There was no need for Gary to answer. His red face gave him away.
Jim Kermit threw back his head. "Hawww! That's rich! I've seen those things for years, and you were following them! Hawww! Why even my own daughter Francie knows how phony they are! Wait'll she gets back into high school this fall and tells the other kids about this, Gary! Hawww!" Jim Kermit shook his head in great amusement and rode on down the canyon. Now and then he would burst into loud laughter.
Gary followed the amused rancher. He might as well go home now. He turned and looked back at the sunlit slopes high above him. If a man was staying in that cave now and then, and had a fire going in there, or perhaps had lighted a cigarette or pipe when the wind flapped the canvas screen, it could be seen down on the desert. But who would stay up there? An uneasiness crept over him. He slapped the claybank on the rump. No luck with the treasure and no pay for that day. His father wouldn't be too happy about that, nor could Gary blame him.
6
The Candyman's Strange Story
It was dusk when Gary arrived home. He had not wanted to face his father. Instead of changing the fortunes of the Coles by finding definite clues to the Lost Espectro he had just made matters worse.
An odd-looking truck was parked beside the windmill. Despite his troubles Gary couldn't help but grin. The truck was the traveling place of business for Fred "Candyman" Platt, as well as the only home he knew. He peddled candy, knick-knacks, notions, needles and thread, used tools and books, shotgun shells and rifle cartridges, fishing tackle, and just about every kind of thing a rancher or his family might need between periodic trips to The Wells.
The truck was something like those used by milkmen. The interior was lined with shelves and bins full of Fred's articles of merchandise. There were even shelves on the outside against the walls of the truck, which could be covered by plywood doors when required. Fred also had rigged up a bunk at the front end of the truck, and it was there he slept when on the road. It wasn't an unusual sight to see Fred's truck parked alongside some lonely road and Fred himself seated in a comfortable folding chair smoking his pipe and listening to his radio, miles from any other human being. It was the way he liked it. During the day he lived for his customers; at night and on the weekends he camped by himself, preferring his own company, and finding it good.
Gary's mother turned from the stove as he entered the kitchen after washing up. "You're late, Gary," she said.
There was no use in lying to her. He told her the whole story. He could hear Fred and his father talking in the living room. As long as the "Candyman" was there his father wouldn't make too much of a fuss.
Mrs. Cole took a big meat loaf from the oven.
"I've been against this lost mine business as far back as I can remember. First with your father and then with you. Your grandfather had no interest in the story. Both of you, however, are like Great-grandpa Cole. There seems to be a curse on those who hunt for that mine. Look what happened to your father."
Gary began to set the table. But his mother wasn't through yet.
"Gary," she said, "did you ever know just how your great-grandmother died?"
"Killed by 'Paches," he said. "I know the story by heart."
She shook her head. "You know the story that is on the historical marker. The true one is not told outside of the Cole family. Your great-grandfather left her alone in this very house while he hunted the Lost Espectro. The Apaches knew he wasn't here. They sneaked up and killed three of the Mexicans who were working outside. Your great-grandmother was a brave woman, Gary. She fought from the house and kept them from killing the son who was your grandfather. She died of her wounds."
"It changed your grandfather's life to a certain extent. He raised his son to be a rancher, nothing more. Can you see why?"
"Yet he didn't forget about the Lost Espectro himself. Why else would he have passed his derrotero on to his son?"
"I suppose he just couldn't destroy the work of years, useless as it was. Now can you see why the Lost Espectro had a curse upon it, that it brings nothing but tragedy and death to those who hunt it?"
"I guess so," said Gary.
"Will you forget about it as your grandfather did?"
He looked away from her.
"Gary?"
"No, Mother, I can't do that."
For a long moment her soft blue eyes met those hard Cole eyes, legacy of the Cole men, and she knew she couldn't defeat her own son, or his obsession with the Lost Espectro. "Call your father and Mr. Platt," she said quietly.
Fred "Candyman" Platt limped into the room. He smiled at Gary. "Howdy, son! Good to see you! You're getting bigger and bigger!"
Gary smiled. Fred Platt could cheer anyone up. "I see you're limping, Mr. Platt. What happened?"
"Slipped pretty bad. Mebbe I'll tell you the story later. My, that meat loaf smells good, Mis' Cole."
Fred Platt had another function in life as well as that of being a truck peddler. Fred knew all the local news. He didn't gossip, but passed on anything he thought was of importance, if he was sure no one would be hurt in the process. Fred was no carrier of sly tales or malicious slander; he told the news as it had been told to him, no more and no less. At dinner that evening he passed on all the news, but he never stopped eating, for Fred was a good man with a knife and a fork, almost in a class with Tuck Browne if the truth be known.
Fred reached for the potatoes and bumped his ankle against the table leg. He winced in sudden pain. "Hurts worse than ever," he said. "Taped it up after putting liniment on it. Could hardly get in and out of the ol' truck today. Shifting gears was a hardship I tell you."
"How did you hurt it?" asked Mrs. Cole.
"You know how hard it rained yesterday evening? Well early this morning I stepped out'a the truck and slipped on some 'dobe mud. Got pretty fine bones, Mis' Cole. Don't take much to hurt 'em."
"Maybe you'd better lay off a day or two," she said.
His unusually dark blue eyes seemed to flash. "I got customers to service, Mis' Cole!"
"That takes care of that," said Pete Cole dryly. "'Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.'"
The Candyman looked quickly at Pete. "Nice," he said. "What is it?"
Pete smiled. "Herodotus, the Greek historian, wrote that about the Persian postal system of 500 B.C. It's a quotation used to describe the present-day performance of our postmen."
Fred passed a hand over his thinning blond hair. "Well, I do my job. Folks depend on the ol' Candyman. Woman might want some baking powder, or thread, or mebbe a corn plaster. Who else would get it to her?"
"He's only kidding you, Candyman," said Lucille Cole.
The peddler again filled his plate. "Well, as much as I hate to think about it, I got to keep going all week. This is the week I go plumb around to the north side of the Espectros."
"Too bad Gary is working for Jim Kermit," said Pete. "He can drive as well as any man."
Gary looked quickly at his mother. She nodded. "So happens, Mr. Platt, that Jim Kermit let me go today," said Gary. "I'd like to drive for you this week."
"Capital!" said the peddler. "Won't be easy! Hard work! Long hours! Moving all the time! You won't get tired driving?"
"I never get tired of driving, Mr. Platt."
"You're young. It's rough country to the north."
"Just don't let him wander off into the mountains, Candyman," said Pete Cole, half in earnest and half in fun.
Fred's eyes narrowed. "Why would he do that?" He brightened suddenly. "The Lost Espectro!" I might have known! Listen, boy, that ain't nothing but a fairy tale! If there was such a mine, which I doubt, all traces of it would have vanished long ago. You won't get anywhere dreaming about those lost mines, kid. Hard work is the formula for success! Look at me! Just a grade school education and I already got my own business! Well established! Well thought of! Welcome anywhere as a solid, respected citizen of the community!" Fred sawed off another thick slice of meat loaf. "I pass them mountains every week," he continued. "Sure, I look at 'em and wonder if there ever was such a bonanza as the Lost Espectro, but I got enough sense to know my fortune is in my ol' truck. I look at them mountains, Gary, but I never go into them canyons I tell you! Too many queer things happening in there to suit the Candyman! Lost treasures don't mean that much to me. There are plenty of other things to be interested in. Money ain't everything, boy!"