by Wilder Anthony
Detective Story Magazine 1917-01-05
Sheriff Parker crooked one leg around the horn of his saddle and let his horse graze while he rolled a cigarette. From the top of the grassy knoll, the hazy Bear Claw Range shimmered fifty miles ahead, the prairie rolling in brown waves cut by green fields and shining ditches.
He wasted no time looking toward Elktooth City behind him. His work lay ahead — the trail of cattle rustlers that had infested the county. For days he had ridden the dun-colored plains, and now his search led him to Jim Carroll’s ranch, a small red house by a clump of cottonwoods near a creek.
Half a mile before the ranch, Parker stopped. Between the trail and a huge alkali spring stretched a mass of black, moving sand, shimmering under the sun like a restless sea. They called it “the Sinking Sand,” and it had swallowed horses, cattle — even men. Shivering slightly, Parker touched his horse and rode on.
When he reached Carroll’s porch, everything was silent. The door stood wide open.
Inside — a table still set for a meal, flies rising, a silent cat in the kitchen, no sign of life.
He stepped to the barn. A young colt stamped nervously, and just inside the door lay the body of a stout man, arms spread, eyes staring.
Jim Carroll was dead.
At first glance it looked like a kick from the colt — until Parker found a small bullet hole through the man’s arm and chest.
The sheriff searched the loft — nothing. On Carroll’s desk he found papers — and one crude map, a crooked line marked “F.R.” and the word “dig.”
He studied it. “By George — ‘F.R.’ must mean Flat Rock, near the quicksand. He’s hidden something there.”
Evening fell; thunder rolled. Rain swept the prairie. Parker waited for the coroner, studying the map by lamplight.
Then — a sound on the porch.
Before he could move, something heavy fell over his head, and he was knocked down, bound hand and foot.
When the blanket was pulled away, a giant of a man stood over him, grinning.
“Startled you, eh? Campin’ here after killin’ poor Jim. Where’s the money?”
Parker protested, “You’ve made a mistake — I’m the sheriff.”
The big man laughed, stuffing a towel in his mouth and tying it tight. His eyes fell on the map; he grabbed it eagerly and ran out into the storm.
A car chugged up — the coroner. But as soon as he stepped inside, the giant struck from behind.
“Another one of you, eh?” he muttered, dragging the man aside.
“Carroll and I was pals. I shot him — had to. But the loot’s mine now. The quicksand was sure some hidin’ place.”
When he was gone, Parker chewed furiously at his gag, then saw — on the table — a long carving knife. After minutes of writhing, he knocked it down, cut his bonds, and freed himself. The coroner was stunned but alive. Parker took his revolver and ran out into the moonlight.
At the Sinking Sand, the murderer knelt on the trembling surface, digging with his bare hands. Parker watched silently from a low rise. The man gave a cry of triumph, pulling out a small bag, then turned to retreat along the narrow path.
Twenty feet. Twenty-five. Then — his right foot sank.
“It’s got me!” he screamed. “The sand has got me!”
He struggled madly, but the black waves rose to his waist, his shoulders. One last horrible shriek — and he was gone.
The surface heaved once, then lay smooth and waiting again.
Sheriff Parker stood still, shaken as from a bad dream, and walked back toward the ranch where the coroner, dazed, was sitting up and wondering what had happened.
(End)
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