Mr. Hennage turned slowly and walked out of the drug-store, for he had
accomplished his mission. Once again, without recourse to violence, he
had maintained his reputation as the worst man in San Pasqual, for his
power lay, not in a clever bluff, but in his all-too-evident downright
honesty of purpose. Had Doc Taylor presumed to fly in the face of
Providence, after that warning, Mr. Hennage felt that the responsibility
must very properly rest on the doctor, for the gambler would have killed
him as surely as he had the strength to work his trigger finger.
“Well, _that's_ over” he muttered as he returned to his room. “She's
woman enough to cover the rest o' the trail herself now, poor girl, an'
in about a week I'll pull the big sting that's hurtin' her most.”
Hastily he packed a suit-case with his few simple belongings, for in
his haste he was forced to abandon his old rawhide trunk that had
accompanied him in his wanderings for twenty years. But one article did
Mr. Hennage remove from his trunk. It was an old magazine. He opened it
tenderly, satisfied himself that the faded old rose that lay between the
leaves was still intact, and packed this treasure into the suit-case;
then, while waiting for the north-bound train to whistle for San
Pasqual, he sat down at a little table and wrote a note to Donna:
_Dear Miss Donnie:_
I am sending you a thousand by Sam Singer. You might need it. Am in
trouble and must get out quick. Will stay away until things blow over.
Hoping these few lines will find you feeling well, as they leave me at
present, I am,
Respect. yrs.
H. P. HENNAGE.
P. S. I came to say good-by a little while ago and was sorry you wasn't
feeling well.
This note Mr. Hennage sealed carefully in an envelope, together with
a compact little roll of bills, just as the train whistled for San
Pasqual. He seized his suit-case and hurried down stairs, and on the way
down he met Sam Singer coming up.
“Give this to Miss Donna” said Mr. Hennage, and thrust the envelope into
the Indian's hand. “Ain't got no time to talk to you, Sam. This is
my busy day,” and then, for the last time, he gave Sam Singer the
inevitable half dollar and a cigar.
“Good-by, Sam” he called as he descended the stairs. “Be a good Injun
till I see you again.”
He went to the ticket window, purchased a ticket to San Francisco and
climbed aboard the train. Two minutes later it pulled out. As it plunged
into Tehachapi Pass, Mr. Hennage, standing on the platform of the rear
car, glanced back across the desert at San Pasqual.
“Nothin' like mystery to keep that rotten little camp up on its toes”
he muttered. “I'll just leave that mess to stew in its own juices for a
while.”
He went into the smoker and lit a cigar. His plans were well matured now
and he was content; in this comfortable frame of mind he glanced idly
around at his fellow-passengers.
Seated two seats in front of him and on the opposite side of the coach,
Mr. Hennage observed a gray-haired man reading a newspaper. The gambler
decided that there was something vaguely familiar about the back of this
passenger's head, and on the pretense of going to the front of the car
for a drink of water he contrived, on his way back to his seat, to catch
a glimpse of the stranger's face. At the same instant the man glanced up
from his paper and nodded to Mr. Hennage.
“How” said Harley P., and paused beside the other's seat. “Mr. T. Morgan
Carey, if I ain't mistaken?”
“The same” replied Carey in his dry, precise tones. “And you
are--Mr.--Mr.--Mr. Hammage.”
“Hennage” corrected the gambler.
“I beg your pardon. Mr. Hennage. Quite so. Pray be seated, Mr. Hennage.
You're the very man I wanted to see.”
He moved over and made room for Mr. Hennage beside him. The gambler sat
down and sighed.
“Hot, ain't it?” he remarked, rather inanely.
“Rather. By the way, Mr. Hennage, have you, by any chance, seen that
young man for whom I was inquiring on the day I first had the pleasure
of making your acquaintance? His name is McGraw--Robert McGraw. You will
recollect that I left with you one of my cards, with the request that
you give it to McGraw, should you meet him, and inform him that I
desired to communicate with him.”
“Yes” replied Mr. Hennage calmly. “I met him one day in San Pasqual an'
gave him your card.”
“You gave him my registered letter, also?”
So Carey had been talking with Miss Pickett again! Mr. Hennage nodded.
“Tell me, Mr. Hennage” purred Carey. “Why did the man, McGraw, send you
to the post-office with an order for that registered letter?”
“Oh, he was in a little trouble at the time an' didn't care to show in
public” lied Mr. Hennage glibly.
“I perceive. I believe you mentioned something about his reputation as a
hard citizen when I first spoke to you about him.”
“Tougher'n a bob-cat” Mr. Hennage assured him, for no earthly reason
except a desire to be perverse and not contradict his former statements.
“Hu-u-m-m! I presume you know where Mr. McGraw may be found at present.
Is he liable to communicate with you?”
Mr. Hennage was on guard. “Well, I ain't sayin' nothin'” he replied
evasively. It was in his mind to discover, if possible, the details of
the business which this man of vast emprise could have with a penniless
desert rat like Bob McGraw.
“Is this McGraw a friend of yours, Mr. Hennage?” pursued Carey.
“Well,” the gambler fenced, “I've loaned him money.”
“Ever get it back?” Carey smiled a thin sword-fish smile.
“Certainly. Why do you ask?”
“You consider McGraw honest?”
“Sure shot--between friends. Yes.”
Carey turned his head slowly and gazed at the gambler in mean triumph.
“Well, I'm sorry I can't agree with you” he said. “Your friend McGraw
robbed me of fifteen hundred dollars on the San Pasqual-Keeler stage a
few days ago.”
The fact that Carey had been a victim of Bob McGraw's felonious
activities was news to Mr. Hennage, but he would not permit Carey to
suspect it.
“Yes” he replied calmly, “I heard he'd taken to road work.”
“He held up the stage” Carey repeated, in the flat tone of finality
which the foreman of a jury might have employed when repeating the
verbal formula: “We, the jury, find the defendant guilty, as charged.”
“Then you recognized McGraw” ventured the gambler.
“The moment I saw him.”
“That's funny” echoed Harley P. “I gathered from what you told me in San
Pasqual that you two'd never met up, an' they tell me that durin' the
hold-up McGraw was behind a wall an' wearin' a mask. You're sure some
recognizer, Mr. Carey.”
“We had met prior to the hold-up and subsequent to my conversation with
you in San Pasqual.”
“Still the bet goes as she lays” repeated Mr. Hennage. “For a
near-sighted gent you're sure some recognizer.”
“I recognized his voice.”
Mr. Hennage was silent for a minute. Carey continued.
“If the sheriff gets him, I'll see to it that McGraw doesn't rob another
stage for some time to come.”
Still Mr. Hennage was silent. He was digesting the conversation, and
this much he gathered:
There was some mysterious business afoot wherein Carey and Bob McGraw
were jointly interested, and they had met and quarreled over it, as
evidenced by T. Morgan Carey's all too apparent animosity. Mr. Hennage
had a haunting suspicion that Carey's animus did not arise from the
fact that McGraw had robbed him of fifteen hundred dollars. He felt that
there was a deeper, more vital reason than that. All of his days Mr.
Hennage had lived close to the primitive; he was a shrewd judge of
human impulses and it had been his experience that men quarrel over
two things--women and money. The possible hypothesis of a woman, in
the suspected quarrel between Bob McGraw and T. Morgan Carey, Harley P.
dismissed as untenable. Remained then, only money--and Bob McGraw had no
money. His finances were at so low an ebb as to be beneath the notice of
such a palpable commercial wolf as T. Morgan Carey; consequently, and
in the final analysis, Mr. Hennage concluded that Bob McGraw possessed
something which Carey coveted. Whether his spiteful attitude toward
the unfortunate Bob arose from this, or the loss of the fifteen hundred
dollars, Mr. Hennage now purposed discovering. He leaned toward Carey
confidentially and lowered his voice.
“Say, looky-here, Mr. Carey. This boy, McGraw, is a friend o' mine. A
little wild? Yes. But what young feller now-a-days ain't? I know he's
robbed you o' fifteen hundred dollars, an' I'm sorry for that, but I can
fix you up all right. I'm goin' to get into communication with our young
friend before long, if he ain't beefed by the sheriff first, or captured
alive--but it's ten to one they get him, an' he'll be brought to trial.
Well, now, here's what I'm drivin' at. If the boy's nabbed, an' you'll
agree to sorter, as the feller says, tangle the woof o' memory
an' refuse to swear that you recognize the said defendant as the
hereinbefore mentioned stage-robber, I'll see that you get your fifteen
hundred back. This is his first serious job, Mr. Carey, an' I wish you'd
go easy on him. He ain't really bad.”
T. Morgan Carey pounded the back of the seat in front of him.
“Not for fifty thousand dollars” he said. “The suggestion is
preposterous. The man is a menace to society and it is my duty to
testify against him if he is apprehended.”
“Then it ain't a question with you o' money back an' no questions
asked?”
Carey shook his head emphatically. “It's principle” he said.
Mr. Hennage appeared chopfallen. In reality he was amused. Never before
had Mr. Hennage met a man to whom the abandonment of such “principle”
would have been impossible under the terms suggested. Clearly there was
something wrong here. Mr. Hennage had met men to whom vengeance would
have been cheap at fifty thousand, but principle--the gambler shook his
head. He had lived long enough to learn that principle is a marketable
commodity, and he was not deceived in T. Morgan Carey's attitude of
civic righteousness.
“Well, it's too bad you won't listen to reason, Mr. Carey” he said
regretfully. “I thought you might be willin' to go easy on the young
feller. It's too durned bad,” and he rose abruptly and returned to his
own seat. Carey resumed the perusal of his newspaper. He was not
anxious to continue the conversation, and he believed he had Mr. Hennage
intimidated, and for reasons of his own he was desirous of permitting
the gambler to think matters over.
Mr. Hennage proceeded at once to think matters over. “Now, I wonder what
that kid-glove crook has against the boy!” he mused. “I can see right
off that Bob has an ace coppered, an' this sweet-scented burglar would
like to see Bob tucked away in the calaboose while he goes huntin' for
the ace. What in Sam Hill can them two fellers have between them? Here's
Bob, just a plain young desert rat, a-dreamin' an' a-romancin' over the
country, while this Carey is a solid citizen. He's president o' the
Inyo Land & Irrigation Company, according to his card. Bob ain't got no
money--Carey has a carload of it. Bob ain't got no water--Carey's in
the irrigation business. Bob ain't got no real estate, 'ceptin' what he
accumulates on his person wanderin' around, and Carey's got land--”
Mr. Hennage emitted a low soft whistle through the slit between two of
his gold teeth.
Land! That was it. Land! And government land at that!
Mr. Hennage suddenly recollected the letter which Bob McGraw had written
him from Sacramento, requesting a loan of fifty dollars, and enclosing,
without comment, a typewritten contract form for the acquisition of
state lieu lands. Mr. Hennage had read this contract at the time of its
receipt, little thinking that Bob was wholly unconscious of the fact
that he had enclosed it with his letter. Mr. Hennage had marveled at the
time that Bob should have made no reference to it in his letter.
He took Bob's letter from his breast pocket now, and carefully perused
once more this typewritten contract form. To him it conveyed little
information, save that Bob had been endeavoring to induce Tom, Dick and
Harry to acquire state lieu lands by engaging him as their attorney, and
without the disagreeable necessity putting up any money. A very
queer proceeding, concluded Mr. Hennage, in view of the fact that Bob
apprehended litigation in order to establish the rights of his clients.
At the first reading of this document two weeks previous, the gambler
had merely looked upon it as evidence of another of Bob McGraw's
harebrained schemes for acquiring a quick fortune--a scheme founded on
optimism and predestined to failure; but in the light of recent events
the meager information gleaned from the contract form had now a deeper,
a more significant meaning.
Here was a conundrum. Carey (according to his card, at any rate) had
the water, while Bob McGraw (according to this contract form) was
endeavoring to acquire the land. Both were operating in Owens valley.
Mr. Hennage smiled. No wonder they had quarreled, for without the land,
of what use was the water to Carey? and without the water, of what value
could the land be to Bob McGraw?
“I wouldn't give a white chip for a hull county o' such land” mused
the gambler, “unless I could set in the game with the chap that had the
water, an' Carey bein' a human hog, it stands to reason Bob's a chump to
tie up with Him, unless--unless--_he's got water of his own!_”
Mr. Hennage slapped his fat thigh. “By Jupiter,” he murmured, “he's got
the water! He must have it. He might be fool enough to hold up a stage,
but he ain't fool enough to face a lawsuit, without a dollar in the
world, tryin' to make people take up land so he can sell 'em water for
irrigation, unless he has the water. The boy ain't plumb crazy by no
means. _That's the ace he's got coppered!_ He's got the water, and if
Carey can put him across for that hold-up job, who's to protect the
boy's bet? Not a soul, unless it's me, an' I'm only shootin' at the
moon. Bob ain't the man to put up a fight for worthless land, an'
besides, wasn't Donnie askin' me a lot o' questions about water an'
water rights, an' showin' a whole lot of interest, now that I come to
think on't? By the Nine Gods o' War! I smell a rat as big as a kangaroo.
Bob's been buttin' in on Carey's game; Carey's been tryin' to buy him
out, but Bob has Carey on the floor with his shoulders touchin', so he
won't sell an' he won't consolidate. If she don't 'tack up that-a-way,
I'm an Injun. Carey wouldn't compromise with me an' take back his
fifteen hundred. Why! There's a reason. He'd sooner see young Bob in the
penitentiary because it'd mean more money to him. He wants Bob out
o' the way, so he won't be on hand to draw cards, an' then this Carey
person 'll just reach out his soft little mitt and rake in the jack-pot.
All right, T. Morgan Carey! Bob's out of it, but even if he is a crook
I'll string a bet with him, for Donnie's sake, an' I'll deal you a brace
game an' you'll never know that the deck's been sanded.”
And having thus, to his entire satisfaction, solved the mystery of the
hitherto unaccountable actions of T. Morgan Carey and Bob McGraw,
Mr. Hennage dismissed the matter from his mind, lit a fresh cigar and
permitted the peanut butcher to inveigle him into a friendly little game
of whist with three traveling salesmen.
Harley P. Hennage had purchased a ticket for San Francisco, but when the
train reached Bakersfield and he observed T. Morgan Carey leaving the
car, bag in hand, the gambler suddenly decided that he, also, would
honor Bakersfield with his presence. He excused himself, hastily quitted
his innocent game of whist, seized his suit-case and rode up town in the
same hotel bus with Carey.
Carey registered first, sent his bag and overcoat up to his room, and
then walked over to the telegraph desk. Harley P. Hennage, standing in
line to register, noticed that Carey had filed a telegram; consequently,
when he had registered and T. Morgan Carey had disappeared into the
barber shop, Mr. Hennage, following up a strong winning “hunch,” walked
over to the telegraph desk and laid a ten-dollar piece on the railing.
“I'm goin' to open a book, young lady” he announced. “I'm willin' to bet
ten dollars that the respectable old party that just give you a telegram
signed Carey is wirin' about a friend o' mine. If I don't guess right,
you get the ten bucks. Fair?”
The young lady operator dimpled and admitted that it was eminently fair.
She had no illusions (although her position required her to have them)
regarding the sacredness of privacy in a telegram, and Mr. Hennage had
not as yet asked her to violate a confidence.
“I'm a-bettin' ten bucks” repeated Mr. Hennage, “that the name McGraw
occurs in that telegram.”
“You win” the operator replied. “How did you guess it?”
“I was born with a veil” he replied. “I got the gift o' second sight,
an' I'm just a-tryin' it out. The ten is yours for a copy o' that
telegram.”
The operator seized a scratch-pad, copied the telegram and cautiously
“slipped” it to Mr. Hennage, who as cautiously “slipped” her the
ten-dollar bill. He was rewarded for his prodigality by the following:
R. P. McKeon, Mills Building, Sacramento, Calif.
Advise our friend approve McGraw applications at once. Letter follows.
CAREY.
The gambler smiled his thanks and walked across the hotel lobby to
the public-telephone operator. On this young lady's desk he laid a
five-dollar bill.
“I want you to call up Sacramento on the long distance an' ask the
central there to find out who Mr. R. P. McKeon is an' what he does for a
livin'.”
“We have copies of the telephone directories of the principal cities in
the state” came the quick reply. “It makes it easier if we ask for the
number direct.”
“Five bucks for a look in the book” announced Mr. Hennage. He got the
book, with the information that he might have his look for nothing, but
being a generous soul he declined. He ascertained that R. P. McKeon was
an attorney-at-law.
“As the feller says, I believe I see the light” murmured the gambler.
“Now please get me the agent for Wells Fargo & Company at San Pasqual.”
When the operator informed him that San Pasqual was on the line, Mr.
Hennage went into a sound-proof booth and told a lie. He informed the
agent at San Pasqual that he was the Bakersfield representative of the
Associated Press, and demanded the latest information regarding the hunt
for the Garlock bandit. He was informed that there was no news.
“I gotta get some news” he bellowed into the receiver. “What's the exact
loss o' your company?”
“Twenty-one hundred eighty-three forty.”
“Serves you right. How about the passengers? Got their names an'
addresses an' the amounts they lost?”
“No, but the express messenger has and he's in town. Hold the line a
minute and I'll go call him.”
So Mr. Hennage waited. Five minutes later, when he hung up, he had
secured the information and made careful note of it, after which he
sought an arm-chair in the hotel window, planted his feet on the window
sill and gave himself up to reflection. He was occupied thus when T.
Morgan Carey came out of the barber shop, and seeing Mr. Hennage, came
over and sat down beside him. Mr. Hennage decided that the financier
must have something on his mind, and he was not wrong.
“Mr. Hennage” said Carey unctuously, “I have been thinking over the
proposition which you made me coming up from San Pasqual this
afternoon, and if you still feel inclined to act as intermediary in this
unfortunate affair, I will submit a proposition. Mr. McGraw may retain
the fifteen hundred dollars which he stole from me, and I will agree to
give him, say, five thousand more, through you, for a relinquishment to
me of a water right which he has filed upon in the Sierra overlooking
Owens valley. There is also another matter of which McGraw has
cognizance, and he must agree to drop that too. His money will be
delivered to you, for delivery to him. In return, I will agree to be
absent when his case comes to trial, should he be captured. I will agree
not to recognize him.”
“But suppose he refuses this programme, Mr. Carey. Then what?”
“In that event, my dear Mr. Hennage” replied Carey coldly, “you may
tell him from me that I will spend a hundred thousand dollars to run him
down. I will have this state combed by Pinkertons, and when I land Mr.
Robert McGraw I'll land him high and dry and it will be too late for
him to make _me_ a proposition then. I have the power and the money
necessary to get him--and I know how.”
“Well, what a long tail our cat's developing!” drawled Mr. Hennage.
“Carey, you give me a pain where I never knew it to ache me before.
Now, you just sit still while I submit _you_ a little proposition. An'
remember I ain't pleadin' with you to accept it. No, indeed. I'm just
a-orderin' you to. Bob McGraw can't prove that he didn't rob that stage,
but a child could make a monkey out o' you on the witness stand.
Talked to him once an' recognized his voice, eh? Pooh! Met him once an'
recognized him masked. Rats! I happen to know, Carey, that you didn't
recognize the stage robber _until after the messenger returned to the
stage with his hat an' showed you his name on the sweat-band._ Then you
remembered, because the wish was father to the thought, an' you
wanted the boy in jail. Now, looky here. I happen to be mighty heavily
interested in this here water right you're plannin' to blackmail McGraw
out of. But you ain't got nothin' on me, an' you can't buy me out for
a million dollars, an' you ain't got money enough--there ain't money
enough in the world--to make me double-cross Bob McGraw just because
he's a outlaw from justice.”
He tapped Carey on the knee with his fat forefinger. “I'm playin'
look-out on this game, an' it's hands off for you. You can't make a bet.
You don't get that water right an' you won't get the land; if Bob McGraw
ain't on hand to sue for his rights, by the Nine Gods o' War, I'll sue
for him, an' I'll put up the money, an' I'll match you an' your gang for
your shoe-strings, and you're whipped to a frazzle, an' get that into
your head--understand? You're figurin' now on gettin' them applications
approved, eh? Well, you just cut it out. If them applications are
approved before I'm ready to have 'em approved, you know what I'll do to
you, Carey. I'll cut your heart out. Don't you figure for a minute that
there ain't somebody protectin' that boy's bet. You scatter his chips
an' see what happens to you. Understand? You try upsettin' the Hennage
apple-cart one o' these bright days, an' there'll be a rush order for
a new tombstone. The motto o' the Hennage family has allers been 'Hands
Off Or Take The Consequences.' Of course, if you insist, you can go
to it with your private detectives, but you won't get far. You're up
against a double-jointed play, Carey. Look out for snags.”
T. Morgan Carey stared hard at Harley P. Hennage while the worst man in
San Pasqual was delivering his ultimatum. He continued to stare when Mr.
Hennage had finished, smiling, for to Carey that golden smile was more
deadly than a scowl. Carey knew too well the kind of eyes that were
gazing into his; they were the eyes of an honest man, and by the cut of
Mr. Hennage's jaw Carey knew that here was a man who would “stay put.”
Mr. Hennage laughed boldly, as he realized on what a slender foundation
his gigantic bluff was resting, and what an impression his words had
made upon Carey. The latter pulled himself together and favored the
gambler with a wintry grin.
“Kinder game little pup, after all” thought Mr. Hennage. “He thinks he's
licked, but he's goin' to bluff it out to the finish. I believe if this
feller was on the level I'd like him. He's no slouch at whatever he
tackles, you bet.”
“Very well, Mr. Hennage” said Carey quietly, “I think I understand you.
See that you understand me, in order that we may both understand each
other. You've declared war, on behalf of your felon of a partner. Very
well, I accept. It's war.”
In turn, T. Morgan Carey tapped Mr. Hennage on the knee with _his_
forefinger.
“I'll keep my hands off your business in the state land office. Your
applications can pass through for approval, for all I care, but I'll
enter a contest, alleging fraud, against you in the General Land Office
at Washington, and I'll hold you up for ten years in a mass of red tape.
Hennage, you and McGraw have brains, I'll admit, but you can't play my
game and beat me at it. If I'm not in on this melon-cutting, I'll spend
a million dollars to delay the banquet. Let me tell _you_ something.
The day will come when you'll come scraping your feet at my office door,
begging for a compromise. I'm a business man, and I tell you before
you're half through with this fight, you'll come to the conclusion that
half a loaf is better than none at all--particularly in the matter of
extra large loaves. You'll come to me and compromise.”
“Gosh, I'm dry with argument” taunted Mr. Hennage. “Now that we
understand each other, let's be friends. We _can_ be friends out o'
business hours, can't we, Carey? Come an' have a drink.”
“With all my heart” Carey retorted, with genuine pleasure. “I must
confess to a liking for you, Mr. Hennage. I could kill you and then
weep at your funeral, for upon my word you are the most amusing and
philosophical opponent I have ever met. I really have hopes that
ultimately you will listen to reason.”
“There is no hope” said Mr. Hennage, as he took T. Morgan Carey by the
arm--almost, as Mrs. Dan Pennycook would have expressed it, “friendly
like,” and escorted him to the hotel bar. Here Mr. Hennage produced a
thousand-dollar bill from his vest pocket (he had carried that bill
for ten years and always used it as a flash during his peregrinations
outside San Pasqual) and calmly laid it on the bar.
“Wine” he said. Mr. Hennage's order, when doing the handsome thing, was
always “wine.” The barkeeper set out a pint of champagne and filled both
glasses. The gambler raised his to the light, eyed it critically and
then flashed his three gold teeth at T. Morgan Carey.
“Here's damnation to you, Mr. Carey” he said. “May you live unhappily
and die in jail.”
“The sentiment, my dear Hennage, is entirely reciprocal” Carey flashed
back at him. They drank, gazing at each other over the rims of their
glasses.
Despite the knock-out which Harley P. had given him, T. Morgan Carey
was enjoying the gambler's society. Mr. Hennage was a new note in life.
Carey had never met his kind before, and he was irresistibly attracted
toward the man from San Pasqual.
“Upon my word, Hennage” he said, as he set down his glass, “if your
liquor could only be metamorphosed into prussic acid, I'd gladly
shoulder your funeral expenses. You're a thorn in my side.”
“We understand each other, Carey. Any time you're meditatin' suicide
drop around to San Pasqual an' I'll buy you a pistol.”
Carey laughed long and loud. “Hennage” he said, “do you know I think I
should grow to like you? By George, I think I should. If you should ever
come to Los Angeles, look me up,” and he presented the gambler with his
card.
Mr. Hennage smiled, tore the card into little bits and dropped them to
the floor.
“Do I look like a tin-horn?” he queried.
A momentary frown crossed Carey's face; then he, too, smiled. He was
finding it hard to take offense at the gambler's bluntness.
“I think you're a dead-game sport, Hennage” he said, and there was no
doubt that he meant it. “But I shall not despair. You have brains. Some
day, I feel assured, we shall sit down together like sensible men and do
business.”
“And in the meantime” replied Mr. Hennage, raising an admonitory
forefinger, “our motto is 'Keep off the grass.'”
“Oh, I won't walk on your darned old grass” Carey retorted. “I'll just
step between it.”
They shook hands in friendly fashion, and Carey hurried away. Mr.
Hennage stared after him.
“Sassy as a badger” he murmured. “I can't bluff that _hombre._ He'll go
as far as he can, an' be ready to jump in the first chance he sees. Bob,
my boy, you're up against it.”
Mr. Hennage's business in Bakersfield was now completed. He felt certain
that a battle between Bob McGraw and T. Morgan Carey was inevitable,
should Bob decide to remain in the background and send an ally out to
fight for him. However, despite his horror of Bob's crime, the gambler
unconsciously extended him his sympathy, and if there was to be a
battle, either its commencement had been delayed or its duration
prolonged by the little bluff which he had just worked on T. Morgan
Carey, and that was all Mr. Hennage was striving for.
“I must find Bob” mused the gambler, “an' I must have time to find him
before these people euchre him out o' that valuable water right o' his.
An' when I find that young man, I'll bet six-bits he sells that water
right to me; then I'll sell it to my friend Carey an' the proceeds o'
that sale 'll go to Donnie. A woman can get along without a man, if
she's got the price to get along on.”
The gambler's line of reasoning was a wise one. In the chain of powerful
circumstantial evidence that linked Donna Corblay to Bob McGraw, Mr.
Hennage was the most powerful link, and if he was to remove himself
beyond the jurisdiction of a subpoena from the Superior Court of Kern
county, and thus evade answering embarrassing questions when Bob should
be brought to trial (as the gambler felt certain he would be), it
behooved Mr. Hennage to travel far and fast.
He went down to the station and purchased a ticket for Goldfield,
Nevada. Goldfield was in the zenith of her glory about that time and
Harley P. felt certain of a plethora of easy money in any booming mining
camp. Indeed, it behooved him to seek pastures where the grass was long
and green, for in the removal from Donna's heart of what he termed “the
big sting,” Harley P. planned to play havoc with his bank-roll.
He proceeded about this delicate task as befits one who has a horror of
appearing presumptuous. A week after his arrival in Goldfield he rented
a typewriter for a day, took it to his room in the Goldfield hotel and
battled manfully with it for several hours. After much toil he evolved
the following form letter:
_Dear Friend:_
A short time ago I robbed the San Pasqual stage at Garlock. I took
------ dollars of your money, which I return to you now; with many
thanks, for the reason that I don't need it no more and am sorry I took
it.
I notice by the papers that they found my hat with my name in it, which
serves me right. I did not have no business doing that job in the first
place. It was my first and it will be my last. I am going to start fresh
again and hope you won't bear me no grudge for what I done.
Trusting that the same has not caused you any inconvenience, and with
best wishes I am
Respectfully,
ROBERT MCGRAW.
In the blank space left for the purpose Mr. Hennage inserted in
lead-pencil the figures representing the exact amount of coin which
he had been informed by the express agent had been taken from each
passenger. Next he inserted the exact amount in paper money, together
with his letters, in envelopes which he also addressed on the
typewriter, stamped them and walked down to the post-office.
“Now, that fixes everything up lovely” he soliloquized, as he watched
the envelopes disappear down the main chute. “Wells Fargo & Co. get
theirs back, so they'll pull off their detective force an' withdraw the
reward; every passenger gets his back, an' if he's called to testify
it's a cinch he'll ask the judge to be merciful on the defendant,
because he made restitution an' showed sorrer for what he went an' done.
Everybody gets fixed up except T. Morgan Carey, an' I work too dog-gone
hard for my money to throw it away on _him._ When folks find Bob has
sent back the money he stole he won't be anything like the evil cuss he
is now an' the whole thing 'll simmer down to a big joke. When that poor
broken-hearted little wife o' his hears about it she'll think it ain't
so bad after all. She'll figure that they can go somewhere else an' live
it down an' that'll ease the ache a heap. Suppose she does meet some o'
them San Pasqual cattle in the years to come? What's the odds? Nobody in
San Pasqual knows him or ever seen him, 'ceptin' Doc Taylor--an' what's
in a name? Nothin'. There's hundreds o' McGraws in California right now,
an' more arrivin' on every train.”
Thus reasoned the artful Harley P. When his task was completed he stood
outside the door of the post-office whimsically surveying the ruin of
his fortune. Less than two thousand dollars was all he had to show for
a life-time of endeavor, and one thousand of that was contained in a
single bill and was Mr. Hennage's pocket-piece. He must never change
that bill. It was his little nest-egg against a rainy day, and hereafter
he would have to carry it where it could not readily be reached when
under the spell of sudden temptation.
He returned to his room, wrapped the bill into a compact little wad and
tucked it far into the toe of one of his congress gaiters.
“It's a blessin'” he muttered plaintively, as he replaced his shoe,
“that the lives us gamblers leads generally tends to choke off our wind
around the fifty-mark at the latest. I'm forty-five an' here in the mere
shank o' old age, after runnin' my own game for twenty years, I got to
go to work for somebody else.”