Bill Conway driving up the San Gregorio in his prehistoric automobile,
overtook Kay and her mother walking home from the Mission, and drove
them the remainder of the distance back to the hacienda. Arrived here,
old Conway resurrected the stolen spark plugs and returned them to
Parker's chauffeur, after which he invited himself to luncheon.
Apparently his raid of the night previous rested lightly on his
conscience, and Parker's failure to quarrel with him lifted him
immediately out of any fogs of apprehension that may have clouded his
sunny soul.
"Hello, Conway," Parker greeted him, as the old contractor came into
the dining room and hung his battered old hat on a wall peg. "Did you
bring back my spark plugs?"
"Did better'n that," Conway retorted. "The porcelain on one plug was
cracked and sooner or later you were bound to have trouble with it. So
I bought you a new one."
"Do any good for yourself in El Toro this morning?"
"Nope. Managed to put over a couple of deals that will help the boy
out a little, though. Attached your bank account and your bank stock.
I would have plastered your two automobiles, but that tender-hearted
Miguel declared that was carrying a grudge too far. By the way, where
is our genial young host?"
"Horse bucked him off this morning. He lit on a rock and ripped a
furrow in his sinful young head. So he's sleeping off a headache."
"Oh, is he badly hurt?" Kay cried anxiously.
"Not fatally," Parker replied with a faintly knowing smile. "But he's
weak and dizzy and he's lost a lot of blood; every time he winks for
the next month his head will ache, however."
"Which horse policed him?" Bill Conway queried casually.
"The gray one--his father's old horse."
"Hum-m-m!" murmured Conway and pursued the subject no further, nor did
he evince the slightest interest in the answers which Parker framed
glibly to meet the insistent demand for information from his wife and
daughter. The meal concluded, he excused himself and sought Pablo, of
whom he demanded and received a meticulous account of the "accident" to
Miguel Farrel. For Bill Conway knew that the gray horse never bucked
and that Miguel Farrel was a hard man to throw.
"Guess I'll have to sit in at this game," he decided, and forthwith
climbed into his rattletrap automobile and returned to El Toro.
During the drive in he surrendered his mind to a contemplation of all
of the aspects of the case, and arrived at the following conclusions:
Item. Don Nicolás Sandoval had seen the assassin walking in from the
south about sunset the day previous. If the fellow had walked all the
way across country from La Questa valley he must have started about two
P.M.
Item. The Potato Baron had left the Farrel hacienda about one o'clock
the same day and had, doubtless, arrived in El Toro about two o'clock.
Evidently he had communicated with the man from La Questa valley
(assuming that Don Miguel's assailant had come from there) by telephone
from El Toro.
Arrived in El Toro, Bill Conway drove to the sheriff's office. Don
Nicolás Sandoval had returned an hour previous from the Rancho Palomar
and to him Conway related the events of the morning. "Now, Nick," he
concluded, "you drift over to the telephone office and in your official
capacity cast your eye over the record of long distance telephone calls
yesterday afternoon and question the girl on duty."
"_Bueno_!" murmured Don Nicolás and proceeded at once to the telephone
office. Ten minutes later he returned.
"Okada talked to one Kano Ugichi, of La Questa, at 2:08 yesterday
afternoon," he reported.
"Considerable water will run under the bridges before Kano Ugichi
returns to the bosom of his family," Conway murmured sympathetically.
"He's so badly spoiled, Nick, we've decided to call him a total loss
and not put up any headstone to his memory. It is Farrel's wish that
the matter be forgotten by everybody concerned."
"I have already forgotten it, my friend," the urbane Don Nicolás
replied graciously, and Bill Conway departed forthwith for the Hotel de
Las Rosas.
"Got a Jap name of Okada stopping here?" he demanded, and was informed
that Mr. Okada occupied room 17, but that he was ill and could not be
seen.
"He'll see me," quoth Bill Conway, and clumped up the stairs. He
rapped peremptorily on the door of room 17, then tried the knob. The
door opened and the old contractor stepped into the room to find the
Potato Baron sitting up in bed, staring at him. Uttering no word, Bill
Conway strode to the bed, seized the Japanese by the throat and
commenced to choke him with neatness and dispatch. When the man's face
was turning purple and his eyes rolling wildly, Conway released his
death-grip and his victim fell back on the mattress, whereupon Bill
Conway sat down on the edge of the bed and watched life surge back into
the little brown man.
"If you let one little peep out of you, Okada," he threatened--and
snarled ferociously.
"Please, please," Okada pleaded. "I no unnerstan'. 'Scuse, please.
You make one big mistake, yes, I zink so."
"I do, indeed. I permit you to live, which I wouldn't do if I knew
where to hide your body. Listen to me, Okada. You sent a countryman
of yours from the La Questa valley over to the Rancho Palomar to kill
Don Miguel Farrel. I have the man's name, I know the hour you
telephoned to him, I know exactly what you said to him and how much you
paid him to do the job. Well, this friend of yours overplayed his
hand; he didn't succeed in killing Farrel, but he did succeed in
getting himself captured."
He paused, with fine dramatic instinct, to watch the effect of this
broadside. A faint nervous twitch of the chin and the eyelids--then
absolute immobility. The Potato Baron had assumed the "poker face" of
all Orientals--wherefore Bill Conway knew the man was on his guard and
would admit nothing. So he decided not to make any effort to elicit
information, but to proceed on the theory that everything was known to
him.
"Naturally," he continued, "that man Pablo has ways and means of making
even a stubborn Jap tell everything he knows. Now listen, O child of
Nippon, to the white man's words of wisdom. You're going to depart
from El Toro in a general northerly direction and you're going to do it
immediately if not sooner. And you're never coming back. The day you
do, that day you land in the local calaboose with a charge of
conspiracy to commit murder lodged against you. We have the witnesses
to prove our case and any time you're tried by a San Marcos County jury
before a San Marcos County judge you'll rot in San Quentin for life.
And further: If Miguel Farrel should, within the next two years, die
out of his own bed and with his boots on, you will be killed on general
principles, whether you're guilty or not. Do I make myself clear or
must I illustrate the point with motion pictures?"
"Yes, sir. 'Scuse, please. Yes, sir, I zink I go very quick, sir."
"Three cheers! The sooner the quicker--the next train, let us say.
I'll be at the station to see you off."
He was as good as his word. The Potato Baron, mounting painfully the
steps of the observation car, made hasty appraisal of the station
platform and observed Bill Conway swinging his old legs from his perch
on an express truck. He favored Okada with a very deliberate nod and a
sweeping, semi-military salute of farewell.
When the train pulled out, the old contractor slid off the express
truck and waddled over to his automobile. "Well, Liz," he addressed
that interesting relic, "I'll bet a red apple I've put the fear of
Buddha in that Jap's soul. He won't try any more tricks in San Marcos
County. He certainly did assimilate my advice and drag it out of town
_muy pronto_. Well, Liz, as the feller says: 'The wicked flee when no
man pursueth and a troubled conscience addeth speed to the hind legs.'"
As he was driving out of town to the place of his labors at Agua
Caliente basin, he passed the Parker limousine driving in. Between
John Parker's wife and John Parker's daughter, Don Miguel José Farrel
sat with white face and closed eyes. In the seat beside his chauffeur
John Parker sat, half turned and gazing at Don Miguel with troubled
eyes.
"That girl's sweeter than a royal flush," Bill Conway murmured. "I
wonder if she's good for a fifty thousand dollar touch to pay my cement
bill pending the day I squeeze it out of her father? Got to have
cement to build a dam--got to have cash to get cement--got to have a
dam to save the Rancho Palomar--got to have the Rancho Palomar before
we can pull off a wedding--got to pull off a wedding in order to be
happy--got to be happy or we all go to hell together. . . . Well . . .
I'm going down to Miguel's place to dinner to-night. I'll ask her."
The entire Parker family was present when the doctor in El Toro washed
and disinfected Farrel's wound and, at the suggestion of Kay, made an
X-ray photograph of his head. The plate, when developed, showed a
small fracture, the contemplation of which aroused considerable
interest in all present, with the exception of the patient. Don Mike
was still dizzy; because his vision was impaired he kept his eyes
closed; he heard a humming noise as if a lethargic bumble bee had taken
up his residence inside the Farrel ears. Kay, observing him closely,
realized that he was very weak, that only by the exercise of a very
strong will had he succeeded in sitting up during the journey in from
the ranch. His brow was cold and wet with perspiration, his breathing
shallow; his dark, tanned face was now a greenish gray.
The girl saw a shadow of deep apprehension settle over her father's
face as the doctor pointed to the fracture. "Any danger?" she heard
him whisper,
The doctor shook his head. "Nothing to worry about. An operation will
not be necessary. But he's had a narrow squeak. With whom has he been
fighting?"
"Thrown from his horse and struck his head on a rock," Parker replied
glibly.
Kay saw the doctor's eyebrows lift slightly. "Did he tell you that was
what happened?"
Parker hesitated a moment and nodded an affirmative.
"Wound's too clean for that story to impress me," the doctor whispered.
"Not a speck of foreign matter in it. Moreover, the wound is almost on
top of his head. Now, if he had been thrown from a horse and had
struck on top of his head on a rock with sufficient force to lacerate
his scalp and produce a minor fracture, he would, undoubtedly, have
crushed his skull more thoroughly or broken his neck. Also, his face
would have been marred more or less! And if that isn't good reasoning,
I might add that Miguel Farrel is one of the two or three men in this
world who have ridden Cyclone, the most famous outlaw horse in America."
Parker shrugged and, by displaying no interest in the doctor's
deductions, brought the conversation to a close.
That the return trip to the ranch, in Don Mike's present condition, was
not to be thought of, was apparent from the patient's condition. He
was, therefore, removed to the single small hospital which El Toro
boasted, and after seeing him in charge of a nurse the Parker family
returned to the ranch. Conversation languished during the trip; a
disturbed conscience on the part of the father, and on the part of Kay
and her mother an intuition, peculiar to their sex and aroused by the
doctor's comments, that events of more than ordinary portent had
occurred that day, were responsible for this.
At the ranch Parker found his attorney who had motored out from El
Toro, waiting to confer with him regarding Bill Conway's adroit
manoeuver of the morning. Mrs. Parker busied herself with some fancy
work while her daughter sought the Farrel library and pretended to
read. An atmosphere of depression appeared to have settled over the
rancho; Kay observed that even Pablo moved about in a furtive manner;
he cleaned and oiled his rifle and tested the sights with shots at
varying ranges. Carolina's face was grave and her sweet falsetto voice
was not raised in song once during the afternoon.
About four o'clock when the shadows began to lengthen, Kay observed
Pablo riding forth on his old pinto pony. Before him on the saddle he
carried a pick and shovel and in reply to her query as to what he
purposed doing, he replied that he had to clean out a spring where the
cattle were accustomed to drink. So she returned to the library and
Pablo repaired to a willow thicket in the sandy wash of the San
Gregorio and dug a grave. That night, at twilight, while the family
and servants were at dinner, Pablo dragged his problem down to this
grave, with the aid of the pinto pony, and hid it forever from the
sight of men. Neither directly nor indirectly was his exploit ever
referred to again and no inquiry was ever instituted to fathom the
mystery of the abrupt disappearance of Kano Ugichi. Indeed, the sole
regret at his untimely passing was borne by Pablo, who, shrinking from
the task of removing his riata from his victim (for he had a primitive
man's horror of touching the dead), was forced to bury his dearest
possession with the adventurer from La Questa--a circumstance which
served still further to strengthen his prejudice against the Japanese
race.
The following morning Pablo saddled Panchito for Kay and, at her
request, followed her, in the capacity of groom, to Bill Conway's camp
at Agua Caliente basin. The old schemer was standing in the door of
his rough temporary office when Kay rode up; he advanced to meet her.
"Well, young lady," he greeted her, "what's on your mind this morning
in addition to that sassy little hat."
"A number of things. I want to know what really happened to Mr. Farrel
yesterday forenoon."
"My dear girl! Why do you consult me?"
She leaned from her horse and lowered her voice. "Because I'm your
partner and between partners there should be no secrets."
"Well, we're supposed to keep it a secret, just to save you and your
mother from worrying, but I'll tell you in confidence if you promise
not to tell a soul I told you."
"I promise."
"Well, then, that scoundrel, Okada, sent a Jap over from La Questa
valley to assassinate Miguel and clear the way for your father to
acquire this ranch without further legal action and thus enable their
interrupted land deal to be consummated."
"My father was not a party to that--oh, Mr. Conway, surely you do not
suspect for a moment--"
"Tish! Tush! Of course not. That's why Miguel wanted it given out
that his horse had policed him. Wanted to save you the resultant
embarrassment."
"The poor dear! And this wretch from La Questa shot him?"
"Almost."
"What became of the assassin?"
Bill Conway pursed his tobacco-stained lips and whistled a few bars of
"Listen to the Mocking Bird." Subconsciously the words of the song
came to Kay's mind.
She's sleeping in the valley,
In the valley,
She's sleeping in the valley,
And the mocking bird is singing where she lies.
"I'm afraid I don't want to discuss that boy and his future movements,
Miss Parker," he sighed presently. "I might compromise a third party.
In the event of a show-down I do not wish to be forced under oath to
tell what I know--or suspect. However, I am in a position to assure
you that Oriental activities on this ranch have absolutely ceased. Mr.
Okada has been solemnly assured that, in dealing with certain white
men, they will insist upon an eye for an optic and a tusk for a tooth;
he knows that if he starts anything further he will go straight to that
undiscovered country where the woodbine twineth and the whangdoodle
mourneth for its mate."
"What has become of Okada?"
"He has dragged it out of here--drifted and went hence--for keeps."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Cross my heart and hope to die." With an unclean thumb Mr. Conway
drew a large X on the geometrical center of his ample circumference.
"When you've been in the contracting business as long as I have, Miss
Parker," he continued sagely, "you'll learn never to leave important
details to a straw boss. Attend to 'em yourself--and get your regular
ration of sleep. That's my motto."
She beamed gratefully upon him. "Need any money, Bill, old timer?" she
flashed at him suddenly, with delightful camaraderie.
"There should be no secrets between partners. I do."
"_Quanto_?"
"_Cinquenta mille pesos oro, señorita_."
"Help!"
"Fifty thousand bucks, iron men, simoleons, smackers, dollars--"
She reached down and removed a fountain pen from his upper vest pocket.
Then she drew a check book and, crooking her knee over Panchito's neck
and using that knee for a desk, she wrote him a check on a New York
bank for fifty thousand dollars.
"See here," Bill Conway demanded, as she handed him the check, "how
much of a roll you got, young woman?"
"About two hundred thousand in cash and half a million in Liberty
bonds. When I was about five years old my uncle died and left me his
estate, worth about a hundred thousand. It has grown under my father's
management. He invested heavily in Steel Common, at the outbreak of
the war, and sold at the top of the market just before the armistice
was signed."
"Well," Conway sighed, "there is a little justice in the world, after
all. Here at last, is one instance where the right person to handle
money gets her hands on a sizable wad of it. But what I want to know,
my dear young lady, is this: Why purchase philanthropy in fifty
thousand dollar installments? If you want to set that boy's mind at
ease, loan him three hundred thousand dollars to take up the mortgage
your father holds on his ranch; then take a new mortgage in your own
name to secure the loan. If you're bound to save him in the long run,
why keep the poor devil in suspense?"
She made a little moue of distaste. "I loathe business. The loaning
of money on security--the taking advantage of another's distress. Mr.
Bill, it never made a hit with me. I'm doing this merely because I
realize that my father's course, while strictly legal, is not kind. I
refuse to permit him to do that sort of thing to a Medal of Honor man."
He noticed a pretty flush mount to her lovely cheeks. "It isn't
sporty, Mr. Bill Conway. However, it isn't nice to tell one's
otherwise lovable father that he's a poor sport and a Shylock, is it?
I cannot deliberately pick a fight with my father by interfering in his
business affairs, can I? Also, it seems to me that Don Mike Farrel's
pride is too high to permit of his acceptance of a woman's pity. I do
not wish him to be under obligation to me. He might misconstrue my
motive--oh, you understand, don't you? I'm sure I'm in an extremely
delicate position."
He nodded sagely. "Nevertheless," he pursued, "he _will_ be under
obligation to you."
"He will never know it. I depend upon you to keep my secret. He will
think himself under obligation to you--and you're such an old and dear
friend. Men accept obligations from each other and think nothing of
it. By the way, I hold you responsible for the return of that fifty
thousand dollars, not Don Mike Farrel. You are underwriting his battle
with my father, are you not?"
"Yes, I am," he retorted briskly, "and I've got more conceit than a
barber's cat for daring to do it. Wait a minute and I'll give you my
promissory note. I'm paying seven per cent for bank accommodations
lately. That rate of interest suit you?"
She nodded and followed him to his office, where he laboriously wrote
and signed a promissory note in her favor. Pablo, remaining politely
out of sound of their conversation, wondered vaguely what they were up
to.
"Don Mike has told us something of the indolent, easy-going natures of
his people," Kay continued, as she tucked the note in her coat pocket.
"I have wondered if, should, he succeed in saving his ranch without too
great an expenditure of effort, he would continue to cast off the spell
of 'the splendid, idle forties' and take his place in a world of alert
creators and producers. Do you not think, Mr. Bill, that he will be
the gainer through my policy of keeping him in ignorance of my part in
the re-financing of his affairs--if he dare not be certain of victory
up to the last moment? Of course it would be perfectly splendid if he
could somehow manage to work out his own salvation, but of course, if
he is unable to do that his friends must do it for him. I think it
would be perfectly disgraceful to permit a Medal of Honor man to be
ruined, don't you, Mr. Bill?"
"Say, how long have you known this fellow Miguel?"
"Seventy-two hours, more or less."
He considered. "Your father's nerve has been pretty badly shaken by
the Jap's attempt to kill Miguel. He feels about that pretty much as a
dog does when he's caught sucking eggs. Why not work on your father
now while he's in an anti-Jap mood? You might catch him on the
rebound, so to speak. Take him over to La Questa valley some day this
week and show him a little Japan; show him what the San Gregorio will
look like within five years if he persists. Gosh, woman, you have some
influence with him haven't you?"
"Very little in business affairs, I fear."
"Well, you work on him, anyhow, and maybe he'll get religion and renew
Miguel's mortgage. Argue that point about giving a Medal of Honor man
another chance."
The girl shook her head. "It would be useless," she assured him. "He
has a curious business code and will not abandon it. He will only
quote some platitude about mixing sentiment and business."
"Then I suppose the battle will have to go the full twenty rounds.
Well, Miss Parker, we're willing. We've already drawn first blood and
with your secret help we ought to about chew the tail off your old man."
"Cheerio." She held out her dainty little gloved hand to him. "See me
when you need more money, Mr. Bill. And remember! If you tell on me
I'll never, never forgive you."
He bent over her hand and kissed it. His caress was partly reverence,
partly a habit of courtliness surviving from a day that is done in
California, for under that shabby old tweed suit there beat the gallant
heart of a true cavalier.
[Illustration: The girl--Kay Parker.]
When Miss Parker had ridden away with Pablo at her heels, Bill Conway
unburdened himself of a slightly ribald little chanson entitled: "What
Makes the Wild Cat Wild?" In the constant repetition of this query it
appeared that the old Californian sought the answer to a riddle not
even remotely connected with the mystifying savagery of non-domestic
felines.
Suddenly he slapped his thigh. "Got it," he informed the payroll he
had been trying to add for half an hour. "Got it! She does love him.
Her explanation of her action is good but not good enough for me.
Medal of Honor man! Rats. She could loan him the money to pay her
father, on condition that her father should never know the source of
the aid, but if they reduced their association to a business basis he
would have to decide between the ranch and her. She knows how he loves
this seat of his ancestors--she fears for the decision. And if he
decided for the ranch there would be no reasonable excuse for the
Parker family to stick around, would there? There would not. So he is
not to be lost sight of for a year. Yes, of course that's it.
Methinks the lady did protest too much. God bless her. I wonder what
he thinks of her. One can never tell. It might be just her luck to
fail to make a hit with him. Oh, Lord, if that happened I'd shoot him,
I would for a fact. Guess I'll drop in at the ranch some day next week
and pump the young idiot. . . . No, I'll not. My business is building
dams and bridges and concrete highways . . . well, I might take a
chance and sound him out . . . still, what thanks would I get . . . no,
I'll be shot if I will . . . oh, to the devil with thanks. If he don't
like it he can lump it. . . ."
"What makes the wild cat wild, boys,
Oh, what makes the wild cat wild?"