“Ought to be hitting it any minute,” Johnny said.
“Hitting what?”
“The filling station where we left our car...”
“What do you want to go back there for?” Sam ejaculated.
“To pick up our car — naturally. That’s why I borrowed the money from Laura Henderson... Ha!”
He began braking and then swung the car to the left, off the road into the filling station. It was dark, but there were two cars parked at the side of the station; one a battered jalopy, the other the Chevrolet that Johnny and Sam had deserted so precipitately the night before.
Johnny kept the motor running, but blasted the night with the horn. Sam patted the stock of the shotgun.
A light appeared in the living quarters behind the station. Johnny pressed down two or three times more on the horn, then shut off the motor.
“Okay, Sam,” he said, “but keep the gun behind you for a minute.”
A light went on in the filling station, revealing the old proprietor. He was wearing a long nightshirt and gesturing angrily.
“Go ’way,” he shouted.
Johnny stepped up to the glass door so the man inside could recognize him. He put his hand up to the glass, to show the money in it.
“Open up,” he yelled back. “I want to pay you the money I owe you.”
The old man’s assistant appeared, clad also in a nightshirt, but carrying the old man’s long revolver. Luke Johnson came to the door and unlocked it.
“What’re you trying to pull?” he demanded.
“I want my car,” Johnny said. “I owe you one twenty-eight; here’s your money.”
“Well, I’ll be a Gila monster!” sputtered the old man. He took the money from Johnny’s hand, began counting it.
“I hope you ground the valves,” Johnny said pointedly, “because I’ve paid for the job and if you haven’t done the work I’ll report you to the Automobile Club.”
“I ground them yesterday,” said Lafe, “but I discovered that your generator was shot. I put a new one in; cost you twenty-eight fifty...”
Sam brought the shotgun out from behind his back. “How much?”
Lafe took one look and dropped the revolver. Johnny scooped it up. “Now give me the key to my car.”
The two filling station men backed into the station. “The state police are still looking for you two,” the oldster said. “You wanta be careful...”
“We are,” said Johnny, “that’s why we’re doing things your way. You won some money from me and I’ve paid it. But we’re not going to stand for any more holdups. So give me my car key and we’ll be on our way...”
The old man started for the back room. “That’s fair enough.”
Johnny kept close on Johnson’s heels, leaving Sam in the filling station with the assistant.
Johnson had a little trouble locating the Chevrolet key. But he found it after a moment on the table; underneath a paper-bound booklet, entitled, Fifty Simple Card Tricks.
Johnny scowled when he saw the book. “Card tricks, eh? And your cards, too.”
The old man showed his teeth in a wide grin. “I’m only learning, but I got the false shuffle down pretty good. And my one-handed cut ain’t bad.”
Johnny grabbed him with one hand and with the other reached into his nightshirt. He brought out the bills he had given him a moment ago. The old man howled to high heaven. “That’s robbery!”
“What do you call what you did to me?”
“Gambling — anything goes in gambling. It says in the book, ‘never give a sucker a break!’ ”
“The sucker’s making his own break this time,” said Johnny. “Here’s thirty bucks for the valve-grinding job — although I doubt if your stooge even ground them.”
“I’ll get the state police after you,” the old man threatened.
“Thanks for reminding me of them,” said Johnny. He stepped to the telephone, took hold of the receiver and ripped the cord from the instrument.
“Now you can practice your card tricks, without being interrupted.” He stepped into the other room, nodded to Sam. “You drive the station wagon.”
They left the filling station with the old proprietor in the doorway shouting dire threats at them. Johnny climbed into the Chevrolet. The motor started with the first touch on the starter button.
He reached over to the glove compartment, opened it and grunted in satisfaction as he took out a book — Tombstone Days. He waved to Sam Cragg and rolled the Chevrolet out onto the highway.
He shifted into high and stepped hard on the gas pedal. He gave the little car everything it had for a mile, then began braking.
Sam Cragg pulled up beside him after a moment. “Turn the bus around, heading the other way, then leave it there.”
Sam turned the car, then came over to the Chevrolet. “What’s the idea of that?”
“Joe Cotter. He’s overdue and he knows we left in Henderson’s station wagon. I’m hoping he’ll think we deserted the bus and started out across the sand... Damn! I think that’s him now.”
Far down the road headlights appeared. Johnny slid over in the seat, indicating that he wanted Sam Cragg to drive. Sam climbed in behind the wheel.
“I thought we were through running from Joe Cotter.”
“I need a little time. Step on it.”
“Where to?”
“Back to Hansonville.”
The headlights were growing larger and in a moment flashed past Sam and Johnny, moving at such speed, however, that they could not identify the occupant of the car. But looking back, Johnny saw the tail-lights become redder and knew that the car was stopping for the station wagon.
“Okay,” he said, and reached up to switch on the overhead light. Sam exclaimed.
“Don’t do that — I can’t see as well.”
“See as well as you can. I’ve got to read.”
“At a time like this?”
“If I’d had sense enough to read more before, we might never have gotten into this jam,” Johnny retorted. “I’m more and more convinced that the solution to this business is right here in this book.”
Sam grunted beside him and Johnny opened the book. He turned to the index and found his place. He began reading:
...Crime certainly didn’t pay for Jim Fargo, but his friend who was enriched by his death, erected a tombstone over his grave that shamed the surviving relatives of more illustrious personages. The tombstone was fully eight feet tall and Hansonville boasted that it was solid silver, dug from the Silver Tombstone mine. This story was given credence for some time by the fact that an armed guard was posted at the grave. But one night, certain persons got the guard drunk and attacked the tombstone with hammers and chisels. Their reward was a handful of base lead and thereafter the remains of Jim Fargo slumbered in the ground without the tread of a guard overhead...
Johnny’s eyes jerked up from the book; Sam Cragg was braking the car, preparatory to turning right on the Hansonville road. Johnny saw that full daylight was only a few minutes away.
“Let me know when we get to Hansonville,” he said and dropped his eyes once more to the book.
But there was only one more sentence. “Today, Jim Walker is living in his fine mansion near the Silver Tombstone, actively supervising the operations of his famous mine.”
Tombstone Days having been published in 1886, the author did not know that the Silver Tombstone went into borrasca within a few months and was abandoned.
Johnny Fletcher closed the book and stared at the road ahead in frowning concentration. The car began slowing up.
“There she is, Johnny!”
Johnny roused himself. “Stop and let me take the wheel.”
The exchange of seats was quickly made and Johnny drove carefully into the hamlet of Hansonville. It was broad daylight, but the village was still asleep.