Everybody's Magazine/Wolf Meagher

by Hugh Pendexter

A Complete
Novelette

Wolf Meagher

A Tale of the Wild
Days of Tucson

By Hugh Pendexter

CHAPTER I

Santo Comes to Town

SALTPETER, human derelict and much below par mentally, was one of the few men in Tucson who worried none. Among some six hundred as desperate characters as ever isolated themselves far from law and order, he went and came unconcerned, his vacuous grin and unkempt person being his passport. The fact he worked fitfully in Gringo Bell's gambling and drinking place perhaps benefited him when among certain rough characters. It surely would have prejudiced him in the estimation of another element, enemies of Bell, if not for his mental blight.

He worked spasmodically, when his whim did not call him from the long, low dobe one story building.

When first seen picking up worthless bits of rock and dropping them through the window of an abandoned mud box of a house, he caused grim amusement. On observing the tall, sparse figure, bent well forward, and the mat of shaggy hair falling from beneath the ruins of a discarded sombrero, some wit would cry out:

“Saltpeter's prospectin' ag'in.”

Further proof of his mild idiocy was shown by the house he selected for holding his treasure of rubbish. The door to it was made fast with a chain. Men had died there of smallpox. At the outset it amused the calloused wretches to see the halfwit sweat and work at his useless task. A refugee from New Mexico asked him how he would remove the ore.

His answer, “When I git it full it'll fall out the winder”, was bandied about as something terrifically amusing. After the citizens became used to him, he remained as unnoticed as a shade. Some of the Mexican women pitied him and would have been kind if not for his shyness in the presence of the sex. He always was welcome among the friendly Apaches, who lived near the town to escape being slaughtered by their wild brothers. He had been touched by the Great Mystery. He was medicine.

Bell gave him his nickname of “Saltpeter.” Bell was apt to further muddle his few wits at times with a savage kick, although he would resent such abuse on the part of another as being a reflection on his leadership. Saltpeter went and came, existing on scraps of food. He slept in the cookroom of The Great Southern, Bell's place, in the Indian village, and often in the plaza among the rubbish. None pitied him, for pity was an unknown commodity when Tucson was the wickedest spot in the Americas. He was of no more account than a hog wallowing in the street, or a dead mule none had bothered to remove. His lank person, covered indifferently with cast off garments, intruded when robberies and murders were being discussed. He was as impersonal as a stray dog.

Only in the one thing was he consistent: the gathering up of bits of rock and dropping them through the window of the locked pesthouse. Sometimes an ore train from the south would rattle off lumps of rock in passing through the town to follow the road to and down the Gila. Such prizes were eagerly gathered up and hurried into hiding. A camp bummer once teased him by trying to take a bit of ore from him. Then the smile vanished and the teeth clicked sharply, and the pouting lips tightened in a snarl.

“I'd cut his throat if he didn't hang out at Bell's place,” muttered the bummer.

ONE day, when he had ventured a mile down the valley of the Santa Cruz, a gaily attired Mexican rode up and asked him in broken English if he knew where Señor Bell lived. Saltpeter nodded his head and cried:

“I eat there. Sometimes I sleep there. At night, when I sleep I see men killing folks.” Then the vacuous grin.

The Mexican crossed himself and eyed the halfwit dubiously. He plucked a piece of paper from his crimson sash, hesitated, then restored it, and directed:

“Go there.”

Saltpeter obligingly trotted ahead and led the way through the twisting streets to Bell's resort. The combination gambling room and saloon had but three walls, the bar forming a half wall on the street side. Saltpeter pointed out Bell to the stranger. Bell was watching his men as they served the late afternoon trade, but he was quick to notice the newcomer. His hand darted under the bar for a gun as the Mexican thrust a hand into his sash. The latter urged his mount close to the bar and in Spanish said:

“Señor Bell, I am Señor Santo's man. I bring a writing to you from him.”

Bell nodded, but kept his gaze on the hand inside the sash. The Mexican slowly drew forth the folded paper and handed it across the bar. Then he spurred his horse down the narrow, filthy street and disappeared in a southerly direction.

Bell opened the paper and after a quick perusal he folded it and motioned for Saltpeter to come inside. Meeting the halfwit near the door, he ordered:

“Whisky and mescal to my room. Then tell Doc Cranet and Dandy Max to come there. You sabe?”

“I sabe,” said Saltpeter. He carried two bottles to the small room, which served as sleeping quarters and a place for plotting, and then returned to the main room. At times, as he walked among the tables, he appeared to have forgotten his errand. But when he found himself standing behind Dandy Max, gambler and killer, he touched his shoulder.

Max twisted about and his gaze became infuriated.

“Damn you!” he gritted. “Every time you come near me at a table you change my luck to worse. Get out!”

“He says for you to come,” said Saltpeter, grinning widely and pointing to the small room.

Max quit his game and Saltpeter resumed his meandering journey about the room until he found himself standing behind Doc Cranet. Saltpeter waited until Cranet had lost a ten dollar limit pot, and then touched his shoulder. He was recognized and greeted with a volley of curses. He performed his office as messenger and followed Cranet into the room and became busy with opening bottles and setting out glasses.

Once the three were seated. Bell abruptly announced:

“Wolf Meagher's here in Tucson.”

These five words caused Dandy Max to halt his half raised glass and to remain as immobile as a figure of stone. Doc Cranet reacted differently. The glass at his lips was jerked aside and spilled the liquor down his white shirt.

Max was the first to find speech.

“Damnation!” There was fear and rage in the one word. “Bell, who told you that?” he hoarsely whispered.

“Santo, down in Sonora. One of his men fetched me a message from him.”

He rose and strode to the door and made sure no one was eavesdropping. During the moment the door was ajar, permitting the monotous voices of faro and monte dealers to be heard, plus the ribaldry from the long bar, Max and Cranet exchanged questioning glances. It was common knowledge in Tucson that a small ring of desperate men were planning some big coup. Max and Cranet, members of that vicious ring, were entertaining the same suspicion: that Gringo Bell and Santo, archvillain of Sonora, formed still another and a higher cabal. Santo always wrote to Bell.

BELL returned to the table and splashed out a drink, mopped the sweat from his face, and produced the written message.

“A Mexican, called Black Juan, brought me this a short time ago,” he began.

Then smoothing out the paper he read:

“Señor Bell:

“Wolf Meagher is in, or on his way to Tucson. I send this warning by Black Juan. I am coming by another trail. I shall arrive the night of the fourteenth. Beware of all strangers. When in doubt, strike. I will know Meagher when I see him. I have found the trail of what is hidden.”

“This is the fourteenth,” whispered Max. “Black Juan must have taken his time in getting here ... Meagher never has worked this far east of Yuma before. How can Santo know?”

“He has spies everywhere. From New Mexico to beyond the Colorado,” said Bell. “He says he knows Meagher by sight. Then Meagher must have been down in Sonora. Now he has come here.”

“I'd as soon have the devil on my trail,” whispered Cranet.

“It's the Grainger business that took Meagher to Sonora,” Dandy Max insisted “He's after Santo, not us. We don't even know where the stuff's hidden.”

“Santo knows now,” said Bell. “Meagher knows he's coming here and he comes ahead of him, if Santo is correct of his and not trying some kind of a game on us.”

Cranet began to recover his nerve. He bluntly said:

“Santo is lying. He wants us to be busy looking for Meagher, while he sneaks off with the gold. Why didn't he give us a tip in his writing so we could cache the stuff before Meagher gets here to do his spying?”

Bell smiled cynically.

“For the simple reason,” he said, “that folks don't trust folks overmuch when it comes to hidden gold.”

Max struck one thin hand lightly on the table.

“Santo will do for us after using us,” he prophesied.

Bell readily agreed.

“Of course—if he can. Just as he believes we'll do for him if we get a chance. We have a working agreement with him, Juan, but it's a mighty loose one.”

“But all of us against Meagher,” murmured Cranet.

“That's the idea,” said Bell. “Until we find and remove Meagher we must all stick together. If it wasn't for Meagher, Santo never would have sent me any message. Just sneaked in and removed the gold ... Pete, you go outside and watch for a fussy dressed Mexican. Then come here and tell me. Sabe?”

Saltpeter grinned broadly.

“I sabe,” he replied. “Mexican.”

After he had left the room. Bell rested his elbows on the table and earnestly said:

“There isn't one of us who wouldn't like to get all of that gold. That's human nature. But we all know that if any one of us tries a lone hand, it's all up with him as well as with the others. We must sit tight and watch. Santo is the man Wolf Meagher will be trailing. By watching Santo we can spot Meagher. Santo will flush the game for us. I see it this way:

“Meagher went into Mexico from Yuma, after being hired by Grainger's folks up north to learn what had become of the old man. There is nothing to show that they, or Meagher, know Grainger came here on his way to find Aztec treasure in Mexico. Grainger's success is known all over Mexico. He found millions. The governor of Sonora would tell Meagher that he let the old man take away all he could pack on his burros. The governor played straight. Grainger brought out three hundred thousand dollars, and by some miracle dodged the Apaches. He fooled Santo, too, at the start. He got within a mile of this burg before Santo overtook him and killed him. And that was Santo's great mistake. He killed on sight, and there was no gold on the burros except a few pieces in a saddle bag.”

“Let's see that piece Santo sent you after he rode back to Sonora empty handed,” whispered Cranet.

Bell fished out a short thick plate of gold from his inside coat pocket. It measured three by five inches and was so malleable that one could bend it without much effort.

“What a stake!” gasped Cranet. “The pure quill! A hundred thousand apiece!”

“After we've wiped out Santo and dodged his gang,” softly reminded Max.

“It's him, or us,” grimly warned Bell. “The stuff's hidden within a few miles of this burg .... What is it, Pete? Close that door!”

“Mexicans,” reported Saltpeter, and he held up two fingers.

The men rose as one to gain the door. Bell was first. He found two men of the peon class, who lived in the town. With an oath he dismissed them, and told Saltpeter:

“One Mexican in good clothes. Doesn't live here. A stranger. Try again.”

The three reseated themselves at the table, and Bell moodily told his partners:

“Santo wouldn't have taken us in on the deal if he didn't need us to stand by him when he goes to get the stuff. It'll take some shooting to bluff the six hundred bad boys in this mud burg. It all goes around in a circle. Goes around to Wolf Meagher. Santo's scared of him and needs our help. Meagher's one bad hombre.”

“But Santo may come any time,” warned Max. “If he finds us cooped up here he'll think we've been planning some game.”

“Once more I ask, who the devil is this Meagher?” Cranet put in, irritably. “Who has seen him? What's he look like?”

“He's old, he's young. He's tall, he's short. Now you know all I know,” said Bell.

“I aint losing any sleep over Meagher,” said Dandy Max. “What fusses me is Santo. He plans to wipe us out once he has secured the gold. And we can't do for him until the gold's found. Next to Santo, Black Juan is the most dangerous man in Mexico.”

“Bah!” jeered Bell. “Black Juan is just another Mexican. Santo is Santo. Our first job is to rub out Wolf Meagher when he shows up.... But it's time we scattered.”

He led the way into the big room and took his place behind the long bar where he could see all the cream, or scum, of the citizens passing through the narrow street or tarrying to drink.

EXCELLENT specimens of various degrees of outlawry were in the big room. Doc Cranet seated himself at a monte table while Dandy Max assailed a faro layout. To exist in this sanctuary of the lawless required the will and ability to kill. Bell watched the steady stream of money crossing the bar in exchange for mescal and raw whisky. A casual glance at the shifting throng was sufficient. Santo, given to wearing much finery, would be a conspicuous figure. Yet Bell hastily pivoted when a hand touched his arm. He swore under his breath on beholding Saltpeter. The halfwit's eyes were wild as he whispered:

“I saw men killed last night.”

“You're always seeing someone killed in your dreams. Clear the stuff from that room and then go to the cookroom and wash dishes.”

Saltpeter dutifully turned away, but paused at different tables. Any other man would have been shot or knifed for picking up a stack of chips or a handful of money, to examine them with the curiosity of a child. He stood behind Doc Cranet's chair until that unworthy's luck turned. He passed to Dandy Max, who promptly shifted his bet and played the jack to lose. Darkness came and the oil lamps were lighted.

Now Bell had to peer more closely to keep tabs on the street. Mexican men and women, a few friendly Apaches, and the usual number of bewhiskered fugitives from the States, passed back and forth, with some ever entering to take the places of those who had gone broke at the games.

Whipped at monte, Doc Cranet joined Bell and cursed Saltpeter for spoiling a winning streak. Bell laughed at him and whispered:

“Small losses for a man who will soon rake in a real pot.”

“If I get it, that lunatic will spoil my luck.”

“You'll use it in playing the tables?” asked Bell.

“What else could I use it for?” grumbled Cranet. “I can't go back home. I can't go anywhere. What else is there to do to keep from going crazy in this cursed hole?”

“I'm for South America with my share,” said Bell. “Max plans to hide himself in some big Eastern city. But a new deck for me, and a new deal. South America——”

Two pistol shots broke off the sentence. Pistol shots were ever being heard in Tucson, but these sounded in the small court back of the big room. Doc Cranet, facing in that direction, gave a wheezy scream and pointed at a small opening in the wall which served as a window. Others were staring at this window. The head and shoulders of a man were across the ledge of the window. The man's huge sombrero fell to the floor. He slowly slipped over the sill and one of his dangling hands was clutching a huge dragoon revolver. His long black cloak was suddenly thrown forward to hang to the floor and envelop his head and shoulders. The lining was a bright scarlet.

“It's Santo! Look out! He's on the shoot!” howled a burly Texan as he dropped to the floor behind a table.

Bell went for a gun, but before he could draw, Cranet was crying:

“He's dead! Can't you fools see he's dead, that someone's shoving him through the window?”

A moment of stillness, and then the inmates of the room were crowding forward to investigate. Bell threw out his arms to keep the men back while he tore loose the cloak and studied the silent figure. He called out:

“The gun's full cocked, damn him! He fired at someone and thought he'd scored. He started to climb up to the window to pot someone in this room. One chamber's empty. He fired first at the man who killed him. Into the court on the jump! Five hundred if you bring in alive the man who rubbed him out.”

Doc Cranet crept closer as the men surged through the door and into the street. After examining the dead man he told Bell and Dandy Max:

“He was dead when he came through the window. Fired a shot and cocked the gun and died.”

“He was after me,” whispered Bell. “Else he wouldn't have been around in the court and under that window.”

Dandy Max stepped to the bar and poured himself a long drink. Then he told his two friends:

“Someone's horned into our game. That one shot probably killed three hundred thousand dollars.”

“It's more'n that,” warned Bell. “It means Wolf Meagher's in town. It means he knows where the gold is cached, or he wouldn't have killed Santo.”

CHAPTER II

Old Miguel Rides Far

THE shadow of Wolf Meagher, wandering sleuth of the southern frontier, rested heavily on the three men who suspected his presence. In the imagination of the guilty he was retribution. Stage and express companies had used him to great advantage. He was one individual whom the merciless brood feared. He always worked alone. No two who professed to have known him would give the same description. He was old, he was young, Bell had told his friends. Some said he was educated. Others insisted he was unlettered. Men had quarreled as to whether he was fair of complexion, or swart. In one particular did all agree: he was a nemesis. He was the type that evolves into a legendary hero. He took his man away with none realizing he had been near.

For three men the Great Southern became a sanctuary and a fortress. Gringo Bell was wary in approaching the bar. Doc Cranet remained much in the private room during the daylight hours. Dandy Max played the tables with his back to the wall and a six-shooter at his right hand.

Saltpeter washed dishes in a perfunctory manner and then took to the outside world to resume his daily task of collecting bits of rock. Few in town cared to wander down the valley, or up the road toward the Gila River, as the Apaches were at the height of their determination to drive all whites from the territory. Going south from the town through the mile and a half wide valley of the Santa Cruz, one passed through an Eden, if willing to risk a meeting with lurking savages. Mexican women washed clothes by the side of the stream and close to the town, while heavily armed men stood guard. Saltpeter ventured some distance down the valley. Government trains and ore trains from the silver mines, all heavily guarded, met him down the valley and wanted him to turn back, until it became generally known that he was simple and unafraid.

The third morning after Santo's mysterious death Saltpeter was surprised, while picking up stones and pieces of rock, by the sudden appearance of Black Juan from behind a clump of yucca. Behind Juan walked a friendly Apache. The Mexican dropped his hand to the knife in his sash. The Indian seized his arm and said something in Spanish. Saltpeter nodded to the Apache and appeared to be much pleased to see him. He displayed no interest in Black Juan.

Black Juan, impatient, spluttered Spanish oaths and seized the halfwit by the arm and shook him.

“Who keel Señor Santo?” he demanded.

Saltpeter shook his head. He worried his brows into a puzzled frown and said:

“Bad men. I dream of bad men being killed. I dreamed the night before the red cloak was killed that a man would be killed.”

Juan made out the gist of this and nodded gloomily. There was much truth to be found in dreams. He spoke to the Indian in Spanish, who fished a scrap of paper from his shirt. Taking it, Black Juan handed it to Saltpeter and said:

“Señor Bell. Pronto!”

Saltpeter nodded and promptly set off at a trot for the town. On passing the pesthouse he stopped and stuck his head through the window. One of the loungers shouted abuse and told a companion:

“He oughter be stopped from foolin' round that place. He'll be catchin' it an' givin' it to us.”

“Tell that to Gringo Bell,” said the other man. “If he can take the risk I can.”

Saltpeter trotted into the Great Southern and caused Bell to whirl quickly by touching him on the shoulder. Bell had a gun drawn and cocked before he recognized the incompetent. With a growl he seized Saltpeter by the shoulder and shook him.

“How many times I've told you not to come up behind me like that,” he snarled. “Don't you ever do it again. Understand?”

Saltpeter rubbed his shoulder, then expanded into his usual grin and produced the paper. It was in Spanish, but Bell knew that language. After reading it, he directed Saltpeter to find Max and send him to the private room where Doc Cranet was taking his siesta. Repairing to the room he aroused Cranet.

“I've received a message from Black Juan,” he said. “He must have been in town all the time since Santo was killed.”

Dandy Max bustled in and was told the same. Saltpeter found a bottle of whisky. Bell -seated himself at the table and explained:

“Black Juan must have run across Pete somewhere. Listen to this:

“Señor Bell.

“I am in command now; Santo is dead. I hold the secret. Your men have been looking for me. I do not like it. Now my men are watching. If I die you will never know where the gold is hidden. Shall we make a bargain?”

“He's a damned liar!” exclaimed Dandy Max. “If he knew where it is he'd be pulling out with it.”

“Not so easy to pack up and move that amount of gold without being seen,” mused Cranet. “And there's lots of his breed in this town. They'd give him away for a drink.”

Bell reflected moodily.

“Liar, or not,” he said, “we must make a bargain with him. He may know. I'll send him a note.”

He tossed off a drink and wrote rapidly. Giving it to Saltpeter, he directed:

“Take that back to the Mexican. If you stop on the way to pick up funny rocks I'll cut your ears off. Sabe?”

Saltpeter rubbed his ears and nodded his head rapidly. Then, in a whisper, he said:

“More will be killed. I saw them dead last night.”

“You keep on dreaming that stuff and I'll cut your throat,” warned Max.

“Don't be a superstitious fool, Max,” sneered Bell. “Dreams will never kill you ... Hop along with that bit of writing, Pete.”

SALTPETER ran from the place, but slowed down once he was in the street. He was interested in a Government outfit of six covered wagons making for the plaza. He forgot his errand long enough to follow the dust covered outfit. He was curious enough to loiter while the stock were being watered and turned out to graze on the sorry grass. He even ventured to speak to the hard faced boss of the outfit, who carried his life in his hand each trip up and down the main road from the Rio to Fort Yuma. The boss did but little talking. When Saltpeter had finished and was thrusting his head into the back of a wagon the man caught him by the neck and roughly pulled him back.

The unfortunate glanced down at the wad of paper clinched in his hand and remembered his errand. He set off at a swift trot to the south side of the town, where Black Juan was waiting. He found the Mexican near the yuccas, and in an impatient state of mind. Snatching the paper Juan opened it, and read:

You stand in with us and we'll stand in with you. Come here to the Great Southern and we will talk it over. You cannot do anything with out us. We need your help.

Bell.

Black Juan handed the paper to Saltpeter and motioned for him to read it. The halfwit grinned and turned the paper around and around, nodded his head and laughed loudly. Taking the paper back, Black Juan said in English:

“You say I come.”

“I'll tell him. Come now.”

Juan shook his head.

“You say I come,” he repeated.

Saltpeter turned and ran to the town, but once he was among the squat, flat topped, one story houses he forgot his haste and turned into a narrow court at the back of the pesthouse. The court was empty, and without any hesitation the halfwit climbed nimbly to the flat roof, removed a wooden hatch and dropped down into the room. In one corner, behind a small pile of the rocks he had collected so assiduously, was a pile of blankets. At times he slept there. Digging under the blankets he worked out three big leather cases, such as were used in shipping black figs from Mexico. He rapidly examined these, one after another, and tied rawhide around them as a further security from meddlers. As his long fingers formed the stout knots he kept his head twisted so that he could watch the small window.

Finally Saltpeter was satisfied with his labor. With a spring he caught the edge of the square hole in the roof and nimbly drew himself through it and onto the roof. He remained flat on his face for a moment; then replaced the hatch and peered down into the court. Finding it empty, he dropped to the ground. His business as a messenger seemed to have been forgotten. Instead of hurrying to the Great Southern he wandered to the plaza and walked among the wagons, chuckling and staring, and often getting in the way. The wagon boss soon spied him and violently called out:

“Get out of here! Stay out ... Bill, throw some empties into the light covered wagon. We'll fetch some water. This stuff from the wells is all alkali.”

Saltpeter retreated hastily and wandered through the town, back to the court behind the pesthouse. Again he mounted the roof unnoticed and descended into the unsavory chamber. He was there when the wagon came along and halted by the window while the driver cursed his mules for becoming tangled up. He was out and off before the wagon resumed its way to the plaza with water splashing from the several barrels.

Now he was recalling his errand. He hastened back to the Great Southern and, stealing into the kitchen, began washing dishes. Bell found him there and cursed him roundly. Saltpeter listened, staring stupidly. Something in the street caught his attention. He pointed and cried:

“New men! Many men! In my sleep men were killed.”

Bell gave one look at the gay cavalcade moving by the kitchen to a position before the open bar; then he was hurrying back to the gaming room. Dandy Max and Doc Cranet had been quick to sight the newcomers, who were Mexicans. They were a picturesque looking parcel of rascals. Their short jackets were laced with silver and decorated with gold braid. Silver discs tinkled from the rims of their huge hats. Each wore a sash of red, and the flaring trousers had insertions of silver cloth. There were some twenty of them, and as they halted before the saloon, quite filling the street, they faced in all directions and watched the housetops, as well as the people in the street.

BELL snatched up an apron from the bar and tied it around his waist. With both hands under the apron, and gripping two revolvers, he stepped to the door and stared into the dark face of Black Juan. The latter flashed his white teeth in a smile and said:

“Your man told you I was coming. Now I will talk.”

“The fool told me nothing,” said Bell. “But I'm glad you're here. Why do you come with so many men. The men here may get ugly. You should have come alone.”

“They will not get ugly with Black Juan and his men. We are not afraid of all the gringos in Tucson,” replied the outlaws' new leader. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate a small, white haired man who was perched like a monkey on a black stallion. “Behind me rides Old Miguel, who taught Murietta long ago in California. Beside him is José, who rode at the right hand of Claudio. Next comes the man who killed your Señor Jack Powers, when he fled to Mexico. Such men are not afraid of gringo sheep——”

He was interrupted by the third man crying:

“Yo soy Enrique! (I am Enrique!)” Nodding proudly Juan went on:

“Their names are so many battle calls. Each man is picked, señor. They are not afraid of the Tucson rats. They followed Santo. No cowards rode with him. Now they follow me. I will come inside and drink mescal with you and have a talk. Tell your men to make no trouble with my men. My men know only one thing: to kill with gun or knife.”

“A damned long palaver for so little said,” grumbled Bell. “And please remember, señor, there are some here in Tucson, who fight with guns and knives, and who are not afraid. But come in. There will be no trouble unless your men start it. None of them will ride clear of the town if they start a fight. I can hold my friends in check if your men keep the peace.”

“They will be quiet as lambs if left alone,” assured Black Juan.

He swung from his horse and fingered the cord which held a small silver whistle suspended from his neck. Old Miguel caught his glance and nodded. Juan faced about and entered the long room and followed Bell into the private room. He halted for a moment on the threshold, as he beheld Max and Cranet at the table. Then he shrugged his shoulders and took a seat. He filled a glass with mescal and emptied it as he would so much water. Resting his arms on the table, his hands hanging down close to his guns, he announced:

“I come to trade.”

Speaking in Spanish, and repeating it in English for the benefit of his two partners, Bell asked:

“What have you to trade?”

Darting his fierce gaze around the table Black Juan softly said:

“Your life and the lives of your two friends for the return of the gold which has been taken from the cache.”

Bell exploded in terrible oaths. When he could control his temper he interpreted for his companions, and added:

“A dirty greaser trick!”

“He as much as says he's been to the spot where Santo hid the gold,” said Cranet.

“Si, señor,” quickly spoke up Black Juan to show he understood some English.

Bell's jaws tightened and he bored his gaze into the dark face and endeavored to guess the bandit's game.

“You talk like a crazy man.” He spoke slowly. “How can you know where the stuff is? If you knew, you'd have taken it and returned to Sonora.”

“I have found two cases. There were five,” said Juan in a low voice, and his black eyes lighted with deadly fires.

“He's a damned liar!” cried Dandy Max.

Bell gestured for the gambler to keep quiet. He had an intuition that the man was not playing a part. Speaking rapidly he said:

“He isn't trying to run a bluff on us. There'd be no sense in it. Some skunk has stumbled upon it and taken part, or all of it. That's why he comes to us.”

To Black Juan he said:

“If you'd found all you would not have come into Tucson. But do you really think we would have left any of it, if we had come upon it?”

Juan stared for a moment at the vulpine features of Doc Cranet, the avaricious face of Max, and into the reckless, predatory eyes of Gringo Bell, and found his former convictions weakening until they were less than suspicions. He struck his fist on the table.

“Who found the cache and took three out of five?” he hissed.

Saltpeter startled Bell by coming out of his corner to tell the four men:

“Dead men in the night. I saw them.”

“Get out of here,” Bell yelled at him in a burst of rage, “or I'll brain you!”

Cringing and backing away, his long arms raised as if to ward off blows. Saltpeter opened the door and darted from the room. Bell recovered a semblance of composure.

“Some scum here must have found the cache,” he told the bandit chief. “He, or they, were scared away before they could finish the job. If any stuff is missing it is here in Tucson. If it is here, we will find it if we have to tear down every house. Call your men in from the street The bar is free to them. This must be talked about.”

Black Juan stepped to the door and blew twice on his whistle. Old Miguel came through the big room and up to his leader. Juan gave his orders, and Miguel returned to post a horse guard while the men entered and drank. Standing beside Black Juan, and resting a hand on his shoulder, Gringo Bell called out for all to hear:

“These men are my friends. Remember that. The bar is free to them.”

THEN the four conspirators sat down at the table. The talk became general, Bell acting as interpreter. The latter discovered that his guest understood English better than he would have them know. The Americans urged that the gold be removed to a place of safety. Black Juan told them it had been shifted to another hiding place and was quite safe. He was urged to reveal the new hiding place as an evidence of faith in his new brothers. He smiled blandly and refused to do as asked until the missing gold was recovered. Bell's argument that he and his friends would never be content with three fifths of the treasure, had they had a chance to take all, had its weight with the bandit. He countered with the reminder that some thief had done that very inexplicable thing—taken part when he could have taken all.

“But he was scared away by your riding up the valley, or by someone coming down the valley from the town,” reasoned Bell. Half believing he was being tricked, he added, “Send one of your own men to bring back a handful of the gold plates so that my friends may believe you know where it is hidden.”

Black Juan considered this proposal for half a minute, then threw up his head and replied:

“Very good. But none of us will leave this room until he returns. No one but us and he shall know about this business. I will send my prince of fighters. Prince with lasso, knife, or gun.”

He stepped to the door and the moment it opened every member of his band was being him.

“Miguel!” he called.

Joaquin Murietta's right hand man came to the doorway.

“Yo soy Enrique!” jealously shouted the slayer of Jack Powers, the American bandit.

“And a very brave and gallant Enrique,” cried Black Juan. “But I must have you here.” He whispered briefly to Old Miguel, who bowed, went into the street and then mounted his black stallion and galloped away, his cloak whipping behind him.

Back at the table again Gringo Bell began an inquiry in which all were concerned: the alleged presence of Wolf Meagher in Tucson. For the first time during the interview, Black Juan displayed uneasiness.

“Señor Meagher must be in Sonora,” he said.

“That's foolish talk. Black Juan. Santo sent word he was coming here. Santo was killed in the court back of this place. Only Meagher could have done it. He is here,” said Bell. “We want to know what he looks like?”

“Quien sabe! He is nowhere. Then he swoops down. He is gone, and we buried a comrade. Some Americano killed Santo.”

“That is not true, unless the American was Meagher,” earnestly insisted Bell. “And none of my countrymen knew Santo was coming. He was bringing the secret we all wanted to learn. We would have defended him to the last man if we had had the chance. He was killed in the court while we three were inside, waiting for him to arrive. Who but Wolf Meagher could take a fight to Santo? Santo fired first and was shot through the heart and his slayer pushed him half through the little window in the big room.”

Convinced against his will, Black Juan whispered:

“It is bad, my friends. Very bad. Our first work is to find him. If he is here, who sent him? The Americano was an old man. He came from the far north.”

“Señor Grainger's people hired Meagher to look him up,” said Bell. “It must be so. Santo made a mistake when he killed the old man.”

“The old man started to fight. Like an old gray rat that is in a corner, he showed his teeth. He had to die. If we had known about Meagher, it might have been handled different. Meagher is the devil.”

“What are you two talking about Meagher?” suspiciously asked Dandy Wax.

“That he's a bad hombre. Señor Juan and I believe he must be found and rubbed out before we go ahead with anything else.”

“Then let him turn his Mexicans loose to search the town.”

Bell grinned sardonically.

“How will they go about it?” he asked. “Hold up every man and ask him if he's Wolf Meagher?”

“We know all the folks who stay here. Kill every strange man,” said Max.

“That won't do. By this time Meagher may be disguised as a Mexican woman, or a friendly Apache, for all we know.”

“I'm beginning to think there ain't any such cuss,” said Max. “Every time one of the boys disappears and we learn he is in some prison, we set it down as Wolf Meagher's work. We're like a parcel of children, scaring ourselves by crying 'Boo!' If there is any Wolf Meagher he can be wiped out like any other human.”

“That's true, but it's a man's job,” said Bell. “It's all clear to me—as I've told Juan and you boys. Grainger was an educated old cuss. Highfaluting in his talk. Man of importance. His people got word to Fort Yuma. Meagher was put on the trail. Santo's the answer. There may be other answers.”

Black Juan, catching bits of this talk, drank mescal and waited. After Max had again urged a close search for Meagher, Bell asked the Mexican if he would turn his men loose to comb the town. Juan promptly said:

“Si. If you will send twenty of your Americano friends along with them so there will be no fighting with the townspeople. If we do that, it would be well to offer ten thousand dollars for Señor Meagher's head.”

“That would set the boys to killing every man they didn't know,” said Bell.

He stared gloomily at the dingy wall. He was confronted by the old problem. Who of the hunters would know when he sighted the quarry? In desperation he told Black Juan:

“Meagher must have come up from Sonora close to your chief. The two must have arrived at the same time. They were in the court at the same moment. He could not have been suspected by Santo. Think! Try to remember any man south of the line whom you met and who was not one of you. Say someone pretending to be a prospector, or a man outside American law, like Jack Powers of the old days. A mule skinner, a hunter, anything.”

Black Juan worried his brows, but all in vain. He shook his head and said:

“There was no one but people we have known and trusted for years. There was no one with us who was not one of us, before Santo came north alone.”

Dandy Max gave the thought a different trend by irritably interrupting.

“All your talk is in a circle. Gets you nowhere. I'm more interested in that old coot who rode to fetch back some proof of the hidden gold. The cache must be a hell of a ways off to take so long for a man on a prime horse to be gone all this time.”

Bell repeated this to Black Juan. Without a word the latter rose and stepped to the door.

“Enrique!” he called.

“Yo soy Enrique!” proudly shouted that individual. And he quit a monte game and swaggered up to his chief.

“Ride fast and learn why Old Miguel is gone so long,” the leader ordered. Turning back to the three Americans he proudly explained, “That man loves killing above women, or gold.”

A HALF hour passed before a galloping horse recklessly passed through the narrow streets and came to a halt before the Great Southern. The four in the private room sensed an unusual quiet in the gaming hall. Black Juan jumped to the door and opened it as Enrique was about to rap.

“Speak! What's the matter with you?” cried Black Juan. “You breathe hard, but your horse, not you, has been running.”

Enrique, puffing from excitement, spoke briefly and mopped the sweat from his face. Black Juan staggered back and rested a hand on the table, his dark features reflecting amazement and a great fear. It was Bell who told Max and Cranet what Enrique had said.

“Hell's to pay!” he wrathfully began. “Miguel's dead. Killed by a knife. Dead with his knife in his fist and cloak wound around his left arm.”

Cranet was the first to recover from the effect of the startling news. Smashing a fist on the table, he cried:

“A damned lie! A rotten game to cover up their stealing of the whole pot!”

“If they have the gold,” Bell said angrily, “why should they bother with us? The old man was killed in a knife fight. Two men are bringing him in on his horse. That will be sound proof no one is playing a game on us.”

“Señor Meagher!” gasped Black Juan.

“Yes,” admitted Dandy Max. “We must believe that.”

“We'll comb the town,” decided Bell. “You're ready to help, Don Juan?”

“We will do what we can,” agreed the Sonoran, but there was no fire in his voice.

A babel of voices reached the small room. Bell stepped to the door to investigate. It was the arrival of Old Miguel, taking his last ride, dead from a knife thrust. While the big room emptied itself into the street one of Black Juan's men came to him and whispered a few words. The bandit chief's big black eyes widened and glared glassily. He leaned wearily against the wall and muttered inaudibly.

“What's the matter with you?” cried Bell.

“The last of the gold has been taken from the new cache! Miguel's killed! Someone must have trailed him there and struck when he was coming back.”

CHAPTER III

Yo Soy Meagher!

BLACK JUAN'S announcement came as a thunderclap. The fortune of three hundred thousand dollars had been whittled away until nothing was left. When Bell could conquer his wild rage he hurriedly gave orders to Doc Cranet and Dandy Max, and the three separated to pass among the excited and curious citizens and speak to a man here, and one there, being careful to select only those whose loyalty could be depended upon.

Returning to Black Juan, and speaking softly, Bell told him:

“From the first, you and Santo have had every chance. From the first you have spoiled everything. Your only chance to get back the gold is to join with us and search the town. I know the people better than you do, also the town. You must take orders from me till the stuff is found.”

The Mexican bowed his head in acquiescence. Old Miguel's tragic fate rested heavily upon him. He addressed his followers and directed them to do as Señor Bell should order. Bell took complete charge and sent Cranet with a body of men to search the west side of the town, and he ordered Max to do similar work on the east side. He, himself, accompanied by Black Juan, would comb the south side. All forces were to converge and work to the north. He requested Black Juan to send two horsemen up the ninety mile desert road toward the Gila. These men, if the quarry were sighted, were instructed to take the thief alive unless it be known he had the gold with him. In the latter event the gold was to be buried with the man and one man was to remain on guard while the other brought the news to Tucson. If the thief was sighted, but at a distance, one man was to return with the news while the other was to follow.

“Send two horsemen at top speed down the Santa Cruz Valley,” he continued. “They are not to attempt any search until they are well down the valley. Then they are to turn and work back toward the town. If our thief who kills is discovered, one rider is to return here as fast as horseflesh will bring him. The other is to keep watch on the thief. He must be careful not to be killed. Everyone begin work.”

Now that Bell had recovered somewhat from the shock of Miguel's death and the loss of the gold he regained something of his usual optimism. The gold at least was out of the ground. It no longer was a Mexican secret. And it did not seem possible that even Wolf Meagher could have gotten beyond reach, provided he was taking the treasure with him.

“He'll never try to move it away from Tucson,” Bell hurriedly told Black Juan. “It's here, somewhere in Tucson. Have the rest of your men split up and go with the different bands of searchers.”

The combing process was at once commenced.

As Bell was leaving the Great Southern, Saltpeter ran to him and clawed at his arm, and shrilly warned:

“Men will be killed! I saw them killed while I slept!”

“Go back to washing dishes before you are killed,” ordered Bell.

Saltpeter bobbed his head rapidly, but instead of obeying he wandered through the town, grinning and waving his arms as if finding much pleasure in the excitement. At times he walked with a peculiar shuffling step, his head bowed low so that his long hair fell over his face, and roughs hooted at him and dubbed him the “dancin' Injun”.

Men with bloody records, who did not belong to Bell's clan, stood on street corners, their belts bristling with weapons, and scowled truculently. But Bell was carrying no fight to them this night. On beholding such he loudly announced that a search was being made for a common foe; for one who struck secretly, and who was a stranger in Tucson.

A rare confusion was caused as the searchers began to enter the houses without the ceremony of knocking. With a drawn gun a bewhiskered ruffian would burst open the door of an dobe house and hurriedly tear hangings aside, kick over the poor furniture and scatter the bedding. Every box, or other receptacle, large enough to contain gold or a man, was roughly inspected. If a box, or a barrel, it was perforated with a bullet or two, and then examined. This procedure caused bitter wailing among the Mexican women. Their men offered no resistance, for their fear of Black Juan was great.

THE Mexican bandit was disturbed by the riotous uproar and insisted to Bell that the search should have been made with more secrecy.

“We've no time for sneak work,” Bell told him. “You and Santo have tried your way and lost out at every turn of the card. We must learn in the shortest possible time if the man is here. Satisfied that he is not we must throw out a wide circle of horsemen to cut off his escape to the Gila, New Mexico, or Mexico. I'll uproot this damned place until satisfied the gold is, or isn't, here.”

Shrugging his shoulders Black Juan asked:

“If we find it, how long can we keep it with every man in Tucson clawing at it? Hundreds of gringos are waiting for us to uncover it. Then a rush, fighting, dead men, and someone else will have it.”

“Gringo Bell's my name. I'll handle the gringos,” was the curt reply. “You look after your countrymen. You've mishandled this whole business as a game was never bungled before.”

A shot from the pesthouse window threw dirt on the speaker's feet. With an animal howl Bell began emptying a gun through the narrow window. Then he was yelling:

“By God! We've nailed him! He's in the smallpox house!”

Black Juan noticed that the door was fastened with a chain. With a slow smile he said:

“Come back out of range. He is bottled up, amigo. But we must be careful.”

Those in the street around them fled in panic. Black Juan pressed close to the wall of the house and edged along until he could thrust in a gun and fire down at the floor. Bell took his cue and duplicated the maneuver, standing on the opposite side of the window. The interior of the small room was criss-crossed by streams of lead, and was filled with acrid powder smoke. Volunteers began to venture forward and shoot through the opening. Bell gestured for these excited ones to desist. As the firing dropped he cried:

“There's nothing alive in there after that rain of lead. Some of you rip the chain clear and kick in the door. If alive, he can't get out.”

The news traveled rapidly through the town that the prey had been run to earth; that he had taken refuge in the pesthouse; that he had the gold there, an immense amount of it. Before the chain could be removed the street was packed with excited humanity. All adjacent roofs were thickly covered.

“Be ready!” shouted Bell. The door swung inward and was checked by some obstacle.

With cocked gun in hand Bell pushed a Mexican aside and peered closely into the smoky apartment. His eyes dilated as he stared at the floor. He called to Black Juan:

“Man in there. On the floor. I can see his legs. His body holds the door from opening full width.”

It was a clearer view of the man's legs that caused the Mexican to desist. The high heeled boots and big spurs, the flaring trousers, with insertions of silver cloth, were like his own. He wiped the nervous sweat from his forehead and told Bell:

“It is José Messea, one of my young men, one of the bravest!”

He could in all truth have added that Messea, despite his youth, was as promising a cutthroat as ever rode under a black banner.

Bell swore furiously and shouted:

“Great Southern men this way! Crooked work!” To Black Juan he added, “You'll explain how one of your own men could have done this without your knowledge.”

The bandit chief was astounded for a few moments. Then he was angrily denying.

“He did not do it! He would never trick me. His older brother is one of my righthand men. And why is he on the floor, behind the door, if he isn't dead? If dead, who killed him? Stand back! Give us more room!”

Bell's adherents faced the excited mob and with a threatening display of weapons prevented a rush upon the house. Black Juan stood in the doorway and glared down at the big spurs. Outside the human pack was sounding its hunting call of:

“Gold! Gold! A room filled with gold.”

“Yank him out and close that door,” panted Bell. He wheeled to face the frenzied mob with his two guns raised shoulder high. The men in front shrieked in terror and begged him not to shoot. They insisted the pressure behind, and not their desire, was forcing them onward. Bell's men reached over the front row and tapped heads indiscriminately with the barrels of their heavy guns.

“I'm shooting at you back there if you don't stop this damned crowding,” raged Bell. He flourished his weapons at the center of the crowd. There was a mighty heaving of shoulders and a determined effort to back away. Fifteen feet of space was gained. Ordering his men to commence firing into the heart of the mob if it pressed forward again. Bell turned to Black Juan and motioned for him to pass through the doorway. The bandit did so and stumbled over Saltpeter's collection of rocks. Recovering his balance he dragged the inanimate figure from behind the door and through the doorway.

“They've found a dead man. They've found a dead greaser!” yelled an onlooker.

Again there began an irresistible advance, which was only checked by Bell's heavy guns aiming at the center of the crowd. He began to count:

“One ... two ...”

None waited for the fatal three to be spoken. Like a spent wave the dense throng drew back again.

Without turning his head Bell barked:

“Is it there?”

“Nothing but worthless rocks. But look here, amigo.”

Bell half turned and darted a glance at the dead man. José Messea was dead, but his two guns were fully loaded. He had died from a knife thrust, even as Old Miguel had died. The dead right hand was convulsively clutching a bowie knife. Obviously he had not been taken by surprise, but had endeavored to make a fight.

Black Juan continued, saying:

“Young Messea! With the heart of a lion! A master with the knife. And he's dead.” He whistled and two of his men worked through the press to his side. He ordered them to pick up the dead man and to carry him away. Then turning on Bell, his dark face filled with rage, he asked:

“Has my friend anything to tell about this?”

Bell licked his dry lips and glanced around apprehensively.

“Meagher!” he whispered. “It was Meagher who fired the shot from the window. He did it to hold us here, forcing this door, while he escaped.”

“Someone fired a shot into the dirt at our feet. But when and why did my brave Messea enter this place? Did he follow someone there? How did he get in there? Through the window, of course. But why was he not seen going through the window?”

“Devil answer if he can. I can't,” said Bell. “Your man got inside. He found someone who drew a knife. They fought. You and I will go inside.”

BY THIS time enough of the Mexican and American desperadoes had arrived to form a cordon around the end of the house. The two leaders entered the room. With his foot Bell moved some of the rock rubbish about. Then he thrust his head through the window and noted the angle of the shot which had struck close to his feet. He was greatly puzzled. He was sure no one had stood at the window in firing the shot. Yet the angle was so sharp that a man must have stood at the window, or be high on the wall. The latter was an impossibility. He called Black Juan's attention to the mystery. The Mexican sighted along his finger, and then glanced behind him. The room was low, in common with all Tucson houses. Juan swept his gaze to the ceiling, and his eyes lighted with discovery. He touched Bell's arm and pointed to the square hole, covered by a hatch. Stepping on the rock pile he reached up a gun and pushed the hatch to one side. With a spring he caught the edge of the opening and easily drew himself halfway through the hole.

He hung thus, supported by his elbows, and glanced about. Then he exclaimed sharply and dropped back to the floor. Bell demanded an explanation. Juan held out his open palm.

“It was there on the roof!” he cried.

Bell stared dully at the small plate of almost pure gold. When he could recover his wits he suspiciously said:

“Sure you didn't take it from your pockets.”

“With my pockets in this room, and my head, shoulders and arms out of the room?” jeered Black Juan. “Have you lost your wits? Who are we hunting? Who has stolen the gold? Who fired the shot through the window to make us halt and collect all the people here while he got away? Who, first of all, killed my poor friend, who saw him enter here and followed him? Meagher. He leaned down through that hole, after killing brave Messea, and fired through the window into the dirt. Then he covered the opening and dropped down into that court. Everyone was crazy about the gold in this place. Even now he may be on the edge of the crowd, laughing at us.”

“You're right,” whispered Bell. And the sweat he wiped from his face was not entirely caused by the heat. “Let's get out of here. If this keeps up I'll believe he's the Devil himself, and no human man.”

“I said he was the Devil,” muttered Black Juan. “No man could have killed Santo, after letting him have the first shot.” He stepped back and took hold of the door to close it. Bell crossed the threshold, but the Mexican paused to glance behind the door, now that the light was streaming down through the open hatch and flooding the dirt floor. Bell wheeled on hearing the low exclamation and stepped back and closed the door. Black Juan stooped and picked a second plate of gold. Bell gaped in amazement and told Juan:

“It doesn't make sense. The treasure never was here. You people hid it in a different place down the valley. Meagher found it and removed it, but he never fetched it into Tucson and placed it in this pesthouse.”

“Open the door. The people mustn't know what we found. They would be storming the place. The town is so excited we can do no more hunting. I will keep my horsemen circling the town. We will go back and drink and try to think.”

Bell threw the door open and left it thus so that all Tucson might enter at will.

“There is nothing here but some worthless rock,” he told the curious mob. “Remember that people died in there of smallpox.”

After he started for his place of business and Black Juan was sending more horsemen to the outskirts, the rough citizenry crowded into the loathsome place, lured by their lust for gold. Not until a dozen had entered and had emerged empty handed did reason return to the populace. A touch of comedy was given the scene by the sudden arrival of Saltpeter. Like a madman he elbowed his way through the crowd and seized the door and shut it, and stood before it, his arms outstretched to bar further entrance. The disheveled hair and rolling eyes, the long, thin face, and flapping cast off garments, evoked shouts of laughter. Panting heavily, the halfwit placed the chain over the staple and drove in a wedge of iron. Then he passed around to the window and peered in. His gradual return to complacence after these maneuvers caused more mirth and merriment, and much rough badinage. It provided a grotesque anticlimax to the treasure hunt, and served to relax the general tension.

Ignoring the jeering queries he trotted away to the plaza. Again he became curious as to the contents of the Government wagons and would have crawled into one, if the wagon boss had not caught him by the shoulder and violently yanked him back. Not satisfied with that, the boss led him to the edge of the plaza and talked vehemently. But Saltpeter was used to kicks and cuffs. Once he realized the plaza was closed to him he trotted off into the mesquite and did not pause until he came to the brush shelter of a friendly Apache. Here was a man who treated him with all honor. He brought out an olla of water and some dried figs and the two talked with few words and many signs.

When Saltpeter returned to the town the streets were back to normal. All the resorts were wide open for a lively night. Black Juan's men were free with their money. Guitars and fiddles made the evening hideous. Drunken men stumbled about in the dust and filth, fell over broken bake ovens, and dragged themselves into broken corrals to sleep until the hot southern sun should arouse them to a day of misery.

THE Great Southern was doing a capacity business, as Black Juan and his men were quartered there and were plentifully supplied with gold. Their presence attracted gamblers from other resorts. Saltpeter entered the crowded room and began his usual round of the tables. The Mexicans were not used to his inquisitiveness, and they glared hotly when he picked up gold coins, or chips, and examined them curiously. Cranet cursed him for bringing bad luck. Bell, already irritated to the point of murder, came up behind him and struck him a tremendous blow on the side of the head and sent him sprawling to the floor.

“Go and wash dishes, or I'll kill you!” he thundered.

Saltpeter, remaining on all fours, shrilly cried:

“Men will be killed. I shall see them killed while I sleep.”

Bell menaced him. His anger became homicidal again when those at the nearby tables laughed at the halfwit's grotesque behavior. Instead of making for the cookroom he crawled among the tables. Bell strode after him, endeavoring to kick him. Black Juan, playing monte, glanced down at the groveling creature and said to Bell:

“You have not trained your men as I have trained mine.”

“That isn't a man,” growled Bell. He drew back his foot, thinking he had his victim cornered. “You see men killed when you sleep, eh? Maybe you'll see one killed while you're awake.”

With a shrill scream Saltpeter crawled under the table, and in doing so, upset Black Juan. As the Mexican bandit crashed to the floor his short jacket flapped open and a dozen small gold bars cascaded to the floor.

Bell stared dumbfounded. Black Juan came to his knees and glared wildly at the golden bars. Bell gripped him by the shoulder as if assisting him to get on his feet. But the grip bit deep into the muscles as, lowering his head, he murmured:

“I want to talk with you in my room, señor. If one of your men makes a move, you die! ... Cranet, pick up this small change our friend has dropped, and bring it to my room.”

The Mexicans were scattered among the different tables. Only a few saw what had happened, and suspected Bell was doing no more than assist a man to his feet. Perhaps one was uneasy, for he cried, “Yo soy Enrique!” and rose from his chair several tables away. He beheld his leader standing beside the American. He saw the two walk away, arm in arm. Don Juan was wearing his silver whistle. One arm was free. If anything were irregular he could give the signal for his men to rally. With a grunt Enrique dropped back on his stool and played the top layout to win. Dandy Max knew nothing of what had occurred, yet he knew something was amiss. As Bell passed his table he lifted his brows questioningly.

“See that no one disturbs us,” said Bell.

Cranet had the gold concealed under his coat as he followed his leader.

Without exchanging a word the three men entered the private room. Bell pointed to a chair and told the Mexican to be seated. Then he reached forward and plucked the gun and knife from the red sash, murmuring:

“Too hot to wear weapons ... Cranet, put that stuff on the table and stand by the door to keep everyone out.”

“That means Max as well as the others?”

“I said everyone ... Black Juan, where did you get this gold?”

“Dios sabe!” He appeared to be completely cowered. He had no fear of Bell, but he was sensing the supernatural in the inexplicable appearance of the gold. “Santo killed him,” he said in a low voice and without lifting his gaze from the table. “He was an old man; but Santo always killed.” It was a soliloquy. “It is black magic.”

“Where did you get this Aztec gold?” harshly demanded Bell. He gripped the edge of the table with both hands, and leaned forward, his eyes lurid with suspicion and anger.

Black Juan slowly threw back his short jacket and replied:

“I have no place to carry it. It is heavy. I was knocked to the floor. It fell on the floor. It is heavy. It was not in my clothes when I sat down. Where did it come from? It is devil magic.”

“It came out of your clothes when that idiot knocked you to the floor. There was one of your men dead in the pesthouse. Two pieces, like these, were found there.”

“Señor Bell, I am not afraid of your big guns, nor your big hands. I am afraid of the unknown,” the Mexican replied. His bearing was returning to dignity. “I am asking myself if the dead came back to place a curse upon me. I am asking myself if a man can be haunted by ghost gold.”

Bell laughed grimly.

“That was no ghost gold, my friend. The whole business has been very queer. You have lost all the gold, and yet you have these bars. I'm wondering where the rest of it is. What trick are you playing on me?”

“The same trick Old Miguel played when he rode out and got himself killed by someone's knife. Old Miguel was a prince with a knife. He had it gripped in his hand. He had had a chance to defend himself. Yet he was killed. I am tricking you, señor, just as young Messea did, when he got himself killed in the pesthouse.” Black Juan spoke with great bitterness. As Bell pondered over his words, he added, “How their ghosts must be laughing to think how they fooled the gringo!”

“Gold turns up when you and your friends make a move,” doggedly insisted Bell. Yet he was uneasy in his mind when he recalled the two Mexicans so mysteriously killed.

“I reckon you're on the wrong trail, Bell,” spoke up Doc Cranet from the door. “If the greasers have the gold, why are they sticking around Tucson? Why ain't they riding south to the Sonora line. This gold on the floor just happened. How the devil it happened I can't say. But it would be just as reasonable to say that poor simpleton collecting worthless rocks is connected with it as to think Don Juan knows anything about it. Saltpeter was crawling on the floor when the gold appeared. That pesthouse is his storeroom for rubbish. A bar was found there. Where could Don Juan carry the gold on his person? It had to be in a pocket. What pockets has he in his jacket?”

BELL'S eyes flickered. He leaned across the table and threw back the lapels of the short jacket. The garment contained no inside pockets. He gestured for Juan to stand. The latter obeyed and removed his jacket and tossed it on the table. Bell ignored it and examined the man's shirt and broad sash. Walking around the table he studied the man's trousers, tight over the hips and flaring at the ankles.

Slumping into his chair he growled:

“I am stumped. Take your gun and knife. It's too damned mysterious for me to think out.”

“Don Santo's death was mysterious. It's never been thought out. Nor old Miguel's. Nor young Messea's,” said Black Juan. “It all happens because the old man was killed. He was very old. His hair was white. He was not strong. There was no need to kill him. Santo was a fool. Now I'm beginning to be afraid. Who killed Santo? Quien sabe? Who found and removed most of the gold from the first cache? Who found the new cache and removed the gold? Who killed Messea? Who fired the plunging shot from the little house, which made us stop and stay there, searching? How does this gold come on the floor when I lose my balance and fall over?”

“He talks straight, chief,” spoke up Cranet. “There's some big game neither he, nor you, have tumbled to. Max thinks the same. Something mighty queer is going on in Tucson these days.”

“Shut up! I want to think.” Bell bowed his head in his hands and concentrated on each unusual, unexplained event, beginning with the death of Santo in the court. At last he lifted his head, his face bleak with doubt and fear. To Black Juan he said:

“Pick up your weapons ... Cranet, fetch Saltpeter.”

“The crazy one,” murmured Black Juan.

Bell made no reply. He helped himself to a big drink of whisky and tapped his fingers on the table and kept his gaze fixed on the door. When he heard steps he amazed the Mexican by pulling a gun and dropping it in his lap. The door opened and Cranet, alone, entered.

“The idiot is off, mooning around somewheres,” he reported.

“Tell Max to take several of the boys and round him up and fetch him here.”

“Do you want me here any longer?” asked the Mexican.

“No. But stay in the big room and be ready?”

“Be ready for what?”

“That I don't know, but it will be something big, I'm thinking.”

Black Juan passed out with Cranet and returned to the tables. The Mexican spoke to two of his men, who left the saloon shortly after Max and several desperadoes departed on their hunt for the halfwit. After an hour of futile searching Max and his helpers returned. As they were entering the Great Southern they noticed two horsemen at the head of an intersecting street. Max glanced at them sharply and remarked:

“The Mexicans are riding somewhere.”

But after he had entered the big room the Mexicans came to the front of the building, bringing all the horses with them.

A shrill whistle was the signal for Black Juan to rise from his game and run to the door. From their various positions in the big room the other Sonoran bandits ran to the street and leaped into the saddle.

Bell burst from his private room and ran to the door, and cried:

“What are you doing, Don Juan? There's a man to be found. He knows what we would know. Dismount.”

“Enrique!” shouted Black Juan.

“Yo soy Enrique!” shouted the killer.

“There is your man!” And with a theatrical gesture Black Juan pointed to Gringo Bell.

The latter was a second slow to suspect danger. He was outside the door, and, as if bewildered, he paused a fatal moment to gape at Black Juan before beginning his retreat. Cranet screamed a warning and pulled a gun just as Enrique hurled his heavy knife. The streaking blade caught Bell in the neck, and as the American clawed at his throat and sank to his knees, dying, Cranet fired and killed a mounted man, but not Enrique. He was promptly shot down in turn by Black Juan.

Pandemonium raged inside the big room as the men endeavored to escape from the building without using the main entrance. Pistols crackled along the column, the Mexicans shooting over the sidewalk bar at the milling throng inside. Dandy Max, staggering from a mortal wound, gained the doorway and leaned against the jamb and shot two Mexicans before he succumbed.

“Kill all the gringos! Yo soy Enrique!” came the well known battle cry.

In the great confusion none had eyes for the flat roof, and none saw that grotesque face peering down. None sensed his presence until he dropped and knocked a Mexican from the saddle and mounted the prancing animal. He first attracted general attention when he wheeled the horse about and spurred up the street which led to the old stage road across the ninety mile desert. Bullets whistled by him, but his appearance and sudden theft of the horse befuddled the Mexicans for a bit. Black Juan was the first to react. Leaping his horse away from the front of the saloon, he whistled shrilly for his men to follow him.

The saloon erupted and the night was filled with hideous threats. The citizens were amazed to find the Mexicans had ridden north.

“It's a game!” shouted a new leader. “They'll swing to the south. Into the mesquite to head 'em off!”

MEANWHILE the pursuit was taking orderly form. Far ahead in the moonlight rode the hunted. In a pounding string the Mexicans gave chase. Enrique, shouting his name, left his position in the line and rapidly took the lead. Black Juan rode next and after him came Messea's brother. The three, riding close, drew away from the main body. At intervals Black Juan sounded his whistle for those behind to increase their pace.

Enrique, only knowing men had been killed and another was to be caught and exterminated, allowed his chief range alongside so that he might shout.

“What does it all mean? Why did you tell me to kill the gringo?”

“He cheated us from the start. He dared to place hands on me,” snarled Black Juan.

“What man are we chasing now?”

“The man who stole our gold. Can you see him?”

Enrique pointed to a bobbing dot under a full, white moon. He cried:

“We will catch him and burn the truth out of him. Faster! faster! Give me orders to go ahead and use my lasso.”

“Ride your best, Enrique! Take him alive if you can. He is worth much gold alive.”

Enrique's horse forged ahead. The fugitive glanced back occasionally to observe how the pursuit was faring. At last he discovered that one man rode well ahead of his mates. Several miles from town, Enrique had greatly increased his lead and was cutting down the distance between him and his quarry. The fugitive spurred his mount into the mesquite dotted waste land. Almost at the same moment the pursuer's big stallion did likewise and raced along a parallel course. Enrique shouted in triumph as he rapidly drew abreast of his man and took a short diagonal to come up with him, that failing, to drive him back into the road. Then he was reining in as he beheld a motionless figure ahead. The man was actually waiting for him. Enrique dropped the coiled lasso over the horn and drew a gun. What was gold after all? The band took much gold. Here was one worth killing, and the old lust to slay filled the bandit's veins with fire. A clump of greasewood was between him and his victim. He bent low and walked his horse close to the greasewood. Then he drove home the spurs and was streaking around it, screaming:

“Yo soy Enrique!”

From the motionless horsemen came a mighty voice, announcing:

“Yo soy Wolf Meagher!”

Enrique felt a strange chill, yet his heart was ever high. Furiously spurring his half mad mount, he commenced firing. The arm of Meagher rose and fell and Enrique swayed heavily.

“Yo soy——”

But the rest was choked by a bubbling cry, and the big stallion bolted on to the west, leaving his dead master stretched on the gravelly soil.

The main body of the bandits kept to the road. Black Juan shrewdly anticipated Meagher's return to the highway. Scouts, sent out to learn how Enrique was faring, came upon the stark figure and after identifying it turned and raced madly to report to their chief. Meagher's mount was a lather of foam and the rider spurred him no longer, for he knew the chase might be a long one, extending even to the big bend of the Gila. He, too, yearned for the road, but not until his steed had recovered his wind. So he kept to the wasteland, keeping within half a mile of the road. Toward morning he halted and allowed his horse to rest. He fancied he could hear Black Juan's whistle and the faint cries of men scouting to locate him. In the early dawn none would have recognised him as Saltpeter, the halfwit. The long hair was brushed back from the thin face. The vacuous expression of the eyes had vanished, and the thin lips were tightly drawn and no longer flabby.

WHEN the rose light was creeping above the Santa Catalina range, Meagher examined his two guns, mounted and rode on a long diagonal toward the road. The Mexicans had sent scouts far up the road and, like Meagher, had allowed their animals to rest until daylight. Smoke from a morning fire told him the location of their camp. Dismounting and leading his horse, he worked closer to the highway, keeping behind a screen of scrubby, ragged growth. Finally he reached a position where he could see the road was clear for a quarter of a mile to the south. He mounted and entered the road, lifting his horse into a gallop.

Inside of a few minutes the discovery howl was raised. Meagher held on, watching sharply for the advance scouts. Pistols were fired far down the road. He knew this was done to warn the scouts he was coming. He came to a waterhole and dismounted, allowing his horse to drink a bit When he took to the saddle he had to fight his horse to make him leave the water. Down the road appeared a horseman. The chase was on again. He held his horse to a leisurely gait as he watched for more of the enemy to appear. Finally they began stringing into view. The man in the lead was spurring and quirting his horse in a furious effort to overtake the Border sleuth. Meagher knew it must be Black Juan.

But this time Wolf Meagher was not running away. Far up the road were two dots coming to meet him. These would be the scouts sent ahead during the night. He waited calmly until Black Juan was within long range of a .45, and faced about. The bandit leader commenced firing.

With a last glance to estimate the distance of the scouts returning from the north, Meagher spurred his horse on to meet Black Juan. The latter promptly quit the road and was lost to view in the mesquite. But Meagher knew his game and watched the straggling growth sharply. He stood in his stirrups and detected motion a short distance from the road. Men down the road were riding at top speed, the scouts, returning from the north, were proceeding more cautiously. Settling himself in the saddle Meagher rode out to find Black Juan. They met unexpectedly in an opening.

Screaming with rage, Black Juan charged recklessly, shooting as he came. Going over the side of his horse like an Apache, Meagher raced to meet him. They passed each other at a distance of fifty feet. Black Juan fired and wounded the stallion. Meagher fired twice, rapidly, and Black Juan fell from the saddle and was dragged by his horse back to the road. Meagher dismounted and examined his horse. The bullet had not touched a bone. Mounting, he soon was back in the road, which was clear of the men from the south. All had followed their leader's example and had taken to the wasteland. The two men up the road were to be reckoned with, however. Meagher charged them, firing rapidly and with deadly skill. He hit a horse, and the rider ran into the mesquite. The second man yelled defiance and came on and was shot out of his saddle. With a clear road before him the Border sleuth proceeded leisurely on his way.

HE SAW no signs of further pursuit, and he had the satisfaction of knowing that the band was broken up. At El Pecacho, forty-five miles from Tucson, he met an outfit bound for Tucson. He warned them of the Mexicans down the road and in return received food for himself and feed and water for his horse. A few hours of night travel brought him to the Blue Water Wells, where he found the Government outfit in camp. The hard faced wagon boss grinned broadly on beholding him. He said:

“Knew you'd fetch through, or I'd never quit down there 'n' left you behind. Now you can look into all the wagons without being manhandled. Lawd! how it fooled 'em. How's luck?”

“A running fight. Enrique and Black Juan and one or two others have passed out. Bell and Cranet were dead when I made a jump for it. Max must have met the same finish. The Apache brought in what was left of that stuff?”

“It's in the wagon with the rest. I've nearly laughed my head off every time I think of your cute trick about gittin' the stuff out of that pesthouse without any one guessing the truth. Wagon blocked the view of the winder, an' there was you inside passing the stuff out right into the wagon where it was hid by the water barrels.”

“One man found me there. We fought with knives. That was my most uneasy time in Tucson. But if all the scum in Tucson and Sonora were wiped out it wouldn't make up for poor old Grainger. Knew his folks up north. They were good to me when I was a kid. On your return trip I want you to bring down and deliver to that friendly Apache a parcel of presents I'm sending him. I never could have got the stuff if he hadn't spied on Santo right after he killed Grainger.

“You'll get a fine present for lending a hand,” Wolf Meagher concluded.

“I had orders to do it. Done it anyway, of course, to help Wolf Meagher. But I was under orders. I reckon I don't want any of it. There's kids up north who will need it.”

“And the old folks were kind to me when I was kid. I am taking nothing, but there will be a greaty plenty after you have been paid, and the Apache is taken care of. I had my pay in playing the fool and deceiving Gringo Bell.”

“And wiping out quite a number of the cutthroats.”

Wolf Meagher's thin lips twisted in a reminiscent smile, but his eyes were gray flints as he bowed his head, and said:

“Yes, I was well paid. Quite a number. A goodly number. Yo soy Meagher!”

Copyright, 1920, by Hugh Pendexter