Good Men and True; and, Hit the Line Hard/Hit the Line Hard/Chapter 4
Chapter IV
When I think of that poor little answer waiting all alone for its own dear riddle," said Ducky, much affected, "I can't refuse. But I'll only hit the high places. Uncle Roger is dead, and it isn't a pleasant stunt to rake up all his faults and catalogue 'em."
He reflected a little while.
"My uncle put me through college and named me as his sole heir, for the reason—I had it from his own lips—that he lost father's little property for him. Uncle Roger was the elder brother, head of the family, and all that.
"He had a mighty high idea of the Drakes, did Uncle Roger, and he never liked my mother. To the day of her death he was barely civil to her. That's what I couldn't forgive in him, for all his cold and formal kindness to me. Damn it! He ignored her and she was worth a hundred like Roger Drake.
"From all accounts, my Uncle Roger was a warm baby at college. He was the only original Ducky Drake; all others were base imitations. Come back to li'l' ol' N' York—lawyer; man about town; clubs; Tottie Twinkletoes; birds and bottles at proper temperatures! New York took his roll away from him.
"Did he buckle down to business and, by frugal industry—and so on? He did not. He faded away into the dim blue and the tall green. Honest, Jonesy, this is rotten of me—knockin' like this! But if you're going to help me play Money, money, who's got Uncle Ducky's money? this is what you want to know. It was the keynote of his character that he wanted all the beastly junk money will buy, but wasn't willing to hop out and hustle for the money. He wanted it quick, easy and often."
"Mind if I take notes?"
"’Eavings, no! Well, six years afterward he came back. A distant relative—great-aunt or something—had left him a sizable legacy. Business of killing calf. So he took his money and poor old dad's and set to work to found an estate. Mother didn't know about it. I happened along about that time and she took quite a fancy to me; didn't notice other things.
"It doesn't seem possible that anyone could consistently lose money in real estate in a thrifty, growing burg like New York, does it? Uncle Roger did. Then he ducked again.
"Some ten years later, back to New York—who comes here? Is it my long-lost uncle? It is. Talked vaguely of holdings in New Mexico. Had the mazuma, and spent it. He stayed all winter; then back to New Mex. That's been the program ever since—four to six months in New York, the rest out here. But he didn't talk about New Mexico and he didn't urge us to visit him there.
"To do him justice, he made good on one point. He came through with good hard coin for dad. He was really very fond of poor old dad, and he d always been sore at himself about losing dad's wad. And, as I said, he put his ungrateful nephew through school.
"Two months ago we found him dead in his bed—heart disease. His will left all his property to me unconditionally. But where and what was his property? He hadn't told us; and naturally dad hadn't felt like asking him.
"Saragossa was his post office. Except a pass book for his New York bank we found no papers in his effects—not so much as a letter. We applied at the bank.—Ahem! Huh? Mr. Drake had opened an account with them years ago; the balance was so much—about one winter's spending for Uncle Roger. We pressed 'em a little. Very irregular, said the bank; but, under the circumstances—ahem! It had been Mr. Drake's custom to make one large deposit each year, checking out the greater part of it before he put in more. What was a little unusual, he generally made these deposits personally and in cash; sometimes—ahem!—there had been drafts from Albuquerque or El Paso.
"So there we were! How much property? According to the pass book, Uncle Roger had been spending, on the average, about seven thousand a year, including his two extravagances—father and yours truly. Said property was evidently in the grand new state of New Mex. But where, what and how much? Had Uncle Roger spent all his income or only part of it? All of it, we judged; for, with all respect to your so wonderful Southwest, my Uncle Roger thought life in any place more than half an hour away from Broadway was a frost. If he stayed there only four months in the year, it was because supplies didn't hold out."
"I knew of your uncle—never saw him," said Neighbor. "He lived very quietly. Stayed at the ranch mighty close; made no friends and no enemies. No mixer. Had no visitors from the outside. Hunted a little. No cowman. He didn't know anything about cattle, he wouldn't learn anything about cattle, and he didn't care anything about cattle. Left that all to his partner. That's his rep, according to campfire talk. One thing's certain—your uncle didn't make any seven thousand per from the ranch, or any big part of it. The Double Dee outfit doesn't sell three hundred steers a year. Your uncle only got half of that and paid half the expenses. No, sir—that Double Dee brand helped some, but it was mostly a blind for something else."
"That's what I'm headed for," said Ducky. "Dad's an invalid; so I came out. At Albuquerque Mr. Drake had bought drafts at the banks. The hotels knew him but none of the business men had ever heard of him. El Paso, ditto. So he couldn't have been engaged in any business openly, aside from the ranch. I came to Saragossa. You know what I found here. Uncle Roger's whole bunch of cattle would have made about a year's pocket money for him. His partner offered me ten thousand for my half of ranch and cattle. That's enough to keep the wolf from the well-known door, but hardly what was expected."
"Grab it! That's more than it's worth. I know. Jim-Ike, my new neighbor, worked that country last year."
"Quinliven—Uncle Ducky's pardner—showed me the tally book. According to that, my share would be about that much."
Jones bent his head to hide a significant smile.
"Take it! Well, what did he say about your uncle?"
"He didn't believe my uncle owned any property here. Didn't know what he might have back East. Close-mouthed codger, he was.
"My own idea all along had been that my uncle had a secret mine. I put this up to Qunliven. Secret mine? Rubbish! No one could work a secret mine in this country—where everything was known; where the smoke of the strange camp fire was something of vital interest, to be looked into at once; where every cowpuncher had the time, ability and inclination to follow up any strange track.
"Fat chance, when all the freight from a country as big as an Eastern state was handled through one depot! Everybody knew all ore shipped—where it came from and what it run. Rubbish! Placer mines? 'Mai dear-r sir-r, to wash placer dirt, you must have water; and where water is, in New Mexico, is a frequented and public place.' Nuggets? Pish! Bosh! Nowt!
"I questioned my uncle's banker and his lawyer. Great astonishment. Nothing knowing. Mr. Bennett showed me the joint account of Quinliven & Drake, with a very small balance. My uncle kept no private account; he knew of no other investment my uncle had made; no such sums as I mentioned passed through his hands. The lawyer is now trying to solve my problem for me."
"Who's the lawyer?"
"He's a Mexican—a Mr. Octaviano Baca—and, at first, it seemed a rum start that Uncle Roger should have a native for his attorney. Butane's a live one, all right; a very shrewd, keen person, indeed. Educated, too—good company; witty; speaks English with fluency and precision—much better English than I do. But doubtless you are acquainted with him. He is, I am told, something of a political power, having great influence with the natives."
Neighbor chuckled. He knew what young Drake did not. Octaviano Baca was the Boss—King of Saragossa.
"Know him by sight; never met him. But we know all about everything here, even people we've never seen. In this country our camp-fire talks take the place of Bradstreet and Dun, or Who's Who. Great help. They ain't afraid to say what they think, them firelighters; and they ain't afraid to think what they say! We're all catalogued. … 'Jones, Neighbor. Good old wagon, but needs greasing. Use no hooks.' … That's me. I'm mighty proud of that biography too. So it is Baca and Bennett that are looking after your interests?"
"Baca alone now," corrected Ducky. "Bennett helped at first, making inquiries from his business connections, and so on. We thought if we could unearth some investment of my uncle's we might follow it up; but there was a silly gunplay on the range between Bennett's men and ours, and Bennett thought he had better withdraw from the investigation; because Quinliven took it up, you know—grouchy old sorehead!—talked pretty rough to Bennett, and took our account over to the other bank."
"What was the trouble about—mavericks?"
"I hardly know—pure cussedness, I guess. Nothing worth quarreling about. Tommy Garst and one of our boys had some words about some spring up in the mountains. All foolishness—nobody had any real title to it and everybody's cattle watered there; so it made no difference who claimed it. But they got to shooting over it—silly fools! Both gone now."
"Nobody hurt?"
"Dah!" said Ducky scornfully. "Well, how about that answer?"
Neighbor looked at his own toes with painstaking speculative interest. To assist the process he cocked his head on one side and screwed his mouth up. At last he glanced over at Ducky.
"I know a lot if I could only think of it," he announced plaintively. With a thoughtful face and apparently without his own knowledge, he broke into song, with a gay, lilting voice:
"Here I am, a-comin' on the run—
Best durn cowboy 'at ever pulled a gun!
Hi-yi-yi-yippy; yippy-yi-yi-yi!
Hi-yi-yi-yippy; yippy-yea!"
Ducky sniffed.
"Why don't you learn a tune if you want to sing?"
Neighbor looked round with puckered eyes.
"Why, I ain't singin'—not exactly!" he answered dreamily. "I'm thinkin'—thinkin' about your troubles and how to make 'em all come out right in the next number. I've got a two-story mind, you see. One of 'em is diggin away for you, hard, while the other one is singin', foot-loose, or talking to you. Me and the real serious-mind, we're studyin' right now; we don't hardly sense what I'm sayin' to you. And that's a real nice tune too. I don't like to have you make fun of that tune. That's a saddle song. That tune goes to a trotting horse. You try it."
"Why, so it does!" said Ducky after a brief experiment.
"Can you make your fingers go gallop-y? Well, do it, and I'll show you another. But don't talk to me. I'm thinking fine and close, like walkin' a rope; and you'll throw me off."
So Ducky made his fingers go gallop-y and Neighbor kept time to it:
"Percival Pulclfer Peterkin Pool,
Cloaked and mittened and ready for school;
Cloaked and muffled and gloved and spurred.
Gee! Wasn't Peter a wise old bird?"
"Any more?" demanded Ducky, highly diverted.
"Yes; here's a pacing tune. They say," added Neighbor absently, "they say, back in Maryland and Virginia, that old King James Fifth wrote this song—allowing for some expurgating and change o' names— Albuquerque for Edinburgh—to give it local color. Hark!
"Oh, when I got to Albuquerque I taken down my sign—
Tirra-la-la, tirra-la-la, lay!
Oh, when I got to Albuquerque I taken down my sign,
For they're all educated there in the riding line—
Ti-ri-laddy and a ti-ri-lay!"
Here Neighbor brought his tilted chair back to level, removed his clasped hands from the bacK of his head, and shook off his dreamy expression.
"Well, I guess I'll have to give it up for this time," he sighed.
"Yah!" said Ducky, grinning. "A pish and three long tushes! You big stiff! I thought you were going to tell me money, money, who's got the money? and where Uncle Roger plucked it in the first place. Little Ducky, he sticks to his first guess—mines—and counterfeiting, for place."
"Where he got it? Where My poor, poor boy!" said Neighbor. "My poor misguided lamb, I wasn't studying on who's got your uncle's money; I was figuring on a harder thing—and that's how you and me are going to get it. I know where your uncle's money is. I know it was really cash money, too, and not property. And I know how he got it!"
Ducky stared.
"Business of gasp!" he said. "Demonstrate! Produce!"
"Wait a minute!" said Neighbor, holding up a warning hand. "How do you bate your breath? If you know, do it!"
"She's bated. Break it to me!"
"I'll tell you first and give you the reasons afterward; it makes the reasons sound so much more reasonable, that way."
"You may fire when ready, Gridley!"
"Hist!" said Neighbor, weird, shaky and spook-eyed. "Listen to the evil old man of Haunted Hill! Your uncle was the Man Higher Up! He made his money backing gambling hells! U-r-r-r-r-h! The men who have now got that money-money are Beck, Baca, Scanlon, Quinliven and Bennett! And the men who are now going to get that money-money—open another bottle, Ducky—are Roger Olcott Drake, Second—Present!—and Neighbor Jones—Present! But how? How? How?"