A BLOW IN THE DARK
WHEN a careful man blunders he is apt to make thorough work of it. If
Brant had suspected the use Harding would make of an uninterrupted
quarter of an hour with William Langford, it is safe to assume that
no preventive, however heroic, would have failed to commend itself to
the rescuer; and he should have foreseen. Any tenderfoot of them all
would have been less blunt-witted, he told himself afterward in much
bitterness of spirit. But that was after the fact. While he was smoking
his cigar on the box and tasting some of the aloe dregs of the cup of
lapsings, Harding was making the most of his opportunity.
“No, Willie, I can’t say when I may be back in Denver. A man with a big
mine on his hands can’t play marbles all the time, you know. Has to
look after his ante or they’ll steal him blind.”
“Of course,” agreed Will; and then, “Where is your mine?”
Now one place is as good as another for the location of purely mythical
real estate; but, for safety’s sake, Harding went far afield.
“It’s on the other side of the range; in the Silverette district.”
“Is that so? Then you must know all about the Jessica. The governor’s
got some stock in the Jessica.”
“Ye-yes; oh, yes. I know the Jessica, of course. But the Silverette is
a big district, you know. My claim isn’t anywhere near the camp, and
I’m glad of it. Tough town, is Silverette. And that reminds me, how did
you happen to catch on to George Brant?”
Truly, Will Langford was a crass young idiot whose ways were very far
from being the ways of wisdom, and yet he was not besotted enough to be
without an undefined conviction that this smooth-tongued mine owner of
pedagogic appearance and profligate habit was not a man to whom family
affairs could be properly confided. Wherefore he skirted the question.
“I don’t know very much about him. He is a friend of a friend of ours.”
“I thought you wasn’t fairly on to him, or you wouldn’t have introduced
me,” said Harding, with marked significance. “He is a mighty good man
to let alone. You can bet high on that and play to win every time.”
The hint accomplished that whereunto it was sent, and Will must
needs know more. Harding was crafty enough to make an unspeakable
mystery of it until the boy’s curiosity was whetted to the keen edge
of demanding the particulars for family reasons. Then Harding told
Brant’s story, carefully suppressing his own connection therewith,
and weaving evil deeds and worse motives into the narrative with such
a skilful admixture of truth as to make it utterly impossible for
the ex-reprobate ever to clear himself without denying much that was
manifestly undeniable.
The carriage was turning into Altamont Terrace when he concluded, and
the eager listener had time for no more than a word of thanks.
“By Jove, I’m awfully glad you told me about him, Mr. Harding! There
are reasons, family reasons, as I said; but I can’t tell you about
them now. By gad, if he ever shows up here again I’ll----”
What the self-constituted guardian of the Langford honour would do is
not to be here set down, since the carriage was stopping at the gate.
Harding would have given much to know that, and many other things;
would have purchased another quarter of an hour with the boy at any
reasonable price. But with the carriage drawn up before the judge’s
gate and Brant sitting on the box, the time was unpropitious. So
Harding was fain to bury his desire for further knowledge under a final
word of caution.
“I’m glad I happened to mention it. Keep your eye on him and give him
the whole sidewalk. I saw him hanging around down yonder, and I was
afraid he might get his hands on you; that’s why I brought you home.
Good night.”
Brant heard the last word, and saw the boy go up the walk and let
himself into the house. Then he gave the driver the return order.
“Back to town,” he said. “You can put us down at Elitch’s.”
The long drive back to town was full of disquieting reflections for
the man who desired nothing so much as to be allowed to atone for
past violence by present and future good behaviour, and who was yet
constrained to play the ruffler through still another interview with
James Harding. Such reflections capped by such consequences are likely
to be heart-hardening, and Brant was in no merciful mood when the
carriage drew up at the curb in front of the _café_ and he climbed down
to open the door.
“Come out,” he rasped; and when Harding stood beside him, “You will
have to go in here with me to get your money.”
Harding nodded, and threw in a sneer. “Banking with John nowadays, are
you?” But to this Brant made no reply.
As it chanced, the great dining room was nearly empty, and the genial
proprietor, known and loved of all men, was at his desk. Brant took him
aside.
“John, I want a hundred dollars to use right now. Can you cash a check
for me?”
The genial one laughed. It was not his way to cash checks for men whom
he knew and trusted.
“Not much,” he said. “You can have the century, but I don’t want your
paper.” And he found the money in the little safe behind the desk.
“Anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes; I want to use one of the private rooms for a few minutes.”
Elitch held up a finger for the head waiter, a stalwart young fellow
who looked as if he might be a college athlete working his way through
a lean vacation.
“Parker, show these gentlemen to No. 4, and light the gas for them. No
orders.”
The athletic one led the way to a small private dining room partitioned
off in the rear of the public tables. It was a mere box, lighted by a
chandelier pendent from the ceiling, and furnished only with table and
chairs. When they were alone, Harding dropped into one of the chairs
and Brant drew up another on the opposite side of the table.
“Now, then, talk quick and tell the truth--if you can. What did you say
to the boy?”
The soul of the real James Harding peered out through his half-closed
eyes for a fleeting instant, but the veil was drawn again before one
might note the levin-flash of triumph.
“I did what you wanted me to: told him I’d got to go and look after my
mine.”
“What excuse did you make for taking him home?”
“Told him he shouldn’t ought to be out so late. He’ll do anything for
me, that young fellow will.”
“Yes, that is very evident,” Brant commented dryly. Then, “What else
did you say to him?”
Again the levin-flash of triumph, but Brant did not see it. “Nothing;
you didn’t tell me to say anything else to him.”
“No more I didn’t. Well, all you have to do now is to keep out of his
way--and mine. Here is your money. Take it and make yourself scarce.”
The roll of bills changed hands, and Harding made sure of the price
before he spoke again. Then he squared himself against his side of the
table and asked if he might have his weapons.
“Deverney has them--all but the gun. I think I shall keep that as a
souvenir.”
Harding nodded assent, and the shifty eyes were veiled. “That’s all
right; keep it, and welcome. I’d have made you a present of it if you
had asked me for it.” He was picking nervously at the tablecloth, and
a curious change--a change in which sullen hardihood gave place to
something not so easily definable--came over him as he went on: “And
about young Langford: I would have turned him loose long ago if I had
known you wanted me to; honest to God, I would! You have had it in for
me for a good many years, George, but there hasn’t been a day in any
one of them when I wouldn’t do anything you asked--and more.”
Brant’s acknowledgment of all this was a contemptuous curl of the lip,
and Harding tried again.
“It’s so, and you know it. We’ve scrapped a good deal, first and last,
but if I’ve been the jackal, you’ve been the wolf. I’ve been thinking a
good bit in the last hour or so, and I’m going to say what’s in me. Why
can’t we quit square, for once? I haven’t got anything against you;
and it seems like after what has happened you ought to be willing to
let up on me.”
“Oh, it does, does it?” Brant was looking now, and he saw the fear
signals flying in the shifty eyes. He was as yet no more than a
catechumen in the temple of mercy, as he was learning to his cost, and
the man-quelling demon was once more in possession. So he backslid
promptly into the prerepentant barbarism and gave another twist to the
thumbscrews. “That means that you want something more, I suppose. What
is it? Out with it.”
“The papers, George--the affidavits you got against me up in Taggett’s
Gulch. I haven’t had a good night’s rest since I found out you had ’em,
so help me God, I haven’t! Wherever I go, and whatever I do, I can feel
that cursed hangman’s knot pulling up under my ear. For Christ’s sake,
give ’em to me, George! Don’t send me to hell before my time!”
Truly, Brant was yet very far from sainthood, either in act or
intention, since he could look unmoved upon the ghastly face of the
terror-sick man across the table. Harding leaned forward until his chin
was nearly touching the cloth. His shifty eyes were for once fixed and
glassy, and the perspiration of fear stood thickly upon his narrow
brow. And with the dropping of the mask of self-control, the old age
of dissipation wrought its will on the clean-shaven face, furrowing it
with wrinkles that seemed to deepen visibly with the dragging seconds.
“Oh, my God! think of it, George,” he began again in a husky whisper,
“think of what would happen if you were to die! And I’d never get so
much as a hint of what was coming till they had snapped the bracelets
on me! You couldn’t die easy with such a thing as that on your mind;
now could you, George?”
Brant looked away and shut his hands until the finger nails bit the
flesh. There was a moment of silence surcharged with the electricity
of portent--a moment in which the limp figure at the opposite side of
the table drew itself up by imperceptible degrees and the glassy eyes
of it began to glow with the fires of unrecking ferocity. The athletic
young head waiter, drawn to the door of No. 4 by what promptings of
curiosity he knew not, had his eye glued to a crack in the panel and
his ears strained to catch the reply to Harding’s appeal; and knowing
nothing of the man, but much of the danger signals readable in the
man’s face, he wondered at Brant’s preoccupation. And when Brant began
to speak without looking up, the athlete swore softly to himself, and
cautiously tried the handle of the door--tried it and found it locked.
“I have thought about that a good many times, and it has been a comfort
to me. You called me a wolf a minute ago, but it is you who have lived
the wolf’s life, sparing neither man, woman, nor child. Hence it is
fitting that you should die as you have lived. Remembering these
things, and how you used to wring my soul when you had the power, I
think I shall die quite comfortably when my time comes.”
“Then die!” yelled the madman, hurling himself in a fierce tiger spring
across the table at his tormentor.
Brant was by far the stronger of the twain, but the onset was so sudden
and unexpected that he was borne down among the chairs, and Harding’s
fingers were at his throat before he could gather himself in defense.
After that he was helpless, and the dancing gas jets of the chandelier
were about to go out in a flare of red lightning when the weight was
lifted from his chest and he began to breathe again. Then he saw that
the athletic waiter had set his shoulder to the door at the opportune
moment; that he had flung Harding into a corner and was standing guard
over him with a chair for a weapon.
“Say the word, Mr. Brant, and I’ll smash him one for good luck,” he
said; but Brant sat up and shook his head.
“No; let him go,” he said huskily. “I can kill him later on if I need
to.”
The young man stood aside, and Harding ran out. Then the athletic one
helped Brant to his feet.
“He didn’t cut you, did he?” he asked.
“No. I believe he was trying to choke me. I don’t know how I came to be
so careless. How did you happen in?”
The young man laughed, and was not beyond blushing a little. “I guess I
might as well make a clean breast of it. Business isn’t very brisk at
this time of night, and I overheard a little of what was going on--not
much, but enough to make me wonder if I could smash the door in if
the need arose. I suppose I ought to be ashamed of myself; but it was
rather lucky, as it turned out.”
“Very lucky, indeed. And there was nothing particularly private about
my part of the interview. Has John gone home?”
“Yes. Shall I call a cab for you?”
“Oh, no. Give me your shoulder to the sidewalk and I can make it all
right. But I am beginning to think I had a rather close call.”
“You did that.” The head waiter took Brant’s arm, and the course
between the tables of the public room was safely steered. At the door
the breath of the night air was revivifying, and Brant found speech in
which to thank his rescuer.
“Oh, that’s all right,” laughed the athlete. “It’s all in a day’s work.
Good night.”