Chapter II: Part 2

They finally arrived at Tonto City and routed Doctor Bogart out of bed. Professor Fossil was able, with some help, to walk into the doctor’s office. He had only spoken a few words on the way home, but he was able to tell the doctor that he was all right. He had a cut scalp, numerous bruises, and the doctor decided that he was suffering from shock. Pelly shrugged off any medical attention, although he had an egg-sized lump on the side of his head. Henry had numerous cuts and bruises, most of them from the sharp limbs of that manzanita, and also declined any assistance from the doctor. Slim had brought Judge down there to hear what happened. The doctor put the professor to bed and came back to the office.

“The professor required a sedative,” said the doctor. “He has suffered considerable shock, and is very nervous.”

“You can’t blame him,” said Pelly. “After all his work in this valley, all his samples and trophies have gone into Lobo Canyon.”

“Oh, that’s too bad!” exclaimed Henry. “I didn’t realize--”

“Mr. Gonyer wanted him to ship them out on the stage,” said Pelly, “but he decided to handle them himself.”

“Quite a collection, I suppose,” said Henry.

“Two large boxes,” said Pelly. “At least five hundred pounds of fossil-bearing rocks. And his trunk and valises, too.”

“They might be recovered,” suggested Henry. “Lobo Canyon is a difficult place to get in and out, but perhaps we can--”

“I must get to Scorpion Bend,” interrupted Pelly. “My paper must be published. I almost forgot about it.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Judge soberly. “I’m sure that the public would thoroughly admire your negligence.”

Although Pelly was not in physical shape to flare-up--he made an attempt. He turned on Henry and declared, “I am announcing your resignation, Conroy.”

“My goodness! But what if I do not resign, sir?”

“You will--or get fired. By resigning you escape the stigma of being ousted bodily. I have it on such good authority that I have the story all written. And after what happened tonight--”

“You are blaming me for that?” queried Henry soberly.

“You deliberately turned the wrong way, Conroy. You forced the wagon over into the canyon.”

“Instead of going down there ourselves,” said Henry. “Yes, I did that, Mr. Pelly. You have admitted that your driver was traveling too fast for that dangerous road, and you must admit that he was crowding the outer edge, making it impossible for me to have stayed on that side. I have the evidence of your own words, spoken before witnesses. One word of accusation against me in your paper, and I shall sue you for criminal libel, my boy.”

James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly looked around the room. Oscar Johnson, Slim Pickins, Frijole Cullison, Henry Conroy, Judge Van Treece, all looking at him.

“You can’t scare me,” he said weakly.

“Not any worse than you are now, Pelly,” assured Henry.

“It’s a wonder Professor Norbert and I were not killed, too,” said Pelly huskily.

“We can’t have everything our way,” sighed Judge.

* * * * *

Slim, Frijole and Oscar took the buckboard and headed for the JHC, while Henry and Judge went up to their room. It was almost morning. Henry’s face was scratched, his clothes badly torn. He took off his boots and sank down in a chair.

“Well, my friend, it looks as though _finis_ has been written for the Shame of Arizona,” remarked Judge.

Henry drew a deep breath, flexed his tired hands, and said, “Judge, a Conroy always goes down fighting.”

“Against whom--if I may ask, sir?”

“My opponent has not been selected yet.”

“And today--they hold that meeting. The time is short, sir.”

“Aye, my friend--but not too short. We must sleep on it.”

Someone knocked timidly on their door, and Henry said, “Come in.”

It was Slim Pickins, who announced, “We’ve decided to stay here t’night, Henry.”

“You have? And why, if I may ask, Slim?”

“Yuh see,” explained Slim, “Oscar was drivin’, and he knocked the left front wheel off the buckboard against the sidewalk.”

They were barely asleep, when another knock sounded.

“Don’t bother lighting a lamp, Henry. The professor is gone,” came Doctor Bogart’s voice.

“You mean--he died already, Doc?” asked Henry huskily.

“No, I mean he pulled out. Opened a window in the bedroom and left it open. Took all his clothes.”

“My goodness, Doc! Why, the man must be out of his head!”

“I wouldn’t swear to that, Henry--but he is out of my house.”

“Should we make a search for him--do you think--I hope you do not?”

“No, I don’t believe that would do any good, Henry. I just thought you’d like to know about it. Good-night.”

“Good-night, Doc.”

Doctor Bogart closed the door and Henry sank back.

“The professor must be wandering in his mind,” commented Judge.

“With brains enough left to dress himself and crawl through a window? He may be wandering, Judge--but not in his mind.”

Henry slid out of bed and lighted the lamp. Judge sat up in amazement and saw the sheriff starting to dress. Judge ran his bony fingers through his mop of tousled hair, shut his eyes tightly and then looked at Henry again. The fat man was struggling with a rather tight pair of overalls.

“You must have been hit rather hard, too, Henry,” said Judge.

“I suspect that some of my sense of balance has been disrupted,” agreed Henry, “but I am normal again--thank you. Get into your clothes, Judge; and I would advise boots, instead of those disreputable slippers you have been wearing. And chaps, too, if you do not mind.”

“Have you gone mad?” gasped Judge. “We haven’t been to sleep yet.”

“Oh, get dressed and do not quibble. You must realize that a man died in the depths of Lobo Canyon tonight, and, in spite of Mr. Pelly’s diagnosis, we are still the peace officers of Wild Horse Valley, and it is our duty to remove that body.”

“Heavens above!” snorted Judge. “You mean--no, you can’t mean that, Henry-- at this time of the night!”

“Explain, Judge.”

“Well, I--Henry, you do not intend going into Lobo Canyon at this ungodly hour --or do you?”

“I do, my dear deputy--and you will be at my side--except where we are obliged to ride single-file. Stop moaning, and dress.”

“I wish I could contact Doctor Bogart about this,” whispered Judge. “He would know what to do about it.”

“I suppose we should take rifles along,” muttered Henry, yanking at his boot.

“Rifles?” Judge sat on the edge of the bed and stared at Henry. “Why--uh--the man is dead, isn’t he, Henry?”

“Get dressed,” said Henry. “It is almost daylight.”

“What you need is a sedative, sir,” declared Judge.

“What I need is a deputy, I’m afraid.”

Judge grabbed a boot and glared at Henry. “Indeed? Until you fall on your head--I am satisfactory. Do not blame _me_, Henry--you do not realize your condition.” Henry selected an old, leather coat and drew it on, saying, “I’d advise that you wear a leather jacket, Judge--that brush tears cloth badly. I’ll meet you at the office--with the horses. Do not keep me waiting, my boy.”

“You have your boots on the wrong feet, Henry.”

“I have not, sir; I am toeing-out--to keep my balance. It has been a hard night.”

Henry walked out and shut the door. Judge stared at the boot in his hand for several moments, before putting it on. He said aloud, “The man is as mad as a hatter--and I must humor him.” Then he donned the rest of his clothes and left the hotel.

* * * * *

It was about nine o’clock when Oscar, Slim and Frijole came down to breakfast. They were all limping, more or less. They found James Wadsworth Longfellow in the restaurant. He flinched, but did not speak. The three were subdued, having little to say. Doctor Bogart came in and asked them if they had seen Henry or Judge. He had been up to their room, but they were not in, nor were they at the sheriff’s office.

“Henry hit on his head,” said Slim soberly, “and Judge ain’t too intelligent to wander off with him.”

“You boys don’t look too good this morning,” remarked the doctor.

“Pers’nally, Doc,” said Frijole flexing a sore shoulder, “I think I’m in the sere and yaller leaf, as yuh might say. I ain’t as flexible as I was last night, I know that much. Slim slept on the floor. He said that the bed was too soft, after what he’d been through. Sa-a-ay!” Frijole’s eyebrows lifted suddenly. “Yuh don’t suppose them two old galoots have gone into Lobo Canyon, do yuh, Doc?”

“That’s possible, Frijole. Better see if their horses are gone.”

They finished their breakfast first. The horses and saddles were not in the stable.

“Looks at it thisaway, fellers,” said Slim soberly. “Them two galoots ain’t got no more right in Lobo Canyon than David had in the lion’s den. That’s one awful tough spot. I’ve been there and I know. What’s to be done about ’em?”

“Our best bet,” said Frijole, “is for one of us to get a horse at the livery-stable, go out to the ranch and bring back enough rollin’-stock for all three of us. And make it quick. We’ll match coins--odd man goes.”

“You ve got a head on yuh,” said Slim soberly. “All right, get out yore money.”

Slim and Frijole’s coin showed heads--so Oscar went to get the horses at the ranch. It always worked--and Oscar never got wise to their scheme.

* * * * *

Slim and Frijole met James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly on the street. Pelly had talked with Doctor Bogart, and found that the professor was missing. Pelly wasn’t in perfect physical condition, and he had lost his glasses.

“Somebody should go out and tell Mr. Gonyer,” said Pelly. “He don’t know what happened last night.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Slim Pickins gravely, “it’s too late for Pete Gonyer to do anythin’ about it, Pelly. He’s shy one team and wagon--and a squint-eyed cowpoke.”

“Yes, I’m afraid that Jud Bailey is dead.”

“If he ain’t, he’s the most durable cowpoke that ever lived. It’s three, four hundred feet to the bottom at that place, and he shore got a divin’ start.”

“You knew that the professor is missing, didn’t you?”

“Missin’?” gasped Frijole. “Missin’ what--his valise?”

“No--he’s gone,” said Pelly. “Doctor Bogart went in to look at him, after we had left there last night--or this morning--and the professor had dressed and went out the window.”

“Lovely dove!” snorted Slim. “Let’s go to the office and find the jug--I need medical assistance.”

“Thank you,” said Pelly, “I do not need that stuff. I feel bad enough, as it is.”

Slim had a key to the office, and they located the supply. They were enjoying their third cupful, when Bob Stickler, manager of the Yellow Warrior, came into the office, looking for Henry.

“What was this about the accident on the grade last night?” he asked. “I’ve heard two or three versions.”

“What did yuh hear?” asked Frijole soberly. “We don’t want ours to be the same. Yuh see, we was there, and maybe we saw it all wrong.”

“Oh, I see--trying to make it sound funny, eh?”

“It wasn’t funny,” said Slim. “The Circle G team and wagon went into the canyon, along with Jud Bailey, who was drivin’. He came around a jack-knife bend too blamed fast, shoved us in against the wall, and went off the edge.”

“I see. Yes, I heard all that. How badly was the professor hurt?”

“_Quien sabe?_ Doc put him to bed, but he dressed and sneaked out a winder.”

“Probably didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Yuh mean--before or after he fell?”

“So you don’t know where the sheriff went, eh?”

“Just between me and you--and I want this held in strictest confidence, Mr. Stickler--I don’t. All we know is that he’s gone, Judge is gone and so are their two horses.”

“I might add to the confusion,” said Frijole owlishly, “by sayin’ that they’ve prob’ly gone to find the body.”

“Jud Bailey’s body?” asked Stickler.

“Well, yeah--that seems to be the only one we have on hand at the present time. Have a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

Stickler left the office, and they filled the cups again.

“Lizzen,” said Slim, “if we drink two more cups of this stuff we won’t even be able to find Lobo Canyon.”

“Don’tcha think we ort to drink this’n, Schlimmie?”

“Well, I wouldn’t shay that--but I will shay that we ort to drink it a little slower, par’ner.”

* * * * *

Henry and Judge, shivering in the false dawn, rode off the main highway and followed an old trail, which led to the lower end of Lobo Canyon. The trail was little used, because only on rare occasions did anybody go into the canyon. Cattle kept away from it. There were a few pools of water down there, where quail, bobcats and an occasional lion slaked their thirsts, but the bottom of the gulch was a tangle of brush and rocks, making it very difficult to travel. The main canyon was about nine miles in length, and in most of it the sun never shone.

Judge had spent most of the trip complaining. His boots hurt, he hated leather chaps, and his rheumatism was acting up again.

“Here we are,” he stated dismally, “poking into an ungodly spot, risking our lives, while those damnable Commissioners are meeting to throw us out of our jobs. We may come out alive, but without visible means of support. Henry, what on earth shall we do for a living?”

“Let us get out of Lobo Canyon with our lives, before we do too much worrying about the future, Judge.”

“You admit that it is hazardous?”

“Yes, I believe it has its dangers. Rocks do let loose and come down here, they say. Slim swears that he saw a rattler as long as a lariat and as big as a stove-pipe. Well, here is the trail into it, Judge. Just let the horse pick its own way, and we’ll be down there in a jiffy.”

The entrance to Lobo Canyon was not too difficult nor dangerous, but the trail ended at the bottom. From there on it was a case of work out your own salvation.

“At least seven miles to where the wagon went over--and if we make a mile an hour we shall be going mighty fast,” groaned Judge.

“One thing,” said Henry soberly, “there is no danger of us getting separated.”

They started up the canyon, seeking places where their horses could travel, but after about a mile Henry said:

“It gets worse every foot of the way, Judge. New slides have blocked us ahead, I believe.”

“In a way, I am glad,” said Judge. “We can go back now.”

“Go back?” asked Henry in amazement “And admit defeat? I’ll have you know that a Conroy is never conquered, sir.”

“You admitted defeat.”

“I admitted defeat--on horseback, sir. We will leave our noble steeds here and proceed on foot.”

“Well,” said Judge resignedly, “I suppose that is what I get for playing Sancho Panza to an addle-pated Don Quixote. But I may assure you that these high-heel boots were never made for this sort of usage. We will never get out alive--unless somebody carries us out, Henry.”

“I hope we are alive--when carried,” remarked Henry soberly.

* * * * *

They started ahead, crawling through brush, over rocks, keeping alert for rattlers, which abounded in Lobo Canyon. Henry was so stiff and sore that it was difficult for him to keep going. They rested often, but were making fair progress. They struck about a mile of fairly open traveling, but ran into another slide, which halted them for a while.

“Isn’t there another way to get into this canyon, Henry?” Judge panted.

Henry sprawled on top of a rock to get his breath, nodded and rubbed a sore elbow.

“I’ve heard there is, Judge. Somewhere near the upper end, but I don’t know just where.”

Judge took off a boot and examined his sore toes. It was very quiet down there. Finally Judge said:

“Henry, we’re two old fools! We ruin ourselves, trying to get in here to find the body of a dead man. Suppose we do find him--we can’t carry him out. Why, we will be lucky to get out ourselves.”

Henry sprawled on the rock, looking up at a circling buzzard, far up in the blue sky.

“Two old fools,” he said slowly. “That’s right, Judge. Fighting to keep a job, getting all busted up physically. This is a young man’s job, Judge. Maybe Pete Gonyer--who knows?”

“Pete must be forty.”

“A mere child, Judge. Well, we must be going on. It is noon. At this rate, we will fight our way out in the dark.”

“But about taking the body out, Henry.”

“The first thing to do is to find the body, Judge. Come on.”

They went on, circling, crawling, tearing their way through the brush. Circling a pot-hole in the bottom of the canyon, they reached a steep slope, reaching up into more rocks and more brush. Judge was ahead, hunched over, clawing his way up, when Henry saw the head and shoulders of a man ahead of his deputy. Henry reached for his bolstered gun, when his feet slipped and he dropped to his knees on the slope. The gun slipped out of his hand, and before he could recover it, he heard a voice snap:

“All right--come on up--and keep yore hands in sight!”

Henry managed to straighten up. Judge was above him, hands up above his shoulders. There were two men now, and one of them had a gun pointed at Henry. Taking a deep breath, Henry managed to negotiate the slope. Judge sank down on a rock, panting heavily. One of the men yanked the gun from Judge’s holster, and came to Henry to disarm him.

“Where’s yore gun?” he asked sharply.

“I--I lost it,” panted Henry. “Let me sit down--please.”

There were two men, both masked, watching Henry and Judge.

“What are you two doin’ here in the canyon?” asked one of them.

“We are on an errand of mercy,” replied Henry painfully.

“Yeah? What do yuh mean?”

“A man fell into the canyon last night, and we are searching for his body.”

“Well, ain’t you nice and kind. Who are you?”

“I am the sheriff, sir,” replied Henry. He was getting his wind back now. The man laughed.

“Sheriff, eh?” he snarled. “A fine sheriff, you are! Well, Fatty, yo’re all through.”

“So you knew about it, too, eh?” remarked Henry.

“Knew about what?” asked the masked man.

“About the Commissioners going to force me to resign.”

“They are, huh? Well, we’ll save paper and ink for ’em, feller.”

He turned and called, “One of you fellers fetch a rope.”

And as he turned to speak Henry slid off the rock, hit that slope, and went sliding. The man yelled for him to stop. Perhaps he thought it was an accident. At any rate it only required a second or two, before Henry slid onto his gun, grabbed it with both hands, crashed feet-first into the brush and turned over. He had dust in his eyes and misery in his body, but he lifted the gun and shot point-blank at the man at the top of the slope. At that moment Judge fell backwards on the rock, both feet in the air. The man jerked back and yelled:

“Damn him, he hit me! Look out--he’s got a gun!”

Henry scrambled to his feet and went into the brush, away from that slope, coming up among some huge boulders. He reloaded his gun, ears alert for sounds. A man was cursing viciously.

“I’ll get him--don’tcha worry about that!” he said.

“He outsmarted yuh once,” said another voice. “Where’d he get that gun? Where’s the other one?”

“Get away from that openin’, you fool! He’s down at the foot of that slope.”

“Where’d he hit yuh?”

“My right arm. Damn him, I’ve got to shoot left-handed.”

For a while there was no noise, no conversation. Then somebody began throwing rocks into the brush--rocks about the size of a baseball. One of them crashed off a rock and filled Henry’s eyes with rock-dust. Then a man’s voice said harshly:

“Aw, that won’t do no good. We’ve got to git above ’em and shoot down. Yuh can’t see a damn thing in this brush.”

“You do it--I can’t. That arm hurts--yeow! Look out! They’re throwin’ rocks, too! That’n hit me in the back. Get down!”

For several minutes there was not a sound. Henry hugged the rocks and listened. He knew that any movement must make a noise. Then he heard a man crashing brush, stumbling, panting. He stopped at the foot of the slope, but went on up, his breathing plainly audible. Henry tried to see who he was, but the brush was too thick. Then he heard a thud, a muffled cry, and a crash.

“Who was that?” one of the masked men called.

“I presume it was one of your friends,” replied Judge’s voice. “He stopped a rock. Now, if you will kindly show yourselves--”

“You blasted old fool!” snarled one of the men, and fired three shots in Judge’s general direction, but all it brought was a derisive laugh from the deputy.

Henry, peering through the brush, saw a movement, caught a flash of color. He steadied the gun over the rock, holding it in both hands, and squeezed the trigger. The rattling report brought a yell of pain, and a general scurrying around in the brush. A man was cursing, and Henry heard him say:

“We’ve got to git out of here, I tell yuh! I’ve got some busted ribs. If the boys ain’t finished--we can’t help it.”

“Lettin’ two old fossils like that whip us,” complained the other man. “Pull yore shirt tight over them ribs, can’tcha?”

From far up the canyon came the rattling report of a gun.

“He-e-ey! What’s goin’ on up there?” came from one of the men.

“C’mon! That don’t sound good!”

Henry could hear the two men going up through the brush. He backed out and called to Judge. After a few moments he heard Judge say, “I just wanted to be sure they had really gone, sir. Are you all right, Henry?”

“The latest reports from outlying precincts,” replied Henry, “would indicate that I am not running too well. Who did you hit?”

“He is there at the top of the slope, where we were captured.”

* * * * *

Henry managed to climb up there, where Judge was looking down at his victim. Judge and Henry looked at each other, and Judge said blankly:

“Where does Bob Stickler fit into the pattern of things?”

“I don’t know,” replied Henry. “Why did he come here, I wonder. Look at that knot on his head! Judge, if he came here to help us, I’m sorry, but if he came to help the other team, I’m mighty glad for your pitching ability. Listen!”

The canyon echoed with more shots. Henry scratched his head and squinted thoughtfully at Judge. By mutual consent they moved into the brush, where Judge picked and hefted another rock.

“Or Slingshot Van Treece,” he said grimly.

“I hit two of them,” said Henry.

“Knowing how well you shoot,” said Judge, “I believe in miracles.”

“I suppose the meeting is on now,” remarked Henry. “Mr. Akers is on his feet, extolling the virtues of Peter Gonyer. By the way, I wonder what became of James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly?”

“And Professor Fossil,” added Judge.

Henry was staring into space, and now he gasped, “I have it!”

“You--uh--have what?” whispered Judge.

“Palaeozoic and Mesozoic,” whispered Henry. “There are no fossils in the Mesozoic.”

Judge shook his head. “Probably just a slight recurrence of shock,” he said quietly. “You should have stayed in bed.”

“He said he would have to determine, Judge. Ridiculous!”

“You take the rock and let me have the gun, Henry.”

“No, I--”

Another splattering of shots, but closer now. A man was running wildly down through the brush, and they saw him now. Hatless, his clothes torn, tall, thin, running clumsily, trying to look back. He wasn’t looking for anyone ahead of him, and he was heading for Henry and Judge. He jerked to a stop, gun raised, when Henry hit him in a clumsy football tackle. In fact, Henry missed him with both hands, but his ample girth struck the man just behind the knees with terrific force, and he went down backwards, flinging his gun far into the brush.

Both of them were knocked out. Judge went over carefully and looked them both over. Henry sat up, his face purple, as he tried to wheeze air back into his tortured lungs, but the other man lay quiet, arms outstretched, breathing heavily. Henry’s gun was on the ground, and Judge picked it up.

Another man was running down through the brush toward them. Judge cocked the gun, his face grim, as the man came ahead, really smashing his way. He crashed into the opening, stumbled to a stop, and stood there staring at Judge. It was Oscar Johnson, torn, disheveled, but very much in earnest.

He came on and squatted on his heels beside Judge. Henry was beginning to recover. Oscar looked at the other man, and a slow grin spread across his big face.

“Ay vill be yiggered, Yudge!” he exclaimed.

Henry drew a deep breath, and whispered, “Professor Fossil.”

“Yah,” grinned Oscar. “Ay vass chasing him, Hanry. By golly, das faller can run!”

“You--were--chasing--him?” panted Henry.

“Yah, sure. How are you, Hanry?”

“I do not know, Oscar. I doubt if I shall ever know again. How on earth did you get down here?”

“Oh, that vass easy. Freeholey know the odder trail. Ve caught all free of dem, Hanry.”

“All three of them?” queried Henry weakly. “Three, you said?”

“Yah--su-re. Couple of dem vere vounded, but Pete Gonyer, he vars all right, until he vent crazy and tried to shoot us. Who is that yigger over dere, Yudge?”

“That,” replied Judge, “is Bob Stickler.”

“Yudas Priest! How did he get here, Yudge?”

Judge shook his head. “He just came, Oscar.”

“Three?” queried Henry. “Pete Gonyer and who else?”

“Lou Greer and Yud Bailey.”

“Jud Bailey? Oscar, Bailey is dead!”

“No-o-o,” drawled Oscar. “All he got is bullet in his arm.”

“But--why--didn’t he go into the canyon last night?”

“He yumped,” said Oscar. “Ve missed him, and he valked to de ranch.”

* * * * *

Bob Stickler stirred and managed to sit up. He rubbed his head and stared around, looking at each of them separately, as though trying to reason out what this was all about. Then he tilted his head and looked up at the canyon walls. The professor was moving his arms and legs, as he recovered. The three men watched them. Consciousness came quickly to the professor, and with it came realization. Then he sat up, flexing his legs.

Stickler started to get up, but Oscar went over to him, and the manager of the Yellow Warrior sat down again.

“Yust stay like you vere,” said Oscar.

Another man was coming down the canyon. It was Frijole. He broke into the open, gun in hand, and stood there, staring at them.

“Velcome de party, Freeholey,” grinned Oscar.

“Yeah,” said Frijole, and came on slowly, staring at the professor and Bob Stickler.

“Slim’s got the others,” said Frijole. “They’re roped. Where in hell did these two come from?”

“Mr. Stickler came up the canyon,” said Judge, “and I hit him with a rock. Mr. Fossil came down the canyon, and Henry tackled him around the knees.”

“Nice work!” grunted Frijole. “We found ’em, startin’ up the trail, Henry. They’ve got four pack-horses, loaded with--do you want to tell ’em, Professor?”

Professor Fossil didn’t. Henry said, “Loaded with jewelry ore from the Yellow Warrior, Frijole?”

“You knowed, Henry?”

“No--I merely guessed. What’d your version, Stickler?”

“I am not talkin’,” said Stickler sullenly.

“Pete Gonyer was the leader of the gang,” said Frijole. “That dad-blamed Jud Bailey confessed. He thinks he’s goin’ to die from a bullet in the arm. Where-at is yore horses, Henry?”

“About a mile from the other end of the canyon. You know where it makes a sharp right-hand turn? You do? Well, the horses are on the left-hand side, in a little thicket. But how----?”

“We’ll get ’em from the other end--later. Let’s drift.”

Both Stickler and the professor were able to walk. Less than a quarter of a mile up the canyon they found the others. They unpacked the horses and tied Pete Gonyer to a saddle. He was in bad shape, as were the others, but they were able to get back to the grades.

They had the four pack-horses, and seven saddle-horses. The trail was bad, but they got up to the main road without mishap, just as the valley-bound stage came into view. The driver pulled up beside them and looked with amazement at the cavalcade.

Out from inside the stage came Tom Akers and two others of the Board of Commissioners, staring, mumbling. Akers said:

“What happened to Pete Gonyer? Conroy, what does this mean?”

“It means,” replied Henry wearily, “that we have busted up the high-graders--and Mr. Gonyer, whom you were going to appoint as sheriff in my stead, was the leader. Professor Fossil was here, merely to be able to ship samples back to his home--samples of Yellow Warrior gold. Mr. Stickler handled things for them at the mine. You see--”

“My God!” gasped Akers. “It can’t be true!”

“It looks true to me,” said one of the Commissioners dryly. “Congratulations, Sheriff Conroy.”

“I don’t understand,” complained Akers. “Pete Gonyer isn’t that sort of man. Why, I’d bet my soul--”

“If you do not mind, gentlemen,” interrupted Henry, “you will ride horseback the rest of the way, and we will use the stage as an ambulance. Later we will recover the Yellow Warrior gold.”

The cavalcade came into Tonto City, the stage almost an hour late, and drew up at Doctor Bogart’s house, where the wounded were unloaded. James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly was there, trying to find out what on earth had happened.

“Did you,” he asked Akers, “hold that meeting and decide to remove Henry Conroy?”

Tom Akers looked bleakly at Pelly, but said nothing. This was no time to talk of resignations. He followed them to the jail with Stickler and the professor. Stickler said, “I’ll sue the county for false arrest, Conroy. You can’t prove anything against me.”

“We shall try, sir,” said Henry wearily. “What do you think, Professor?”

“After what has happened,” replied the professor soberly, “I’m sure you will try.”

* * * * *

With their prisoners behind the bars, Henry led the way over to the King’s Castle. There was quite a crowd in there, discussing what had happened. Mack Greer, the manager, saw Henry and came to him.

“Good work, sheriff,” he said. “Mighty good work.”

“All praise aside, sir,” said Henry soberly, “I would like to see Violet La Verne.”

Greer looked curiously at Henry and at the other men with him. Then he turned to one of the other girls, who had come in close, and asked, “Where is Violet?”

“She’s up in her room, packing up, Mack--she’s quit.”

They trooped up the stairs and knocked on her door.

“All right--in a minute. Take that rig around to the back and I’ll meet you out there,” said a voice from inside.

“She hired a livery rig to take her to Scorpion Bend,” whispered one of the curious girls. Henry nodded.

Then the door opened and Violet La Verne stood there, staring at the crowd. She was dressed for traveling, and had an old valise in her hand.

“Who shot Ben Todd?” asked Henry quietly.

The valise dropped from her hand and she closed her eyes for a moment. Henry went on kindly:

“You see, my dear, I happen to know that Ben Todd couldn’t read nor write; so that will had to be a fake. All the rest of the gang are either in jail or being probed for lead, so you might as well talk and save what skin you have left.”

“Stickler killed him,” she whispered huskily. “I grub-staked Ben Todd--I--I honestly did. Stickler wrote that will. He thought Todd had struck it rich and that he’d record the location--but it--it wasn’t recorded--because it wasn’t a mine--he stole two sacks of high-grade ore from the Circle G. That’s the truth--and--and nothing but the--”

And then Violet La Verne went flat in a faint.

Back in the office, thirty minutes later, Henry, Judge, Oscar, Slim and Frijole sat there a tin-cup in hand. They were a bedraggled crew. Stickler had confessed--and the troubles of the sheriff’s office were over for the time being.

“You see,” explained Henry, “about a year ago I helped Ben Todd make out a location notice. He could neither read nor write, and I felt very sure that he could not learn in a year. That was their first blunder. I suspected theft of that gold by Todd, because he did not record his claim. Todd was careful.”

“But why did you suspect the professor?” asked Judge.

“His lack of knowledge of the rocks, Judge; and he was supposed to be an archaeologist. I am not versed in it, but somewhere I had read of them, and I’m sure that either the Palaeozoic or the Mesozoic rock contains no fossils, while the other is filled with them. I believe the Palaeozoic is the blank rock. But, Judge, the professor said he would have to classify them.”

“And what other clues?” asked Judge.

“Well, when the professor escaped from Doctor Bogart’s place last night, I realized that he was going to warn Pete Gonyer; so I--well, Judge, I decided to beat them to the fossils.”

“Speaking of rocks,” said Judge soberly, “I wonder just what I hit Stickler with.”

“Well, here’s luck,” said Frijole. “Everythin’ turned out fine.”

“You forget somet’ing, Freeholey,” said Oscar soberly.

“What was that, Oscar?”

“Das lef’ front wheel of the bockboard.”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 25, 1948 issue of _Short Stories_.]