Carey sat huddled dejectedly in his chair. Old age seemed to have
descended upon him within the hour; with sagging shoulders, mouth half
open in terror, and the wrinkled skin around his thin jaws and the
corners of his eyes hanging in greenish-white folds, he looked very
tired and very pitiful. Despite his terror, however, he was not yet
daunted; for with the picture of _two skeletons_ before him he saw a
gleam of hope and tried to fight back.
“Twenty years is a long time, McGraw,” he quavered, “and it's hard to
trace a man by a mere similarity of names.”
“You can be traced through the Traders National, where you banked that
check, and your identity established beyond a doubt. I can trace your
career in this state, step by step, from the day you arrived in it.”
Carey smiled--a very weak sickly smile, but bespeaking awakened
confidence.
“In the face of which, McGraw, your knowledge of our United States' law
will convince you that you cannot convict a man with money enough to
fight indefinitely, on such flimsy twenty-year-old evidence found in an
abandoned canteen. You cannot identify that skeleton, and you will have
to prove that--that--well, you'll have to produce oral testimony, or
I'll be given the benefit of the doubt.”
“I must prove that the man who killed and robbed Oliver Corblay is T.
Morgan Carey, and not a stranger masquerading under your name, eh? All
right, T. Morgan. I told you I had this story profusely illustrated.”
Bob stepped to the door of the private office which led into the hall.
He opened it and Sam Singer stepped inside. Bob turned to Carey.
“Permit me to present Oliver Corblay's Indian servant, Mr. Carey. He is
a little older and more stolid since you saw him last, but his memory--”
Sam Singer moved forward a few feet and glanced sharply at Carey.
“I think he recognizes you in spite of your beard” said Bob sorrowfully,
“and I see no reason--”
“Take him away” panted Carey, on the instant that Sam Singer, with a
peculiar low guttural cry, sprang upon the land-grabber. Bob came behind
the Indian, grasped him by the chin, and with his knee in the small of
the Cahuilla's back as a fulcrum, gently pried him away from his victim
and held him fast. Carey lay quivering on the floor, and Bob looked down
at him.
“Are you satisfied?” he asked.
Carey nodded feebly, and Bob marched Sam Singer to the door, opened
it and gently propelled him out into the hall. He locked the door and
returned to the desk.
“I knew the sight of two skeletons would hearten you up, Carey, until
you'd be as saucy as a badger. But you're as tame as a pet fox now, so
let's get down to business. Don't argue with me. I've got you where the
hair is short; I want a million dollars, and if I do not get it within
half an hour I won't take it at all and I will no longer protect you
from that Indian.”
Carey climbed back into his chair. “If I accept your terms” he said
huskily, “how am I to know that you will keep your word?”
“You will not know it. You'll just have to guess. When you do what I
want you to do I will surrender to you the original document found in
the canteen. Is that satisfactory?”
“I guess so. But I cannot give you a million dollars on five minutes'
notice, McGraw.”
“It's quite a chunk of cash to have on hand, I'll admit. How much can
you give me?”
“Five hundred thousand, and even then I'll have to overdraw my accounts
with three banks.”
“I wish my credit was as good as yours, Carey. Your banks will stand for
the overdraft, of course. You'll have to arrange it some other way if
they will not.”
“I can't give you a cent over half a million to-day, no matter what you
do” pleaded Carey piteously, and Bob realized that he was speaking the
truth.
“Do not worry, Carey,” he replied, “we're going to do business without
getting nasty with each other. I'll take your promissory note, at
seven per cent, and you can secure me with a little mortgage on your
Spring-street-business block. It's worth a million and a half. I am not
so unreasonable as to imagine even a rich man like you can produce a
million dollars cash on such notice, so during the past week I took the
liberty of having the title searched and an instrument of first mortgage
drawn up by myself. All we have to do is to insert the figures and then
you can sign it. I understand you have a notary within hailing distance.
Your own thoughtfulness in having this transfer of my water right ready
for my signature suggested this course to me. It occurred to me that I
could sell this mortgage to any Los Angeles bank.”
Carey covered his face with his hands and quivered.
“What bank do you anticipate selling it to?” he mumbled presently.
“I didn't have any particular choice. If you have enemies I will not
sell you into their hands, and you can make the mortgage for as long a
period as you please, up to three years. Give me a list of banks to keep
away from. I don't want to hurt you unnecessarily, I assure you.”
“Thank you, McGraw” quavered his victim. “If you'll let me sit at my
desk I'll draw those checks.”
“Certainly. Only I want the checks certified, Carey. You understand, of
course, that I shall not surrender the evidence I have against you until
those checks are paid. I will not risk your telephoning the banks, the
moment I leave your office, telling them the checks were secured by
force and threats of bodily harm, and for them to decline payment.”
Carey wrote the checks, called in a clerk and instructed him to
take them to the various banks and arrange for the overdraft and
certification--a comparatively easy task, since Carey was a heavy
stockholder in all three banks. Within half an hour, while Bob and Carey
sat glaring at each other, the checks were returned, and Carey handed
them to Bob, who examined them and found them correct. The mortgage was
next filled out, the notary called in, and Carey signed and swore to his
signature.
“Now, in order to be perfectly legal about this matter, Carey,” began
Bob, when the notary had departed, “we should show some consideration
for all this money. I have here the papers showing I have filed on
twenty acres of a mining claim. It's just twenty acres of the Mojave
desert, near San Pasqual, and I do not know that it contains a speck of
valuable mineral, but that is neither here nor there. I staked it as a
mining claim and christened it the Baby Mine.”
Here a slight smile flickered across the young Desert Rat's face, as if
some very pleasant thought had preceded it. He continued:
“I have had my signature to this deed to the Baby Mine attested before a
notary a few minutes prior to my arrival in your office.” He handed the
document to T. Morgan Carey. “Here's your mine, Carey. I've sold it to
you for a million dollars, and unless you spend one hundred dollars a
year in assessment work, the title to this million-dollar property will
lapse. I wish you luck with your bargain. I shall expect you to record
this deed within three days, and that will block any come-back you may
start figuring on. If you fail to record this deed I shall construe
your act as a breach of faith, return to you all but the five hundred
thousand dollars which belongs to my wife, and then proceed to make
things disagreeable for you. Remember, Carey, I'm your attorney and you
should be guided by my advice.”
Carey's face was livid with rage and hatred. “And in addition, I suppose
I'm to forget that you're a stage robber, eh?” He reached for the
telephone. “By the gods, McGraw, I'll take a chance with you after all.
I'm going to fight you.”
Bob McGraw drew a large envelope from his pocket. “You may read what
this envelope contains while waiting for central to answer your call”
he said gently. “I snipped the wires while you were hiding your face in
your hands, wondering what you were going to do. These papers are
merely a few affidavits, proving an absolute alibi in the matter of
that Garlock robbery. I was eating frijoles and flapjacks with three
prospectors about fifteen miles south of Olancho at the time this stage
was held up, and I was in Keeler the following morning. This document
contains a statement of the most amazing case of circumstantial evidence
you ever heard of. Its author is the chief of Wells Fargo and besides,
I have queer ideas on the subject of punishment for crime. Crime,
Mr. Carey, is a great deal like our other human ailments, such as the
chicken-pox and tonsilitis. We must bear with it and try to cure it by
gentle care and scientific treatment. Prison cells have never cured a
criminal, and it would only pain me to see you behind the bars in your
old age. And I am certain that my wife would not rejoice at the news of
your hanging.”
“I suppose money has nothing to do with the celerity with which you
hasten to compound a felony, eh?” sneered Carey.
“You unfortunate man! Carey, my late friend, Mr. Hennage, used to say
that it was good policy to overlook a losing bet once in a while, rather
than copper everything in sight. Your crime was a terrible mistake,
Carey. For twenty years you've realized that and you've suffered for it.
I'm sorry for you--so sorry that I'm going to use your ill-gotten gains
for a good purpose. Come up into Owens valley three years from now and
I'll prove it to you. Good-day.”
“One moment, McGraw. Don't go for a minute or two. I--I'd like to
believe that what you say is true, but the trouble is--you see, McGraw,
I have never encountered your point of view heretofore. Tell me,
McGraw--don't lie to me--do you feel the slightest desire to see me
suffer, or is this--er--brotherly-love talk of yours plain buncombe?”
Bob McGraw advanced toward the man he had beaten. He held out his hand.
“I try to be a man” he said--“to be too big to hate and put myself on a
level with a brute. Won't you shake hands with me?”
Carey regarded him with frank curiosity.
“Say” he said, “are you religious?”
“No. Only human.”
“Perhaps” said Carey dubiously, “but it doesn't seem possible that I
should meet two white men in this nigger world. I think the species
became extinct with the death of my friend Hennage.”
“_Your_ friend--”
“Why not? He liked me--I know he did. And I liked him. I'm glad he's
dead--no, I'm not--I was glad an hour ago, but I'm sorry now. Had he
lived I would have made of him my friend, for he was the only human
being I have ever met that I could trust implicitly. He was your partner
and he warned me to keep off. He meant it, and I knew he meant it--so I
stayed off. Do you think, McGraw, that I would have let you beat me out
of that land if it hadn't been for Hennage? I didn't dare rush those
selections through for patent until he was dead--and then it was too
late. Had you left your affairs in any other hands I would have crushed
you, but Hennage could not be bought. I didn't even try. He was above a
price.”
“Is that why you failed to act immediately after you became convinced
that I was an outlaw and would not dare claim the land when it should be
granted to my clients?” demanded Bob.
Carey nodded. “I met Hennage in Bakersfield, and he told me to keep my
hands off those applications.”
“Then he bluffed you, Mr. Carey. Harley P. Hennage was my friend, but
not my partner. He did not have five cents invested in my scheme. I
never mentioned it to him, and neither did my wife. His threat was a
bluff, and where he got his information of my land deal is a mystery,
the solution of which perished with Harley P.”
Carey sat in his chair, with his head bowed. He was clasping and
unclasping his fingers in a manner pathetically suggestive of
helplessness.
“I don't understand” he mumbled. “He told me to keep off and I kept
off.” He sighed. “I'd have given a million dollars for a friend like
him. I--I--never--had--one.”
Bob McGraw drew T. Morgan Carey's mortgage from his pocket, scratched a
match on his trouser-leg and held it under the fluttering leaves. Slowly
the little flame mounted, and when it threatened to scorch his
fingers the promoter of Donnaville tossed the blazing fragments into a
convenient cuspidor. He looked up and saw Carey regarding him curiously.
“That was your mortgage” the land-grabber said wonderingly. “You have
burned half a million dollars.”
“I was selling you my friendship--at cut rates, Mr. Carey. I was worthy
of Hennage's trust and friendship until a few minutes ago. Harley P.
Hennage never did a mean or a cowardly act, and to-day I used my power
over you to extort half a million dollars from you to further a scheme
of mine. I figured that the end justified the means. It did not, and I
ask you to forgive me.”
Carey smiled wanly. “It's up-hill work, McGraw, but I'll forgive you.
What great scheme is this of yours that caused you to appear unworthy
of the friend who was so worthy of you? I have a great curiosity to
understand you. Who knows? Perhaps I may end up by liking you?”
And then Bob McGraw sat down by his enemy and unfolded to him his dream
of Donnaville.
“Think of it, Mr. Carey” he pleaded. “Think what my scheme means to the
poor devils who haven't got our brains and power! Think of the women and
little children toiling in sweat-shops; of the families without money,
without hope, without food and without coal, facing the winter in such
cities as Chicago and New York, while a barren empire, which you and
I can transform to an Eden, waits for them there in the north,” and he
waved his arm toward Donnaville.
“There's glory enough for us all, Mr. Carey. Won't you come in with
me and play the big game? Be my backer in this enterprise and let the
future wipe out the mistakes of the past. You've got a chance, Carey.
What need have you for money? It's only a game you're playing, man--a
game that fascinates you. You've sold your manhood for money--and you
have never had a friend! Good God, what a tragedy! Come with me, Carey,
into Owens valley, and be a builder of empire. Let your dead past bury
itself and start fresh again. You are not a young man any longer, and
in all your busy life you have accomplished nothing of benefit to the
world. You have subscribed to charities, and then robbed the objects of
your charity of the land that would have made them independent of you.
Think of the good you can do with the proceeds of the evil you have
done! Ah, Carey, Carey! There's so much fun in just living, and I'm
afraid you've never been young. You've never dreamed! And you've never
had a friend that loved you for what you were. Do you know why, Carey?
Because you weren't worth loving. You have received from the world to
date just what you put into it--envy and greed and hate and malice and
selfishness, and at your passing the curses of your people will be
your portion. Come with me and be a Pagan, my friend, and when you
have finished the job I'll guarantee to plant you up on the slope of
Kearsarge, where your soul, as it mounts to the God of a Square Deal,
can look down on the valley that you have prepared for a happy people,
and say: 'That is mine. I helped create it, and I did it for love. I
finished what the Almighty commenced, and the job was worth while.'
Will you play the game with me, T. Morgan Carey, and get some joy out of
life?”
The land-grabber--the parasite who had lived only to destroy--looked up
at Bob McGraw.
“Would you trust me?” he queried huskily.
“I burned your mortgage” said Bob smiling.
“I'll think it over--friend” Carey replied. “I never do things in a
hurry. It's a habit I have, and I don't quite understand you. I must
think it over.”
“Do, Mr. Carey. And now I must toddle along. _Adios._”
Carey shook his hand, and they parted.
Our story is told.
San Pasqual is still a frontier town--a little drearier, a little
shabbier and more down at the heel than when we saw it first. There have
been few changes--the few that have occurred having arrived unheralded
and hence have remained undiscovered. For instance, it is not generally
known that Mrs. Pennycook has lost control of her husband. Yet, such is
the fact. She is still a great stickler for principle, but she
trembles if her husband looks at her. It appears that Dan Pennycook's
half-hearted accusation of Miss Pickett as the author of the anonymous
note found on the body of Boras O'Rourke preyed on the spinster's mind,
and when Bob McGraw started an investigation she could stand the strain
no longer. She fled in terror to the Pennycook home and made certain
demands upon Mrs. Pennycook; who took refuge in her well-known
reputation for probity and principle and informed Miss Pickett that she
was “actin' crazy like”; whereupon Miss Pickett sought Dan Pennycook and
hysterically confessed to the authorship of that fatal anonymous note,
alleging as extenuating circumstances that she had been aided and
abetted therein by Mrs. Pennycook. To quote a commonplace saying, Mrs.
Pennycook had made the ball and Miss Pickett fired it. She begged Dan
Pennycook to use his influence with Donna to have the investigation
quashed, else would Miss Pickett make a public confession and disgrace
the name of Pennycook.
Hence, when Mr. Pennycook appeared at the Hat Ranch and asked Donna to
request her husband to forget about that anonymous letter, Donna guessed
the honest fellow's distress and accordingly the matter was forgotten
by everybody--except Dan Pennycook. He has not forgotten. He remembers
every time he looks at Mr. Hennage's watch. He has never said anything
to Mrs. Pennycook--which makes it all the harder for her--but contents
himself with a queer look at the lady when she becomes “obstreperous
like”--and that suffices. After all, she is the mother of his children,
and God has blessed him with more heart than head.
Miss Pickett is no longer the postmistress; also she is no longer Miss
Pickett, although in this respect she is not unlike a politician who has
all the emoluments of office without the honors, or vice versa if you
will. In her forty-third year she married the only man who ever asked
her--and he was a youth of twenty-five who suspected Miss Pickett of a
savings account. She resigned from the post-office to marry him, and San
Pasqual took a night off to give her a charivari. Two weeks after the
ceremony Miss Pickett's husband, despairing of the savings, jumped
a south-bound freight and was seen no more. Her triumph over the
acquisition of the “Mrs.” was so shortlived, and the San Pasqualians
found it so difficult to rid themselves of the habit of calling her Miss
Pickett, that Miss Pickett she remains to this very day.
The Hat Ranch still stands in the desert below San Pasqual. Bob McGraw
has secured title to it, and safe within the old adobe walls Sam Singer
and Soft Wind are rounding out their placid lives. Sam Singer is now
one of the solid citizens of San Pasqual. He has succeeded to the hat
business, and moreover he has money on deposit with Bob McGraw. It
appears that Sam Singer, in accordance with Mr. Hennage's dying request,
fell heir to the gambler's new gaiters. The first time he tried them
on Sam detected a slight obstruction in the toe of the right gaiter.
He removed this obstruction and discovered that it was a piece of paper
money. Like all Indians, Sam was suspicious of paper money, so he took
it to Bob McGraw, who gave him a thousand dollars for it. Sam Singer was
well pleased thereat. He considered he had driven an excellent bargain.
In the lonely sage-covered wind-swept cemetery at San Pasqual there
rises a black granite monument, severely, plain, eminently befitting one
who was not of the presuming kind. There is an epitaph on that monument
which is worth recording here:
WHO SEEKS FOR HEAVEN ALONE TO SAVE HIS SOUL,
MAY KEEP THE PATH BUT WILL NOT REACH THE GOAL;
WHILE HE WHO WALKS IN LOVE MAY WANDER FAR
YET GOD WILL BRING HIM WHERE THE BLESSED ARE.
BENEATH THIS STONE
HARLEY P. HENNAGE
RESTS FROM HIS WANDERINGS.
One day T. Morgan Carey dropped off the north-bound train at San
Pasqual, and learning that he had two hours to waste while waiting for
the stage to start up country, he was seized with a morbid desire to
wander through San Pasqual's queer cemetery. The only monument in
the cemetery attracted his attention, and presently he found himself
standing at the foot of Mr. Hennage's grave, reading the epitaph.
It impressed him so greatly that he copied the verse in a little
morocco-covered memorandum book.
“I wonder who was the genius that evolved that verse?” he muttered
aloud, and to his great surprise a voice at his side answered him. It
was a woman's voice.
“I do not know the author” she said, “but if you will read Henry Van
Dyke's book 'The Other Wise Man,' you will find that little verse on the
fly-leaf. Perhaps Van Dyke wrote it. I do not know.”
T. Morgan Carey turned and lifted his hat. “Thank you, madam” he said.
“I was particularly interested. I had a slight acquaintance with
Mr. Hennage, and it seemed to me that the lines were peculiarly
appropriate.”
“My husband and I thought so. And if you will pardon me for suggesting
it, Mr. Carey, it would be--better if you would please leave the
cemetery. An old enemy of yours, a Cahuilla Indian, comes here three
times a week by my orders, to bring water for the blue grass on this
grave. He is coming now.”
“Thank you. And you are--”
“I am Donna Corblay.”
Carey bowed and continued.
“Your husband told me once that he had some great plans afoot, and
did me the honor to ask me to help him--” he paused, watching her
wistfully--“and I want to know if you object to me as an associate of
your husband in his work.”
Donna looked at him gravely. “I have neither bitterness nor revengeful
feeling against you, Mr. Carey” she replied.
“I have suffered” he said, “but I haven't paid all of the price. Tell
your husband that I want to help him. I have thought it over and I was
coming to tell him myself. Tell him, please, that I would appreciate the
privilege of being a minority stockholder in his enterprise and I will
honor his sight drafts while I have a dollar left.”
He lifted his hat and walked away, and Donna, gazing after him, realized
that the past was dead and only the future remained. Carey's crime had
been a sordid one, but with her broader vision Donna saw that the lives
of the few must ever be counted as paltry sacrifices in the advancement
of the race. Her father, her mother, Harley P. Hennage, Borax O'Bourke
and the long, sad, barren years of her own girlhood had all been
sacrifices to this man's insatiable greed and lust for power, and now
that the finish was reached she realized the truth of Bob McGraw's
philosophy--that out of all great evils great good must come.
Truly selfishness, greed, revenge and inhumanity are but the burdens of
a day; all that is small and weak and unworthy may not survive, while
that which is great and good in a man must some day break its hobbles
and sweep him on to the fulfillment of his destiny. She saw her husband
and his one-time enemy toiling side by side in the great, hot,
hungry heart of Inyo, preparing homes for the helpless and the
oppressed--working out the destinies of their people; and she cried out
with the happiness that was hers.
Ah, yes, they had all suffered, but now out of the dregs of their
suffering the glad years would come bearing their precious burden
of love and service. How puerile did the sacrifices of the past seem
now--how terribly out of proportion to the great task that lay before
them, with the sublime result already in sight! Surely there was only
one quality in humankind that really mattered, softening suffering and
despair and turning away wrath, and as Donna knelt by the grave of
the man who had possessed that quality to such an extent that he had
considered his life cheap as a means of expressing it, she prayed that
her infant son might be endowed with the virtues and brains of his
father and the wanderer who slept beneath the stone:
“Dear God, help me to raise a Man and teach him to be kind.”
THE END