I buttoned my frock-coat carefully and started for the dining-room--and
Pratt followed close. On the threshold I cast a look within. The White
Ghost was not there--he was in eclipse in the kitchen for the moment. I
started through the big hall, toward the alcove, crossing near the swing
doors. Pratt came on behind me and I halted and turned suddenly on him.
“I’m going to shoot you now and here in your tracks, where every one can
look on,” I told him in a whisper--and I kept smiling. “Don’t you dare
to pull a gun. I’ve got you covered. I’ve got a revolver in that hand
that’s wrapped in the tail of this coat and it’s aimed at you. I’m going
to shoot you while I’m smiling. There are men looking at me. I’ll say
that the gun went off by accident. It’ll be believed, because we look
so sociable. Hold on! Don’t you open that mouth to yell. You’ve got
one chance for your life. I’ll tell you now--because I’ll never have a
better chance to get you proper if you don’t take that chance I offer.”
I was stalling then, for I had not intended to talk so long. Mr. Pratt
stood there as stiff as a wooden man.
He took a peep at my hand that was muffled in the skirt of my
frock-coat. The unseen terrifies most. His face grew pale. He
continued-to stare at the hidden thing that threatened his life. My
smile broadened--it was no assumed smile--for my wrapped hand was empty.
“You may think that this is a queer place for me to hold you up”
If Pratt could have known what was passing in my mind at that moment he
would have agreed. It would also have astonished Mr. Pratt to know that
I was just then raking my soul in order to think of something to say
next.
There seemed to be an infernally long time between the shuttlings of the
White Ghost. I felt like an anarchist who has timed a bomb and finds his
fuse faulty. Where in the devil’s name was the fool? I knew I couldn’t
stand there and tell a serial story to Pratt. A dangerous light was
coming into the man’s eyes. Astonishment had held him for the first
few moments, then fear had chained him, but finally panic was plainly
breaking out in him, and in such cases a victim will run amuck
regardless of consequences. I felt that Pratt was getting ready to howl
and leap upon me.
Where was the White Ghost?
The thought came to me that this prolonged absence hinted at one
consolation--the White Ghost must be filling many orders--his tray would
be heaped to the ceiling.
“Your one chance is--” said I--and then it happened!
Without warning, the swing doors burst open under the kick of the
White Ghost’s foot and forth from the cavern of the kitchen came the
thunderbolt. I had been waiting and listening, and was ready to dodge.
The petrified Pratt never stirred a stump. There was a howl from warning
diners--a collision, a terrific crash, and Pratt went down under the
avalanche. The White Ghost was lugging one of the biggest loads of his
career. There were deep plates in which hot and greasy soup swam, there
were gravied meats, nappies of vegetables, tea, coffee, macaroni, pies,
and puddings. Mr. Pratt was buried under dishes, hot soup blinded his
eyes, macaroni was twined around his neck, pies plastered his shirt
bosom, and his clothes sopped up liquids. He might have been labeled,
“A dinner in eruption!” The White Ghost dove across him and skated along
the floor on his nose.
I hurried to Pratt and began to paw the dishes from off him. And having
planned just what I was going to do and knowing just where to seek for
what I wanted, I dove a hand into Pratt’s inside vest pocket and yanked
out the big wallet. Other men ran to help me, there was excitement,
and in that mess of provisions which I was cuffing to right and left
my handling of the wallet was noticed by no one. I was kneeling close
beside Pratt and I shoved the wallet between my knees, and when I arose,
slid it up under my coat.
There were plenty of volunteers whose hands were out to boost Mr. Pratt
to his feet. His eyes were tightly shut and he was bellowing about
the pain the soup was giving him. I took the rôle of close friend and
ordered the rescuers to carry Mr. Pratt to the wash-room and give him
first aid with towels and water. I followed close upon their heels
and elbowed Kingsley along with the push. The judge had stood at some
distance during our drama. I pulled his hand up under my coat and set it
on the wallet.
“Grab it!” I whispered. “Slip it under your coat; get out of this hotel
and around the corner. Jam the money into your stocking and stamp the
wallet down into the mud. Be careful no one sees you.”
It was on me that Pratt’s eyes first opened--for I was swabbing the soup
out of those eyes with the end of a wet towel.
But when he opened his mouth I swabbed the towel across his lips. Other
volunteers were working away at the clothing of the victim with wet
towels.
All at once Pratt began to slap himself on the breast and howl. His
laments in regard to the hot soup in his eyes had been loud, but in
contrast to his latest outburst they were as the voice of the chickadee
compared with the roar of the lion. After he had beat upon his breast,
he dove a greasy hand into his vest pocket. It was empty. His eyes
goggled, his face grew purple, he shouted, he swore, and he raved.
He had been done, trimmed, robbed, frisked, touched--so were his
bellowings! He searched his soul for synonyms with which to announce
to the world that his wallet had been stolen. And then he accused
me--accused me with violence and profanity.
“Just one moment, sir,” I suggested, taking advantage of a moment when
Mr. Pratt was choking. “You are sure those dishes didn’t crack your
skull a bit and injure your brain?”
After spitting many oaths, Mr. Pratt declared that he was all right and
knew what he was talking about.
“You’ll have to back that up,” I told him. “Fifty men were looking at
you when that thing happened. I have not been out of the sight of those
men since. You say it was a large wallet.” I unbuttoned my coat and
slung it open. “Will any gentleman present kindly search me?”
“He is going too far when he shoots off his mouth about a gent like
you,” declared somebody in the crowd. “We all saw you. All you did was
try to help the son of a gun out of his mess--and that’s all the thanks
you get!”
“Mistakes are bound to occur. I demand that some gentleman make sure
that I have no wallet on my person. My own money is in a roll in my
trousers pocket.”
A solid-looking citizen searched me, uttering apologies. “There ain’t
any wallet on this gent, and you’d better ask his pardon for remarks
offered,” suggested the citizen.
But Pratt only raved the louder.
“I’d like to say a word just here,” called a voice. The stage-driver
pushed to the front. “You all know me and you know I ain’t any liar.
This gent, here, is a friend of mine and he wouldn’t do dirt to anybody.
He’s a friend of our mayor, too.” He put his hand affectionately on my
shoulder. “But as for that other cuss, there, in the piebald clothes,
I heard him make threats not longer ago than this morning that he would
get my friend, and get him good and plenty.”
“Maybe you think I arranged to have those seventeen dinners dumped over
me so as to make the plot a good one, you pie-eyed horse-walloper, you,”
squealed Pratt, beginning to “weave” in his fury like a caged bear.
“I wouldn’t wonder a mite,” replied the driver, coolly. “When I heard
you threatening to get my friend you was mad enough to try on most
anything.”
“He got my money, I tell you. I felt him at my pocket while I was trying
to get my senses back. Blast you all for infernal fools, I’ve been
robbed right before your eyes and you’re backing up the thief.”
There was a stir at the door and the crowd glanced that way and parted
respectfully. It was His Honor the Mayor of Breed City. He stood for a
few moments and listened to the language Pratt addressed to me. Then he
broke in with authority:
“Just a moment, citizens! There’s a lot about this affair, here, that I
know and cannot tell. As for that knave who accuses Mr. Mann, I declare
on my honor that he is a dangerous foe to this city. He has come here to
try to ruin it if his scheme works.”
Mr. Pratt at this point managed to control the amazement that was
provoked by the appearance of this new champion.
“I tell you, Mayor,” he shouted, “you’ve got the wrong dope about me.
Dragg tried to get me into the scheme, but I----”
“You are convicting yourself right now out of your own mouth,” broke
in the mayor. He marched up to Pratt, finger upraised: “You are as
dangerous here as a dynamite bomb. I’ll allow you thirty minutes to get
out of town. Get to those other two knaves and warn them that they’ll be
lynched if they show up here--and I’ll lead the lynching-bee.”
There was immediate change in Mr. Pratt’s demeanor and the mayor and the
bystanders listened to him. The fat face was lined with grief, and tears
ran down his cheeks and mingled with the grub stains.
“I’m not lying about that wallet, gents. I’ve lost my bundle. It has
been stolen. That’s a nice word to go out about Breed City--that a
visitor to town loses his wad and the mayor backs up the man who stole
it!”
“Silence!” said the mayor.
“Then I’ll simply say that I’ve lost my money--and how about law and
order in a city that will let a man be trimmed in that style? Hold on
one minute, Mr. Mayor! It isn’t merely a case of my own money! If it
was, I’d shut up now and pass on. But I had along with mine the money of
a good friend who trusted me with his roll. I left him in the calaboose
back on the trail and I brought out his money to take care of it for
him, for he was afraid they’d get to him for it. That’s God’s truth,
Mayor.”
In a crowd there may be found champions for the under dog--even when a
mayor has turned down his thumb. I heard murmurs. One voice suggested
that the matter better be looked into--the good name of Breed City
demanded it.
“I haven’t much to say in this business, even though this man has
accused me,” I said in the silence that followed. “Now that you are on
the subject of your money, Mr. Pratt, and are making such a squeal in
regard to the loss of it, will you allow me to ask you how much of it
was money you stole in the East--especially from Zebulon Kingsley of
Levant?”
If I had struck “Peacock” Pratt between the eyes the effect could not
have been more noticeable. Most of those men who were present had
been trained to gauge the human expression in that region of plain and
mountain where life itself sometimes depends on the ability to judge
between bluff and resolve. His fat cheeks flushed and then they grew
pale. That a stranger in the Far West should be able to cast in his
teeth one of his latest exploits staggered him. He tried to speak and
couldn’t.
“Pratt, you have twenty-two more minutes left of that half hour,” stated
the mayor, after silence had continued for some moments.
“I suppose that has to go for to-day,” said Pratt. “But it doesn’t go
for to-morrow--nor for next day if my friends and I can get back here,
Mr. Mayor! Lynch or no lynch!”
He buttoned his waistcoat, took a mournful look at himself in the
wash-room mirror, and headed for a livery-stable which a sarcastic
bystander recommended. I knew that threat to come back wasn’t mere talk.
Mr. Pratt had good reason to take the risks!
I took my first chance and escaped from the populace of Breed City to
hunt up Kingsley in the little room in the hotel.
“How much?” I was all a-tremble.
“A little over six thousand dollars. Mostly five-hundred-dollar bills.
Part of it is tied up in a separate package and marked with Dawlin’s
name.” The judge was not very enthusiastic.