The trail of deception
“That’s right, Mr. Meade. You’ll soon learn. Have you ever ridden a
horse?”
“No, I never have. Is it difficult?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl smiling. “I’ve worked with horses ever
since I can remember. You will learn--the hard way.”
“Everything I have ever learned was the hard way,” Jim admitted.
II
In spite of the dust and the rough road, the ride to Pinnacle City
seemed short to Jim Bailey. Pinnacle City was booming with some new
mining strikes. Jim left his valise in the stage depot and located Ed
McLean’s office.
The lawyer was short, fat and nearly bald. Seated behind his desk, he
looked at Jim Bailey thoughtfully. This young man didn’t exactly look
like ready money.
“Well, young man, what can I do for you?” he asked.
“I am Jim Meade,” replied Bailey soberly.
McLean twitched visibly and his pale-blue eyes blinked.
“Jim Meade?” he asked. “You--uh--ah, yes, Jim Meade. Well, I--”
“I am answering your letter,” explained Jim.
“Oh!” the lawyer’s relief was explosive. “For a moment, I had an
idea--sit down! I want to look at you. Hm-m-m-m. You don’t look very
prosperous, but that is good.”
McLean leaned back in his chair, an expression of satisfaction on his
face. Apparently Jim Bailey met with his approval.
“You’ll do,” he half-whispered. “Have you met anybody--talked with
anybody?”
“I met a girl on the stage. Mary Deal.”
“Did she come in this morning?” asked McLean quickly. “I was expecting
her, but I didn’t know when she was coming. Did she talk with you?”
“Yes, some. I told her my name was Meade.”
“Hm-m-m! Still, that name wouldn’t mean anything to her.”
“You were expecting her?”
“Yes--I wrote to her. But forget girls. This deal is a big one, and we
can’t afford to miss out on it, my friend. How are you fixed for funds?”
“I am not.”
“I see. Well, go easy. Here is fifty dollars. Your room will not
cost over a dollar a day. Don’t drink, don’t gamble. Let me handle
everything. And above all, don’t try to explain anything.”
“Isn’t that a rather ridiculous order?” asked Jim. “After all, what
could I explain?”
“True. But if anybody asks you questions about where you come from and
what you are doing here--evade them.”
“When do I learn what this deal is all about?” asked Jim.
“Didn’t Hawley tell you anything about it?”
Jim shook his head, wondering if Hawley should have told him.
“Does Hawley get a cut out of the deal?” he asked.
“I’ll take care of Hawley. As soon as we can get together, I’ll explain
everything. Too many people come in here. I’ll get in touch with you
tonight, if I can, and we’ll go into the deal.”
Jim got his suit-case at the stage depot and secured a room at the
hotel. He signed the register with the name of Jim Meade, and gave his
address as San Francisco. The lobby was full of roughly-dressed men,
some of them wearing chaps and spurs--and guns. Jim Bailey didn’t like
that idea. He stopped at the top of the stairs and saw several of them
examine the register.
“I feel like a criminal,” he told himself, “and I haven’t done a
thing--yet.”
The food was good in the little restaurant, but Jim spent most of his
time watching the people. In all his life he had never seen as many
hard-looking men, but they seemed good-natured, having a good time.
There were cowboys, cattlemen, miners, prospectors, and a sprinkling
of dapper-looking gamblers. Just after dark he met Ed McLean on the
street.
“I’ve been looking for you, Jim,” the lawyer said. “We can’t talk
tonight, but I typed out some stuff for you to memorize. Put this in
your pocket and study it in your room. See you tomorrow.”
Jim went back to his room and studied the paper. It read:
You are Jim Meade, born twenty-seven years ago in
Denver, Colo. Your mother was Gale Haverty, your
father was Henry Meade. He was a small merchant,
and died fifteen years ago. Your mother died nine
years ago. You heard vaguely of relatives in the
Pinnacle country, and came here, hoping to get work.
Jim studied the few lines carefully. It still didn’t make sense. He
repeated it over to himself several times, tore the note into small
pieces and sifted them out the window, where they blew away in the
breeze.
“Haverty?” queried Jim to himself. “That’s the name of the man who died
and left the big ranch--the one Mary--” He stopped and thought things
over. “But where does Jim Meade enter into the deal? Maybe Jim Bailey
is getting in over his head. Well, I’ve got to know a lot more about it
than this, before I get excited.”
* * * * *
Mary Deal sat on the big porch of the Lazy H and talked things over
with Tellurium Woods, the old cook, who had been there for years.
Tellurium was as wide as he was high, and he was only five feet, three
inches tall. Except for a tuft above each ear, Tellurium was as bald
as a billiard-ball.
“You’ll jist have to blame Ed McLean for not bein’ told about Clint
dyin’,” sighed Tellurium. “I reckon he was too busy to do much thinkin’.
Ed McLean and the Cattlemen’s Bank are the executioners of the will,
which ain’t been read yet. I heard it was to be read tomorrow. You’ll
get the Lazy H--that’s a cinch. Clint wouldn’t give Ace and Dick Haverty
the sleeves out of his vest.”
Mary had no comments. A rider came up to the ranch-house and drew up
at the porch. The rider was tall and thin, with a long, rather
humorous-looking face. He took off his sombrero and grinned at them.
“I’m lookin’ for the ramrod of this spread,” he said quietly.
“If I ain’t mistaken, pardner,” replied Tellurium, “you’ll find Tex
Parker down around the corrals.”
“Much obliged, mister--and ma’am,” he said soberly, and rode down across
the yard.
“There goes Arizona,” said Mary.
“Huh? I didn’t git it.”
Mary laughed. “When I was at school, I thought of Arizona a lot,
Tellurium--and Arizona was always a tall cowpoke on a long-legged
horse, squinting into the sun.”
“Yeah, I know what yuh mean. That hombre looks like real folks, and he
packs his gun low and handy. I like his grin.”
The tall cowboy found Tex Parker at the stable. Tex was a raw-boned
cowboy, hard-faced, with little sense of humor. He sized up the stranger
questioningly.
“Yo’re Tex Parker? Good! I’m knowed as Skeeter. Smith is the last
designation. Glad to meet yuh.”
Skeeter Smith dismounted and leaned against the fence. “What can I do
for yuh, Smith?” asked the foreman.
“A job,” replied Skeeter. “I was up in Pinnacle City, kinda askin’
around, and somebody told me that the bank was runnin’ the Lazy H; so
I went to see the head-man of the bank, and he said you was startin’
a roundup next week.”
“I see,” said Parker. He didn’t like the idea of the bank taking things
over like that. After all, nothing had been settled.
“I’m just a pilgrim,” said Skeeter. “Kinda moseyin’ around all the time,
lookin’ at things and places. Right nice lookin’ spread you’ve got here.
I’ve been rated as a top-hand with cows.”
Tex Parker smiled. “You pack yore gun awful low for jist a pilgrim,” he
remarked.
“Long arms,” said Skeeter soberly. “Kinda lazy, too. Hate to have to
crook m’ elbow too much. How about a job for a while?”
The foreman nodded. “All right, Smith. I’ll show yuh a bunk, and you can
dump yore war-bag. Start workin’ in the mornin’.”
“Right nice and pleasant of yuh, Parker. Thanks.”
Skeeter Smith left his war-bag in the bunk-house, got on his horse and
headed back for Pinnacle City. Tex Parker was thoughtful, as he went
back to the stable.
“I’d like to know who that rannahan is,” he remarked to himself.
“Pilgrim! Oh, well, all I want is a good cow-hand--and he talks like
a good one.”
On the porch Tellurium and Mary were talking about Len Carson, the
stage-driver.
“Ol’ Len’s a character,” laughed the cook. “I think he was exaggeratin’
about the drummer. I don’t believe he ever fell into Coyote Canyon. I
heard the drummer made a derogatory re-mark about some woman in Pinnacle
City, and Len knocked him off the seat. Didja hear about Len gettin’
held up? No?
“Yeah, that happened about a month ago. Two fellers stuck up the
stage. Got away with some gold from the Santa Isabella mine, and some
registered mail, I heard. Had masks on. Len wasn’t able to say who
they looked like.”
“Len never told me about it,” said Mary. “In fact, we didn’t have much
chance to talk.”
“You mentioned a passenger named Meade,” said Tellurium. “Yuh know, I’ve
been thinkin’ about that name, and I kinda remembered Clint speakin’ of
somebody named Meade. It seems to me that it was some relate of his’n,
but I can’t be sure.”
“I suppose there are a lot of people by that name,” said Mary.
“Yeah, I reckon there must be. Well, I’ve got to start cookin’.”
Tellurium bow-legged his way into the house, headed for the kitchen. He
whistled off-key, but with enthusiasm.
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.”