Curse of Texas Gold: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

into the scale pan. The owner would be given a receipt which noted the weight of his nuggets and dust. Sometimes a sum in gold coins would also be handed him and the deduction noted on the receipt.

      “Crane handles a good deal of the gold that comes out of Jericho Valley,” the waiter who had brought Slade his supper and noticed the direction of his glance remarked. “He ships it to Boraco, where the railroad takes it to the assay offices that buy it. Charges a mite more than the other shippers, but he uses more guards on his wagons and so far his shipments have always gotten through, which is more than can be said of some of the others.”

      “Crane?” Slade remarked interrogatively.

      “Uh-huh, Crane Arnold. That’s him behind the counter. He’s the owner of this place. Bought it from old Sam Yelverton—that’s Yelverton over at that poker game just this side of the faro bank, the old fat feller with the mustache and whiskers. He sold out to Crane because the place was making too darn much money and interfering with his poker and drinking. Some folks are sure hard to please!”

      “Would seem that way,” Slade smiled agreement and favored Yelverton with a keen glance. “Yelverton’s an old-timer hereabouts, I presume?” he observed.

      “Just about the oldest, except old Ben Butler, and nobody’s seen Ben for quite a spell now, and I reckon that makes Yelverton the oldest,” the waiter explained. “It was Ben who first discovered the gold in Jericho Valley. Him and Sam were pretty good friends. Sam likes to talk about him when he’s feeling his likker. Reckon he’ll be feeling it before long, now, the way he’s downing it this evening. He’s winning at poker and feeling good. Sociable gent, old Sam.”