OUTLAWS!
Mr. Braden, some twenty-four hours after his interview with Judge Riley,
made the shocking discovery that in all probability he had laid down a
pat hand before a bluff. But though the discovery brought him to the
verge of an apoplectic fit, it came too late. He had signed a statement
covering the facts. Under the circumstances it did not matter who had
the deeds. If Garland, then his scheme of blackmail would fall down. Mr.
Braden found ample to occupy him in the crisis which the loss of the
coal property made in his affairs.
The fact was that he was very hard up. The supposed ownership of a
promising coal mine had bolstered up his shaky credit. But as soon as it
was known that this was no longer his, one or two creditors would come
down on him and start an avalanche. And then, though Riley had promised
not to prosecute, it was inevitable that some suspicion of crookedness
would attach to him. Under the circumstances he was forced to the
conclusion that he had played out his string. He had been wise to secure
cash. He could raise a few thousand more, and as soon as he did so he
would pull out. At once he began to convert his few remaining assets,
and as he turned them into cash he put it in his office safe, in a
private compartment. The total formed a nice nest egg for the future.
His creditors in the course of time might get judgment and be hanged to
them, but the cash would be where it could not be tied up by
injunctions.
Nevertheless, the strain told on his nerves. For some time he had slept
badly, and now he slept scarcely at all. Whisky, which formerly had had
a soporific effect, now failed, though he doubled the quantity.
And so, as Angus rode home through the darkness, Mr. Braden lay awake.
His mind, after the habit of the insomniac, searched for, dug up and
turned over the most unpleasant things within his recollection, driving
sleep farther and farther away. It dwelt upon mistakes, failures,
humiliations of years before. The wind roared and rain splashed upon the
windows; and Mr. Braden, cursed by a thousand plaguing little devils of
memory, cursed the night and the darkness and longed for day.
At last he dozed, but was awakened by a muffled, jarring reverberation
which shook his bed slightly. It was much like localized thunder. He lay
listening, and his ear caught a sound below.
Somebody was in his office. In an instant he was out of bed. He
reflected that the boss of a local logging camp who had a payroll to
meet the next day, had deposited a considerable amount of cash in his
safe. No doubt that was what the robbers were after. But they would not
overlook his own cash, too. He could not obtain help until too late. He
must stop them single-handed, if at all.
His knees shaking slightly, Mr. Braden padded softly across the room to
a wardrobe from which he took an old hammer ten-gauge shotgun, found a
box of antique shells, and filled the chambers. Then he stole cautiously
down stairs.
The door of his office was closed. He turned the knob and gently opened
the door a crack. In the darkness the rays of a flashlight flickered on
his open safe. Figures were vaguely outlined. He could not tell how
many there were. Obviously, the thing to do was to cover them with the
shotgun, but light was necessary, for otherwise they might attack him in
the dark. His office was wired, and just beside the door was a switch.
He put the gun to his shoulder, holding it with one hand while he felt
for the switch. He found it, turned it, and the office sprang into
light.
Three men were beside the safe. One held a flash light, another the
mouth of a gunny sack to which the third was transferring the safe's
contents.
"Hands up!" Mr. Braden commanded in a voice which shook badly.
The three men sprang erect. Mr. Braden recognized Gavin, Gerald and
Larry French. They had made no attempt to conceal their faces. They
blinked, frowning in the sudden light.
"You infernal scoundrels!" cried Mr. Braden. "Put up your hands! Put
them up I tell you. If you make a move I'll shoot."
Mr. Braden's mistake was in reiteration. Etiquette and common sense
alike demand that instant obedience to a gun be enforced by the gun
itself. In this case the muzzle of the gun wavered and wobbled badly.
"Put that gas-pipe down!" Gavin said contemptuously.
"Put up your hands!" Mr. Braden repeated. "I'll shoot, I tell you. I
will! I--"
Quite by accident, in response to unintentional pressure of an unsteady
finger, the ten-gauge roared and the shot charge, almost solid at that
short range, passing between Gavin and Gerald struck and spattered
against the steel wall of the safe. Instantly, Gerald jerked a
six-shooter from its holster and fired and fired twice.
Mr. Braden's face assumed an expression of dumb wonder. The shotgun
sagged, exploded again, and the charge ripped the floor. He sank
downward, pitched forward, and lay still.
"Hell's fire!" cried Gavin. "What did you do that for?"
"What for?" Gerald returned. "Because I don't want to be shot, myself."
"He didn't mean to shoot. He wouldn't have shot again."
"Then he was damned careless," Gerald replied. "One barrel of a shotgun
is plenty for me. It was coming to him."
But in a rolling explosion of oaths Gavin cursed his brother for a fool.
He had spilt the beans. There would be a devil of a row. They would have
to make a get-away.
"What for--if he can't talk?" Gerald asked.
But at that moment Larry uttered an exclamation. He pointed to a window.
Against the pane below the drawn blind was a face white in the reflected
light. Almost instantly it vanished. Outside they heard running feet.
"How about a get-away now?" Gavin demanded. "He's gone to get help. I
know him. He's a clerk in Park's law office."
"I guess that settles it," Gerald concurred coolly. Swiftly he scooped
the remaining currency into the sack. "Well," he added, "we've got
something to make a get-away on."
"Come on, come on," young Larry urged.
"Keep cool," said Gerald.
"If you'd kept cool," the younger man retorted, "we could have bluffed
Braden."
But none of them voiced a regret for Braden himself. His death, if he
was dead, was to be deplored merely as it might affect them. Gavin
turned the huddled figure over and swore afresh.
"You're too smooth with a gun, Jerry. He isn't dead yet, but I guess
he's got his. Now we have to beat it."
They emerged on the streets and ran for their horses, tethered on the
outskirts of town, mounted and pounded off on the trail toward the
ranch. They rode fast, but without forcing their horses, for later they
would need all that was in the animals.
The ranch was dark as they rode up to it. They loosened cinches, removed
bridles and gave the horses feed. Entering the house they began to throw
an outfit together.
Gavin, mounting the stairs, knocked at his sister's door.
"I want to talk to you, Kit."
"In the morning."
"No, now."
"Come in, then."
She sat up in bed as he struck a match and lit the lamp. As he turned to
her the big man's cold, blue eyes softened a shade in expression. He sat
on the side of the bed and put his arm around her.
"Kittens, old girl, I've only got minutes. Jerry, Larry and I have got
to pull out." He told her why, bluntly, feeling her body tense and
stiffen. "So that was how it was," he concluded. "And now here's what
we're going to do: We're going to break north through the hills and work
up into the Cache River Valley. Then we'll go east or west, whichever
looks best. We may split up, or not. Here's some money--no, no, this is
all right. Braden never saw this. It's mine. Don't give any of it to
Blake. And here's what you do: This place is sunk with a mortgage, so
sell your own horses and quit it. Let the tail go with the hide. Get out
of here, and wherever you go subscribe for the _Pacific Spokesman_. Read
the 'lost' column every day, and when you see an ad. for a lost horse
with our brand, answer it. I'll be doing that advertising. I guess
that's all. I'm sorry, Kit, but it's the best I can do for you now."
"Yes, it's the best," she admitted. "Don't worry about me. I was going
to leave here anyway. I'm going to do something, I don't know just what.
But ever since father died I've known I couldn't go on as we've been
going. You've made an awful mess of things--you boys. I've seen you
going down hill--from bad to worse--losing your self-respect and that of
others, falling lower and lower, till it has come to--this.
"And I've gone downhill myself. I've lived on money, knowing how it was
obtained, and saying nothing. I'm not preaching. I'm not finding fault.
But I'm through. And I'm through with you boys unless you change. Of the
whole lot, you're the only one I care anything about. I don't know if
you care anything about me, but if you do you're the only one who does.
You've always been fair and decent to me, anyway, I--I'd loved you--if
you'd let me."
"Damn it, Kit," her brother replied, "why didn't you say something like
that before? I've been fond of you ever since you were a baby, but you
never let me see you thought anything more of me than the other
boys--and that was mighty little. Well--what you say is true. I'm a
rotten bad lot, but all the same I'm just about as sick of the show as
you are. And I'll tell you this much: If I can get clear now I'll make a
fresh start--I've been thinking of the Argentine--and if you'll go with
me, I'd like it."
"I'll go," she promised. "But suppose you don't get clear?"
The big man shrugged his shoulders. "Then I lose out. I'm not going to
rot in the pen. You can say a little prayer if you feel like it."
She stared at him, somber-eyed. "I suppose that's the best way, after
all."
"The only way. And now I must rustle an outfit."
"I'll be down in a minute," she said.
She came down to the apparent confusion of their preparations. Each had
drawn on his personal outfit. Gerald and Larry nodded to her. She said
little, made no reproaches, helping them silently, swiftly. Suddenly
Larry paused, throwing up his head, lifting his hand. Upon the sudden
silence burst the sound of swift hoofs. The brothers looked at each
other.
"Go upstairs, Kit," said Gavin, "and stay there."
But in a moment it was evident that there was but one horse. The door
was tried, shaken. A furious oath came from outside.
"It's just Blake," said Larry, and unfastened the door.
Blake stared at his brothers, at their weapons, at the outfit piled in
the room.
"What's this?" he asked.
"You may as well know," said Gerald and told him. "And you keep your
mouth shut," he concluded.
Blake laughed with a certain relief. "I've got to make a get-away
myself. I'm going with you. I shot up Angus Mackay."
"You shot Angus!" Kathleen cried. Her face went white, and she clutched
the back of a chair. "Do you mean that he is dead?"
"No," Blake replied. He had learned that much from Garland, who had
decided that it would be safer for him to part company and had done so.
"He'll get over it, I guess."
"What started it?" Larry asked.
"He came for me and I downed him," Blake replied sullenly. "Never mind
what started it."
"You're lying!" Kathleen told him fiercely. "I know you, Blake. You'd
never have faced him if he had had a gun. You shot him in the back, or
unarmed."
But Gavin interposed.
"If you're coming with us, get a move on. Rustle your own outfit."
They gave Blake scant time. Immediately Larry began to pack two ponies.
If necessary these could be abandoned, but meanwhile they would save the
saddle horses. In a few minutes they were packed. All but Gavin mounted.
In the hall he took Kathleen in his great arms and kissed her.
"Good-by, Kit. No telling how this will come out. Remember what I told
you."
"I'll remember," she said. "Good-by, Gan--and good luck."
He released her and swung into the saddle. In a moment they had vanished
in the darkness, heading north for the pass which led into the
wilderness of the hills--outlaws.