuits.

“I haven’t eaten since last night,” Mary said. “Maybe they were going to feed me. But, Jim, what do they think became of me?”

“They don’t know, Mary--but I did. I’ll show you something.”

He took the letter from his pocket, spread it flat and lighted a match. The paper was bare of any marks. Jim stared at it until the match burned his fingers.

“I don’t understand,” Mary said.

“I do,” said Jim wearily. “They used disappearing ink.”

“But what was it all about?” asked Mary. “You said you knew what became of me--”

“I--I didn’t know what--I only knew why, Mary. I’ve got to tell you. My name is Jim Bailey--not Jim Meade.”

“Jim Bailey? Why--I thought you--”

“I know. Listen Mary--I’ll tell you the story. I’m not a bit proud. I didn’t know you might get hurt. That wasn’t in the deal but I can see why it was done.”

* * * * *

And then Jim Bailey, hunched on part of the doorway of an ancient and departed race, told Mary Deal the whole tale, beginning in San Francisco, with Cliff De Haven and Bob Hawley, and extending up to the time he left the Lazy H ranch-house on Mary’s own horse. Jim did not spare himself, he told it all.

Mary didn’t interrupt him once. When he had finished, she said:

“Jim, it is almost morning; we’d better get out of here--if we can.”

“Don’t you want to eat something, Mary?”

“Not now--we have to hurry--before that other man comes here.”