Bob's absence had occasioned some speculation, but no uneasiness, at
headquarters. An officer of the Forest Service was too often called upon
for sudden excursions in unexpected emergencies to make it possible for
his chiefs to keep accurate track of all his movements. A day's trip to
the valley might easily be deflected to a week's excursion to the higher
peaks by any one of a dozen circumstances. The report of trespassing
sheep, a tiny smoke above distant trees, a messenger sent out for
arbitration in a cattle dispute, are samples of the calls to which Bob
must have hastened no matter on what errand he had been bound.
He arrived at headquarters late in the afternoon. Already a thin wand of
smoke wavered up through the trees from Amy's little, open kitchen. The
open door of the shed office trickled forth a thin clicking of
typewriters. Otherwise the camp seemed deserted.
At Bob's halloo, however, both Thorne and old California John came to
the door. In two minutes he had all three gathered about the table under
the three big firs.
"In the first place, I want to say right now," he began, "that I have
the evidence to win the land case against the Modoc Mining Company."
"How?" demanded Thorne, leaning forward eagerly.
"Baker has boasted, before two witnesses, that his mineral entries were
fraudulent and made simply to get water rights and timber."
"Those witnesses will testify?"
"They will."
"Who are they?"
"Mr. Welton and myself."
"Glory be!" cried Thorne, springing to his feet and clapping Bob on the
back. "We've got him!"
"So that's what you've been up to for the past week!" cried Amy. "We've
been wondering where you had disappeared to!"
"Well, not precisely," grinned Bob; "I've been in durance vile."
In response to their questionings he detailed a semi-humorous account of
his abduction, detention and escape. His three auditors listened with
the deepest attention.
As the recital progressed to the point wherein Bob described his
midnight escape, Amy, unnoticed by the others, leaned back and closed
her eyes. The colour left her face for a moment, but the next instant
had rushed back to her cheeks in a tide of deeper red. She thrust
forward, her eyes snapping with indignation.
"They are desperate; there's no doubt of it," was Thorne's comment. "And
they won't stop at this. I wish the trial was to-morrow. We must get
your testimony in shape before anything happens."
Amy was staring across the table at them, her lips parted with horror.
"You don't think they'll try anything worse!" she gasped.
Bob started to reassure her, but Thorne in his matter-of-fact way broke
in.
"I don't doubt they'll try to get him proper, next time. We must get out
papers and the sheriff after this Saleratus Bill."
"He'll be almighty hard to locate," put in California John.
"And I think we'd better not let Bob, here, go around alone any more."
"I don't think he ought to go around at all!" Amy amended this
vigorously.
Bob shot at her an obliquely humorous glance, before which her own fell.
Somehow the humour died from his.
"Bodyguard accepted with thanks," said he, recovering himself. "I've
had enough Wild West on my own account." His words and the expression of
his face were facetious, but his tones were instinct with a gravity that
attracted even Thorne's attention. The Supervisor glanced at the young
man curiously, wondering if he were going to lose his nerve at the last.
But Bob's personal stake was furthest from his mind. Something in Amy's
half-frightened gesture had opened a new door in his soul. The real and
insistent demands of the situation had been suddenly struck shadowy
while his forces adjusted themselves to new possibilities.
"Ware's your man," suggested California John. "He's a gun-man, and he's
got a nerve like a saw mill man."
"Where is Ware?" Thorne asked Amy.
"He's over at Fair's shake camp. He will be back to-morrow."
"That's settled, then. How about Welton? Is he warned? You say he'll
testify?"
"If he has to," replied Bob, by a strong effort bringing himself back to
a practical consideration of the matter in hand. "At least he'll never
perjure himself, if he's called. Welton's case is different. Look here;
it's bound to come out, so you may as well know the whole situation."
He paused, glancing from one to another of his hearers. Thorne's keen
face expressed interest of the alert official; California John's mild
blue eye beamed upon him with a dawning understanding of the situation;
Amy, intuitively divining a more personal trouble, looked across at him
with sympathy.
"John, here, will remember the circumstance," said Bob. "It happened
about the time I first came out here with Mr. Welton. It seems that
Plant had assured him that everything was all arranged so our works and
roads could cross the Forest, so we went ahead and built them. In those
days it was all a matter of form, anyway. Then when we were ready to go
ahead with our first season's work, up steps Plant and asks to see our
permission, threatening to shut us down! Of course, all he wanted was
money."
"And Welton gave it to him?" cried Amy.
"It wasn't a case of buy a privilege," explained Bob, "but of life
itself. We were operating on borrowed money, and just beginning our
first year's operations. The season is short in these mountains, as you
know, and we were under heavy obligations to fulfil a contract for sawed
lumber. A delay of even a week meant absolute ruin to a large
enterprise. Mr. Welton held off to the edge of danger, I remember,
exhausting every means possible here and at Washington to rush through
the necessary permission."
"Why didn't he tell the truth--expose Plant? Surely no department would
endorse that," put in Amy, a trifle subdued in manner.
"That takes time," Bob pointed out. "There was no time."
"So Welton came through," said Thorne drily. "What has that got to do
with it?"
"Baker paid the money for him," said Bob.
"Well, they're both in the same boat," remarked Thorne tranquilly. "I
don't see that that gives him any hold on Welton."
"He threatens to turn state's evidence in the matter, and seems
confident of immunity on that account."
"He can't mean it!" cried Amy.
"Sheer bluff," said Thorne.
"I thought so, and went to see him. Now I am sure not. He means it; and
he'll do it when this case against the Modoc Company is pushed."
"I thought you said Welton would testify?" observed Thorne.
"He will. But naturally only if he is summoned."
"Then what----"
"Oh, I see. Baker never thought he could keep Welton from telling the
truth, but knew perfectly well he would not volunteer the evidence. He
used his hold over Welton to try to keep me from bringing forward this
testimony. Sort of relied on our intimacy and friendship."
"But you will testify?"
"I think I see my duty that way," said Bob in a troubled voice.
"Quite right," said Thorne, dispassionately; "I'm sorry." He arose from
the table. "This is most important. I don't often issue positive
prohibitions in my capacity of superior officer; but in this instance I
must. I am going to request you not to leave camp on any errand unless
accompanied by Ranger Ware."
Bob nodded a little impatiently. California John paused before following
his chief into the office.
"It's good sense, boy," said he, "and nobody gives a darn for your
worthless skin, you know. It's just the information you got inside it."
"Right," laughed Bob, his brow clearing. "I forgot."
California John nodded at him, and disappeared into the office.
Bob turned to Amy with a laughing comment that died on his lips. The
girl was standing very straight on the other side of the table. One
little brown hand grasped and crushed the edge of her starched apron;
her black brows were drawn in a straight line of indignation beneath
which her splendid eyes flashed; her rounded bosom, half-defined by the
loose, soft blue of her simple gown, rose and fell rapidly.
"And you're going to do it?" she threw across at him.
Bob, bewildered, stared at her.
"You're going to deliver over your friend to prison?" She moved swiftly
around the table to stand close to him. "Surely you can't mean to do
that! You've worked with him, and lived with him--and he's a dear, jolly
old man!"
"Hold on!" cried Bob, recovering from the first shock, and beginning to
enjoy the situation. "You don't understand. If I don't give my
testimony, think what the Service will lose in the Basin."
"Lose!" she cried indignantly. "What of it? Do you think if I had a
friend who was near and dear to me I'd sacrifice him for all the trees
in the mountains? How can you!"
"_Et tu Brute_!" said Bob a little wearily. "Where is all the
no-compromise talk I've heard at various times, and the high ideals, and
the loyalty to the Service at any cost, and all the rest of it? You're
not consistent."
Amy eyed him a little disdainfully.
"You've got to save that poor old man," she stated. "It's all very easy
for you to talk of duty and the rest of it, but the fact remains that
you're sending that poor old man to prison for something that isn't his
fault, and it'll break his heart."
"He isn't there yet," Bob pointed out. "The case isn't decided."
"It's all very well for you to talk that way," said Amy, "for all you
have to do is to satisfy your conscience and bear your testimony. But if
testifying would land you in danger of prison, you might feel
differently about it."
Bob thought of George Pollock, and smiled a trifle bitterly. Welton
might get off with a fine, or even suspended sentence. There was but one
punishment for those accessory before the fact to a murder. Amy was
eyeing him reflectively. The appearance of anger had died. It was
evident that she was thinking deeply.
"Why doesn't Mr. Welton protect himself?" she inquired at length. "If he
turned state's evidence before that man Baker did, wouldn't it work that
way around?"
"I don't believe it would," said Bob. "Baker was not the real principal
in the offence, only an accessory. Besides, even if it were possible,
Mr. Welton would not do such a thing. You don't know Welton."
Amy sank again to reflection, her eyes losing themselves in a gaze
beyond the visible world. Suddenly she threw up her head with a joyous
chuckle.
"I believe I have it!" she cried. She nodded her head several times as
though to corroborate with herself certain points in her plan.
"Listen!" she said at last. "As I understand it, Baker is really liable
on this charge of bribing Plant as much as Mr. Welton is."
"Yes; he paid the money."
"So that if it were not for the fact that he intends to gain immunity by
telling what he knows, he would get into as much trouble as Mr. Welton."
"Of course."
"Well, don't you know enough about it all to testify? Weren't you
there?"
Bob reflected.
"Yes, I believe I was present at all the interviews."
"Then," cried Amy triumphantly, "you can issue complaint against _both_
Baker and Mr. Welton on a charge of bribery, and Baker can't possibly
wriggle out by turning state's evidence, because your evidence will be
enough."
"Do you expect me to have Mr. Welton arrested on this charge?" cried
Bob.
"No, silly! But you can go to Baker, can't you, and say to him: 'See
here, if you try to bring up this old bribery charge against Welton,
I'll get in ahead of you and have you _both_ up. I haven't any desire to
raise a fuss, nor start any trouble; but if you are bound to get Mr.
Welton in on this, I might as well get you both in.' He'd back out, you
see!"
"I believe he would!" cried Bob. "It's a good bluff to make."
"It mustn't be a bluff," warned Amy. "You must mean it. I don't believe
he wants to face a criminal charge just to get Mr. Welton in trouble, if
he realizes that you are both going to testify anyway. But if he thinks
you're bluffing, he'll carry it through."
"You're right," said Bob slowly. "If necessary, we must carry it through
ourselves."
Amy nodded.
"I'll take down a letter for you to Baker," she said, "and type it out
this evening. We'll say nothing to anybody."
"I must tell Welton of our plan," said Bob; "I wouldn't for the world
have to spring this on him unprepared. What would he think of me?"
"We'll see him to-morrow--no, next day; we have to wait for Ware, you
know."
"Am I forgiven for doing my plain duty?" asked Bob a trifle
mischievously.
"Only if our scheme works," declared Amy. Her manner changed to one of
great seriousness. "I know your way is brave and true, believe me I do.
And I know what it costs you to follow it. I respect and admire the
quality in men that leads them so straightly along the path. But I could
not do it. Ideas and things are inspiring and great and to be worked for
with enthusiasm and devotion, I know. No one loves the Service more than
I, nor would make more personal sacrifices for her. But people are warm
and living, and their hearts beat with human life, and they can be sorry
and glad, happy and brokenhearted. I can't tell you quite what I mean,
for I cannot even tell myself. I only feel it. I could turn my thumbs
down on whole cohorts of senators and lawyers and demagogues that are
attacking us in Washington and read calmly in next day's paper how they
had been beheaded recanting all their sins against us. But I couldn't
get any nearer home. Why, the other day Ashley told me to send a final
and peremptory notice of dispossession to the Main family, over near
Bald Knob, and I couldn't do it. I tried all day. I knew old Main had no
business there, and is worthless and lazy and shiftless. But I kept
remembering how his poor old back was bent over. Finally I made Ashley
dictate it, and tried to keep thinking all the time that I was nothing
but a machine for the transmission of his ideas. When it comes to such
things I'm useless, and I know I fall short of all higher ideals of
honour and duty and everything else."
"Thank God you do," said Bob gravely.