Why Harley P. Hennage should elect to return to San Pasqual on the very
day that Borax O'Rourke issued formal written notice through old Judge
Kenny for Donna to vacate the Hat Ranch, which stood upon the desert
land whereon he had filed, is one of the mysteries of retributive
justice with which this story has nothing to do. Suffice the fact that
Mr. Hennage had stayed away from San Pasqual six months, and six months
is a sufficient lapse of time for any ordinary public excitement to wear
off, particularly in the desert. He had not intended returning so soon,
but a letter from Dan Pennycook, to whom Mr. Hennage had communicated
his whereabouts, charging the yardmaster to keep him in touch with
affairs at the Hat Ranch, had precipitated his descent upon San Pasqual.
He had dropped off the Limited at daylight that very morning, and by
nine o'clock was in possession of all the facts regarding the mistress
of the Hat Ranch.
“It's a nasty mix-up, Harley” Dan Pennycook informed him, when Mr.
Hennage sought the yardmaster out in his desire for explicit information
touching the hint of trouble to Donna conveyed in the letter which
Pennycook had sent him. “Her husband ain't never showed up, an' there
ain't no record of her marriage license in the county clerk's office.”
“How d'ye know there ain't?” the gambler demanded.
“Er--er--well, the fact is, Harley, Mrs. Pennycook--”
“She went an' looked, eh?”
“Well, she was concerned about the girl's reputation--”
“Huh-huh. I see. Dan, do _you_ believe this scandal?”
“Not a damned word of it” said honest Dan firmly. “There's some mistake.
The girl's good. I've seen her grow up in this town since she was a
baby, an' girls like Donna Corblay don't go wrong.”
Mr. Hennage extended his freckled, hairy hand. “Dan” he said, “I thank
you for that. But your missus ain't playin' fair.”
Pennycook threw up his hands deprecatingly. “I know it” he said, “an' I
can't help it.”
Harley P. laid his hand on the yardmaster's shoulder. “Dan” he said, “me
an' you've been good friends, man to man, an' there's just a chance that
after to-day we ain't a-goin' to meet no more. You take my compliments
to Mrs. Pennycook, Dan, an' tell her that I've kept my word, even if
she didn't keep hers. That worthless convict brother-in-law o' yours is
dead, Dan. You can quit worryin'. He'll never blackmail you again. He's
as dead as a mackerel an' I seen him buried. Dan, old friend, _adios._”
He shook hands warmly with the yardmaster and walked over to the Silver
Dollar saloon, where, in order to smother his distress, he played game
after game of solitaire. Here, shortly after his arrival, he had learned
of Borax O'Rourke's latest move, and when the latter entered the saloon
an hour later, Harley P. had delivered his ultimatum.
For an hour after O'Rourke had left the Silver Dollar for the ostensible
purpose of purchasing a gun, the gambler continued to play solitaire.
At three o'clock he arose, kicked back his chair, sighed, and glanced at
the crowd which had been hanging around, watching him.
“Twenty games to-day an' never beat it once” he complained. “No use
talkin', boys, my luck's changed.” He walked to the bar, laid a handful
of gold thereon and gave his order.
“Wine.”
He turned to the crowd. “It happens that there ain't no officer o' the
law in San Pasqual to-day to interfere in the forthcoming festivities
between me an' O'Rourke. I do hope that none o' you boys'll feel called
on to interfere. I take it for granted you won't, out o' compliment to
me, an' as a further compliment I'd be obliged if you-all'd honor me to
the extent o' havin' a little nip.”
The crowd shuffled to the bar, and a lanky prospector in from the dry
diggings at Coolgardie spoke up.
“I'm a stranger here, but I'll help pull a rope tight around that
mule-skinner's neck. It looks to me like a community job, an' if you
say the word, friend, I'll head a movement to relieve you o' the resk o'
cancelin' that entry.”
“Thank you, old-timer” replied Mr. Hennage kindly, “but this is a
personal matter, an' it's been the custom in this town to let every man
kill his own skunks. All set, boys. Smoke up!”
Each of his guests half turned, facing the gambler. As one man they
spoke.
“How.”
“How” replied Harley P., and tossed off his wine with evident relish.
He pocketed his change and left the saloon; five minutes later he was
bending over a show-case in the hardware department of the general
store, and when his purchase was completed he sat down on a keg of
nails, laid his watch on the counter before him, lit a cigar and smoked
until four o 'clock; then he arose.
He handed his watch to the proprietor.
“I'd be obliged if you was to give that watch to Dan Pennycook” he said,
and walked out.
On the threshold he paused. A train, brown with the dust of the hundreds
of miles of desert across which it had traveled, was just pulling in
to the depot, and while Mr. Hennage realized that any delay in his
programme would be a distinct strain on the idlers who had gathered in
the porch of the Silver Dollar and adjacent deadfalls to watch the worst
man in San Pasqual finally make good on his reputation, still he was
not one of the presuming kind, and he declined to make a spectacle of
himself for the edification of the travelers peering curiously from the
windows of the train.
So he waited until the train pulled out before stepping briskly into
the middle of the street, gun in hand. He crossed diagonally toward the
eating-house, watching for O'Rourke.
Suddenly a man appeared around the corner of the eating-house, a
long-barreled Colt's in his hand. Mr. Hennage raised his gun, but
lowered it again instantly, for the man was Sam Singer. The Indian ran
to Mr. Hennage's side.
“_Vamose, amigo mio_” he said in mingled Spanish and English, “me fixum
plenty good.”
“Sam” said Mr. Hennage, “get out. You're interferin'. This is the white
man's burden.” With a sudden sweep of his arm he tore the gun from the
Indian's hand, and waved him imperiously away, just as the crowd on the
porch of the Silver Dollar parted and Borax O'Rourke leaped into the
street.
“Git--you Injun” yelled Mr. Hennage. “If he beefs me first you take a
hack at him.”
Sam Singer, weaponless, sprang around the corner of the eating-house,
just as O'Rourke, having gained the center of the street, turned, drew
his gun down on Harley P. and fired. A suppressed “A-a-h-h” went up from
the crowd as the worst man in San Pasqual sprawled forward on his hands
and knees.
O'Rourke brought his gun up, swiftly, dropped it again. Mr. Hennage's
left arm buckled under him suddenly and he slid forward on his face,
while two more bullets from the mule-skinner's gun threw the sand in his
eyes, blinding him, before ricochetting against the eating-house wall.
Sam Singer, peering around the corner of the eating-house, saw the
gambler pick himself up slowly. There was a surprised look on his face.
He was staggering in circles and as yet he had not fired a shot.
“No luck” he muttered thickly, “no luck,” and reeled toward the
eating-house. A fifth bullet scored his shoulder and crashed through the
wall; the sixth--and last--was a clean miss, and in the middle of San
Pasqual's single street Borax O'Rourke stood wonderingly, an empty
smoking gun in his hand, staring at the man reeling blindly along the
eating-house wall.
Mr. Hennage paused with his broad back against the wall. “The sand” he
muttered, blinking, and brushed his eyes with the back of his good right
hand, as Sam Singer made a quick scuttering rush around the corner and
retrieved the loaded gun which the gambler had taken from him and which
Harley P. had dropped when O'Rourke's second bullet had shattered his
left arm.
Mr. Hennage saw the Indian stooping, and flapped his broken arm in
feeble protest. Then he raised his gun.
“Borax” he said aloud, “I've got a full house,” and pulled away,
O'Rourke pitched forward, and Harley P. advanced uncertainly toward him,
firing as he came, and when the gun was empty and Borax O'Rourke as
dead as Cheops, the gambler stood over his man and hurled the gun at the
still twitching body.
“Well, I've canceled that entry” he said. He stood there, swaying a
little, and a strong arm came around his fat waist. He half turned and
gazed into the sun-scorched, red-bearded face of a tall young man clad
in a ruin of weather-beaten rags.
It was Bob McGraw. He had come back. Sam Singer, reaching Mr. Hennage's
side at that moment, recognized the stranger, and realizing that Mr.
Hennage was in safe hands, the Indian dropped his gun (the one he had
taken from O'Rourke at the Hat Ranch) and fled to Donna with the news.
Mr. Hennage fixed his fading glance upon the wanderer. He wanted to
say something severe, but for the life of him--even the little he had
left--he could not; there was a puzzled look in his sand-clogged eyes as
he whispered.
“Bob, they've got the goods--on you. There's a warrant--out;
you--know--that stage hold-up--at Garlock--”
He lurched forward into Bob McGraw's arms.
“Oh, Harley, Harley, old man” said Bob McGraw in a choking voice.
“Vamose” panted Mr. Hennage. “I'm dyin', son. You can't do no good
here.”
“My friend, my friend” whispered the wanderer, “don't die believing I'm
an outlaw. I didn't do it. On my word of honor, I didn't.”
“I'm dyin', Bob. Give me the straight of it.”
“I can't. I don't know what you're driving at, Harley. It's a mistake--”
“Everything's a mistake--I'm a mistake” muttered the gambler. “Son, take
me--to my--room--in the hotel. I'm a dog with a bad--name, but I--don't
want to--die in--the street.”
Dan Pennycook, at his work among the strings of empty box-cars across
the track, had heard the shooting; had seen the crowd leave the porch of
the Silver Dollar saloon and surge out into the street. He came running
now, and upon hearing the details of the duel he pressed through the
circle of curious men who had gathered to see Harley P. Hennage die.
He found Mr. Hennage seated in the sand with his head and shoulders
supported by a stranger.
Mr. Hennage smiled his rare, trustful, childish smile as the yardmaster
approached.
“Good old Dan!” he mumbled. “He can only--think of one--thing at
a--time--like a horse--but--by God--he thinks--straight. Hello, Dan. I'm
beefed. Help Bob--carry me in--Dan. I'm so--damned--heavy an' I don't
want--any but real friends--to touch me--now.”
They picked him up and carried him into the hotel, up the narrow
heat-warped stairs and down the corridor to his room. On the way down
the corridor, Mr. Hennage sniffed curiously.
“They got--new mattin' in the rooms” he gasped. “Business--must
be--lookin' up.”
The crowd followed into the room, and watched Bob McGraw and Dan
Pennycook lay Mr. Hennage on his old bed. Dan Pennycook hurried for Doc
Taylor, while Bob cleared the room of the curious and locked the door.
Mr. Hennage beckoned him to his bedside.
“I ain't paid--for this bed yet” he said, “but there's money--in my
pants pocket--an' you square up--for the damage--an' the annoyance--”
The tears came into Bob McGraw's eyes as he knelt beside the bed and
took the hand of the worst man in San Pasqual in his. He could not
speak. The simplicity, the honesty of this dying stray dog had filled
his heart to overflowing; for he was young and he could weep at the
passing of a man.
“Sho,” said Mr. Hennage softly, “sho, Bob. It was low down--o' me to
figure you--a crook, but the evidence--man, it was awful--but you--when
did you--marry Donnie.”
“Last October--in Bakersfield.”
“I know--wisht you'd invited me--give the bride away, Bob.
This wouldn't--have happened. Damn dogs! They--say--little
Donnie--belongs--east o' the tracks. I killed--O'Rourke for--thinkin'
it.”
A knock sounded on the door, and Bob opened it, to admit Dan Pennycook.
“Doc Taylor's in Bakersfield” he said.
Mr. Hennage grinned. “I knew it--no luck to-day” he said. “Just wipe
the--sand out--o' my eyes, Bob--an' let me kick the bucket--without
disturbin' nobody. Dan'l, good-by. As the feller says--we shall meet--on
that beautiful--shore.”
Pennycook wet a towel in the wash-bowl and wiped Mr. Hennage's eyes.
Then he wiped his own, squeezed his friend's hand and departed. He had
taken Mr. Hennage's gentle hint to leave him alone with Bob McGraw.
For nearly half an hour Bob and Mr. Hennage talked, and when the gambler
had learned all he wished to know he closed his eyes and was silent
until another knock came on the door. Again Bob opened it. Donna stood
on the threshold.
“Oh, sweetheart!” she cried, and her arms went around his neck, while
Sam Singer softly closed the door and stood guard outside. At the sound
of her voice Mr. Hennage opened his eyes, but since he was not one
of the presuming kind he quickly closed them again and feigned
unconsciousness until he felt Donna's soft hand resting on his cold
forehead.
“You oughtn't to a-come here, Donnie” he said, making a brave show
to speak easily despite his terrible wounds. “There ain't--no fun in
this--visit--for nobody--but me--”
He turned wearily to hide his face from her, and looked thoughtfully out
the window, across the level reaches of the Mojave desert, to where
the sun hung low over the Tehachapis. In the fading light the little
dust-devils were beginning to caper and obscure the landscape, much
as the dark shadows were already trooping athwart the horizon of Mr.
Hennage's wasted life. The night--the eternal night--was coming on
apace, and it came to Mr. Hennage that he, too, would depart with the
sunset, and he had no regrets.
“Don't cry” he said gently. “I ain't worth it. Just hold--my hand.
I want you--near--when I can't see you--no more--an' it's gettin'
dark--already. You're so much--like your mother--an' she--she trusted
me. I was born with--a hard--face--an' nobody ever--trusted me--but you
an'--your mother--an' I--wanted to be trusted--all my worthless life--I
wanted it--”
He sighed and held out his hands to them. Thereafter for an hour he did
not speak. He was thinking of many things now, and the time was short.
Presently he opened his eyes and looked out the window again.
“It's--dark” he whispered. “The sun ain't set, has it?”
“It's just setting” Donna answered him. He nodded slightly, and a flush
of embarrassment lit up his pale features. For the first and last time
in life, Harley P. Hennage was going to appear presumptuous.
“If it's--a boy” he whispered, “would you--you wouldn't mind--would
you--callin' him--Harley? Just--his middle name, Donnie--an' he
could--sign it--Robert H.--McGraw.”
Donna's hot tears fell fast on his face as she leaned over and kissed
the death-damp from his brow.
“Oh-thank you” he gasped. “Bob--take off my--shoes--I
don't--want--to--die--with--my boots--on. New--gaiters--too--give
'em--to Sam--Singer. Good--Injun--that.”
The sun had set behind the Tehachapis now, and twilight was stealing
over San Pasqual. It was time for Mr. Hennage to be on his way. He clung
to the hands of his friends convulsively, and whatever thoughts came
to him in that supreme moment were for the first time reflected in his
face. Indeed, one tiny hint of the desolation in his big heart--the
agony of a lifetime of misunderstanding and repression, trickled across
his hard face; then something seemed to strike him very funny, for the
infrequent, trustful, childish smile flickered across his face, the
three gold teeth flashed for an instant ere the worst man in San Pasqual
slipped off into the shadows.
And whatever the joke was, he took it with him.
In his unassuming way Harley P. Hennage had been sufficient of a
personage, and the manner of his death sufficiently spectacular, to
entitle him to one hundred and fifty words of posthumous publicity.
Within an hour after the street duel the local representative of the
Associated Press had his story on the wire, and at eight-thirty next
morning T. Morgan Carey, in his club at Los Angeles, read the glad
tidings. By nine o'clock a cipher telegram from Carey was being clicked
off to his tool in the General Land Office at Washington, instructing
him to expedite the listing of the applications of Bob McGraw's clients
for lieu land in Owens Valley.
To T. Morgan Carey's way of thinking that inconspicuous paragraph in the
morning paper meant as much to him as the receipt of a certified check
for a million dollars. Under his instructions, the applications of
McGraw's clients had, with the judicious aid of the deputy in the State
Land Office, been approved by the surveyor-general and forwarded to
Washington for the approval of the Commissioner of the General Land
Office. Here, Carey's long arm, reaching out, had stayed their progress
until now. Within a week after Mr. Hennage's death the lands would be
passed to patent, under the interested attentions of Carey's man in the
General Land Office, the State Land Office would notify Bob McGraw at
his address furnished them that the lands were ready for him, and to
call and pay the balance due. It would then be incumbent upon McGraw
to visit the State Land Office, pay the balance of thirty-nine thousand
dollars due on the lands and close the transaction.
The way had been nicely smoothed for Carey by the death of Mr. Hennage,
who had warned him so earnestly to “keep off the grass.” Of course,
McGraw, being to Carey's way of thinking an outlaw from justice, would
not dare to appear to claim the lands, and if he did, T. Morgan Carey
planned to have a hale and hearty gentleman in a blue uniform with brass
buttons, waiting at the Land Office to receive him _before he paid for
the lands._ With the providential removal of McGraw's queer partner,
Carey saw very clearly that, after waiting a reasonable period after due
notice of the approval of the applications had been mailed to McGraw,
the filings would eventually lapse, the state would claim the forfeit of
the preliminary payment of one thousand dollars and the lands would be
reopened for entry--whereupon Carey would step in with his own dummy
entrymen. He could then proceed with his own system of irrigation, in
the meanwhile keeping a watchful eye on McGraw's water right, ready to
grab it when the title should lapse through McGraw's failure to develop
it.
Harley P. Hennage died on the fifth day of March. On the seventh there
were two funerals in San Pasqual. The coroner and two Mexican laborers
tucked Borax O'Rourke away in the potter's field in the morning. In the
afternoon every business establishment in San Pasqual closed, every
male citizen in San Pasqual arrayed himself in his “other” clothes and
attended the funeral of Harley P. Hennage, testifying, by his presence
at least, his masculine appreciation of a dead-game sport.
That was a historic day in San Pasqual. Harley P. lay in state in the
long gambling hall of the Silver Dollar which, for so many years, he had
ruled by the mystic power of his terrible eyes. Dan Pennycook had made
all of the funeral arrangements, and when the crowd had passed slowly
around the casket, viewing Harley P.'s placid face for the last time, a
strange young man, clad in the garb of a prospector, mounted the little
dais, so long occupied by the lookout for Harley P.'s faro game, and
delivered a funeral oration. It was not a panegyric of hope, and it
dwelt not with the promise of a haven for the gambler's soul in one of
his Father's many mansions. He told them merely the story of one who had
dwelt amongst them--the story of a man they had never known--and he told
it in such simple, eloquent words that the men of San Pasqual wondered
what dark tragedy underlay his own life, that he must needs descend to
mingle with such as they. And wondering, they wept.
They asked each other who this red stranger might be, but none could
answer. But when Harley P. Hennage was finally consigned to the desert
they watched the stranger and saw him walk down the tracks to the Hat
Ranch. Then they understood, and the word was passed that the man was
Bob McGraw, the father of Donna Corblay's unborn child.
Strange to relate, nobody considered it worth while to telephone the
sheriff of Kern county. Even Miss Pickett, who since the shooting had
been strangely subdued, was not attracted by the recollection of the
offer of a reward of five hundred dollars for Bob McGraw, dead or alive;
and ten days after the funeral, when a registered letter came to Robert
McGraw, she sent for Dan Pennycook, gave him the letter and the registry
receipt and asked him to take it down to the Hat Ranch.
Pennycook leaned his greasy elbows on the delivery window and gazed long
and sternly at Miss Pickett.
“Miss Pickett” he said presently, “we found a 'nononymous letter on
Borax O'Rourke after he was killed. There's folks in San Pasqual that
says the letter's in your handwritin'.”
“'Tain't so!” shrilled the spinster.
“Well, this man McGraw says it is so, an' he's goin' to get an expert to
prove it. He says it's a felony to send a 'nonymous letter through the
United States mails. I'm just a-tellin' you to give you fair warnin'.”
Miss Pickett, although greatly agitated, pursed her mouth contemptuously
and closed the delivery window. Mr. Pennycook left for the Hat Ranch.
“Donna,” said Bob McGraw, when Dan Pennycook had departed, after
delivering the letter from the State Land Office, “the applications of
my clients are approved and ready to be passed to patent. I have been
called upon to pay the balance of thirty-nine thousand dollars due on
the land, and if there are thirty-nine cents real money in this world, I
do act possess them. Will you loan me a hundred dollars, dear, from that
thousand Harley P. gave you? I must go to San Francisco on business.”
He smiled his old bantering smile. “I'm always broke, sweetheart. I'm an
unfortunate cuss, am I not? Those claims of mine didn't yield wages and
I was forced to sell my outfit at Danby to get railroad fare back to San
Pasqual. And if the train hadn't been ten minutes late--if I hadn't gone
into the eating-house looking for you--I would, have arrived in time
to have saved poor Hennage. It was my fight, after all, and poor Harley
wasn't used to firearms.”
They were sitting together in the patio. Donna leaned her head on his
broad shoulder. She had suffered much of late. She had fought the good
fight for his sake, for the sake of his great dream of Donnaville, and
she had fought alone. She was weary of it all and she longed to leave
San Pasqual as quickly as possible.
“Are you going to ask Mr. Dunstan for the thirty-nine thousand dollars
he promised to loan you, when the lands were ready for you?” she asked
dully.
“No” he answered. “It's no use. I need more money, and Dunstan's check
wouldn't even get me started. If I'm whipped, there is no sense
in dragging my friends down with me. I'm going to Los Angeles and
compromise with Carey.”
She drew his rough cheek down to hers and patted his brown hands. She
knew then the bitterness of his defeat, and she made no comment. She was
tired of the fight. A compromise with Carey or a sale of the water
right was their only hope, and when Bob spoke of compromise she was too
listless to dissuade him. Since that eventful night when he had first
ridden into San Pasqual she had been more or less of a stormy petrel;
woe and death and suffering had followed his coming, and if Donnaville
was to be purchased at such a price, the land was dear, indeed.
She gave him gladly of her slender hoard and that night Bob McGraw
went up to San Francisco. Two days later he returned, stopping off at
Bakersfield, and the following morning he returned to San Pasqual.
He went at once to the post-office, and after receiving permission
from Miss Pickett, screwed into the wall of the post-office lobby what
appeared to Miss Pickett to be two pictures, framed. When he had left,
she came out of her sanctum and discovered that one of the frames
contained a certified copy of a marriage license issued to Robert McGraw
and Donna Corblay on October 17th,----, together with a neat typewritten
statement of the reasons why interested parties had not been able to
discover the record of the issuance of the license at the county seat.
It appeared that the minister who had performed the ceremony, after
forwarding the license to the State Board of Health for registration,
had neglected to return it thereafter to the two most interested
parties, which, coupled with Mrs. McGraw's ignorance of the procedure
to be followed under the circumstances, had resulted in more or less
embarrassment.
The other frame contained a typewritten invitation to the public to earn
five hundred dollars by convicting the undersigned of stage robbery. The
“undersigned” was Robert McGraw, who would remain in San Pasqual all day
long and would be delighted to answer questions.
From the post-office Bob went to the public telephone station and called
up T. Morgan Carey in Los Angeles. He requested an interview at ten
o'clock the following morning for the purpose of adjusting a compromise
with him.
Needless to state, Mr. T. Morgan Carey granted the request with cheerful
alacrity.
“I'm coming to do business” Bob warned him. “No third parties
around--understand!”
“Certainly, certainly” responded Carey. “And in order to save time, Mr.
McGraw, I'll have the assignment of your water right made out, ready for
your signature. I'll have a notary within hailing distance.”
Bob could hear him chuckling as he hung up, for to Carey the thought of
his revenge on the man who had cuffed him in the State Land Office was
very sweet, indeed. His amiable smile had not yet worn off when his
office boy ushered Bob McGraw into his private office at ten o'clock
next morning. He waved Bob to a chair and looked him over curiously.
“Been too busy lately to dress up, eh?” he queried, as he noted Bob's
corduroy trousers tucked into his miner's boots.
“Pretty busy” assented Bob, and smiled.
“Rather spectacular removal--that of our friend Hennage” Carey
continued. “From what I learn he was a little slow on the draw.”
“O'Rourke beat him to it.”
“If I may judge by the single exhibition of your proficiency with a gun
which I was privileged to observe, Mr. McGraw, the issue would have been
different had you been in Hennage's boots.”
“Possibly. But I didn't come here to gossip with you, Carey. I don't
like you well enough for that. I want to finish my business and get back
to San Pasqual to-night.”
“Certainly, certainly. But you're such an extraordinary young man,
McGraw, that in spite of our former differences I must own to a desire
to know more about you. I could use a man with your brains and ability,
McGraw. You're the kind of a fellow I've been looking for--for a great
many years, in fact. If you think you could manage to divorce yourself
from your ambitions to supersede me in the State Land Office, I could
afford to pay you a fat salary to attend to my land matters. I would
have to be the boss, however. It has been a rule of my life, McGraw, to
gather about me men with more brains than I possess myself. That is the
secret of my--er--rather modest success.”
Bob smiled. “No use” he answered. “I couldn't wear your collar, Carey. I
Ve been a white man all my life and I'm too old to change.”
“It's a pity” Carey replied with genuine sincerity. “I can see
remarkable possibilities in you, McGraw. I can, indeed. It's a shame to
see you waste your opportunities.”
“Play ball” commanded Bob sharply.
“Very well, since you desire it. In the matter of those applications for
fifty sections of Owens Valley: you have received a notification from
the Registrar of the State Land Office, advising you to call and pay
thirty-nine thousand dollars. You cannot pay it; neither can your
clients. What are you going to do about it?”
Bob shrugged. “_Quien sabe?_” he said.
“Well, Mr. McGraw, I'll tell you. Your applications are going to lapse
through non-payment, and I'm going to get the land. So enough of that.
You own a valuable water right. I'm going to get that also. Do you wish
me to explain why?”
“No, it is not necessary. I think I follow your line of reasoning.”
“I am not disappointed in my estimate of your common sense” Carey
retorted, and favored his visitor with a cold, quizzical smile. “Here is
the assignment of that water right to me. In return I will give you--let
me see. I will give you just fifteen hundred dollars for that water
right, McGraw, and I am surprised at myself for exhibiting such
generosity. And inasmuch as you collected that sum in advance last
autumn at Garlock, your signature to the assignment, before a notary who
is waiting in the next room, is all that we require to terminate this
interview.”
“But I told you I came here to compromise.”
“I understand fully. Those are my terms. Your water right on Cottonwood
lake in return for your freedom. Stage-robbers cannot be choosers, Mr.
McGraw. I recognized you that day at Garlock and I am prepared to so
testify.”
The land-grabber rose from his swivel chair. His polished suave manner
had disappeared now and his cold eyes flashed with anger and hatred.
“I haven't forgotten that day in the State Land Office, McGraw. A slight
pressure on this button”--he placed his manicured finger on an ivory
push button--“and two plain-clothes men in my outer office will attend
to your case, McGraw.”
“So those are your final terms, Carey?”
“Absolutely.”
Bob crossed his right leg over his left knee, pulled out a five-cent
cigar and thoughtfully bit off the end.
“Press the button, old man” he murmured presently. “Confound this cigar,
I've busted the blamed wrapper. Got another cigar handy, Carey? Thanks.
By George, that's a two-bitter, isn't it? Well, it's none too good for
the last of the McGraw family. I'll be in the two-bit class; myself
in half an hour. But proceed, Carey. Press the button and call in your
plain-clothes men.”
He pulled back the lapel of his coat, and the land-grabber saw the butt
of a gun nestling under his left arm. From his inner coat pocket Bob
drew a cylindrical roll of paper about eight inches long.
Carey eyed him scornfully. “This is the city of Los Angeles, my friend,
not the open desert at Garlock. A gunplay would be most ill-advised, I
assure you.”
“Oh, that's just part of my wardrobe” Bob retorted. “I wouldn't think of
using that on a man unless he was real dangerous--and men like you are
beneath my notice. Come now, Carey. Which is it to be? Compromise or the
penitentiary?”
“Certainly not compromise--on any terms but mine.”
“Well, press the button and call them in--_Boston!_”
Carey whirled in his chair, jerked open a drawer in his desk and reached
his hand inside. Before he could withdraw it Bob McGraw's big automatic
was covering him.
“Take your hand out of that drawer--_Boston._ Out, you dog, or I'll
drill you!”
Carey's hand came out of the drawer slowly, very slowly, grasping a
small pearl-handled revolver.
“This is the city of Los Angeles, my friend, and not the open desert.
A gun-play would be most ill-advised, I assure you” Bob mocked the
land-grabber. “You'd better let me have that pop-gun.”
He gently removed the little weapon from Carey's trembling hand.
“Now, go over in that corner and sit down--no, not on the floor. Take
a chair with you. I'll occupy the arsenal. You might have all kinds of
push buttons, burglar alarms and deadly weapons around this desk.”
He ran his hands lightly over Carey's person in search of weapons,
shoved him into the corner indicated, then turned and snapped the spring
lock on the door leading out to the general office; after which he
laid his gun on Carey's desk, sat down in Carey's swivel chair, tilted
himself back and lifted his hob-nailed miner's boots to the top of
Carey's rosewood table close by. And as he gazed, almost sorrowfully,
at the land-grabber, he puffed enjoyably at Carey's cigar. Evidently he
foresaw a lengthy argument and meant to make himself comfortable before
proceeding.
“Well, now, Boston, since we have definitely located you as the murderer
of Oliver Corblay in the Colorado desert on the night of May 17th, 188-,
I'll give you five minutes to get your nerve back and then we'll get
down to business. You will recall that I came here to compromise.”
He reached over and placed a brown calloused finger on the push button,
and waited.
“Well” he said presently, “what's the answer!”
“Compromise” Carey managed to articulate. Bob removed his finger.
“The court will now listen to any new testimony that may be adduced in
the case of The People versus Carey. Fire away, Boston.”
“What are you?” panted Carey. “A man or a devil?”
“Just a plain human being, so flat busted, Boston, that I rattle when I
walk. What would you suggest to cure me of that horrible ailment?”
“Silence--on both sides--and a hundred thousand for your water right.”
“Well, from your point of view, that offer is truly generous. It is
now my turn to be surprised at your generosity. But you're shy on
imagination, Boston--and I'm--a greedy rascal. You'll have to raise the
ante.”
“Two hundred thousand.”
“Still too low. The power rights alone are worth a million.”
“A million, then--you to leave the United States and not return during
my lifetime.”
Bob laughed. “You don't understand, Boston. Why should I sell you my
water right? You must have water on the brain.”
“Then, why have you called to see me? Is it blackmail? Why, this
interview is degenerating into a ease of the pot calling the kettle
black! I'm a fool, McGraw. I shall offer you nothing at all. You can be
convicted of stage robbery and you haven't a dollar in the world to make
your defense--while I--it takes _evidence_ to convict a man like me.”
“Yes, I know your kind. You think you're above the law. I notice,
however, that you fear it a little. I sprung a good one on you that
time, didn't I, Boston? Imagine the self-possessed T. Morgan Carey
practically confessing to a murder on a mere accusation.”
He wagged his head at Carey sorrowfully, and continued. “You said a
minute ago, Carey, that I had brains. You did not underestimate me. I
have. I would not have come to you this morning if I did not have the
goods on you. Not much. I don't hold you that cheap, Boston--”
“Don't call me that name” snarled Carey.
“All right, Boston, I won't, since you object. Sit quiet, now, and I'll
tell you a very wonderful story--profusely illustrated, as the book
agents say. It's rather a long story, so please do not interrupt me.”
He unrolled the paper which he had taken from his pocket and held it up
before his cringing victim. It was an enlargement from a kodak picture
of a desert scene. In the foreground lay two human skeletons. Bob picked
a pencil off Carey's desk and lightly indicated one of these skeletons.
“That bundle of bones was once Oliver Corblay. Notice those footprints
over to the right! See how plainly they loom up in the picture? And over
there--see that little message, Bos--I mean, Mr. Carey. It says:
'Friend, look in my canteen and see that I get justice.'
“Behold the friend who looked in the canteen, and who is now here for
justice for that skeleton. He's waited twenty years for it, Carey, but
he's going to get it to-day. Don't squirm so. You distract my mind from
my story.
“Two months ago I was heading up from the Colorado river toward
Chuckwalla Tanks. Passing the mouth of a box canyon I observed the
footprints of a man in some old rotten lava formation. I could tell that
the man who made those footprints was dying of thirst when he made them.
He was traveling in circles, every twenty yards, and they always do that
toward the finish.
“Well, I hustled up that box canyon with my canteen, hoping I'd arrive
in time. Judge of my surprise when I found this heap of bones. I
investigated and discovered that owing to the peculiar formation in
the box canyon the footprints were practically imperishable. A
detailed explanation of the reason why they loom up so white would be
interesting, but technical--so let it pass. Suffice the fact that Oliver
Corblay made the same discovery when he drifted into that box canyon
twenty years ago, and it gave him an idea. He had a message to leave to
posterity and he left it in his empty canteen. However, unless attention
could be called to the canteen, the man who found the skeleton would
merely bury it and never think of looking in the canteen. So Oliver
Corblay wrote that message in the lava; really the most ingenious piece
of inlaid work I have ever seen.
“I was the first man to travel that way in twenty years. I read the
message in the lava and I looked in the canteen. Here is a copy of
the story I found there. The original is in a safe deposit box in San
Francisco. It is a diary of a trip which you made with Oliver Corblay
and his _mozo_ when you first came out to this country from--well, never
mind the name. It seems to annoy you. This diary tells all about the
discovery of the Baby Mine, your attack upon him with a stone and your
flight with the gold--in fact, a condensed history of that trip right
down to the very day he died in that box canyon.
“I was so tremendously interested in that remarkable story, Carey, that
as soon as I had refilled my water kegs at Chuckwalla Tanks, I headed
south again for Ehrenburg. Here, after much inquiry, I learned from two
of the oldest inhabitants that a tenderfoot with a train of four burros
had arrived there twenty years ago. They remembered you quite well,
because you were so new to the country and so frightened after your
experience in the desert. You told a tale of a sandstorm and of having
been separated from two Indians you had employed. It seems you lay over
in Ehrenburg for a week and put in your time working up a lot of rich
ore. You gave a deputy United States marshal five hundred dollars to act
as your bodyguard that week, and when your bullion was ready you shipped
it by express to the mint in San Francisco. In the express office at
Ehrenburg I found a record of that shipment. You shipped it under the
name 'T. C. Morgan,' a reversal of your real name.
“From Ehrenburg I made my way back up through Riverside county and
across San Bernardino county, to the box canyon. I had purchased a
little camera in Ehrenburg, and I fizzled a lot of my films owing to the
strong light and the fact that I had to stand on one of my jacks when I
took the picture, and the little rascal wouldn't stand still. However, I
managed to get one good picture out of the lot, and as you will observe,
it all shows up very well in the enlargement.
“I left everything in that box canyon just as I found it. It occurred to
me that you might fight and ask to be shown; so might a coroner's jury.
They could get out there in three days with an automobile now. Leaving
the box canyon I pushed north to Danby, where I sold my outfit and
bought a ticket for San Pasqual, where I arrived just in time to see
my friend, Harley P. Hennage, lay down his life in defense of Oliver
Corblay's daughter, who, by the way, happens to be my wife.
“If you are not too frightened, Carey, you will readily diagnose my
extreme interest in this case. Oliver Corblay left a will, which I shall
not bother to file for probate, for the reason that his entire estate
consisted of the gold that you stole from him, and it is my intention to
secure his estate for his heir without recourse to law. Oliver
Corblay's wife is dead, and his daughter, Donna, is my wife and next in
succession.
“By consulting the old records of the United States Mint at San
Francisco, I discover that on June 2, 18--, a cashier's check was issued
to a man named T. C. Morgan, in the sum of $157,432.55, in payment of
bullion received. This check was endorsed by T. C. Morgan to Thomas M.
Carey, and deposited by Thomas M. Carey in the Traders National Bank.
“Now, Carey, $157,432.55, at seven per cent per annum, compounded
annually for twenty annums, aggregates a heap of money. I wore myself
out trying to figure the exact sum, and finally concluded to call it
square at half a million. That original sum that you stole from Oliver
Corblay gave you your start in the west, and as you are reputed to be
worth five or six millions now, I am going to assess you half a million
dollars for my wife--money which justly belongs to her--and another half
million for my services as your attorney, wherein I agree to prevail
upon my wife not to prosecute you for murder and highway robbery, but to
permit you to live on and await the retributive justice that is bound to
overtake you. I think this is perfectly fair and square. You have used
your money and your power for evil. I am going to use mine for good.
Have the kindness, my dear T. Morgan Carey, to dig me up a million
dollars, P. D. Q.”