Frank Gruber
The Silver Tombstone
Chapter One
Once you cross El Cajon Pass you can coast for a number of miles, but eventually you hit a flat stretch of road and then your car stops. From this point you can see the lights of San Bernardino, but you are still quite a few miles away — on a dark, lonely road.
“Well,” said Johnny Fletcher, applying the emergency brake, “so much for your stars.”
Big Sam Cragg winced. “What’ve the stars got to do with us running out of gas?”
“You tell me. The stars told you to come out to California. And here we are, right in the middle of it — in the middle of the night.”
“That isn’t fair, Johnny,” Sam Cragg protested. “My horoscope said that conditions were favorable for making a long journey...”
“And we made it — all the way across the country.”
“Last winter we went to Florida,” Sam retorted. “Because you wanted to play the horses. And what happened to us in Florida? It can’t be any worse here, unless...”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you get stubborn and refuse to work.”
Johnny Fletcher inhaled heavily. “I’ll do my best, Sam. I promise.”
“That’s good enough for me!” Sam cried. “I know you don’t believe in astrology, but I do — and I made another horoscope only this morning and it said even more positively that things were going to break for me.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Johnny said with heavy irony. “If your luck is going to be so good suppose you stop this car that’s coming.”
Sam turned and looked at the approaching headlights. “Well, I’ll try.” He scrambled out of the car and ran around to the roadside. Johnny leaned back in the driver’s seat, grinning cynically.
The car was coming swiftly. Sam leaned out and gave the hitchhiker’s signal.
Brakes screeched and the car came to a halt beside Sam. It was a convertible with the top down and contained a single occupant, a man wearing the insignia of the Southwest — a two-gallon hat.
“What’s the trouble, folks?” the driver asked cheerfully.
“Out of gas,” Johnny said, making a quick recovery from his astonishment. “Wonder if you can give us a lift to the next town?”
“San Bernardino? It’s fourteen miles. How would you get back with the gas?”
“We wouldn’t — tonight.”
“Oh, but you don’t want to leave your car here all night. Why don’t you let me push it?”
“You’d do that, Mister?” Sam Cragg cried.
“Why not?”
“I don’t believe it,” Johnny said, bluntly.
“Don’t believe what?” the Samaritan asked.
“This California good neighbor stuff. I read about it in a book once, but I didn’t believe it.”
“Well, I don’t know about California,” said the man in the convertible. “You see, I’m from Arizona.”
“That’s different!” Johnny cried. He signalled to Sam and the big man hurried around to the other side of the car and climbed in.
The convertible backed away, then moved forward until its bumpers touched the rear bumpers of Sam and Johnny’s jalopy. Johnny shifted into neutral and the powerful car behind gave the flivver a nudge that started it rolling. The driver was good — probably from much practice at this sort of thing. He kept the two cars touching. Only one or twice did he really bump the jalopy very hard.
The two cars rolled along at around thirty miles an hour and soon the lights of San Bernardino came closer. Finally the highway became a street lined on both sides with motels, each with its own brilliant blue and red neon sign.
“Say when!” yelled the driver of the pushing car.
Johnny turned. “This tourist camp’s swell.”
The Samaritan completed his good deed by pushing the jalopy into the court of the hotel. Johnny and Sam climbed out of their car and walked back.
“Mister,” said Johnny. “That was doggone swell.”
The driver grinned and climbed out of his car. “Oh, it wasn’t anything really. A man’s got to make a dollar whenever he can, you know.”
A warning bell rang in Johnny’s brain. He looked at the other man and made note of the fact that he was over six feet in height and tipped the beam at better than two hundred.
“Let’s see,” the big man continued. “Fourteen miles, say a dollar a mile... and my bumper’s scratched pretty badly... mmm... about six or seven dollars’ worth. Let’s call the whole thing twenty dollars...”
Sam Cragg gasped. “Jeez!”
Johnny Fletcher nodded thoughtfully. “All right, let’s call it twenty dollars.”
“Fine!”
The big man grinned at Johnny and Johnny grinned back. Sam Cragg looked away.
“If you don’t mind,” said the not-so-good Samaritan. “It’s after midnight and I’d like to get a little sleep.”
The office door of the motel opened and a yawning man in a bathrobe came out. “Nice room, gents?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure,” said Johnny.
“D’ya mind, fellows?” the big man said.
Johnny suddenly held out his hand. “You have my thanks, old man. Your kindness has touched my heart and if you will give me your name and home address...”
He broke off as the big man took his hand.
“Yow!” yelled Johnny and went down to his knees.
The man with the two-gallon hat chuckled and released Johnny’s hand. “See what I mean?”
Johnny got up, trembling. His right hand was completely numb. Sam Cragg stepped forward, his eyes flashing from the light of a red neon sign.
“I’d like to shake your hand, Mister,” he said in the same tone the devil uses when he tempts a poor victim.
“Why not?” the big man asked and took Sam’s hand.
...Which is a good time to tell you about Sam Cragg. He is five feet eight inches tall and weighs two hundred and twenty pounds. Those two hundred and twenty pounds are bone and muscle and steel, hardened with a little tungsten. Sam tears New York and Chicago phone directories in half with his bare hands.
His hand gripped that of the big Arizonian... and Sam got the surprise of his life. So did the other fellow.
Sam exerted pressure on his grip. So did the other man.
“I got two vacant rooms,” the sleepy motel man said.
“What about the twenty?” the bad Samaritan gasped to Sam.
“The hell with you,” Sam panted. “I can hang on all night.”
Johnny peered into Sam’s face — and whistled softly. Sam was taking it.
“Kinda silly, isn’t this?” the big stranger grunted, putting on more pressure.
“Ain’t it?” Sam gritted, calling on his reserve.
Johnny stepped forward. “Shall I hit him with a brick, Sam?”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” the big man warned.
“I can hold him,” Sam grunted.
“I doubt it.” The big man’s breath came heavily. “What’s your name?”
“Sam Gragg. What’s yours?”
“Joe Cotter.”
“I’m Johnny Fletcher,” offered the owner of that name “In case you’re interested.”
“I’m not,” said Joe Cotter. “But this is going to cost you fellows more money. I’m raising the price to twenty-five.”
Johnny turned to the bored motel man. “Show me your cabins. I think the boys want to be alone and play awhile.”
The motel man looked sourly at Sam and Joe Cotter. “What’re they holdin’ hands for?”
“Ignore them,” Johnny suggested.
Joe Cotter suddenly jerked his hand out of Sam Cragg’s grip. He stepped quickly to the side of Johnny’s jalopy and whisked out the ignition key.
“The hell with that stuff. I’ll take this instead.”
“Give me that key,” Sam snarled.