THE TRAIL OF THE OPAL SKULL

By John LeGallee

Another smashing tale of mystery and intrigue from author John LeGallee, featuring the hard-fisted slugger Jason Terrell and his sturdy crew of adventure-thirsty Time Travelers! Each month, THE GOLD BEAM is pleased to present another chapter of this full-length novel in serial form, completely uncut, with every word contained in the hard cover editions found on bookstands everywhere. Join Jason and his friends on the search for a legendary Opal Jaguar Skull, said to have mysterious psychic powers. This month’s chapter is a humdinger, guaranteed to pack as much punch as a shot of Cyrus Noble whiskey over a double espresso! 

CHAPTER III.  -A HAND IN THE POCKET

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Straining against the cords which bound him tightly, Hick Fenton was slowly becoming aware of his returning consciousness. A loud thrumming drone seemed to pour into his body, reverberating with the throbbing pain in his skull and the sickly feeling in his guts. 

As his faculties began to return to him, his cramped surroundings started to come into focus. Hick found himself lying in a crumpled heap on the floor of what appeared to be a steel and fabric airplane jostling through the desert sky!

Two large men sat with their backs to him at the controls of the ship. With a start, memories of earlier in the evening came flooding back. “Of Course!” Hick thought, “Crease Mulraney and Guf Brinkston!  -I must be in that Cabin Biplane they use to haul supplies for the Longhammer outfit.”

Up to now, the noise of the large motor, and the movement of the craft through the rough air, had concealed from the two henchmen that their captive was coming to. Hick decided to lay still and do some thinking. His scalp wasn’t anxious for another kiss from that monkey wrench.
**********************************************

To our readers whom may not yet be well acquainted with the exploits of Jason Terrell and his friends, we will pause, to give Hick some time to do that thinking, while we take the opportunity to introduce our intrepid crew of happy-go-lucky roughnecks, and turn the high beams onto some of their previous adventures.

Jason Terrell (or “Jayce,” as his friends call him) is an inventor/mechanic and expert driver, who is employed, along with his friends Snappy Burk, Hick Fenton, and Gilbert Mantree by the Mission Bell Brewing Company in Los Angeles, Calif. All four men work as truck drivers distributing “Frosty Gold” beer throughout the greater metropolitan area.

As outlined in the first book of this series, “The Orphan’s Well,” Jayce had a chance encounter with the mysterious Marcus Dee while motoring along a coastal highway and stopping for a wreck. Jayce helped Marcus out of quite a nasty jam, and afterwards both men discovered they had been childhood friends.

Pie-faced, and with a shock of whitish-yellow hair, Marcus Dee was a brilliant mathematician and physicist who, because of certain idiosyncrasies, was not well respected in his field, and hence, made his living writing television commercials.

The mysterious past of Marcus Dee was riddled with adventures too numerous and bizarre to be recounted here, but the results played out on his well-lined face, his bearing, the odd color of his skin, and the strange hand-carved crutches he was never without.

As the two men rekindled their friendship, Marcus Dee revealed he had been working on a vast new understanding of physics which had proposed, among other things, the possibility of a “Temporal Shunt.” Using Dee’s calculations as a starting point, Jason Terrell began work on a project to exploit this unproven theory. Many mistrials followed, both frightening and comical.  

Finally, though, the experiments bore fruit, and the result was “Big Blue,” an old Dodge pick-up truck that Jason Terrell (with the help of Marcus Dee and Hick Fenton) successfully adapted and outfitted for use as a time machine.

On its first outing, Jayce and Marcus Dee used Big Blue to unravel a mystery involving red diamonds and strange 4th Dimensional beings. But in the aftermath, Marcus Dee was in the hospital for two months and Jayce lost four days of work. 

Addressing the dangerous shortcomings at once, Hick and Jayce devised a special bi-metallic laminate with an organic membrane sandwiched between the layers, which they applied to the floor and firewall of the truck as shielding. This, together with several minor modifications, reduced the potentially deadly side effects of the shunt to nearly acceptable levels.

Then, through trial and error the crew gradually developed the important protocols which when employed, allowed the fellows to conduct the time travel procedure itself in relative safety. 

Safety protocols notwithstanding, the adventures they then embarked upon proved very dangerous indeed!

.    .    .    .    .

“Man, last time I came up this way, this road was PAVED.”

“Oh?”  “And when was that, Gilbert?”

Gilbert Mantree sat staring out the windshield as if imagining something 100 miles down the road, his bearlike hulk crammed into a corner of the truck, a serious look in his dark eyes. “Thanksgiving” he said, with an air of finality. 

Jason Terrell, with both hands on the steering wheel, turned and looked at Gilbert for a full four seconds. A perfect poker face. Eyes like iron.

Gilbert looked at him and answered slowly, “Nine-teen?...” he said, pausing thoughtfully as his eyes rolled up to his left forehead, “...sixty-nine” he grinned sheepishly. It was a weak time-traveler’s joke; presently, 1969 was both two years in the past for them, and forty-five years in the future.

The truck was bouncing down Mountain Pass now, on a fairly smooth, but sandy section of the road down from Coyote Holes. Pin pricks of light were visible off in Nipton.

“They’ve gotta have cold beer down there.” Gilbert mused.

“Prohibition down there” added Jayce, skeptically.

“Warm, then?” Gilbert laughed.

Kaa-BLAM!! 

Big Blue struck something, and fairly leapt into the air.

“Jesus Mahoney!” exclaimed Gilbert. “What was that?”

“Don’t know.” replied Terrell, speed not slackening. “Sometimes weird things happen on a shunt,” he added, inwardly shuddering as the he recalled 4th -dimensional creatures he and Marcus Dee had encountered. “Whatever it was, it was soft,” he thought to himself, “...and invisible!”

Terrell didn’t like those things. He had hoped to never deal with them again. They were like the things skid row drunks would see when they had the D.T.s. Maybe they were those things. Terrell stifled another shudder; it wasn’t a comfortable thought.

King Snedley was standing on the seat now; a look of annoyance across his canine features. Shortly, he began to circumambulate the spot he was occupying, bumping into both men awkwardly, and laid down, shoving both men back into their corners of the truck.

The men were quiet for a few more moments as the truck jolted down the grade. Gilbert Mantree gently rubbed the portion of his head that had slammed into the roof of the truck. “How we gonna find Fenton, J.T.?” he said finally. Gilbert was a Marine and he didn’t like spinning his wheels when one of the crew was missing.

Jayce looked at Mantree again. “I don’t know how we’re gonna find him, Gil,” he spoke evenly, “and I don’t know where. But I do know we will find him, and we’ll find him before these 48 hours are up.” 

Terrell stared at the road through the headlights again and continued, “When the Pull starts, we’ll be drawn to him, or he’ll be drawn to us, -or both, or whatever. I don’t know how it works, but once you’ve felt it, you’ll never doubt it. We’re all going back together.”

“If we’re all alive” Gilbert observed, resignedly.

Terrell shot him a quick glare and went back to staring at the road.

*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *     

They were still more than an hour away from Nipton. Heavy with thought, the men rode on in silence, (or, at least what passed for silence in Big Blue.) The dim six-volt beams spread out before them, jostling up and down, illuminating the road ahead in warm tones. 

Occasionally, while staring across the prow of the truck, Jason and Gilbert would glimpse a jackrabbit sitting in the road, far ahead, looking their way. The jack would then duck behind a bush and wait until the last second to jump back into the road and dash ahead of the truck, running in the headlight beams until it got tired, and then darting out of the road again. It happened at least five times along this stretch, and the rabbits were enjoying this game far more than Jason, who was usually forced to slow down, to keep from killing the furry little rodeo competitors.

Big Blue was moving through cattle country now, and King’s interest was aroused. The 88 had ten thousand head stretched out on over a million acres in those days, and more than enough horses to keep men on the job. King’s front paws bore down heavily on Gilbert’s lap as he forced his muzzle out the window. Gilbert just smiled and rested a hand on the dog’s massive shoulders, and adjusted the window until they were both a little more comfortable.

Toward the bottom of the valley, the road got a little sandy again and made for slow going. Eventually though, the crew found themselves heading uphill again, and approaching the town of Nipton. As they entered the sleepy settlement, Jason made a left turn up a narrow street and the boys began to get a handle on the “lay of the land.”

Nipton wasn’t exactly “booming” in 1924. The population was hovering around fifteen. Many buildings had been abandoned. Others had been disassembled and carried further up the line leaving only foundations. Scattered about the town were the rusty skeletons of a half dozen or so partially disassembled automobiles resting wheelless in the sand along with an assortment of less identifiable machine age detritus. 

“Damn!” exclaimed Gilbert, “I thought all these old cars would be new.”

“I know,” replied Jason dryly as he turned up another street, “sometimes I think they rolled out of the factory like this.” The truck turned left, and Jason motioned out the window. “That’s the place,” he indicated.

They made a wide circle around the joint and parked under a cottonwood tree about a half block south of the place. The men dropped out of the truck, happy to stand up straight after the long ride. King Snedley stood up and stretched on the truck seat, then made his way down to the truck floor, the running board, and finally the side of the road.

The stars outside were as bright as moonlight, and the gentle caress of the desert night breeze carried the smell of creosote and sage. King stood still for a moment, his eyes half closed and nostrils flaring rhythmically. Then, after thoroughly marking the vicinity, he crawled under the truck and took up his station.

The men turned and began hiking back up the street, confident that their truck and valuable apparatus were secure. King would lay silently under the truck now until they returned, his dense black fur concealing him in the shadows; a serious calamity awaiting anyone hoping to monkey with Big Blue!

With gravel crunching under their feet, they approached the bar. The town was quiet. There was a faint smell of firewood burning. A dog was barking about a half mile off. 

As prohibition era high desert saloons go, The Blue Light Café was pretty barebones. A small, rectangular one room building in the middle of an otherwise empty corner lot, it had a tin roof and unfinished plank sides, stained dark from exposure to the elements. The front door was to the right on the south wall; its ramshackle condition

bearing testament to continual cycles of destruction and repair. There were no signs anywhere on the property proclaiming the name of the establishment, only an old railway lantern hanging on the wall next to the entrance; its dim kerosene flame burning behind blue tinted glass.

Past the entrance, the interior of the Blue Light was even more stark than its outside. Two roaring gasoline lamps hung on fixed feed pipes from the ceiling at either end of the room. The bright light glaring through frosted glass exposed an atmosphere bordering on desolation. A pot-bellied stove, a table and chairs, and a bar barely long enough to fit four drinkers made up the totality of the furnishings. As for decorations, there were none. No stools. No mirrors. No pictures on the walls. Only a cracked and rusty Dutch oven and a dented chamber pot, both serving as spittoons.

There were four persons in the joint when the boys stepped inside; all of them turned to size up the newcomers. Deke Nivens was sitting at the poker table to the left, with his back to the wall. Jason smiled to himself when he saw him. “Just the man I was looking for,” he thought. Across the room, near the open back door, a weathered, but handsome young married couple were enjoying some beer and each other’s company at the bar. The man, tall and bearded with broad shoulders, bore the stamp of a fellow who likes hard work, and does it on his own terms. His wife, small, pretty, and tough, looked game for anything. Both were wearing dusty boots and work clothes.

Behind the bar, stood a glowering Ed Troxel, proprietor of the Blue Light Café. “Welcome,” he said to our heroes, without a trace of friendliness.

The boys pushed up to the bar and nodded at the young couple. The bartender moved in front of them, placed his hands flat on the bar, and just stared. His face conveyed a perplexing mixture of apathetic interrogative, and defiant indifference.

“Cold Beer?” queried Gilbert.

Troxel shook his head grimly, “Prohibition on.”

The boys peered around at the half empty glasses in front of the couple, and glanced at each other.

“All we gots is near-beer.” retorted the bartender. The dusty young bearded man rolled his eyes and made no effort to conceal it. 

“How near is it?” asked Gilbert.

“How near do you want it?” the bartender shot back with his head cocked.

“Near enough to get my nose wet!” grinned Gilbert.

Ed Troxel paused, and let out a deep sigh, “Either of you boys law officers of any kind?” 

Gilbert and J.T. looked at each other questioningly in mock earnest. “Nope.”

“Nope.” they both replied, with sparkling eyes.

“You’re not Government men?”

“Not no more,” Terrell replied. “-turned us loose on our own recognizance.”

“Honorable Discharge.” Added Gil, holding up his right hand in a solemn Boy Scout salute.

The young bearded man looked up from rolling a cigarette, “C’mon, Ed. You know these guys ain’t bulls...” 

“Is that what I know?  You running this place now, Matt?”

Matt Barnes gave Ed Troxel an uncharacteristically cold stare which instantly softened when his pretty wife looked at him lovingly, and whacked him on the shoulder.

Ed slid a mug of beer in front of a plainly delighted Gilbert Mantree, and looked inquiringly at Jason.

Terrell held up his fingers in a gesture roughly describing a shot glass.

“Beer’s cold, J.T.” commented Gilbert.

“Railroad stops here.” said the bartender as he ducked below the bar. “We always have ice.” he said, straightening up and presenting a bottle about 5/8ths full of a brown liquid.

Jason Terrell looked at the bottle as though it were a dead rat. “Got any of that good Bob Holliman ‘shine?” he asked finally.

The bartender arched an eyebrow. “You know Bob?”

“I know his whiskey,” Jason replied. “It’s darned good!”

Ed Troxel seemed to be deliberating. While he hesitated, Matt Barnes offered innocently, “If you’re getting that out, Ed, I’ll have a drop.”

Troxel gave the bearded man an annoyed look and grudgingly produced another glass and a different bottle, this time 1/3rd full of a clear liquid. The bartender filled both glasses and pushed them toward his customers. Eyeing Jayce he said, “It’s thirty cents.”

Terrell put down three quarters and nodding in the direction of the bearded man said, “I’ll go his, too.”

Matt Barnes looked at Jayce and held up his glass, “I thank you,” he said.

Ed Troxel began to put the bottle away and changing his mind, poured himself a drink as well. His dour features began to relax as he took a sip and acknowledged, “It really is pretty good stuff.”

The mood in the Blue Light lightened noticeably and that seemed to suit Matt Barnes just fine. He held his drink aloft, and with his unlit handrolled cigarette dangling from his lips, he began to tell a story.

“You know, Bob Holliman was in town here a couple of weeks ago. There was this Government man from down to San Berdoo in here buying him drinks and cozying up to Bob and trying to get all his secrets.

“And Bob kept acting all innocent as he sat there lapping up this good booze that he’d made himself, while this government man kept buying it for him with government money. They were here all afternoon!” 

Matt took another sip, and continued, “And the guy kept saying things like, ‘We know you’re not a criminal, Bob.’ And, ‘What you’re doing isn’t really all that wrong...  It’s the big guys we’re after; all those crooked Dagos back east...’ and a lot of stuff like that. 

“Well, old Bob kept stringing him along, and the guy keeps pestering him about how he moves the stuff, and Bob hasn’t admitted to anything...” 

Matt took the cigarette out of his mouth again to take another sip. Then, contemplating the cigarette in his hand with glassy eyes, he considered lighting it. But then, returning his attention to the dangerously flammable contents of the glass he held in his other hand, he thought to himself, “No. I’ll just keep it unlit, and finish my story.”

Matt resumed, “So, the city dude is saying, ’Y’know Bob, we’re pretty stumped. If a smart guy like you would just clue us in to how he moves the stuff it would sure help Uncle Sam to catch these big guys, and incidentally, it probably wouldn’t hurt your business either.’ And this is going on for a while. And this guy is laying it on pretty thick, and ol’ Bob is starting to get pretty wet. So finally, Bob says to him, ‘Alright. You seem like a good egg. I’ll show you how it’s done. I’ve got a load of it right outside!’”

Matt set his whisky on the bar, took a drink from his beer this time and continued, “So now they’re both happy, and they head outside. And I think this Government man is adding up all the things he can buy as soon as he gets his new promotion, and he’s thinking maybe he can buy a new couch for the parlor, and maybe he’ll rate a good lookin’ personal secretary or something and the guys in the office will have to stop making fun of him cause now he’ll be the boss, and Bob leads him around to where he’s got his horse tied up.

“And Bob points at the horse. ‘There she is,’ he says, ‘The whole kit-and-kabootle!’ Now the guy looks confused, but he’s still game. ‘W-where?’ he says. ‘Right there!’ says Bob. ‘You’d never know it to look at him, would you?’ And right here I should mention that this City-Boob has been putting away the good stuff right alongside Bob all afternoon. ‘W-w-wha?’ he says.

“Right here!’ says Bob. ‘I hollowed him out!’ he says, patting the horse’s belly. ‘Listen to him slosh! Why, there’s a hundred and fifty gallons in there!’ 

Now this guy’s world is all coming apart, and he knows it. And Bob says, ‘And they can never track me. Because he leaves the same hoofprints as any horse!’”

With this, Matt Barnes finished the last of his whisky.

“What did the guy do?” asked Jason.

“What could he do?” stated Carla, laughing. “He went home to lick his wounds.”

“I know some cops that would have pushed back pretty hard,” observed Gilbert. “No more humor than brains.”

“Bob Holliman goes about pretty well-healed all the time,” she said. “Even down in Berdoo they know better than to throw down on Bob Holliman.”

Matt and Carla seemed pretty satisfied with the story. They gave each other a significant look, and downed the last of their beers. Carla slapped some coins on the bar, and Matt said, “Good-night, everybody,” as they both walked out the door.

The man at the table had been espying them and now called out, “C’mon over and have a seat, lads.  No sense wearing out a perfectly good floor.”

As the boys picked up their drinks and moved toward the table, the man’s eyes regarded Jayce a bit more intently, “You look familiar. Haven’t we met before?”

“Don’t know.” Jayce mused, “I get that feeling from you, too.  I’m Jason Terrell,” he said, offering his hand, “this is my partner Gilbert Mantree.”

“Deke Nivens.” The man said, standing up and grasping Terrell’s hand.

“Glad to know you.” He said, turning to Gilbert.

“Likewise.” countered Mantree, returning the firm handshake.

In truth, Terrell had met Nivens before. Several times, in fact. Terrell knew Nivens to be smart, fearless, and reliable. For that matter, he knew Ed Troxel too. But these past events had taken place in different timelines, so Nivens and Troxel could have no memory of them. Still, the strange fact was: the more experiences you had with someone in the past, the more they seemed to know you.

Deke Nivens appeared to be around fifty; fit and sharp. His clothes and his bearing marked him as an expert Desert Man. He had the easy confidence of a man who is both well-known and well respected. English by birth, he had come west as a young man. Thirty-two years in the East Mohave hadn’t flattened out his accent much. 

“What brings you to Nipton?” he asked as the boys sat down.

“A job.” replied Gilbert. 

“We’re looking for something.” explained Jayce.

“Oh?” said Nivens, his interest aroused. “Anything you can talk about?”

“We’re looking for an artifact. Very old.”

“Man made, or natural?”

“Not sure,” said Jayce, “it’s supposed to be an opal jaguar skull, maybe fossilized. Indians° brought it up here from Mexico, they say. Five hundred, to a thousand years ago or more.”

Deke Nivens was thinking as he slowly took a sip from his glass. “Who says this?” he asked, finally.

“Professor Sloan,” answered Jayce, “from Bowdeen College, back East.”

A flash of recognition darted across Nivens’ clear eyes. “Sloan,” he repeated, “young skinny fellow? With a little French moustache?”

“Yeah.” Agreed Jason.

Gilbert, who had been shaking his head slightly in the negative when Jason spoke, quickly added, “Yep.” and stopped moving his head.

Gilbert had been looking down at what was left of his beer. He now pushed his chair back, stood up and announced, “This beer drinks fast!”  

“-Get you anything?” he said, facing Nivens.

“Thanks. I’m fine.” replied the Desert Man.

Jayce shook his head in answer to a similar inquiring look from Gilbert, who then excused himself and ambled back to the bar.

“And Dr. Sloan wants you to retrieve this skull?” Nivens asked, turning back to Jason.

“Not really,” J.T. hedged, “I think he wants to find it himself.”

Deke Nivens gave him a mildly puzzled look, “Then what’re you lads supposed to do?”

Terrell answered carefully, “We’re supposed to make sure it’s still there when he finds it.”

“...there,” Nivens repeated; but it was a question.

“Well, -somewhere.” Jason admitted.

Deke let out a long sigh. “I see.” He paused for a moment, then added, “And he knows where it is now?”

Jason frowned a bit. “He has some old text he’s consulting. It’s sorta vague, -like it’s in code or something.” Then, seeking to clarify, he added, “It’s high up. There’s a cave, big rocks, and a river nearby.”

“That’s it?” said Deke, looking a little vexed, “That’s what you have to go on?”

“...Among other things.” Jason stated, rather unsatisfactorily. Then more to the point, “He’s convinced it’s up in Black Canyon.”

“Oh...” Nivens sighed, suddenly understanding. It was an open secret that a consortium composed of certain well known big-name east coast industrialists was invested in planning a massive development project somewhere in that region; a development that would give these industrial giants a near monopoly over the flow of both electrical energy and much needed water into arid Southern California.

A juggernaut like that wouldn’t be pausing for any archeological findings. 

“But it might be elsewhere?” Nivens asked. He was getting interested now.

Terrell merely shrugged.

Deke Nivens sat quietly for a moment, fingers from both hands lightly tapping the glass on the table before him. He was adding things up. 

“High place, cave, river...” he began, “opal jaguar skull...  It won’t be in an obvious place. An item like that would be important to those Indians; they’d not make it easy to find.”

Gilbert had remained at the bar with his fresh beer, and didn’t appear to be coming back. Nivens silently added this fact to his calculations.

“The tribes aren’t all the same out here you know, it would help to know who we’re dealing with.” Deke offered.

“It’s all pretty sketchy,” said Jason. “Sloan is pretty sure the people who hid it aren’t related to anyone living here now.”

“Hmm. Well, if they were going to spend any time there, they’d need water and food.” Nivens mused, “Look for Mesquite trees nearby.”

Then, suddenly, “I don’t know about Black Canyon,” continued the Desert Man. “I would expect it’d be in a more clever spot.” 

Terrell was all ears.

“Do you know Kokoweef Caverns?” Nivens asked.

Terrell admitted that he did, “Vaguely.”

“It’s just west of here, high up. A kind of a magical spot. Just the sort of place they might take it.” 

Terrell frowned. “Is there a river up there?” he asked doubtfully.

“There is!” replied Nivens, his eyes shining, “An under-ground river!”

Terrell considered this, as Nivens watched him closely. There was always merit in what the older man said, but the mission had changed now that Hick had disappeared. Jason’s features had settled into a look of steely resolve.

Picking up on this, Nivens said, “But I suppose you’ll have to go into Black Canyon anyway...”

Jayce smiled slightly, and nodded.

“Do you know which side?”

“No.”

Deke Nivens winced. “That whole area falls under the influence of the Longhammer Company,” Nivens stated. “You familiar with them?”

Terrell nodded grimly. “We got separated from a friend of ours earlier this evening after meeting some of them.”

Nivens instantly understood the seriousness of the situation, and his tone reflected it. “How much time do you think you’ll need to wrap this up?” he asked.

“No more than two days.” J.T. answered firmly.

“I don’t see how that’s going to be possible,” Nivens began, “Unless...” Deke leaned back in his chair to gauge Terrell’s reaction. He saw none. “...Unless you’ve got cards you haven’t shown me.”

Terrell stared back at him intently, then gave only the slightest hint of a shrug.

“In that case,” Nivens offered sincerely, “I wish you luck.”

 *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

Outside, the evening breeze gently rattled the leaves of a Cottonwood tree, and a large owl silently swooped low across the sky like a mysterious black specter.

Gilbert Mantree had gone around back to relieve himself when the truck pulled in. It was an AC Mack 5 ton with solid tires, and you couldn’t miss hearing it arrive. A layer of dirt covered every inch of its bright yellow paint and written on the side in blue drop-shadowed letters were the words, “LONGHAMMER MINING & MILLING Co.”

The big motor chugged to a stop, and two men hopped out; big, heavyset, -and light on their feet. Wordlessly, and without hesitation, the men tilted their bodies forward and strode toward the front door of the bar. They were dressed like mine roughnecks, and probably that’s the way Longhammer carried them on the books, but they were clearly thugs.

Gilbert, who had been observing them from the shadows, waited until the men entered the bar, then popped a cigarette into his mouth and lit it. “Now we’re getting somewhere” he smiled to himself.

Inside the saloon, a silent tension accompanied the arrival of the two Longhammer men. They walked straight up to the bar, expertly sizing the place up as they went, and flashed two fingers at the bartender. 

Ed Troxel sighed as he bent around, producing a bottle and two glasses. The men poured their drinks and gave Troxel a look meant to put him in his place. Troxel backed up instinctively a step and a half. He didn’t know these men, but he knew their type.

These were big men; well over six feet, and more than five hundred pounds between the two of them. This type of man could not be reasoned with. Two of them together could kill you faster than a loose slab in an unsupported drift. Troxel saw them slowly turn around with their glasses half-lifted, and direct their gaze at the seated men. “Here we go,” he thought.

The red haired one appeared to be the leader of the two. “You new around here?” he offered.

Jason Terrell and Deke Nivens turned and appraised the newcomers with blank faces. An uncomfortable pause followed.

“You NEW around here?” the man repeated, in an overbearing tone.

“You talking to him, or to me?” Jayce replied, nodding toward Nivens.

“I know about him. I don’t know you.” the man said, and slowly repeated, “I asked YOU if you are new around here!”

Deke Nivens shifted slightly in his chair. Terrell sat motionless, and looked at the redheaded giant. This wasn’t an ordinary look. As hard as these jaded criminals were, the look on Terrell’s face chilled the blood in their veins. “Nope,” he said finally.

The questioning might have gone on a little longer if it hadn’t been for that look. For big men, they moved awfully fast. Terrell was faster. He was on his feet with two fingers hooked around the wooden chair he’d been sitting on before they had taken two steps. The big redhead dodged to the right as the chair flung past him. But it wasn’t meant for him. A corner of the chair slammed the dark-haired thug square in the face. 

The red-haired man’s entire face had become red as he closed the space between them. He was thrusting out to throttle Jayce with his powerful left hand and digging for the large frame revolver in his front pocket with his right.

Terrell stepped in and clipped him with a devastating left hook that would have stopped a truck. The big man fell to his knees with his hand still in his pocket, and a surprised look across his features. 

But the big man was tough. In less than a second, he was on his feet again, madder than a badger. He was trying to get his footing, with his right leg out front, when Jayce hit him with a solid roundhouse kick to the inside thigh, and quickly stepped to the side. 

Red went down again but it wouldn’t be for long. Jayce had other things to deal with, however. The man he’d hit with a chair had recovered and was advancing on him with brass knuckles on his massive right paw.

Jayce was moving in to counter him when his left ankle was pulled out from under him by the huge redheaded man he’d left on the floor. Struggling to keep his footing, he saw the other giant grinning savagely through the blood on his face as he prepared to bare down on him with his menacing brass knuckles!

Instantly, the brute froze in pain as Gilbert Mantree boxed his ears from behind, and deftly threw him into a sleeper hold. The furious oaf struggled helplessly as Gilbert encouraged him, “That’s right, Baby. Go to sleep,” he whispered, in tones that were not at all soothing.

Red had stood up now and still held Terrell by the ankle. He shoved the ankle forward and swept Jason’s other leg out from under him. Jayce went down hard, on his back, and Red finally got his gun out. Moving in close he growled, I’ll blow yer _____ Brains out!” Instantly, the crack of a pistol shot rang out and filled the room with smoke.

His ears ringing, and his face a mask of anguished disbelief, Big Red looked down at his shattered elbow as the heavy New Service revolver fell from his hand. He turned to see Deke Nivens standing, a shiny single action Colt smoking in his left hand.

*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

(In Next Month’s issue: CHAPTER IV -Fireball in the sky!)

°On the use of the word “Indian” in this story: Your GOLD BEAM editors recognize that this word is both erroneous and antiquated in the context of describing Native American communities. The characters in this story, however, speaking in the 1920s, would not have been familiar with our more contemporary terminology. 

Looking for more OPAL SKULL? The next segment of this thrilling story can be found in the latest issue of the Searchlight Gold Beam.