[Illustration: 9200]
ALF an hour later Garner came in. He walked about the room, a half smile
on his face, sniffing the air as if with unctuous delight, casting now
and then an amused glance at his inattentive partner.
“What do you mean? What are you up to now?” Carson asked, slightly
irritated over having his thoughts disturbed.
“She's been here,” Garner answered. “She told me so just now, and I want
to inhale the heavenly perfume she left in this disreputable hole. Good
Lord, you don't mean that you let her see those rotten slippers of mine!
If you'd been half a friend you'd have kicked them out of sight, but you
didn't care; you've got on a clean collar and necktie, and that plaster
on your alabaster brow would admit you to the highest realm of the
elect--provided the door-keeper was a woman and knew how you got your
ticket. Huh! I really don't know what will become of me if I associate
with you much longer. Your conduct last night upset me. I turned in to
bed about two o'clock. Bob Smith was doing night-work at the hotel, and
he came in and had to be told the whole thing; and he'd no sooner got
to bed than Keith came in, and Bob had to hear _his_ version. I had
a corking dime novel, but it was too tame after the racket you went
through. The _Red Avenger_ I was trying to get interested in couldn't
hold a candle, even in his bareback ride strapped to a wild mustang in a
mad dash across a burning prairie, to your horse-block rescue act. What
_you_ did was _new_, and I was _there_. The burning prairie business has
been overdone and the love interest in the _Red Avenger_ was weak, while
yours--_well!_”
Garner sat down in his creaking revolving-chair and thrust his thumbs
into the arm-holes of his vest.
“Mine?” Carson said, coldly. “I don't exactly see your point.”
“Well, the love business was there all the same,” Garner laughed,
significantly; “for, thrilling as it all was, I had an eye to that. I
couldn't keep from wondering how I'd have felt if I'd been in your place
and had your chances.”
“_My_ chances!” Dwight frowned. It was plain that he did not like
Garner's bold encroachments on his natural reserve.
“Yes, your chances, dang you!” Garner retorted, with a laugh. “Do you
know, my boy, that as a psychological proposition, the biggest, most
earnest, most credulous-looking ass on earth is the man who comes to
a strange town to do his courting and has nothing to do but that one
thing, at stated hours through the day or evening, while everybody
around him is going about attending to business. I've watched that
fellow hanging around the office of the hotel, kicking his heels
together to kill time between visits, and in spite of all I've heard
about his stability and moral worth I can't respect him. Hang it, if I
were in his place and wanted to spend a week here, I'd peddle cigars on
the street--I'd certainly have _something_ to occupy my spare time. But
I'll be flamdoodled if you didn't give him something to think about last
night. Of all things, it strikes me, that could make a man like that
sick--sick as a dog at the very stomach of his hopes--would be to see a
former sweetheart of his fair charmer standing under shot and shell in
front of her ancestral mansion protecting her servants from a howling
mob like that, and later to see the defender, with the step of a David
with a sling, come traipsing back victorious in her cause, all gummed up
with blood and fighting still like hell to keep his friends from choking
him to death in sheer admiration. She and Sanders may be engaged, but
I'll be dadblamed if I wouldn't be worried if I were in his place.”
“I wish you would let up, Garner,” Dwight said, almost angrily. “I know
you mean well, but you don't understand the situation, and I have told
you before that I don't like to talk about it.”
“I _did_ want to tell you how it was rubbed in on him this morning,”
Garner said, only half apologetically, “and if you don't care, I'll
finish.”
Carson said nothing. Spots of red were on his cheeks, and with a teasing
smile Garner went on: “I had stopped to speak to her on the corner just
now, when the Major and his Highness from Augusta joined us. The old
man was simply bursting with enthusiasm over what you accomplished last
night. According to the Major, you were the highest type of Southerner
since George Washington, and the obtuse old chap kept turning to Sanders
for his confirmation of each and every statement. Sanders was doing it
with slow nods and inarticulate grunts, about as readily as a seasick
passenger specifies items for his dinner, while Helen stood there
blushing like a red rose. Well,” Garner concluded, as he kicked off one
of his untied shoes to put on a slipper, “it may be cold comfort to you,
viewed under the search-light of all the gossip in the air, but your
blond rival is so jealous that the green juice of it is oozing from the
pores of his skin.”
“It isn't fair to him to look at it as you are,” Dwight said. “Under the
same circumstances he could have taken my place.”
“Under the same circumstances, yes,” Garner grinned. “But it is
circumstances that make things what they are in this world, and I tell
you that fellow needs circumstances worse than any man I ever saw. He
is worried. I stopped and watched him as he walked on with her, and I
declare it looked to me like he kicked himself under his long coat at
every step. Say, look! Isn't that Pole Baker across the street? The
fellow behind the gray horse. Yes, that's who it is. I'll call him. He
may have news from the mountains.”
Answering the summons, Baker led his horse across the street to where
the two friends stood waiting on the edge of the pavement.
“Have they heard of the arrest over there, Pole?” Garner asked.
“Yes,” the farmer drawled out. “I was at George Wilson's store this
morning, where a big gang was waiting for food supplies from their
homes. Dan Willis fetched the report--by-the-way, fellows, just between
us three, I'll bet he was the skunk that fired that shot. I'm pretty
sure of it, from what I've picked up from some of his pals.”
“But what are they going to do?” Carson asked, anxiously.
“That's exactly what I come in town to tell you,” answered the
mountaineer. “They are taking entirely a new tack. A report has leaked
out that Sam Dudlow was seen prowling about Johnson's just 'fore dark
the night of the murder, and they are dead on his track. They are
concentrating their forces to catch him, and, since Pete Warren is safe
in jail, they say they are going to let 'im stay thar awhile anyway.”
“Good!” Garner cried, rubbing his hands together. “We've got two
chances, now, my boy--to prove Pete innocent at court or by their
catching the right man. In my opinion, Dudlow is the coon that did the
Job, and I believe he did it alone. Pete is too chicken-hearted and
he's been too well brought up. Now let's get to work. You go talk to the
prisoner, Carson, and put him through that honeyfugling third degree
of yours. He'll confess if he did it, and if he did, may the Lord have
mercy on his soul! I won't help defend him.”
“That's whar I stand,” Pole Baker said. “It's enough trouble savin'
_innocent_ niggers these days without bothering over the guilty. Shyster
lawyers tryin' to protect the bad ones for a little fee is at the bottom
of all this lawlessness anyway.”