The Silver Bar mystery

“The West,” said “Goober” Glendon, speaking authoritatively, “ain’t nothin’ like what she was. Now, I can remember the time when----”

“How do yuh feel toward that pot?” interrupted a cowboy, fingering his cards nervously.

“Oh, yeah,” said Goober softly. He moistened the tips of his fingers on his lips and proceeded to peek at the pips of his cards. “She’s been raised twice, eh? Costs me fifteen pesos to see what you’ve got. Le’s make her twenty to see mine.”

“I ain’t held a hand since the Jamestown flood,” sighed his young partner, Johnny Wells, tossing his five cards among the discards. “If I ever drawed one to a pair, I’d frame ’em.”

Two men called Goober’s bet.

“Three typewriters and a couple Johns,” said Goober, spreading out three queens and two jacks.

“Yo’re pretty lucky,” observed Cal Sands, foreman of the Star A outfit. “You dealt that mess, didn’t yuh?”

Goober looked keenly at Sands. “Yeah, I dealt it; why?”

“Nothin’; I just wanted to know whose deal it was next.”

Johnny Wells glanced quickly at Goober, who was calmly stacking up his chips. They were partners, these two--Johnny and Goober--partners in a strange town. They had ridden into Silver Bar late that afternoon, and decided to stay all night. Their destination was the Keno range, twenty miles north-west. They did not know any of the men at the table.

Goober Glendon was past fifty, partly bald, of medium height, but very thin. His features were sharp, deeply lined, his nose slightly hooked; thin-lipped mouth topped a square chin, which jutted a trifle. His eyes were a faded blue, almost hidden beneath bushy eyebrows.

Johnny Wells was twenty-five, range born and raised. He was of medium height, with the physique of a middle-weight fighter. His hair was inclined to auburn, wide blue eyes, nose slightly upturned above a laughing mouth. Johnny was good-looking. Both men wore battered Stetsons, faded shirts, and overalls. Goober wore the shotgun type of chaps, while Johnny affected the flaring batwing variety.

Their belts and holsters were identical, because of the fact that Goober had made them by hand. Goober carried an old, black-handled Colt, while his young companion wore a Colt with carved bone handles.

The game progressed slowly, with Goober steadily piling up chips, while Johnny was hardly able to keep even. Cal Sands drank liquor and swore at his luck. Sands was tall and dark, with snapping black eyes. His hat was black, shirt black, and he wore black trousers. There was not a touch of colour about the man. Sands was possibly thirty years of age, and had been foreman of the Star A outfit for three years.

“Did I hear you say somethin’ about goin’ over to Keno?” asked Sands, speaking to Goober.

Goober nodded slowly, studying his cards. “Yea-a-ah, we’re ridin’ thataway to-morrow. . . . Check the bet.”

“Know anybody over there?”

“No-o-o-o, I don’t reckon we do. Me and Johnny jist driftin’ in for a look around. You acquainted over there?”

“I’m from that part of the country.”

“Thasso? You know Frank C. Austin?”

“Sure.”

“So do I. Me and Frank was bunkies long time ago. We’re goin’ over and hit Frank for a job.”

Sands laughed shortly. “Do yuh think Austin is out there runnin’ a ranch?”

“Ain’t he?”

“With all the money and interests he owns?”

Goober’s faded eyes studied the face of Sands for several moments.

“I didn’t know,” he said mildly. “The last time I see Frank Austin, I reckon him and me would assay about the same amount.”

“Must have been a long time ago.”

“Somethin’ like twenty-two, twenty-three year ago.”

“Austin is one of the big financiers of the Pacific Coast now.”

“I’ll be damned! Where did he hit it rich like that?”

“Smart investments and all that.”

“Yuh got to have money to make investments.”

“Austin married money.”