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Title: Rattling chains

Author: Ray Humphreys

Illustrator: Sidney H. Riesenberg


        
Release date: September 30, 2026 [eBook #79689]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: Street & Smith Corporation, 1929

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79689

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RATTLING CHAINS ***


                           RATTLING CHAINS

                           By Ray Humphreys
                       Author of “Palmed Off,” etc.


“Here’s a funny one,” said Sheriff Joe Cook of Monte Vista, picking up
from his batch of morning mail a letter he had just opened. “I’ll read
it to yuh. Shorty—lissen:

    “THE SHERIFF, Monte Vista, Colorado.

    “DEAR SHERIFF: In a roundabout way, and while engaged on another
    case, we have learned that a man long a fugitive from the law is
    about to go to yuhr town to recover some buried treasure he has
    thar. We are wonderin’ if yuh would be interested in employin’
    us to run down this man, recover the treasure, and thoroughly
    investigate the case? Our rates are ten dollars a day per operative.
    Respectfully yuhrs,

                        “THE DENCOLO PRIVATE DETECTIVE AGENCY, Denver.”

“Shucks!” said “Shorty” McKay, the deputy sheriff.

“Shucks is my candid opinion, likewise,” said the grizzled sheriff,
tossing the letter into the wastebasket. “Them fool private detectives
has been lissenin’ to some cock-and-bull story from some hophaid or
practical joker an’ they has the nerve to ask us to pay ’em ten dollars
a day to waste their time runnin’ the hot air to earth.”

“When I remarked ‘Shucks!’ a minnit ago, I didn’t mean to shucks the
whole matter entirely,” put in Shorty complacently. “What I meant was
that we didn’t need no private detectives to tell us who that fugitive
was or to help us ketch him, boss. I guess they ain’t a doubt in the
world but that they refers to Jefferies Brofman an’ the money he is said
to have buried——”

“My gosh an’ twinklin’ stars!” exploded Sheriff Joe Cook, pounding the
table with a clenched fist. “Why, o’ course they does, Shorty, o’
course! An’ me fergettin’ that case entire! By golly, I’m gettin’ daffy
in my ol’ age! Jefferies Brofman, sure enough! The bird as built the
haunted house an’ then vamosed with the big pay roll o’ the Squaw
Mountain Mining Co., an’ was never ketched?”

“Yep!” said Shorty. “Who else but?”

“Who else but!” grunted the sheriff, and he started to reach into the
wastebasket to retrieve the private detectives’ letter he had thrown
away. But Shorty stopped him.

“Let that letter lay, boss,” said Shorty; “I still say shucks to it as
far as even answerin’ it. We know enough to ketch our own meat, ef that
Jefferies Brofman should show up to try to dig up any treasure he is
supposed to have buried around here. Huh, he’s sure took a long time to
get up his nerve to come back after whatever he left!”

“Yeah,” agreed the sheriff. “Wait a minnit—I think I remember seein’
some data on that case in the ol’ file Sheriff Ed Moore left here years
ago. Yeah, here it is. Jefferies Brofman, secretary an’ treasurer o’ the
Squaw Mountain Mining Co., disappeared night o’ August 6, seven years
ago, leavin’ his fine home on Gopher Hill fully furnished an’ unlocked,
but apparently takin’ with him, or concealin’, more’n five thousand
dollars in cash, the company’s pay roll, an’ cash receipts. Due search
fer Brofman failed. House an’ furnishin’s turned over to mining
company.”

The sheriff looked at the date on the memorandum.

“He’s been gone more’n thirty years,” said the sheriff, shaking his
head. “It’s hard to believe that he could be comin’ back now. He
probably never buried that money nowhar, but took it, an’ spent it, an’
this buried treasure tale is all poppycock.”

“I remember ol’ Sheriff Moore tellin’ me years ago, afore he died, about
that case,” said Shorty. “He had a lot more details he didn’t write
down. He was a pore writer. But I distinctly recalls that one reason
they always thought Brofman had buried the dough around Monte somewhars
was because he borrowed railroad fare from the station agent the night
he left on the Fairplay train, an’ las’ trace they ever had o’ him was
whar he mooched a meal in Alma, way over in the South Park district.”

Sheriff Cook nodded.

“Waal, mebbe so,” he remarked softly. “Ef he comes we’ll nail him,
Shorty; we’ll nail him darned quick! An’ we might force him to kinda
explain about that haunted house, too. Guess it is haunted all right—fer
I remember the ol’-timers sayin’ that even Brofman hisself was kinda
scared o’ livin’ in it prior to his disappearance, an’ the theory always
was that they must have been a murder committed in it, years ago.”

“That’s the belief,” said Shorty.

But the catching of Jefferies Brofman, once the respected secretary and
treasurer of the Squaw Mountain Mining Co., was no easy job, it soon
developed. In the first place, those who had known Jefferies Brofman in
his dapper days of thirty years before, had either died, moved away, or
had forgotten just what the man had looked like. There were no known
pictures of Brofman in existence. That fact had hampered the sheriff of
that time in sending out proper circulars for him. Not one of the old
circulars which had given Brofman’s description remained on file in the
sheriff’s office, it was found. The Squaw Mountain Mining Co., operating
on a shoestring anyway, had failed after the theft of the money and the
disappearance of Brofman; and though the county court awarded the
company the Brofman home and its furnishings, they never took possession
of the haunted house, and it had been left to the ravages of time.

The house, a great mansion of red sandstone, two stories and attic, with
a large stable in the rear, was on Gopher Hill, just above the railroad
yards. For years after the mysterious disappearance of Jefferies Brofman
it had been the nightly rendezvous of tramps. At some times of the year
the place fairly swarmed with them and they became a nuisance. Shortly
after Sheriff Cook and Shorty McKay had gone into office, however, the
tramps disappeared from the “haunted house,” scared away, it was
whispered, by the return of the dormant ghost to roam the bleak old
mansion.

There were those in Monte Vista, of course, who laughed at the idea of
the place being haunted. But even the most skeptical had been convinced
in time, for any one with good ears, approaching the house at midnight,
could hear the clanking of chains through the upper rooms. Tramps
shunned the place entirely now. It was known, and dreaded apparently, by
every hobo in the West. Bats came to be its only occupants. The sheriff,
in laying his plans to capture Jefferies Brofman on his return—if he did
return—considered the old house carefully.

“Shorty,” he said, two days after the Brofman matter had been first
discussed, “I been thinkin’ this Brofman case over kinda careful. Ef
that bird returns we ain’t gonna have no cinch knowin’ him, seein’ we
ain’t got no description o’ him. Ol’ Grandma Ames is about the only one
who kin remember a blessed thing about him, seein’ he was once engaged
to her daughter, Sally Ann Ames, who later eloped to Denver with a hoss
doctor. Missus Ames says Brofman was a lovely gent, havin’ a kind look
in his eye, curly hair, an’ bein’ fond o’ readin’ Shakespeare out loud
on winter evenin’s—but she don’t remember the color o’ his eyes nor
hair, or whether he was tall or fat or what. She says he wasn’t afraid
o’ nuthin’; that once he nearly died with scarlet fever; an’ he liked
pancakes somethin’ awful, havin’ almost et her outta house an’ home when
he was there a-courtin’ her.”

“A lotta help that is!” muttered Shorty.

“Yeah, so without us havin’ nuthin’ to go on I figger we got to do two
things—one, watch the incomin’ trains; an’ two, keep a eye on that
Chipmonk Gulch between here an’ Squaw Mountain.”

“Why Chipmonk Gulch?” asked Shorty.

“Common sense,” said the sheriff. “Ef he took that money from the minin’
company safe up Squaw Mountain, as we know he did, whar would ’a’ been a
sweller place to ditch it—to cache it—than in one o’ those twenty
million caves along Chipmonk Gulch? A army never could search ’em all—a
lot o’ folks has searched in vain—but ef we see a strange hombre pokin’
around thar now we kin safely bet that he may be Brofman, come back to
git his loot.”

“I don’t think much o’ that idea,” said Shorty, “because——”

“Never mind addin’ insult to injury,” said the sheriff; “o’ course yuh
don’t think much o’ the plan, seein’ it’s my plan. But them’s my orders,
an’ yuh’ll carry ’em out. I want yuh to meet the airly mawnin’ train
from Alamosa each day, an’ the afternoon train from Salida each day,
inspectin’ any suspicious passenger as gits off here; further, at least
a coupla times a day take a ride through Chipmonk Gulch. I’ll ride
through it a coupla times a day, too. Further, I’ll keep tab on the
livery barns fer hombres ridin’ in here on hossback; an’ I’ll keep a eye
on the ol’ works at Squaw Mountain—see?”

“Yeah!” said Shorty, without enthusiasm.

The next day Shorty failed to report for duty, sending word that he was
sick in bed. When the second day found Shorty still in bed, the sheriff
hustled out to his house, and found Eddie Owens, the druggist, there.
Eddie answered the sheriff’s questions.

“Shorty, he’s a purty sick boy. Has a high fever, away up over 104 las’
time I took it. He has chills, too. An’ he is jus’ exhausted completely.
He’s been outta his haid, sheriff. We has had one awful time with him
but we think that he is comin’ around now.”

“What has he got?”

“Chicken pox mebbe, or it might be colic,” said the druggist; “yuh never
kin tell how these diseases act. It could be mumps. He ain’t coughin’,
so it couldn’t be whooping cough. I wish it was. I got a dandy remedy
fer it. However——”

“Has Shorty seen a doctor, Eddie?”

“He’s seen me. I’m a druggist—ain’t that enough?”

The sheriff backed off. No use in offending Eddie Owens, who was high in
Monte Vista politics and who might prove annoying to the sheriff if the
latter wasn’t careful. The sheriff went away, grumbling, without having
seen Shorty. Eddie had declared that Shorty was asleep and could not be
disturbed. The sheriff, therefore, met the early train from Alamosa,
likewise the late train from Salida, and also he rode up and down
Chipmonk Gulch, keeping his eyes peeled; kept tab on the livery barns
for stray wayfarers, and managed to check up on the abandoned mining
property on Squaw Mountain. He repeated his tedious routine daily as
Shorty failed to return, but there was no trace of the elusive Jefferies
Brofman. The fugitive did not appear.

The sheriff dragged into town and met the late train on the fifth day of
Shorty’s illness. No suspicious character alighted. The sheriff went to
Shorty’s home, and this time he was able to see the patient. Shorty was
in bed, having just awakened from a long sleep. He shook hands limply
with his superior.

“Howdy, boss.”

“How yuh feelin’, Shorty?”

“Better,” said the patient, pulling the bedclothes round him, but the
sheriff, frowning, bent over the bed. He stared at Shorty in amazement.
Shorty pulled the covers closer.

“What in heck, Shorty, yuh got yuhr clothes on in bed?”

“I been delirious,” mumbled Shorty vaguely.

“Waal, I declare!”

The sheriff went away, shaking his head. Shorty was in a bad way
apparently. The sheriff noticed that fully two dozen bottles—all
empty—stood on the little table near Shorty’s bed. The poor boy had
evidently been trying everything that Eddie Owens, the druggist,
suggested. The sheriff shivered in apprehension.

“Owens had a big early autumn sale o’ household remedies,” recollected
the sheriff; “an’ I’ll bet he palmed off a lot o’ that ol’ junk on
Shorty. To-morrow, by golly, I send Doc Healey over to see the pore boy,
no matter what anybody thinks o’ it!”

But Fate ruled otherwise. The sheriff, after a light supper—he was too
weary to eat much—retired, but not for long. A pistol shot soon brought
him upright in bed, and when the second shot echoed through the night
the sheriff was at his bedroom window. He saw the flashes of the third
and fourth shots almost before he heard the reports. The flashes were
across the railroad tracks, fairly well up Gopher Hill and close to the
haunted house. The sheriff hurriedly lit a lamp and pulled on his
clothes, growling a worried explanation to his wife as he dressed.

“Something wrong up the hill, ma. I gotta go see—some one hurt mebbe.
Thar’s a heap o’ shootin’. Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon as I kin.
Mebbe it was jus’ firecrackers—left over from the Fourth. I’ll jus’ take
a look around fer a few minnits.”

The sheriff, stepping out into the night, had his gun in his right hand.
He knew that the reports he heard and the flashes of flame he had seen
did not come from exploding firecrackers. He advanced carefully down
through the bushes toward the railroad track. A light blinked in the
depot a quarter of a mile away, but the drowsy operator there had either
not heard the shooting or else had been afraid to venture out. The
sheriff wondered what time it was, and if the eleven o’clock Denver
freight had gone through. But he plodded on, crossed the tracks, and
started up Gopher Hill, determined to investigate fully.

“Them flashes were danged near the ol’ haunted house,” he grunted, as he
picked his way along. “I ain’t hankerin’ to get too near that confounded
place—but dog-gone it all, ghosts don’t shoot revolvers! Danged funny,
that shootin’ up here this time o’ night.”

A shadow rose out of a bush just ahead of the sheriff.

“Careful thar!” cried the sheriff, who had not been taken by surprise.
“I got a gun on yuh—whoever yuh are. What’s the idear o’ all this racket
an’ raisin’ Cain up here, eh?”

The sheriff advanced cautiously. The shadow, taking the form of a man
with lifted hands, answered.

“Nuthin’. Who are yuh?”

“I’m the sheriff,” said Cook, poking closer to his quarry; “an’ I might
ask who are yuh, brother?”

“Aw, I’m jus’ a bo,” exclaimed the stranger wearily. “I was tired an’ I
drapped off that freight through here a hour ago. I thought I’d flop in
this ol’ house but somebody kept disturbin’ me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, makin’ a lot o’ noise. So finally I got kinda scared, an’ I beat
it; but I took a coupla shots.”

“A lot o’ good them shots did yuh!” said the sheriff, in a hushed tone.
“That’s a haunted house, man, an’ tramps generally avoid it as they does
work. Yuh heard chains rattlin’, mebbe?”

“Yes—sounded like that; but I ain’t scared o’ no ghost, ef that’s what
it is. I’ll go back thar an’ flop.”

The sheriff put a detaining hand on the man’s arm.

“Don’t be foolish,” said the sheriff. “They say that joint has been
queer fer years. I don’t want no more shootin’, an’ yuh kin find a place
down the hill to sleep.”

“I gotta bum foot,” whined the man, “an’ I planned to lay over here
coupla days. Don’t mind me, I’m sorry I disturbed yuh——”

“Don’t either o’ yuh move or I shoot!” came a sudden sharp warning from
behind a tree not five feet from where the sheriff and the tramp stood.
The hobo almost jumped out of his skin, but the sheriff, scared as he
was, recognized the voice.

“Shorty! What in thunder——”

“Oh, that yuh, sheriff?”

“Yes. What in holy smoke——”

“Nuthin’,” said Shorty, stepping out from behind the tree. “I was jus’
up here ketchin’ a breath o’ fresh air, an’ I heard yuh two fellers
talkin’, so I came along to investigate.”

“Yuh’re delirious, Shorty!” cried the sheriff. “Yuh up here ketchin’
some fresh air at this time o’ night! Yuh’ll ketch yuhr death o’ cold
instead, that’s what! Yuh’ve been in bed five days with a high fever,
an’ here yuh’re foolin’ around in the cool air! Yuh’d better skip fer
home, Shorty, right now.”

“Aw, in a minnit. Who is yuhr friend here, boss?”

“A tramp, Shorty. Yuh better start fer home——”

“A tramp, eh?” said Shorty. “Oh, sure, I remembers him now. He was in
the haunted house, a-prowlin’ all around.”

“Was yuh thar, Shorty?” asked the amazed sheriff.

“Oh, sure, I was prowlin’ around thar, too. I guess mebbe I kinda scared
the gent here. Anyway, he ran out an’ took a coupla sets o’ shots at the
house as he blowed——”

The sheriff interrupted.

“Shorty, yuh’re delirious. Yuh prowlin’ around that cold ol’ house, sick
as yuh are! Yuh go on home right now.”

“Yeah,” said Shorty, “I’ll go home directly, but fust I gotta painful
duty to perform, boss. I gotta tell yuhr friend thar that I puts him
under arrest. Oh, keep yuhr hands up, brother, I got yuh covered nice.
Here, let me slip the bracelets on yuh. That’s the ticket! Now we’re off
fer jail——”

“Wait a minnit,” interposed Sheriff Cook. “I don’t git this, Shorty;
this man is jus’ a tramp.”

“Oh, sure,” said Shorty, “but he’s the man I jus’ scared outta the
haunted house! He’s the fust tramp that has had nerve to go in thar in a
long time. I oughter know. I keep purty close tab on it. Yuh see, when
we took office, boss, yuh told me to keep the tramps outta the ol’
rendezvous, an’ I figgered I would have to stay up every night o’ the
year to do that ef I didn’t work out a better scheme, so I got some ol’
trace chains an’ I entered the ol’ house by a tunnel from the big barn
in the rear, an’ I’d walk around the upper floor, draggin’ an’ jinglin’
the chains, an’ purty soon tramps quit comin’ thar.”

“Yuh mean yuh was the ghost, Shorty?” cried the amazed sheriff.

“Yes—jus’ that; an’ I ain’t sick neither, boss. That sick business was
all a sham to give me time to work at nights. I been workin’ the last
five nights, waitin’ up here in the haunted house fer a visitor. I
couldn’t see yuhr idear o’ ketchin’ Jefferies Brofman at the station,
seein’ we didn’t know him; an’ I couldn’t figger why the bird would ’a’
hid anything in Chipmonk Gulch ef he had a big house like he did an’
could o’ buried it deep in the basement an’ no one likely to disturb him
or ever find it. I figgered ef Brofman ever did come back, he’d come
back to the haunted house—an’ he did!”

“What?”

“Yeah—that’s Brofman thar with my handcuffs on him. I caught him
to-night as he was diggin’ in the basement with a shovel an’ usin’ a
shrouded lantern fer light. He ran as I come along jinglin’ my chains
an’ I scared him so bad he lost his haid an’ took a few shots at me.
Later, I guess—as I heard him tell yuh—he decided he’d stick around a
few days an’ git a chance at the buried loot ag’in. Brofman, whatever
made yuh bury that loot in the fust place?”

The shadow answered readily, in a sad voice:

“I dunno. I was scared. Yuh see, I built the house expectin’ to marry
Sally Ann Ames. She jilted me. I stole the money later, after careful
plannin’. It was all in silver an’ too heavy fer me to git away then. I
had planned to return later—in a year or two—to git it. I had started
the ghost story about the place purposely beforehand to keep folks away.
I buried the stuff deep—away down seven feet or more—whar I knowed it
would be safe. I got to Denver, got in a little jam thar, an’ went to
the pen—fer murder—fer life. I jus’ got paroled a coupla weeks ago.”

Sheriff Cook cleared his throat.

“I guess yuh’ll go back to the pen fer robbery purty soon, Brofman,”
said the sheriff, “an’ ef I had my say I’d send Eddie Owens, a druggist,
along with yuh. It’s bad enough to have yuhr own deputy fibbin’ to yuh
an’ puttin’ one over on yuh, but to have a dog-gone druggist pullin’ the
wool over yuhr eyes at the same time is jus’ too much! Eddie tellin’ me
Shorty was bad sick an’ recountin’ all the diseases he might have! Kin
yuh imagine that, Mister Brofman, an’ me fallin’ fer the whole
bamboozle?”

Brofman did not answer. His thoughts were elsewhere.


[Notes on the Text: This story appeared in _Western Story Magazine_,
September 14, 1929. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RATTLING CHAINS ***


    

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