 Frontier Town, the saga of the Roaring West. Frontier Town, El Paso, Cheyenne, Calgary, Tombstone. Frontier Town, here is the adventurous story of the early west, the tamed and the untamed. From the Pekos to Powder River, Dodge City to Poker Flat. These are the towns they fought to live in and lived to fight for. Teaming crucibles of pioneer freedom. Frontier Town. This is Chad Remington, Frontier Lawyer from the Frontier Town called Osreas. I don't suppose I have to tell you what a Frontier Town is like with all of its roistering and brawling. But there are some folks to whom the occupation of a Frontier Lawyer sounds like a tame one. But believe you me it isn't. Out on the Frontier we seem to have trouble. Nothing but trouble. And when there's trouble, that's when folks go scampering and looking for a Frontier Lawyer. A Frontier Lawyer who not only has to know his Blackstone, but his Pinkerton, his Colt and his Winchester as well. Let me give you an idea. For the past few months, our particular section of the country has been plagued by a continuous series of stagecoach stick-ups. And they were all performed by a lone bandit. Who, wearing a mask cut from an Arbuckle coffee bag, had been given the name of the Arbuckle Kid. His system is the same and his attack never varies. Selecting an isolated, lonely spot along the stagecoach road, the Arbuckle Kid suddenly appears shotgun in hand and carefully takes up his position, couching under the near horse. The express box, please. Thank you. And now, get going. And with those few words, thank you, and now get going. The Arbuckle Kid straightens up from his crouching position, slaps the near horse on the rump and triggering his shotgun, sends the driver and his team off toward the nearest town in a cloud of dust. That particular holdup occurred close to the Mesquite at the bottom of Goldust Hill one Tuesday. Then early, the following Thursday morning, there was another coach holdup near the rocks just south of the Placer Town Bridge. And the Arbuckle Kid was heard from again. Good morning, the express box, please. Thank you. And now, get going. If you think that was quite normal, it was. But if you think that it wasn't strange, you're wrong. Because the scene of the first holdup, Goldust Hill and the scene of the second, the Placer Town Bridge, were almost 300 miles apart. Just how a man, even the Arbuckle Kid, covered that much distance, nobody seemed to know. But my partner, Cherokee O'Bannon, rode along with me when I joined the posse to see what we could find by completely covering every foot of ground within the radius of a mile each way from the Placer Town Bridge. Better rain up here, man. No sense crossing the bridge. Well, now that we've stopped on this side, Cherokee, perhaps you can tell us why when the holdup occurred on the other side of the bridge. The answer is very simple, counselor. That bridge crosses over something I never had, never will have any use for. Water. In that case, O'Bannon, you ought to do your hunting for the Arbuckle Kid back in New York State. They've got a town there called Rye. Well, if I had my choice in the matter, I'd do my hunting over in France. Isn't that where they got the House of Bourbon? I think we'll have to dispense with the whiskey and just concentrate making you into a chaser, Cherokee, because if somebody doesn't find there's Arbuckle... Hey, who's this coming? The blue blaze is Chad. I don't know who it is, but he certainly dressed like a stagecoach company driver. I'm sure glad I found you out here. What's the matter? What happened? Plenty happened. The upstage was just going past Little Draw on Quartz Hill when the Arbuckle Kid stepped out. I got free, blamed if he didn't strike again. It was. Three times in four days the Arbuckle Kid had stopped a stagecoach, and with the words the express box, please, had made off with another shipment of valuables. But Quartz Hill was 200 and some miles northeast of the Placetown Bridge. The Placetown Bridge where the Arbuckle Kid had robbed a stage not 18 hours earlier. Naturally, the passing broke up, and Cherokee and I returned to my office in Dos Rios, located over O'Bannon's famous livery stable. Now, Chad, you can take it from me. This is an absolute and complete mathematical impossibility. When it robbed those three coaches, the Arbuckle Kid would have to ride 207 miles a day. Yes, Cherokee. He would have had to ride 207 miles a day, except he didn't. Well, that's what I'm telling you. He couldn't have ridden that far. Even had he been astride the winged mythological horse known as Pegasus. But that's not the reason the Arbuckle Kid didn't ride that distance each day. Huh? What's that again? The Arbuckle Kid didn't ride that distance each day for the simple reason that the Arbuckle Kid doesn't ride a horse. Doesn't ride a... Well, bless my saint and aunt, Chad. You're right. Every driver who's ever seen the Arbuckle Kid says he's traveled a foot. So if he doesn't ride a horse, how could he... Wow. Look, who's coming up the stairs, Chad? Jim Baker. The head detective for the Rocky Mountain Stagecoach Company. Jim Baker? Well, this might mean a nice fat fee. Come on in. Howdy, Chad. Cherokee. What's wrong, Jim? You look as if you'd lost your best friend. I'm about to lose my job if someone doesn't hear down that Arbuckle Kid. And I thought maybe you could help. I have been trying to help, Jim. Cherokee and I rode out with the posse this morning. Yeah, for all the good it did. That's not what I mean, Chad. I mean to do something to help official. Official? Well, if you're willing to take it on, I'm willing to hire you for $50 a week. And if you catch the black-hearted environment, see that you get half the reward money. How about Cherokee? Are you willing to hire him, too? Well, if you reckon you need him, I'll sign him on for two weeks. Same money. Well, although I have whore work and his general connotation, $50 a week would buy a number of things I prize highly. The quarts we're interested in, in this case, Cherokee, is gold quarts, not liquid quarts. You got any notions as to what you'd like to do, Chad? I just ask you a lot of questions to start with, Jim. Fire away. Well, the location of each of the three hold-ups, the Arbuckle Kid, pulled this week are all more than 200 miles apart. Do you believe the same man pulled them? Each of the three drivers identified him positively. Same mask cut out of an Arbuckle coffee bag, same words, the express box, please, same voice, and same method. Now, another question. Has every stage your company's run this week carried valuables? No, the only three coaches carrying anything worth more than $50 were the three of the Arbuckle Kid that stuck up. You mean to say he has inside information? No, I'm not meanin' to say anything, Cherokee. Tell you what, Jim, now that I've been engaged officially, I'd like to give this some thought. Where can I find you a little later? Down the street, the Stockman's Hotel. I'm staying there as usual while I'm in Dos Rios. Where are you going back to the Stockman's Hotel, and with a little luck, I should be along shortly. There are a couple of things I'd like to figure out, and they're going to take a mess of thinking. Now, you go right ahead with your supper, Jim, while I do the talking. Are you sure you won't join me in something? Well, now that you bring it up, I think I'll just wander over to the bar and... Ah, nothing to do, Cherokee. Not on company time. Well, if you'd only let me finish what I had to say, counselor, and not jump at the conclusion, I was just going to add that I'd wander over to the bar and talk to the barmaid. She may be Mexican, but she's unusually coolly. Dolores, yeah. Yeah, McMurtry Owens Hotel told me he's more than doubled his liquor business since he's put Dolores behind the bar. Hey, well, what have you figured out, Cherokee? Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. No way I feel anything. It's better than nothing. Well, checking back over what evidence we have, I find that the Arbuckle Kid performs his work automatically, with almost mathematical precision. Yeah, that's true. Everything goes like clockwork. Not one holdup has taken more than ten seconds at the most. From the time he stops the coach, then he slaps the horse in the flank and shoots off the shotgun. So, Jim, I just got to wonder what would happen if we could change his timing. Change his timing? What does that mean? What would happen, for example, if when he ordered the driver to throw down the express box, the driver couldn't? Couldn't? I mean, suppose you arranged to have the express boxes bolted down to the roof of the coach. I'm wondering what would happen if the Arbuckle Kid found he couldn't get the box off. Chad and I feel he'd be so flabbergasted with these set plans all being changed, he'd give up and run away. Doggun it, boys. Boys, I think you got an idea there. A real idea. And starting today, every Rocky Mountain coach who goes out is having the express box bolted down. Three days later, the down coach from Steamboat Springs to Rifle was slowing down for the hairpin turn at the top of Sky High Pass. Both the driver and the express messenger, knowing the Arbuckle Kid's habits, had their eyes fastened on the road, and then... The express box, please. Can't. Thanks to you, the company's bolted the boxes to the roof. Yes, I know. So if you'll just take this sledgehammer, be sharp about it. I'll wait. Get busy. And now, gentlemen, the express box, please. And you might tell Jim Baker and Chad Rammington they're gonna have to get up a little earlier in the morning if they want to outfox the Arbuckle Kid. Now get going. We'll return to the second act of Days of the Road agent, our exciting Frontier Town adventure in just a few moments. Frontier Town. Great idea I had, wasn't it? Bolting the express box to the coach stopped the Arbuckle Kid just about as much as a spider web would stop a local bull. Not only were Cherokee, Jim Baker and I covered with embarrassment, we were covered with consternation. Because here was a thing that not only defied Cherokee's mathematical rules, but the rules of all logic and common sense. A man who doesn't ride a horse traveling more than 200 miles a day, knowing exactly the stagecoach he wanted, and then finally knowing in advance about the express box being bolted down. Well, it had me stumped. I'm just about drove Cherokee to drink. Chad, not only this thing baffling, but it's amazing. First of all, it's absolutely impossible. It couldn't happen, but it didn't. That's as neat a way as any I know of to talk yourself out of $50 a week, Cherokee. I don't care. I'm resigning. I'm through. I'm going down to the Stockman's Hotel and buy myself six fingers of tonic from the beautyist barmaid Delores. If we don't lick this thing, Cherokee, I'm going with you. Well, how do you even hope to lick it? It's like a bad dream. You know, everything that happened up to the day, impossible, though it may have seemed, could be accounted for. But how this coffee sack banded found out not only that the box was bolted down, but that I'm working for the stagecoach company that I'll never know. Chad, I realize this is a reprehensible thing to say. Yes. But since the only person who could possibly have known about the box and about us working for the coach company is Jim Baker. Do you think the Arbuckle kid and Jim Baker might be one of the same? I suppose I ought to crawl all over your hump for even daring to say a thing like that. But I've got to admit it is a possibility. Baker would know which coaches are carrying the important shipments, and once more, hiring us would certainly make his employers think that he's doing everything he can to stop these holdups. Well, for once, you admit them right. No. No, I'm sorry. I don't admit that you're right. But since I told you I'd go over to the Stockman's Hotel with you and not being a welcher, well, let's go. You're willing and consciously going with me into a tavern which purveys laughing water? I said that I wouldn't. I am. All right, come on, Cherokee. Let's go. I am a Chad. Would you be willing to set me up to another? I'm afraid that last glass that Loris gave me must have had a little hole in the bottom. It had a hole in it, all right. It did? Yeah, it did. Except that the hole was in the top, where you poured it into your mouth. Oh, Dolores, will you please bring my friend here another of the same? You did not push another drink, senor? No, I'll play around with this one, thanks. You see, one of us has got to keep a clear head on his shoulders. We're supposed to be working for the stagecoach company, and, well, they've got a shipment going north tomorrow morning. Oh, you think you maybe get our buckle key, uh, no? Ah, the only thing I'm interested in getting right now is another drink. How about it, Dolores, the lovely? Yes, yes, right away. Must open another bottle. Told you there's another shipment going north morning, Chad. Nobody, but I needed some sort of an excuse not to have another drink. Dolores, come on, Cherokee, his tongue's hanging out. And if that isn't just like a woman, Mexican or otherwise, look at her down there and she's afraid of him. See, he's got a buoy knife he's playing with on top of the bars. Chad Remington, you can get the most ridiculous ideas. Do you think that even a hard-bitten bolster like that one would pull a knife and get a drink? My goodness, here she comes. The story must keep you waiting. Other men drinking from bottle already have opened. But for waiting, I give you extra good measure. There you are, Dolores, and an extra four bits for you. All right, come on, Cherokee. Come on. I haven't even raised this glass to my... Come on, Cherokee, you and I are going to work. Chad, I have known men so mean they'd pull wings off of little flies, but I've never met the likes of you yet. Imagine buying me a drink of paying for it and then not let me drink it. Save your breath, Cherokee, because you and I have got quite a lot of riding to do. Where? Where are we going? Well, the first stop is right here, Quartz Hill. All right, easy, boy, easy. What may I ask? What are we doing out here? We're going to see if we can find a sign left by the Arbuckle Kid. Principally, his footprints. Footprints? Footprints, Cherokee. And if you want that $50 a week in your share of the reward money, you'll start right now looking. By late the next afternoon, Cherokee and I had been not only to Quartz Hill, but to Placeton Bridge and the other two places the Arbuckle Kid had visited lately. And I'm returning to my office. We had four pieces of paper, each with a sketch. The outline of a boot print. All right, Chad, I'll admit that the boot prints are different. Different. One's about size eight. This one's a 10, and the one on the left is a good 12 and a wide width. And the last one is small enough to be a large woman's size. But what does that prove? The Arbuckle Kid must be smart to get away with what he's done so far. So doesn't it follow that he may change boots just to avoid detection? It might, but I don't think that it does. Because I think that there are four Arbuckle kids. You what? Four men, all the same general build, all with the same approximate voice quality, but all wearing different size boots. But why, Chad? Why? Well, how else could the Arbuckle Kid hold up stages more than 200 miles apart? You know, that's a brilliant deduction, Chad. When did the idea occur to you? Yesterday. In the bar at the Stockman's Hotel. Another proof of the stimulating and efficacious results of abiving and drinking liquor. Not at all. It's just another instance of what happens when a man keeps his eyes open. Because while you were so busy drinking and trying to get still another drink, I saw two men come up to the bar, each of whom laid down a buoy knife. A buoy knife? How did a buoy knife get into our conversation? It got into our conversation by the simple expedient of my starting to believe a buoy knife is the letter of introduction the Arbuckle Kid and his alter egos used to get information from your most attractive Mexican friend, I mean, Rita Dolores. Counselor, if you don't mind, I'm going over to the doctors. There must be something wrong with my hearing. No, there's nothing wrong with your hearing, although there may be something wrong with your believing. You mean to sit there and look me square in the eye and tell me you think the lovely Dolores is the Arbuckle Kid? No. No, I don't. But since Jim Baker lives at the Stockman's Hotel while he's in Dos Reyes, which is quite often, and transects his business there, I'm starting to think that Dolores can gather and passes it on as a go-between. But what about these... these four bandits you say passes one? Are you sure of that? I'm not sure of anything, Cherokee, but as that stage driver said, by God-free, we're certainly going to find out. All right, come on, O'Bannon. You and I have got another 40 miles to ride and we're going to burn up the road to Steamboat Springs and find our friend Jim Baker. Jim, what do you think? Do you think Chad's proof makes sense? Chad hasn't got any proof, Cherokee. Well, I'm glad you... Huh? No proof? But the boot prints? Blackers with the buoy knives? Oh, that is far from being proof, boys. Well, you can't say that I didn't try, Jim. All I'm trying to say, Chad, is you've turned up the first clues. The only clues we've had in 16 months. I even spent seven weeks making the rounds of all the grocery stores trying to find out who might be buying Arbuckle coffee. But since everyone around here seems to drink nothing, I'll be, it was a neat little blind alley. Well, then here if you're as delighted as you sound with what Chad has turned up, wouldn't this be an occasion for a little celebrating? They don't start ringing the church bells till the wedding's over, Cherokee. As long as all of this is your doing, Chad, how would you like to proceed from here? Any ideas? Well, since, as we lawyers say, time is of the essence. I don't think we ought to waste any time trying to outsmart the Arbuckle Kid and his gang and catch them while they're in the act of holding up a coach. How else would you catch those buzzards? You give the Stockman's Hotel in Dos Rios a lot of business, don't you? I sure do. Not only do I spend about ten nights out of the month there myself, but our drivers stop there on their layovers. Why? In that case, McMurtry, who owns the hotel, should be willing to do you a favor, wouldn't you think? He sure should. Good enough. And instead of wasting any more time up here in Steamboat Springs, I say let's find some fresh horses and get to riding. With McMurtry's help and without the lovely Dolores being aware of it, the crowd in the cafe of the Stockman's Hotel suddenly thinned out until there was nobody there but Cherokee Jim Baker and myself. And, of course, the languorous but attentive Dolores. Then, much to Cherokee's distaste, I got up, walked over to the bar and with a quick flip threw a buoy knife into it so it stuck there and quivered. Bring to this! You ought to know what a buoy knife means, Dolores. My noise, I shall call Mr. McMurtry and tell him you put Big Hall in his beautiful bar. Sure, go ahead. Call McMurtry. And while we're waiting for him, I'd like a drink. A drink, senor? A drink, senorita. A cup of coffee. A cup of Arbuckle coffee. No comprendo, senor. I go and... The only place you're going, young lady, is with us. You hurt me! You let me go! Dolores, I'm going to let you go, but when you leave here, you're going to one of two places. Either you're going to lead us to the Arbuckle Kid's hideout or you're going to jail. Arbuckle comprendo. Do not understand what you say. Then let me tell it to you the way you will understand it. You lead us to the hideout and you'll cut in for 20% of the reward money. That'll amount to better than $600. No. All right, then. Jim, you're a fully authorized Deputy Marshal. Let's get started and escort Dolores down to jail. No, senor. No. Sure, I get $600 if I show you. You'll get at least $600, Dolores. Maybe more. Well, Dolores? You get for me a horse, senors. I'll show you a hideout very soon. Oh, that's the hideout, Cabin. Better stop and get off here, Chad. Who now, Chad? I'm afraid that we'll have a little trouble getting any closer to the cabin by ourselves, so I think the smart thing to do is to send Dolores on ahead. Send her on ahead? She can warn him that way, Chad. Are these rifles pointing at her back? No. Send you read it to Dolores? Yes. Now get going. Jim, we three are better spread out. Okay, Chad, this is your party. Blast that girl. She's warned him. Jim, cover the side of the building. Come on, Cherokee. We're going to close in from the front. He's got the money coming, all right. But he's not spending it on any more drinks. Why, Chad, I'm virtually a hero. Virtually, but somebody's got to pay Dolores's hospital bill, and that's what you and I are going to do with at least part of our reward money. Well, even then, Chad, can I spend enough just to buy a little gin fit? You can't spend anything. That girl's have to be in the hospital for a long time. The doctor says she's going to have a slow recovery. Well, in that case, I've got the drink to match her recovery. McMurphy, I'm having a drink. Bring me a slow gin fit. Frontier Town starring Reed Hadley and featuring Wade Crosby is a Brucell's production. Supervision in direction by Paul Franklin. Music written and played by Ivan Dittmar. Be sure to be with us again same time next week for another fine action adventure story with your favorite young western star, Reed Hadley. And now this is Bill Foreman telling you that Frontier Town comes to you from Hollywood.