“Suppose this man Drake met up with one of those bandits?” I asked.
“Of course he did,” said Atwood. “You see, he was carrying the cash consideration for the agreement, amounting to over fifteen thousand dollars.”
“How come?” I inquired.
“Well, it was this way,” said Atwood. “As you will see by the agreement itself, there was a cash payment of fifteen thousand dollars which was paid. I made out a check to him, and he didn’t want the check; he wanted cash. We’ve got a little bank here in which we keep a certain amount of money — not too much, but enough to cover our emergency expenses. I got him to endorse the check, took it to the bank, got it cashed, and delivered the cash to him myself.”
“So, evidently,” I said, “somebody knew in advance that he had this fifteen thousand dollars, and arranged to take it by the most efficient method possible.”
“That’s it,” said Atwood; “only the man didn’t need to know very much in advance. Drake was using burros, and this man could have used a horse and gone on past him on the trail.”
“That doesn’t leave us much to work on,” I said.
“Well,” Atwood told me, “never mind that. That’s a problem for the sheriff to handle. That’s the reason we have our own mining guards. The sheriff has to look after the general crime that takes place in the county. We have our own guards to look after those crimes which affect our interests, and Lord knows there are plenty of them!”
“You don’t figure that this crime affects the mining company then?” I said.
“Certainly not,” said Atwood. “We paid the consideration for the agreement and got it executed. It’s binding on Drake’s heirs.”
“Well,” I said after a pause, “I presume that you’ve got something in particular lined up for me to do at the start.”
“There’s one thing,” said Atwood, “that we’d like to have you ready for. And that’s a payroll that’s coming in some time to-morrow. We’re bringing it in considerably in advance of the time that it’s due, and we’re sending it in as provisions. The money is in a shipment of flour, concealed in the flour sacks.”
“This comes in to-morrow?” I asked.
“It starts up the grade some time to-night.”
“Why the night business?” I asked.
“We figure that there’s less chance of an ambush at night. They’ve got to come out with more of a direct attack. The horses can travel at night, and we’re going to run the stuff right on through. It should be in here about half past two or three o’clock in the morning.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll give that some attention. Is there anything else?”
“Nothing I can think of right now,” he said.
I told them I’d see them later, and went out.
III
Night Convoy
I found a place where I could stable my horses and see that they had some feed. Prices were like they were in the Klondike during the gold rush, but everybody seemed happy and prosperous. There was a general merchandise store which seemed to be doing quite a business, and I figured that would be a good place for me to get a line on the various people.
I loitered around looking the people over and picking up an earful here and there. Apparently no one knew who I was, or why I had come to town. I hung around for a couple of hours.
While I was standing there waiting, there was a swirl of motion, and I turned to find myself staring into a pair of very black and very burning eyes.
She was about five feet two inches tall, dressed in a khaki skirt and blouse, with a big Stetson that had seen service. Yet her complexion was smooth and well cared for. It wasn’t the lily-white, peaches-and-cream complexion of the town girl, but was a clear olive tint that showed the contour of her face smoothly and without blemish.
“You’re Bob Zane?” she asked.
I nodded.
“You don’t know me,” she said, “but I want to ask you a question or two.”
I stood there feeling uncomfortable, but not being able to place just exactly where that feeling came from, or what caused it.
“You’re the man who discovered the body of Douglas Drake?” she asked.
I nodded.
There was a slight hint of moisture in the eyes, but no quivering of the mouth.
“I’m his daughter,” she said.
I wondered if perhaps there was going to be a scene of weeping, but after a moment I could see that there wasn’t. She blinked back the moisture from her eyes.
“I’m sorry about him,” I told her.
She nodded her head.
“I’ve heard,” she said, “that he had a paper with him.”
I nodded.
“A paper,” she asked, “by which he conveyed everything to the mining company?”
I nodded again.
“Then,” she said slowly, “I’ve got nothing.”
“There was a cash payment, I believe,” I said. “Do you know whether or not he had that with him?”
She said, “I don’t know anything about it, but there must have been some motive for... for... for killing him.”
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I wish there was something I could do. Perhaps if you have any suspicions you could tell me.”
“No suspicions,” she said.
I stood, looking down at her, wondering what I could say or what I could do. She was a typical desert girl, strong and self-reliant, vibrant with personality — a daughter of the sun and the sand. Yet her father lay out there in the glittering sunlight of the desert, covered over with a tarp, awaiting the arrival of the official burial party.
Abruptly she turned on her heel, flung a “thank you” over her shoulder, and walked away.
I walked out of the store, went over to the livery stable.
“Horses fed?” I asked the attendant.
He nodded.
“Okay,” I told him, and flung a saddle on the big roan. The attendant watched me as I tightened up the cinch and adjusted the bridle.
“Going to take the pack?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
He looked as though he wanted to ask some more questions, but I did not look as though I wanted to answer them, so after a while he went away. I went to the pack and got out my carbine, which I put in a saddle scabbard and tied to the saddle, so that it hung under my leg. Then I put some concentrated food in the saddle bags and climbed into the saddle.
“Where can I find the sheriff?” I asked of the man at the livery stable.
“I think he went up to the mine,” he said.
I nodded and sent the roan up to the mine at a lope.
Frank Atwood came to the door to meet me.
“Where’s the sheriff?” I asked.
“He went out to take a look at Doug Drake’s body,” he said. “He only left a little while ago.”
“Where do I meet the payroll?” I asked him.
“Down at the foot of the grade,” he said. “It’s going to be in to-night — earlier than we expected. I was trying to get in touch with you. Did you get my message?”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t get any message. I just got to exploring around.”
“Well,” he said, “you’ll have to start inside of a couple of hours. I’m going to have Ted Sproul go with you if you want.”
“I don’t want,” I told him. “I’m going to play a lone hand.”
He stared at me an instant.
“Any way you want it,” said Frank Atwood, shrugging his shoulders; “but I would suggest that you take at least one man with you, maybe two.”
“No,” I said, “I’m playing a lone hand.”
The smile left his face.
“All right,” he said, “have it your own way,” and then he added, “It’s your own funeral.”