A Summons
“It might be,” Sam said, as he refilled his pipe, “that Chad did not
write this. I’ll send it, with some of his other writing, to one of
these handwriting experts I’ve read about.”
“He wrote it,” I said. “The writing is his. So is the wording. You
know it.”
I looked at him, straight. I felt something tighten around my heart as
if it had been roped by a professional. I guess I was too sentimental.
But I couldn’t bear to see Sam’s good old face all aching with worry.
“Sam,” I wheedled, “have sense. We’ve a confession here that will
satisfy the world. He killed her; and, when the body was found, he
shot himself. Nothing could be more reasonable. No one would doubt it.
We can send this to the papers—he has no relatives to be disgraced, or
to sorrow over it—and the Desert Moon will be cleared of crime. One of
your favorite sayings, Sam, is to let well enough alone.”
Sam drew himself up to the top of his six feet and five inches and
looked down, from there, at me; away down—as far, say as if I had
suddenly dropped into a dirty old cistern. “There is no question of
well enough,” he shouted, so that I could hear him in my depths,
“until the Desert Moon is cleaned, clean, Mary Magin. Cleaned and
fumigated, or destroyed. It is not going to be whitewashed. There is
someone on this ranch who is as guilty as hell; who knows who
committed the murder; who aided and abetted it. We are going to find
that person. Then we will find the murderer. They’ll be hung together.
After that, we can leave well enough alone.”
“Suppose,” I suggested, “that Chad was the accomplice.”
“I reckon,” he said, growing suddenly kind, “that you’ve been through
too much, Mary. That’s it. You aren’t quite responsible to-day. I
don’t wonder. But reason with me, Mary.
“Somebody suggested, already to-day, that it was Chad who put the key
in your pocket. When did he get the key to put it there? Well, say
that he got it between seven and eight o’clock, when he was out
scouting by himself. Did he meet some entire stranger, then, who asked
him to dispose of the key? Did he agree to do it, as a favor to said
stranger? Did he, later, shoot himself and leave a lying confession to
shield the stranger? The stranger, that is, who had killed the girl
Chad loved? Chad did carry some secret to the grave with him, Mary. I
am sure of that. But not a secret that we can’t discover. We are going
to discover it.”
To doubt Sam, standing there before me talking so earnestly to me, to
doubt his honesty of purpose and his goodness, was more than a
question of doubting my eyes, my ears, my senses, for the moment. It
would have been to doubt the things that had made up my life for the
past twenty-five years; it would have swept away all of my accumulated
certainties, all of my conclusions, all of my standards, as a wind
sweeps trash from the desert. It would have uprooted me, and it would
have left me as aimless and as wind-tossed as tumbleweeds.
“Sam,” I began, resolved to tell him, then and there, about those pipe
ashes of his on the beaded bag. I had waited too long. Mrs. Ricker was
coming down the stairs.
“I think,” she said, “that Martha should not sleep so late. I fear
that she is sleeping too heavily.”
“It is a blessing that she can sleep,” Sam said. “She is all right.
Those sleeping powders are as powerful as all get-out. I got them from
a doctor in ’Frisco, when I was down there last year, and they made me
sleep when I had neuralgia. I’m going up, though, I’ll have a look at
her.
“By the way,” he added, from the stairway, “I want you two ladies to
be here in this room, at promptly three o’clock this afternoon.”
“Upon my soul!” I said, when Sam was out of sight. “What do you
suppose that means?”
I might have spared my breath. She did not answer. But she did
something downright unusual for Mrs. Ricker. She looked at me; and, as
I met her look, it seemed to me that there was a pleading expression
in her face, as if, were she able to talk, she’d like to ask me to do
something for her. I have seen dogs look like that, at times.
“What is it, Mrs. Ricker?” I questioned.
She shook her head, and walked to the windows and turned her back on
me.
I looked at the straight, gaunt back, and at her long arms hanging at
her sides. She seemed frail. And yet, she could hold Martha still,
when Martha was in one of her tantrums, and that was more than I, a
much stouter woman, could do. She, with no one but Martha who did not
count, had been alone in the house for an hour the evening before,
while the others of us had been out hunting for Gaby.
Sam insisted that Gaby had been dead two or three hours when we found
her. But was he certain of that? How did he know? Might he be
mistaken? Mrs. Ricker had hated Gaby, as only a jealous woman can
hate.