J.M.J.

Author's note: Hope you're all having a great weekend! Thanks for reading! Thank you in particular to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: Rose12, Drumboy100, angelicalkiss, and Cherylann Rivers.

Chapter V

Late that afternoon, Nancy was in her bedroom, lying full-length on her bed. Over a week of insufficient sleep was taking its toll on her, and she had her eyes closed to rest them, but for all of that, she was far from being asleep. She was still going over the cases in her mind, though her tired brain was now fixated on the fact that the robbers had broken their pattern by shooting Ross Regor. Criminals hardly ever broke their patterns unless they had a good reason. If Regor hadn't had a gun himself, what could have their reason been?

Her mind was getting in a rut of thinking the same thing over and over without making any progress on it when someone knocked on the door. Nancy didn't even have time to sit up and invite the person in before the door was flung open and Frances stood in the doorway.

"Er, hello," Nancy said a bit uncertainly.

"I have to talk to you." Frances's voice was shaky and she had to take several deep breaths to steady it. "My father told me that you think the stagecoach robbers also robbed the bank and shot poor Mr. Regor."

"That's right," Nancy confirmed.

"Why are you interfering in this?" Frances burst out. "What do you know about tracking down outlaws? You're only going to end up hurting innocent people if you don't just let things be. My father has always done just fine as sheriff without you meddling where you don't belong."

"I don't understand," Nancy replied, although she had a sneaking suspicion she might. "What innocent people are you worried about? Those stagecoach robbers are hardly innocent."

"Well, they haven't killed anyone before," Frances pointed out, just a little bit sulkily.

"They still haven't, as long as Mr. Regor doesn't die."

"Right, of course." Frances took a few more breaths as she tried to collect herself. "It's just the bank robbery wasn't like the other robberies recently. If you jump to the conclusion that the same people are responsible with no proof, you might accuse someone who is completely innocent next time."

"I do have proof," Nancy assured her. "Believe me, one thing a good detective never does is jump to conclusions."

"What proof?"

Nancy explained about the silver heart pendant from the white horse's bridle. Rather than looking reassured, Frances looked even more concerned.

"That doesn't really prove anything," she protested. "It could have been dropped some other time."

"I doubt that, since it would have had to be since Friday. That outlaw probably doesn't bring that horse into town unless he's planning on robbing someone in town."

Frances had grown pale at Nancy's first description of the pendant, and now Nancy almost thought she swayed as if she was about to faint.

"I have to go clear my head," she said and hurried away.

Nancy got up and followed her at a discreet distance. Frances fled to the stable and a few minutes later rode away on her horse. Her behavior had been too strange to ignore, so Nancy decided to follow her.

She saddled up Bob, the bay that she had ridden the day before, and took off after Frances. At first, Nancy was afraid that she might not be able to follow her trail as Frances was already out of sight, but she went in the same direction and before long spotted Frances galloping ahead of her. She held back so that Frances wouldn't realize she was being followed.

Eventually, Frances stopped beside a scraggly tree and glanced around her. Nancy hid behind a large rock just in time. Frances took something out of her pocket and placed it under a stone next to the tree. Then, with a last glance around, she rode off again.

Nancy waited until she was out of sight and then rode down to the tree and picked up the object that Frances had left. It was an envelope with a single name written on it: Dirk. Nancy hesitated for a moment, torn between her conscience which told her to put the envelope back and her detective instinct which told her to read the contents. Then she noticed that Frances had evidently forgotten to seal the envelope. That seemed a good enough compromise, Nancy decided, and she slipped the letter out.

It was short and to the point:

Dearest Dirk,

I have to speak to you at once. I'll meet you at your hiding place early tomorrow. Please be there!

Love,

Frances

Nancy folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. Frances' odd behavior was beginning to make sense now.

NDNDNDNDND

The sun didn't set until late that time of year, although it began getting cooler, and so Frank and Joe found a place outside to talk about the case thus far. Several of the cowboys were also taking advantage of the few hours of bearable temperatures and were sitting around a campfire that they had built. One of them, a little fellow named Terry who was only about five-foot-one (he generally insisted on rounding up to five-foot-two since he "had his doubts" about the accuracy of his measurements), was playing his guitar and the soft strains of "Jeanie with the Light-Brown Hair" made a strangely sleepy background for the Hardys' discussion.

"I hate to ask this," Joe said in a very low voice, not wanting to be overheard by any of the men, "but do you think we can trust Nancy? I like her well enough, but we don't know anything about her."

Frank happened to be holding a stick and he traced an unintelligible line in the dry dirt before he answered. "As far as the murder goes, I'm almost certain we can. I mean, obviously she couldn't be the murderer, since she had just arrived on the stagecoach. The only possible reason we couldn't trust her on that one would be if someone she knows is the murderer and she decides to try to protect him."

"Oh, I don't think she had anything to do with the murder," Joe said. "I was talking more about the land dispute. What if she's trying to learn things from us that her father could use in the lawsuit against Cousin Ruth? If she's any good as a detective, she ought to know how to get information for people without them realizing it."

"And if we're any good as detectives, we ought to be able to tell when someone is trying to pump us," Frank pointed out. "Anyway, I'd rather focus on the murder and the robberies than the land dispute. I mean, you know as well as I do why Dad insists on being 'neutral' about it."

Joe nodded with a faint grin. "Because he thinks Cousin Ruth is wrong but he doesn't want to openly say that until he knows it beyond a doubt."

"Exactly," Frank agreed. "Personally, I think Cousin Ruth is wrong, too. Even if her cows wander onto that property now and again, it's not like she's really getting anything out of it."

"Not to mention that if the whole delay is going to cause Morgan to back out of the sale, Cousin Ruth won't get anything out of it even if she does win the lawsuit." Joe rest his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. "What I want to know is why Morgan just offered to buy the land for so much more than it's worth rather than just ask Sheriff Humber if he could do his archaeology stuff there. I'm sure Humber would have let him."

"That is strange," Frank said. "I think just the two of us should go up to Shadow Mountain the first chance we get and try to figure it out. We can take our time and maybe learn something about the murder, too."

At that moment, one of the cowhands walked past, and overhearing the last part of Frank's statement, he stopped. His name was Pymatuno, and he was from one of the Zuni Indian tribe in New Mexico. Why he had come to Arizona to work as a cowhand, he didn't say.

"Excuse me," he said. His English was perfect. "I didn't mean to listen to your conversation, but I heard you mention the murder. I've been wondering about it all day since we realized Mason was missing. Have you learned who the victim was yet?"

"Not yet," Frank told him. "Hank and Cousin Ruth are going to go into town tomorrow to see if they can identify him."

"I hope it isn't Mason," Pymatuno said. "He's a good man. Still, I don't know of any other reason why he would be gone for so long."

Terry, the guitarist cowboy, had in the meantime switched from the wistful tone of "Jeanie with the Light-Brown Hair" to the rollicking tune of "Sweet Betsy from Pike".

…They fought with the Indians with musket and ball;

They reached California in spite of it all.

Sing tu-rally…

Hank, the foreman, approached the group around the campfire for the first time. "Cut out that yammering, Terry. You shouldn't ought to be playing songs like that of a Sunday."

Terry stopped abruptly. "You're right," he said with a mischievous grin. "A hymn would be much more appropriate." He rearranged his fingers on the strings and then started belting out a new tune:

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;

He is tram…

He got no further before Hank grabbed the guitar out of his hands and bellowed, "You stop singing that Yankee trash before I break your guitar over your head!"

Terry jumped to his feet. "I can play whatever I want. There's no need to be such a sore loser just because your side lost."

Hank shot his fist out, but Terry was as agile as he was small and he ducked out of the way. Frank jumped up and hurried forward to get between the two of them before any more blows could be exchanged.

"Look here!" Frank said. "There's no need for fighting. It's just a song."

Hank glared at him and then unexpectedly spit on his boot. "You'd change your tune pretty fast if was 'Dixie' he was playing, Yankee."

"No, I wouldn't," Frank insisted.

"Come on, Hank," one of the other cowhands, a man named Pete, said. "Let's not fight the Civil War over again. I had enough of it the first time around. Anyhow, Terry's half your size and Frank's half your age. The two of them together wouldn't be a match for you."

Terry clenched his fists. "I can reach just fine to punch him in the nose, the dirty reb."

"You've been spoiling for a fight, haven't you, boy?" Hank held up his own fists again.

It might have come to blows again, and Frank may or may not have joined himself, rankled in his soul as he was by Pete's implication that he wouldn't be able to stand up to Hank. However, the fight was stopped before it was begun when Ruth Hardy came out of the house and demanded in no uncertain terms that there wasn't to be any fighting.

Hank tossed Terry's guitar on the ground and slunk away. Terry picked it up, along with his hat which had fallen off when he had ducked Hank's blow and stalked off with somewhat more dignity.

Joe relaxed. Half of him had almost hoped that it would come to blows so that he'd have an excuse to jump in and prove that Western men didn't have the coin on fighting, but the more reasonable half of him didn't want Hank to have any more reason for hating him and Frank.

"After ten years, you'd think they'd be over it by now," Joe observed, feeling the need to say something, even if he didn't necessarily believe what he was saying.

Pymatuno shook his head. "Losing your way of life isn't an easy thing to just get over."

Joe glanced at him. "I guess you're right."

Then Pymatuno straightened up and set his jaw. "Still, like in all other instances, the easy thing isn't the courageous thing. The sooner we all just accept each other as neighbors, the better off we'll be."

An idea struck Joe. "Do you know if Mason was a Southerner or a Northerner?"

"A Southerner," Pymatuno told him. "But he took it better than some I could mention."

"Interesting." Joe bit his lip thoughtfully as a whole new possible motive for the murder occurred to him.

NDNDNDNDND

The sun hadn't risen yet the next morning and Nancy, Bess, and George were waiting behind the chicken coop for Frances to put in an appearance. Nancy had told them about the letter she had read and her suspicion that Frances was carrying on a love affair with one of the outlaws.

"It's much more romantic than anything I would have thought Frances was capable of," Bess was saying. "From your description of that one outlaw, it would be hard for anyone not to fall in love with him."

George glanced toward the sky with a "Heaven, help us"-type expression.

"It explains a lot," Nancy said. "Frances' habit of sneaking off, her not wanting me to investigate, her outburst yesterday, even her coldness toward her father."

"I was wondering even before this if she was sneaking off to meet a man," Bess went on. She sighed. "I had no idea that it was this romantic."

"If you say the word 'romantic' on more time," George began, but she dropped the treat abruptly when Dave Gregory approached the group.

"Morning, ladies," he greeted them. He would have hurried on his way, but George stopped him.

"Wait. I've been wanting to talk to you. About the other day."

Dave shifted his feet and looked at the ground. "No explaining necessary, ma'am."

"I wasn't going to explain," George told him. "I wanted to ask you if you told anybody."

"Only Miss Marvin," Dave said, looking a little confused.

"Oh, George, you'd think it was some kind of terrible secret," Bess interjected. "I might have mentioned it to Aunt Bet, not that it's a big thing."

"Wait a moment, Mr. Gregory," Nancy requested. "We're planning on riding back up to Shadow Mountain at some point, but we need to learn exactly where you found that body."

Dave started. "You'd better not go up there, Miss Drew. Is that where you're going now?"

"No," Nancy told him. "At least, I don't think so. But why shouldn't we go up there? Surely, the murderer isn't still up there?"

Dave sighed. "Sheriff said you were some kind of detective. Are you waiting here for Miss Humber?"

Now it was Nancy's turn to be surprised. "You must be a detective yourself."

"Hardly," Dave told her, "but I'm afraid I might know who the murderer is, and if you're planning on following Miss Humber, you're going to walk right into him."

"You'd better explain," Nancy said.

"Well…" Dave put his hands on his hips and shook his head as he looked at the ground. "I didn't want to say anything because I didn't know for sure. I…no. I've been trying to decide what to do. I think Miss Humber's beau is an outlaw."

"That's nothing new," George said.

"You knew about that?" Dave asked.

"We don't know anything much for sure ourselves," Nancy told him. "We know that Frances is going to meet with someone named Dirk early this morning and we think he might be an outlaw. What makes you think he is?"

"Miss Humber not wanting to tell anybody about him, for one thing," Dave said. "And that I've seen him hiding up by the cliff houses for another. That also makes me wonder if he's the one who killed that fellow."

"Then why haven't you told the sheriff about it?" George asked.

Dave hesitated. "I didn't want the sheriff to get the wrong idea about me. I wouldn't even know Miss Humber had a beau if I hadn't been following her one day."

"Why were you following her?" Nancy asked.

"I expect for the same reason you are," Dave said. "I suspected she was up to something. Then I saw her riding near Shadow Mountain one day. I followed her, and she met with a man. I figured it was none of my business, so I didn't say anything. Then Miss Humber caught me 'spying' on them the other day. Thursday, the day before the murder. I just stumbled on them by accident, I swear. Miss Humber told that if I told her father, she'd deny every word and say that I…" He paused. "Well, she'd make sure I got fired, anyway. I can't afford to lost this job, especially not if I lose my reputation along with it. That is, if the sheriff doesn't just put me in jail or shoot me instead of just firing me."

"That should be avoided if we can manage it," Nancy told him as an understatement. "We want to have a talk with Frances' beau. Do you want to come with us?"

"I think I'd better, if I can't convince you not to go," Dave replied. "You got horses saddled?"

"Saddled and ready," Nancy said.

"Then I'd better go saddle mine," Dave said and headed off in the direction of the stable.

"What if it turns out he is the murderer?" Bess asked in a low voice. "Maybe he just wants to get us out in the desert alone so he can kill us, too."

"You're the one who was saying what a nice fellow he was the other day," George reminded her.

"Yeah, but I could be wrong," Bess pointed out. "You're the one who's always telling me I need to be more suspicious of handsome men."

"I think we can trust Mr. Gregory," Nancy said. "At the very least, I doubt he's planning on murdering us."

"I'd still feel better if we at least took Mr. Hernandez along," Bess insisted.

"Not when we're spying on his boss's daughter," Nancy said. "If we're wrong and we let too many people in on our suspicions, we could really do Frances some harm."

"That's true," Bess admitted.

Dave returned a few minutes later. The four of them waited until Frances emerged from the house, went to the stable, and rode away on her horse. Nancy and her companions waited a few more minutes before they retrieved their own horses and followed her. They kept their distance since they were already fairly sure where she was headed, although there wasn't much chance of her noticing them following her in the very first glimmerings of light. Sure enough, she headed straight up Shadow Mountain.

Her followers shortened the distance hurriedly then since they suspected she was near the end of her ride and they wanted to miss as little of the meeting as possible. Even so, by the time they reached the cliff houses, they could already hear Frances and a man talking to each other.

Dawn was casting its first pale light as they crept closer and caught their first glimpse of Frances and her lover. There could be no doubt now that that was exactly what he was. Frances had let her long, dark hair down and she was wrapped in his arms as they shared a long, passionate kiss.

Nancy and her companions took a step back in discomfiture. Of course, they should have expected to walk in on just such a scene, but it came as a surprise nonetheless. They all stepped behind one of the walls while they tried to decide the best way to handle the situation.

It was several minutes before they heard the low voices of the lovers talking urgently again.

"I'm ready at any time, Dirk," Frances was saying. "We can go anywhere you say. I don't care. It's our only chance."

"I know, but I do care," Dirk told her. "I want better for you than that. Then there's the other men. I can't just leave them."

"Why not?" Frances demanded.

"They wouldn't last without me," Dirk said. "It's getting hard enough to keep them under control as it is. Without anyone to guide them, they'll never make it on their own."

Frances was silent for a moment or two. "But you have kept them under control, haven't you?"

"Of course," Dirk assured her. "Why would you ask that?"

Frances hesitated. "That Nancy Drew I told you about thinks that you and the others are the ones who robbed the bank yesterday and shot Mr. Regor."

"What?" Dirk asked. Nancy thought his surprise sounded a little forced, but she could have just been hearing what she wanted to hear. "I hadn't even heard that that had happened yet. I'd like to talk to this Nancy Drew."

That seemed as good a cue as any. Nancy nodded to her companions and they stepped out in full view of Dirk and Frances. Dave made sure to step in front of the girls with his gun drawn.

"I'd like to talk to you, too," Nancy said.

"You!" Frances shouted and jumped in front of Dirk as if she expected Dave to gun him down then and there.

"Who are you?" Dirk demanded, gently pushing Frances out of the way so that he could step forward.

"Nancy Drew," Nancy introduced herself and then her companions. She paused, not sure what would be the best way to proceed. "Thank you for giving us some water before you left us stranded in the desert."

"Right. The girl from the stagecoach." Dirk sighed. "You recognized me? Then you must be the one who gave those descriptions on those wanted posters all over town."

"Where are your friends?" Dave asked.

Dirk shrugged. "I wouldn't know. As you can see, I was planning to meet my girl, not get ambushed."

"Nancy, you can't do this," Frances wailed. "Bess, surely you understand. Don't forget what I'm going to tell my father, Dave."

"I think he'll find it a lot less convincing if we haul in the beau himself," Dave pointed out.

"We're going to have to take you in to the sheriff, Mr.…?" Nancy said.

Dirk wasn't wearing a gun belt, and he could see that escape wasn't possible. Even so, he held himself proudly as he said, "Valentine. The name's Dirk Valentine. At least now I can let you all know that."

Frances was in tears. "Please, he's never hurt anyone. Just let him go and we'll leave."

"We can't do that," Nancy told her, not without feeling a little sorry. "We've got to take him in."

NDNDNDNDND

Ned Nickerson was back in the newspaper office first thing on Monday morning. Despite the previous day being Sunday, he had worked hard to get the wanted posters printed and posted around town. Now he had to get the weekly edition of the Dry Creek Gazette ready to print. It was more of a journal than a newspaper, with both his parents, James and Edith, and sometimes himself writing editorials, book reviews, and bits of poetry to supply against the lack of news. There weren't many in Dry Creek who were interested in reading that sort of thing, though they all always bought the paper as a matter of habit.

It was before six in the morning, and there were very few people up and about in town. Even Ned's parents were at home, probably still asleep, and he was in the office alone. He was in the back room, making some adjustments to the printing press, when he heard the bell above the front door jangle to announce a visitor. With mild annoyance at the interruption so early in the morning, he wiped his hands and came out to see who was there. He froze when he saw that it was two men with bandanas over their faces.

"Hey, newspaper boy," one of them growled, "where's the owner of this paper? This 'J. Nickerson'?"

"He's not here," Ned told him. "What do you want?"

The one who hadn't yet spoken held up one of the wanted posters that the sheriff had ordered. "Information. Who gave you this description?"

Ned swallowed hard. "You'll have to ask the sheriff about that. I only printed what he told me to."

"Oh, you printed it," the man replied. "Then you ought to know who gave the description."

There was a knot in Ned's stomach as he wondered just what the next few minutes would bring. Still, he made up his mind that he wasn't go to tell these men anything, and, if possible, he would mislead them. "He…er, the person gave it to the sheriff."

"'He', huh?" the masked man said. "Then you know exactly who it was. I want you to give him a message. Retract those descriptions or he's going to get hurt."

"Then they must be accurate descriptions," Ned said with more courage than prudence.

"You don't listen so well, newspaper boy," the first outlaw said. "Maybe we'd better make sure you remember to give that message."

He and his companion took a step forward. Ned involuntarily reached for the doorknob behind him, but his unguided hand couldn't find it. He felt his breath come out in a harsh rush and he realized that seat was on his brow. Then he made his decision. If he couldn't avoid what was about to happen, then at least he'd try to fight back.