THE FOURTH MAN
A last look Steele Weir had at the dead man on the floor before he
turned to go in search of Sorenson. Not so astute or crafty as Judge
Gordon, nor so intelligent as Sorenson, nor so belligerent as
Burkhardt, he had been as rapacious and infinitely more cool-minded
than any of the three. If anything, he was the one of them all to
proceed to a crime, whether fraud or murder, in sheer cold blood and
by natural craving. No uneasy conscience would have ever disturbed his
rest: no remorse or pity ever stirred in his breast. He was the human
counterpart of a bird of prey.
Well, he was dead now. Three of the quartette who had been joined by
avarice and lawless actions were taken care of--Burkhardt a prisoner,
Gordon dead by self-administered poison, Vorse by bullets. Almost did
Steele Weir feel himself an embodiment of Fate, clipping the strands
of these men's power and lives as with shears. Sorenson alone remained
to be dealt with and his freedom should be short.
Beckoning Madden, he went swiftly through the door where the cattleman
had leaped into the shadows. Where the gloom ceased and the space
behind the row of store buildings was clear in the moonlight, nothing
was to be seen. Naturally the man had kept within black shade in his
flight.
When they reached the rear of the cattle company's office building,
they peered in through its barred back windows, but all was dark
inside the structure so far as they could determine. To all appearance
Sorenson had not stopped here: it was quiet, gloomy, untenanted.
"We'll have to try his home now," the sheriff stated. "If we don't
find him there, we'll set the telephones going to warn all the ranches
and towns around to be on the lookout and either to stop or report him
if he shows up. He hasn't start enough to get away now."
They hastened on along the line of buildings until they reached a side
street. But when they had proceeded a short way, Weir stopped.
"I'm not satisfied about the office," said he. "Suppose you go on to
his house and I'll return for a look inside from the front. If you
fail to find him join me at Martinez' office, where no one is likely
to be around and we can then lay further plans."
"That suits," Madden responded, and set off alone.
Weir's alert brain had been turning over the possibilities of
Sorenson's course. Rather by pursuing what would be the man's line of
reasoning than by depending on chance, he had come to the quick
decision to turn back once again to the office. Sorenson would so act
as would best serve his immediate escape and that of the future.
Would he expect the sheriff and the engineer to look for him to flee
by the speediest means, an automobile, and to the natural avenue of
escape, the railroad? Yes. Therefore on that expectation he would
adopt another way to throw off pursuit. And perilous as a delay would
be in getting away from San Mateo, yet he must risk the few minutes
necessary to get money. For to fly with pockets empty meant eventual,
certain capture. Money a fugitive from justice must possess above
everything in order to possess wings; and no one would know that
better than Sorenson.
Though Madden and he had seen no light in the office building, the
cattleman nevertheless might have been within. If he had been in the
vault, he could safely have lighted a candle without their perceiving
its beams; and though the safe was modern it probably had no time
lock. Sorenson could unlock it with a few twirls of the combination,
stuff his pockets with currency and negotiable paper to the amount of
thousands and then slip away.
Fortunately the moonlight was to Weir's advantage. He quickened his
steps, passed round the corner into the main street and moved towards
the building. For him the crowd at the court house at that moment had
no interest; one person, and one person alone, commanded his
thoughts.
How correct had been his logic--logic not unmixed with intuition,
perhaps--appeared when he was yet some fifty yards away from the door
he sought. A tall bulky figure suddenly stepped forth from the
building and instantly ran across the street and lost itself in the
shifting, jostling crowd that was half-disclosed, half-concealed by
the broken shadows of the moonlit trees.
Steele Weir proceeded to a spot near the office and halted. His first
impulse to rush after Sorenson had been promptly suppressed, as cooler
judgment ruled. To seek his quarry in that throng would be labor
wasted, while to reveal his identity would be to court a disastrous
interference with the business at hand. From where he stood he should
much better be able to see Sorenson when he did emerge, unless he
chose to remain in the crowd or steal away at the rear of the court
house yard, a chance Weir must take.
Five minutes passed. The restless, talkative Mexicans continued to
swarm and buzz with excitement, ceaselessly moving about, forming and
reforming in groups, agitatedly repeating newer and wilder rumors
concerning events. Despite Weir's intent watch for Sorenson, the
engineer could not but observe the mob's manifestations, observe them
with sardonic humor. For their ebullition of the present would be
nothing to what it would be if they learned he stood across the
street, uncaged, unfettered, free and armed, a "gun-man" loose instead
of a "gun-man" in jail.
All at once Weir noted out of the tail of his eye a slight stir among
a number of horses standing with reins a-trail before a store a little
way down the street. The horses were partly in the light, partly in
the shadow, so that all he could see was that one or two of them had
jerked aside quickly, then resumed their listless postures.
He was about to withdraw his eyes when he saw a man swing upon the
back of one of them and start off at an easy canter. Weir sprang
towards the spot at a run. That big figure could only be Sorenson's,
for no Mexican he had ever seen in San Mateo could match it. And the
plan of escape showed the other's craft in an emergency; gradually
working his way through the crowd he had at last gained the protective
shadow of the building on that side of the street and slipped along in
it until he reached the horses.
Doubtless the man had conceived the plan at the instant he had stepped
from his office, sweeping the street by one gauging look. With the
whole town assembled at the court house, his departure was little
likely to be noted by the Mexicans, while Madden and Weir would never
suspect him of riding off on a horse, or suspect too late. Indeed, he
rode at first as if in no great haste, but as he turned his mount
into a narrow by-way, more a lane than a street that disappeared
between two mud walls, Weir saw him strike his heels into the pony's
flanks.
But for the startled movement of the nearby horses when Sorenson
took stirrup, Weir would not have looked that way. He might
possibly have seen the horseman start off, but that is not certain.
He unquestionably would have supposed him an ordinary rider if he
had not noticed the man until he reached the mouth of the lane.
Meantime the engineer had made his best speed to the line of waiting
horses. Slowing to a walk so as not to scare them, though as he
discovered on examination most of them looked too bony and spiritless
for that, he approached and carefully inspected the bunch. He took his
time in the selection: the more haste in choosing a mount might prove
less speed in the end. He tightened the saddle-girths and ran a finger
along the head straps of the bridle of the horse picked to judge their
fit, receiving a snap from the pony's teeth, which gave him
satisfaction. Not only was this animal a wiry, tough-looking little
beast, but he had life.
Up into the saddle Weir went, followed Sorenson's line to the lane,
down which he swung. Coming out into the next street, he pursued it to
an intersecting street, and there galloped for the edge of town
without trying to guess the way taken by his enemy. Once he reached
the open fields he would quickly get sight of the man racing away
somewhere on the mesa.
Evidently the quarry he pursued had not taken so direct a course as
Weir, for when the latter at length came forth where he could have a
wide view he perceived the horseman a quarter of a mile off and
further east, galloping south. The engineer at once raced thither to
gain the same road and turning into it made for Sorenson.
Thus the two men sped away from San Mateo. The wire fences and the
adobe houses of Mexicans owning little farms adjoining soon ceased.
The wide mesa lay on either side. Though a quarter of a mile had
separated the men when Weir first observed the other, the distance
between had been increased while the engineer was gaining the road,
until now the interval was almost twice as great.
Weir guessed the fleeing man's plan. Instead of seeking the railroad
for the present, he would disappear in the mountains, where with the
assistance of some loyal employee, cowman or sheepherder, he would lie
hid until the first fury of the hunt had subsided. Possibly his bold
brain even conceived the idea of again returning to San Mateo some
dark night soon and further looting the office, vigilance being
relaxed.
In any case, he would expect to remain safe from pursuit in a mountain
fastness until either on horseback or by automobile he could work his
way out of the country. With what he had unquestionably carried off he
would not be a poor man. In some spot far away he could assume a new
name, start in business and later be joined by his wife and crippled
son.
Alas, for those plans, arising like mushrooms on the ruins of his
life! Behind him followed the same inexorable antagonist who so
swiftly had brought everything crashing about his head. Possibly
Sorenson once out of the town had failed to look back; possibly
looking back he had been unable to distinguish against the blur of
houses and trees the horseman galloping in the moonlight along the
same road.
But all at once when they were two miles away from San Mateo he
discovered Weir, who had been gradually cutting down the space between
until now again he was within a quarter of a mile of his quarry.
Sorenson had been riding rapidly but not hard; he now beat his horse
to a furious gallop,--a good pony, too, from its speed, showing that
the banker as well as Weir had picked his mount with care.
Weir did not urge his horse to a similar pace, only maintaining a fast
steady gallop that kept the other in sight though the space between
again widened. Apparently Sorenson realized the folly of attempting to
outrun, his pursuer at once, for he soon dropped back into a regular,
mile-eating gallop. Gradually in turn Weir crept up to his old
position.
To each the only sound was that of drumming hoof-beats. In front rode
the fleeing man--dethroned leader and criminal and murderer. Behind
relentlessly came his Nemesis, the son of the man whom he had deceived
and damned to mental suffering. All about them as they flew along was
the silent, moonlit, sage-covered mesa. At their right towered the
misty, unchanging peaks, as if watching unmoved this strange race of
two human beings. A strange race, in truth,--a race where vengeance
rode.