“Mister Annister,” greeted the man at the desk. “You didn’t know me, eh?
Well—it’s a long time—three years—and my beard—” he passed a bony hand
across his chin—“I sacrificed that long ago; it is scarcely the fashion.
Now—” he waved a hand, indicating a chair at his left—“sit down, won’t
you? We can—talk better so.”
Annister seated himself, his eyes upon the cold eyes just across. That
the man who sat there had inspired those warnings he had little doubt;
that he had sent that midnight assassin against him, he was convinced.
And yet—he was at a loss to find the reason.
Rook was not aware, could not be aware, of a certain fact known only to
himself, Annister, and a certain man just then twenty-five hundred miles
distant in that dim office hard by the Capitol; it was beyond the bounds
of possibility. No—it could scarcely be that, he told himself.
And of a sudden a cold rage shook him so that he trembled; his hands,
flat upon the desk-top, balled suddenly into fists. This man—this suave,
secret knave with the eyes of ice, and the implacable, grim mouth—sat
there now, removed from him merely by the width of the narrow desk. And
if it were true, that which he suspected, then this man, this jackal,
this Prince of Plunder with the heart of a hyena and the conscience of a
wolf—why, he had earned his quittance a hundred times over.
The flat black shape of the automatic hung in a sling under his left
arm-pit—Annister had forgotten that. He knew merely that he was face
to face with the man whom he had come twenty-five hundred long miles
to meet; he saw him now as through a crimson mist. And for the moment
the careful plan that he had made—that, too, was forgotten, lost in the
almost overmastering impulse to drive his fist into that face so close to
his, the cold eyes, the pallid, sneering mouth....
Something of this must have showed in his face, plainly visible to the
man who faced him across the desk.
There was a semi-twilight in the room even by day. Now the lean head
thrust forward like a striking snake; there came a sudden, brief
explosion of movement, a darkening flash, as the hand, holding the heavy
automatic, swung upward level with his visitor, point-blank.
At such a distance it would be impossible to miss.
There was a curtain just behind him; Annister had noticed it upon
entering. Now at his back it rippled suddenly along its length as if at
the passage of a heavy body just behind. The lawyer smiled thinly.
“Ah, my friend,” he said, “it is so easy to be indiscreet! And one must
meet force with force. This—it is theatrical, if you like—but—it is just
a little demonstration of my—preparedness. I thought—you see....”
There came a sardonic flicker in the nearset eyes; the voice purred now
in the semi-darkness like a cat’s:
“I must protect myself.... There are—reasons.... You see, I thought, for
a moment, that you—ah—meditated a resort to—violence. And violence is
something that I deplore, my friend; and here I am surrounded by violent
men, ‘sudden and quick in quarrel,’ as the poet has it; sometimes they
are difficult to control.”
Annister had himself in hand. The veiled threat with which the lawyer
had ended bothered him not at all. Now, casually as it seemed, but
with the lightning riposte of a duellist, his hand reached out; there
came a sudden wrench, a twist, a snarling oath from Rook; and Annister,
pocketing the pistol, smiled grimly now in answer.
“Now—‘we can talk better so’!” he mocked. “The balance of power, ha? Now,
let me tell you something: You left the big town—for your health; that
was three years ago, wasn’t it? I didn’t recognize you, but it was a
pretty close shave, at that!”
He laughed, but there was a ring of menace in it. His hard eyes held the
pale ones of the lawyer with a chill malevolence.
“Rook,” he said, low, “you’re as crooked as a ram’s-horn; you’re a bent
twig; I wouldn’t trust you this side of hell further than I could see
you, and not even then. Now—” his voice cracked suddenly in the thick
silence like the cracking of a whip—“you had the infernal gall to send
me—here—_after_ you’d have accounted for me—_by the left hand_, ha?
“I left that window open, because, if you want to know, I was expecting
something of the sort. And now—”
The hand holding the pistol became rigid as a rock.
“—I want the reason _why_—in a holy minute, Mister Hamilton Rook—or else—”
For a heart-beat the face of the lawyer seemed swollen to a poisonous
whiteness; the veins in his neck and temples stood out in ridges.
Then—the long, spatulate fingers spread wide with a curious, flicking
motion, thumbs downward; the curtain bellied outward suddenly as if in
answer.
Abruptly Annister felt for a heart-beat a something that was like a cold
wind blowing upon the back of his neck, and it was a wind of death.
Something slid past his shoulder with the speed of light; talons of
steel, thumbs downward, pressing at the base of his brain. He heard a
hoarse, whistling croak—a sound that was nothing human. Then—
There is but one answer to that strangler’s grip, and it is a secret
known only to a few. Annister had learned it, no matter where, and in the
learning he had paid....
Now, an infinitesimal split second before the beast paws had encircled
his throat, his forefinger and thumb had flashed upward, hooked, as steel
gaff is hooked, between those fingers and his throat.
There followed a straining heave; a cry, inhuman, beastlike, like the
mewing of a cat. Annister, rising to his feet, leaned abruptly to the
left—straightened, with one quick, explosive heave of his powerful
shoulder-muscles—and the body of his antagonist catapulted over his head.
Flung clear of the desk, he landed, heavily, on one shoulder-point,
twitched a moment, lay still. It was the “flying-mare,” and none but a
master could have summoned it.
Annister turned the unconscious man over with his foot.
“_Jivero!_” he muttered, between set teeth.
He shivered slightly in the humid air of the warm room. For the man was
an Ecuadorian savage—a jungle-beast; once, in Quito, Annister had seen
two or three: flat-faced, rather handsome savages; how or where Rook had
acquired the fellow only the lawyer could have said.
According to his savage code, he had been faithful—as a tiger is faithful
to his trainer, his keeper. Annister, brave as he was, would have
preferred a rattler, a fer-de-lance, for company. He turned now with an
abrupt movement to Rook, who, slumped in his chair, sat staring at the
huddled figure of the Indian where he had fallen.
“Now,” said Annister, “I’ve a notion, Mister Hamilton Rook, to shoot
first, and ask questions afterward.... However, I confess I’m still a
trifle curious as to your motive—more so, since this second pleasant
little interlude with your man Friday here. Now—may I ask you—_why_?”
The lawyer’s lips were moving, fumbling together, without sound. Fingers
trembling, like a man in a fit, at length he lifted dull eyes to his
interrogator:
“This,” he enunciated thickly, gesturing toward the huddled figure on
the carpet. “It was to save my—life—that is the truth, Annister—you
must—believe. The reason—for the others.... I did not know it was you
there in the smoker; I thought—that is—” he appeared to breathe of a
sudden like a man who had been running—“we had a report—that you were
quite another man—one who was—ah—would be antagonistic, in fact, to
certain operations—and so—”
He spread his hands wide with a little, flicking gesture.
“—That is why—but now, of course, you will understand—?”
“Yes,” answered Annister, bluntly. “I understand. You thought I was—an
operative, ha? Well—I’m not—that kind of an operative. But—” his manner
became all at once sharp, incisive; the gaze that he bent upon Rook was
the shrewd look of a man who sees his opportunity ready to his hand.
Cunning was in that look, and an infinite guile; the lawyer did not miss
it.
Here was something that he could deal with. He had known of Annister’s
reputation as of old; it had been none of the best, certainly, and with
that knowledge now there came a measure of reassurance. And if he was any
judge of men, here was one whom he could use: the acquisitive gleaming in
the eyes; the hard, incisive mouth, the predatory, forward-thrusting tilt
of the head—if he, Rook, was any judge of men, here was a man whom he
could use.
Old Travis Annister had disinherited him: the son who had been a waster
in the far places of the earth—that was an added reason. And at the
thought there came a pale gleaming in the lawyer’s close-set eyes, like
the sun on water. Travis Annister ... and Travis Annister had disappeared
... well, of course, he had heard of it. His voice reached the younger
man in a purring whisper:
“As I have hinted, Mr. Annister, I am interested in—certain operations;
shall we call them—speculative? For some time now I have been in need of
a sort of silent partner, or, rather, the Doctor—”
He caught himself with a _click_ of his strong, white, even teeth.
Annister’s face continued impassive, save for the keen eyes, veiled now
under lowered lids. Rook continued:
“Annister,” he said suddenly, as if he had abruptly come to a decision,
“I’ll lay my cards on the table with you: I need a man, and he can not
afford to be too—scrupulous, do you understand? The—the doctor tells me
I have been overdoing it.” He gave a faint, wintry smile. “We are—out of
the beaten track here—southwest of the law, as you might call it....”
He lowered his voice to a faint, hissing sibilance:
“I will expect you to ask no questions. You have been a cow-man; there
are certain interests to the north and the north-east of us; I am naming
no names, understand? There is a good deal of range left, as you know,
and—now, listen to me....”
His voice went on. For perhaps five minutes Annister listened in a heavy
silence. And all that time, although the lawyer had not once called a
spade a spade, the thing that he had unfolded was clear enough:
It was the old story; with something of a novel twist. First, there were
the outfits scattered north and north-east, as Rook had said. The running
off of a few cows, for instance, re-branding, and the rest of it—it was
an old story to Annister—but there was something more. Annister, as he
listened, realized that the thing was big, worthy, indeed, of the keen,
devising brain that had evolved it.
A good many of the ranches had, for some time past, been owned and
operated by the packers themselves; three of these: the Bar T, the Cross
Circle L, the Flying U, were northward from Dry Bone scarce a hundred
miles. But there were still other outfits. And, as Annister listened, he
was hearing again a name, or, rather, a symbol, the name and the symbol
of masked and hooded violence, and it was “S. S. S.”
Rook, it appeared, was the moving spirit of it, in Dry Bone, at any rate,
but as the tale unfolded Annister, putting two and two together, supplied
for that cryptic symbol a name, nation-wide and respected: the name of a
great Company, an Octopus indeed, which, with Hamilton Rook as its agent,
planned nothing less than the ruthless despoiling of those independent
cattle men who, out of a desert of sand and sage, had won a living
for their stock and for themselves, the rear guard of the order, now,
as it seemed, indeed, caught in the far-flung tentacles of a monster,
unscrupulous and without soul.
Annister’s part in it was to be simple. He was to do nothing as yet until
the lawyer should give the word. But a man was wanted: a gun-fighter; a
man bred to violence who would not consider too closely the method or the
means. For, as Rook had said, his eyes upon Annister in a sudden, biting
scrutiny:
“If, as a first step, say, the owners of these outfits
should—ah—disappear....”
There was to be no outright violence, it appeared; murder—that was an
ugly word; but it was of course possible that there might be—resistance.
But—there would be a fortune in it.
Annister’s part would be comparatively simple. He would merely carry out
his orders. Rook, eying him now in a close-lipped silence, watched as a
spider watches from his ambush. Annister would be needing money; if the
lawyer knew his man, and he thought that he did, here was something that
would be a lever, and a powerful one.
Annister lifted his head, then he brought his hand, palm downward, to the
desk-top. It was a movement, slow, even, controlled.
“I’m with you,” he said.
“Good!” exclaimed the lawyer. “Now—I want you to go over to the club;
there are a few men there I’d like you to meet. _Ha!_”
At his exclamation Annister, turning, followed his rigid, pointing
finger.
The huddled figure on the carpet had disappeared. There had been no
sound, no sign. The Indian had vanished.
_CHAPTER FOUR_