Bob always stayed at the Monterosa Hotel when in town; a circumstance
that had sent Oldham to the Buena Vista. Although it wanted but a few
hours until train time, he drifted around to his customary stopping
place, resolved to enjoy a quiet smoke by the great plate-glass windows
before which the ever-varying theatre crowds stream by from Main Street
cars. He had been thus settled for some time, when he heard his name
pronounced by the man occupying the next chair.
"Bob Orde!" he cried; "but this is luck!"
Bob looked around to see an elderly, gray-haired, slender man, of keen,
intelligent face, pure white hair and moustache, in whom he recognized
Mr. Frank Taylor, a lifelong friend of his father's and one of the best
lawyers his native state had produced. He sprang to his feet to grasp
the older man's hand. The unexpected meeting was especially grateful,
for Bob had been long enough without direct reminders of his old home to
be hungry for them. Ever since he could remember, the erect, military
form of Frank Taylor had been one of the landmarks of memory, like the
sword that had belonged to Georgie Cathcart's father, or like the
kindly, homely, gray figure of Mr. Kincaid in his rickety, two-wheeled
cart--the man who had given Bob his first firearm.
After first greetings and inquiries, the two men sank back to finish
their smoke together.
"It's good to see you again," observed Bob, "but I'm sorry your business
brings you out here at this time of year. This is our dry season, you
know. Everything is brown. I like it myself, as do most Californians,
but an Easterner has to get used to it. After the rains, though, the
country is wonderful."
"This isn't my first trip," said Taylor. "I was out here for some months
away back in--I think it was '79. I remember we went in to Santa Barbara
on a steamer that fired a gun by way of greeting! Strangely enough, the
same business brings me here now."
"You are out here on father's account?" hazarded Bob, to whom the year
1879 now began to have its significance.
"Exactly. Didn't you get your father's letter telling of my coming?"
"I've been from headquarters three days," Bob explained.
"I see. Well, he sent you this message: 'Tell Bob to go ahead. I can
take care of myself.'"
"Bully for dad!" cried Bob, greatly heartened.
"He told me he did not want to advise you, but that in the old days when
a fight was on, the spectators were supposed to do their own dodging."
"I'd about come to that conclusion," said Bob, "but it surely does me
good to feel that father's behind me in it."
"My trip in '79--or whenever it was--was exactly on this same muss-up."
Mr. Taylor went on: "Your father owned this timber land then, and wanted
to borrow money on it. At the time a rascally partner was trying to ruin
him; and, in order to prevent his getting this money, which would save
him, this partner instigated investigations and succeeded temporarily in
clouding the title. Naturally the banks declined to lend money on
doubtful titles; which was all this partner wanted.[A] Perhaps you know
all this?"
Bob shook his head. "I was a little too young to know anything of
business."
"Your father sent me out to straighten things. The whole matter was
involved in endless red tape, obscured in every ingenious way possible.
Although there proved to be nothing to the affair, to prove that fact
took time, and time was what your father's partner was after. As a
matter of fact, he failed; but that was not the result of
miscalculation. Now I strongly suspect that your friend Baker, or his
lawyers, have dug up a lot of this old evidence on the records and are
going to use it to annoy us. There is nothing more in it how than there
was at the beginning, but it's colourable enough to start a noisy suit
on, and that's all these fellows are after."
"But if it was decided once, how can they bring it up again?" Bob
objected.
"It was never brought to court. When the delay had been gained--or
rather, when I unravelled the whole matter--it was dropped."
"I see," said Bob. "Then the titles are all right?"
"Every bit of that tract is as good as gold," said Taylor impressively.
"Your father bought only from men who had taken up land with their own
money. He paid as high as fifteen or sixteen hundred dollars for claims
where by straight 'colonizing' he could have had them for three or four
hundred."
"I'm glad to hear that," said Bob. "But are you sure you can handle
this?"
"As for a suit, they can never win this in the world," said Taylor. "But
that isn't the question. What they want is a chance for big headlines."
"Well, can you head them off?"
"I'm going to try, after I look over the situation. If I can't head it
off completely, I'll at least be in a position to reply publicly at
once. It took me three months to dig this thing out, but it won't take
me half an hour to get it in the papers."
"I should think they'd know that."
"I don't think their lawyer really knows about it. As I say, it took me
three months to dig it all out. My notion is that while they have no
idea they can win the case, they believe that we did actually colonize
the lands. In other words, they think they have it on us straight
enough. The results of my investigations will surprise them. I'll keep
the thing out of court if I can; but in any case we're ready. It will be
a trial in the newspapers."
"Well," said Bob, "you want to get acquainted then. Western newspapers
are not like those in the East. They certainly jump in with both feet on
any cause that enlists them one way or another. It is a case of no
quarter to the enemy, in headlines, subheads, down to the date--reading
matter, of course. They have a powerful influence, too, for they are
very widely read."
"Can they be bought?" asked Taylor shrewdly.
Bob glanced at him.
"I was thinking of the Power Company," explained Taylor.
"Blessed if I know," confessed Bob; "but I think not. I disagree with
them on so many things that I'd like to think they are bought. But they
are more often against those apt to buy, than for them. They lambaste
impartially and with a certain Irish delight in doing the job
thoroughly. I must say they are not fair about it. They hit a man just
as hard when he is down. What you want to do is to be better news than
Baker."
"I'll be all of that," promised Taylor, "if it comes to a newspaper
trial."
Bob glanced at his watch and jumped to his feet with an exclamation of
dismay.
"I've five minutes to get to the station," he said. "Goodbye."
He rushed out of the hotel, caught a car, ran a block--and arrived in
time to see the tail lights slipping away. He had to wait until the
morning train, but that mattered little to him now. His wait and the
journey back to the mountains were considerably lightened by this
partial relief of the situation. At the first sign of trouble his father
had taken the field to fight out his own fights. That much
responsibility was lifted from Bob's shoulders. He might have known!
Of the four dangerous elements of his problem one was thus
unexpectedly, almost miraculously, relieved. Remained, however, poor
Welton's implication in the bribery matter, and Pollock's danger. Bob
could not count in himself. If he could only relieve the others of the
consequences of his action, he could face his own trouble with a stout
heart.
At White Oaks he was forced to wait for the next stage. This put him
twenty-four hours behind, and he was inclined to curse his luck. Had he
only known it, no better fortune could have fallen him. The news came
down the line that the stage he would have taken had been held up by a
lone highwayman just at the top of Flour Gold grade. As the vehicle
carried only an assortment of perishable fruit and three Italian
labourers, for the dam, the profits from the transaction were not
extraordinary. The sheriff and a posse at once set out in pursuit. Their
efforts at overtaking the highwayman were unavailing, for the trail soon
ran out over the rocky and brushy ledges, and the fugitive had been
clever enough to sprinkle some of his tracks liberally with red pepper
to baffle the dogs. The sheriff made a hard push of it, however, and for
one day held closely enough on the trail. Bob's journey to Sycamore
Flats took place on this one day--during which Saleratus Bill was too
busy dodging his pursuers to resume a purpose which Bob's delay had
frustrated.
On arriving at Auntie Belle's, Bob resolved to push on up the mountain
that very night, instead of waiting as usual until the following
morning. Accordingly, after supper, he saddled his horse, collected the
camp mail, and set himself in motion up the steep road.
Before he had passed Fern Falls, the twilight was falling. Hermit
thrushes sang down through the cooling forest. From the side hill,
exposed all the afternoon to the California summer sun, rose tepid
odours of bear-clover and snowbush, which exhaled out into space, giving
way to the wandering, faint perfumes of night. Bob took off his hat, and
breathed deep, greatly refreshed after the long, hot stage ride of the
day. Darkness fell. In the forest the strengthening moonlight laid its
wand upon familiar scenes to transform them. New aisles opened down the
woodlands, aisles at the end of which stood silvered, ghostly trees thus
distinguished by the moonbeams from their unnumbered brethren. The whole
landscape became ghostly, full of depths and shadows, mysteries and
allurements, heights and spaces unknown to the more prosaic day.
Landmarks were lost in the velvet dark; new features sprang into
prominence. Were it not for the wagon trail, Bob felt that in this
strange, enchanted, unfamiliar land he might easily have become lost.
His horse plodded mechanically on. One by one he passed the homely
roadside landmarks, exempt from the necromancies of the moon--the pile
of old cedar posts, split heaven knows when, by heaven knows whom, and
thriftlessly abandoned; the water trough, with the brook singing by; the
S turn by the great boulders; the narrow defile of the Devil's
Grade--and then, still under the spell of the night, Bob surmounted the
ridge to look out over the pine-clad plateau slumbering dead-still under
the soft radiance of the moon.
He rode the remaining distance to headquarters at a brisker pace. As he
approached the little meadow, and the group of buildings dark and
silent, he raised joyously the wild hallo of the late-comer with mail.
Immediately lights were struck. A moment later, by the glimmer of a
lantern, he was distributing the coveted papers, letters and magazines
to the half-dressed group that surrounded him. Amy summoned him to bring
her share. He delivered it to the hand and arm extended from the low
window.
"You must be nearly dead," said Amy, "after that long stage ride--to
come right up the mountain."
"It's the finest sort of a night," said Bob. "I wouldn't have missed it
for anything. It's H-O-T, hot, down at the Flats. This ride just saved
my life."
This might have been truer than Bob had thought, for at almost that
very moment Saleratus Bill, having successfully shaken off his pursuers,
was making casual and guarded inquiries at Austin's saloon. When he
heard that Orde had arrived at the Flats on the evening's stage, he
manifested some satisfaction. The next morning, however, that
satisfaction vanished, for only then he learned that the young man must
be already safe at headquarters.
[Footnote A: See "The Riverman."]