houses crumbled now to dust. Once the mine had boomed and the crowd had come, they had built their homes here where the shafts sank deep, silver had fallen in price and the crowd had gone, leaving Petticoat Mine to the most deadly bombardment of all, the patient silent bombardment of the empty years.
They rode down Main Street, weaving in and out among black gaping holes that might have been made by bursting shells. Between the cracks of the sidewalks, thronged once on a Saturday night, grew patches of pale green basket grass. Of the "business blocks" but two remained, and one of these was listing with the wind.
"Cheery sight," remarked Eden.
"The building that's on the verge of toppling is the old Silver Star Saloon," said Holley. "The other one—it never will topple. They built it of stone—built it to stand—and they needed it, too, I guess. That's the old jail."
"The jail," Eden repeated.
Holley's voice grew cautious. "Is that a light in the Silver Star?"
"Seems to be," Eden answered. "Look here—we're at rather a disadvantage—unarmed, you know. I'll just stow away in the tonneau, and appear when needed. The element of surprise may make up for our lack of a weapon."
"Good idea," agreed Holley, and Eden climbed into the rear of the car and hid himself. They stopped before the Silver Star. A tall man appeared suddenly in the doorway, and walked briskly up to the flivver.
"Well, what do you want?" he asked, and Bob Eden thrilled to hear again the thin high voice of Shaky Phil Maydorf.
"Hello, stranger," said Holley. "This is a surprise. I thought old Petticoat was deserted."
"Company's thinking of opening up the mine soon," returned Maydorf. "I'm here to do a little assaying."
"Find anything?" inquired Holley casually.
"The silver's pretty well worked out. But there's copper in those hills to the left. You're a long way off the main road."
"I know that. I'm looking for a young woman who came up here this morning. Maybe you saw her."
"There hasn't been any one here for a week, except me."
"Really? Well, you may be mistaken. If you don't mind, I'll have a look round—"
"And if I do mind?" snarled Shaky Phil.
"Why should you—"
"I do. I'm alone here and I'm not taking any chances. You swing that car of yours around—"
"Now, wait a minute," said Holley. "Put away that gun. I come as a friend—"
"Yeah. Well, as a friend, you turn and beat it. Understand." He was close to the car. "I tell you there's nobody here—"
He stopped as a figure rose suddenly from the tonneau and fell upon him. The gun exploded, but harmlessly into the road, for Bob Eden was bearing down upon it, hard.
For a brief moment, there on that deserted street before the Silver Star, the two struggled desperately. Shaky Phil was no longer young, but he offered a spirited resistance. However, it was not prolonged, and by the time Holley had alighted, Bob Eden was on top and held Maydorf's weapon in his hand.
"Get up," the boy directed. "And lead the way. Give me your keys. There's a brand new lock on that jail door, and we have a yearning to see what's inside." Shaky Phil rose to his feet and looked helplessly about. "Hurry!" cried Eden. "I've been longing to meet you again, and I don't feel any too gentle. There's that forty-seven dollars—to say nothing of all the trouble you put me to the night the President Pierce docked in San Francisco."
"There's nothing in the jail," said Maydorf. "I haven't got the key—"
"Go through him, Holley," suggested the boy.
A quick search produced a bunch of keys, and Eden, taking them, handed Holley the gun. "I give old Shaky Phil into your keeping. If he tries to run, shoot him down like a rabbit."
He took the flashlight from the car and, going over, unlocked the outer door of the jail. Stepping inside, he found himself in what had once been a sort of office. The moonlight pouring in from the street fell upon a dusty desk and chair, an old safe, and a shelf with a few tattered books. On the desk lay a newspaper. He flashed his light on the date—only a week old.
At the rear were two heavy doors, both with new locks. Searching among his keys, he unlocked the one at the left. In a small, cell-like room with high barred windows his flashlight revealed the tall figure of a girl. With no great surprise he recognized Evelyn Madden. She came toward him swiftly. "Bob Eden!" she cried, and then, her old haughtiness gone, she burst into tears.
"There—there," said Eden. "You're all right now." Another girl appeared suddenly in the doorway—Paula Wendell, bright and smiling.
"Hello," she remarked calmly. "I rather thought you'd come along."
"Thanks for the ad," replied Eden. "Say, you might get hurt running about like this. What happened, anyhow?"
"Nothing much. I came up to look round and he"—she nodded to Shaky Phil in the moonlit street—"told me I couldn't. I argued it with him, and ended up in here. He said I'd have to stay overnight. He was polite, but firm."
"Lucky for him he was polite," remarked Eden grimly. He took the arm of Evelyn Madden. "Come along," he said gently. "I guess we're through here—"
He stopped. Some one was hammering on the inside of the second door. Amazed, the boy looked toward Paula Wendell.
She nodded. "Unlock it," she told him.
He unfastened the door and swinging it open, peered inside. In the semi-darkness he saw the dim figure of a man.
Eden gasped, and fell back against the desk for support.
"Ghost city!" he cried. "Well, that's what it is, all right."
Chapter XXI. End of the Postman's Journey
If Bob Eden had known the identity of the passenger in the taxi that he and Holley passed on their way to the mine, it is possible that, despite his concern for Paula Wendell, he would have turned back to Madden's ranch. But he drove on unknowing; nor did the passenger, though he stared with interest at the passing flivver, recognize Eden. The car from the Eldorado station went on its appointed way, and finally drew up before the ranch house.
The driver alighted and was fumbling with the gate, when his fare leaped to the ground.
"Never mind that," he said. "I'll leave you here. How much do I owe you?" He was a plump little man, about thirty-five years old, attired in the height of fashion and with a pompous manner. The driver named a sum and, paying him off, the passenger entered the yard. Walking importantly up to the front door of the house, he knocked loudly.
Madden, talking with Thorn and Gamble by the fire, looked up in annoyance. "Now who the devil—" he began. Thorn went over and opened the door. The plump little man at once pushed his way inside.
"I'm looking for Mr. P.J. Madden," he announced.
The millionaire rose. "All right—I'm Madden. What do you want?"
The stranger shook hands. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Madden. My name is Victor Jordan, and I'm one of the owners of those pearls you bought in San Francisco."
A delighted smile spread over Madden's face. "Oh—I'm glad to see you," he said. "Mr. Eden told me you were coming—"
"How could he?" demanded Victor. "He didn't know it himself."
"Well, he didn't mention you. But he informed me the pearls would be here at eight o'clock—"
Victor stared. "Be here at eight o'clock?" he repeated. "Say, just what has Bob Eden been up to down here, anyhow? The pearls left San Francisco a week ago, when Eden did."
"What!"