THE ENGINES OF CLIMAX
McCoppet was in town. He had come to camp at midnight of the previous
day, duly followed by his friend Larry Trimmer. The lumberman had
waxed impatient. Fully two thousand dollars of the money he had
"earned" was still unpaid--and hard to get. He had gone to the
"Laughing Water" claim, in vain, and a surly heat was rising in his
veins.
Bostwick was due, in his car, at nine o'clock, His visit to Goldite was
not entirely one of business. He had grown alarmed at the lack of news
from Beth. His letters had been ignored. He not only feared for the
fate of his affairs of the heart, but perhaps even more for what she
might have done with respect to the money she had asked him to return,
a very small proportion of which he was now prepared to repay.
Meantime, Beth, her brother, and Pratt had gratified their most crying
needs on Algy's cooking, much to that worthy Celestial's delight.
There were two things Beth intended to perform: report the results of
her labors to Van, and attack Mr. Lawrence in his den.
Precisely what she meant to say or do to the Government representative
she did not or could not determine. Some vague idea of making him
confess to an infamy practiced at Bostwick's instance was the most she
had in mind. If half the success already achieved could be expected
here, she would have a report worth while to make when Van should be
presently encountered.
Impetuous, eager to hasten with her work, she insisted upon an
immediate advance. Glenmore readily supported her position. Pratt
developed shyness. His forte was hiking over desert hills, lugging a
transit, running lines or levels; he felt out of place as a fighter, or
even an accuser. Nevertheless, he went, for Beth insisted.
Already the streets were crowded full of life, as the three proceeded
down the thoroughfare. A mining-camp is a restless thing; its peoples
live in the streets. Freight teams, flowing currents of men, chains of
dusty mules, disordered cargoes on the sidewalks, and a couple of
automobiles were glaringly cut out from their shadows, as the sunlight
poured upon them. Sunlight and motion, false-fronted buildings, tents,
and mountains, and fever--that is the camp on the desert.
With excitement increasing upon her at every step, Beth glanced at the
crowds in a rapid search for Van. He was not to be seen. In all the
throng, where old men and youths, pale and swarthy, lazy and alert were
circulating like the blood of Goldite's arteries, there was not a face
that she knew.
They came to the office where Lawrence presided just as a stranger was
departing, Lawrence was alone. He occupied the inner apartment, as
Culver had done, but the door was standing open.
It was Beth who knocked and entered first as the man called out his
invitation. She had never in her life appeared more beautiful. Color
was flaming in her cheeks as on a rose. Her eyes were exceptionally
bright and brown. The exquisite coral of her lips was delicately
tremulous with all her short, quick breathing.
Lawrence arose, as she and the others appeared in the door, and removed
his hat. He was a short, florid person, with a beard of fiery red.
His eyes were of the lightest gray; and they were shifting.
"Good-morning," he said, in undisguised astonishment, beholding Beth.
"You--pardon me--you----"
"Good-morning," Beth replied faintly. "We called--are you Mr.
Lawrence?"
"At your service." Lawrence bowed. "I rarely expect--in my line of
work--my business. Miss--Miss----"
"Miss Kent," said Glenmore, interrupting. "And my name is Kent. I
suppose you're wise to Mr. Pratt."
Lawrence continued to bow.
"I'm very happy to--how are you, Pratt? How are you? Won't you have a
chair, Miss Kent?"
Pratt nodded and murmured a greeting. He was decidedly uneasy.
Beth always moved by impulse. It hastened her now to the issue. She
sat down and faced their man.
"Mr. Lawrence," she said, "I believe you ran the reservation line, not
long ago, and gave Mr. Bostwick and a friend of his the 'Laughing
Water' claim."
Lawrence looked alive.
"I certainly ran the line," he said. "Instructions came from--from
headquarters, to ascertain the precise limitations of the reservation.
The _results_ gave the 'Laughing Water' claim to its present owners, by
right of prior location, after the opening hour, as the claim was
included in the tract." He had uttered this speech before. It fell
very glibly from his tongue.
"Yes, we know all that--so far as it's true," said Beth with startling
candor, "but we know it isn't true at all, and you've got to confess
that you made some ridiculous blunder or else that you were bribed."
She had not intended to plump it out so bluntly, so baldly, but a
certain indignation in her breast had been rapidly increasing, and her
impulse was not to be stayed.
"Gee!" murmured Glen, "that's going some!"
Lawrence turned white, whether with anger or fright could not have been
determined.
"Miss Kent!" he said. "You--you're making a very serious----"
"Oh, I know!" she interrupted. "I expect you to deny it. But a great
deal of money--my money--has been used, and Mr. Pratt has run the
line--with myself and my brother--yesterday--so we know that you've
either been fooled or you've cheated."
Lawrence had risen. His face was scarlet.
"Upon my word!" he said. "Pratt, you and your friend I can order from
the office! The lady----"
"You can't order anything!--not a thing!" said Beth. "Glen! Mr.
Pratt!--you've got to stay and help! I know the truth--and it's got to
be confessed! Mr. Van Buren----"
"I can leave myself, since you insist upon remaining," interrupted
Lawrence, taking his hat and striding towards the door, in a panic to
get to McCoppet for much-needed aid. "Such an utterly unheard of
affront as this----"
"Glen! run and find Mr. Van Buren!" Beth broke in excitedly. "Don't
let him go, Mr. Pratt!"
Lawrence had reached his outer office and was almost at the door. Beth
was hastening after, with Glen at her heels. All were abruptly halted.
Van and the sheriff appeared in the door, before which idlers were
passing. Beth was wild with joy.
"Van," she cried, "Oh, Mr. Van Buren, I'm sure this man has cheated you
out of your claim! We ran the line ourselves--my brother, Mr. Pratt,
and I--yesterday--we finished yesterday! We found the claim is not
inside the reservation! My money was used--I'm sure for bribery! But
they've got to give you back your claim, if it takes every penny I've
got! I was sending Glen to let you know. I asked Mr. Lawrence to
confess! You won't let him go! You mustn't let him go! I am sure
there's something dreadful going on!"
It was a swift, impassioned speech, clear, ringing, honest in every
word. It thrilled Van wondrously, despite the things that had
been--her letter, and subsequent events. He all but lost track of the
business in hand, in the light of her sudden revelations. He did not
answer readily, and Lawrence broke out in protestation.
"It's infamous!" he cried. "If anyone here except a woman had
charged--had been guilty of all these outrageous lies----"
Half a dozen loiterers had halted at the door, attracted by the shrill
high tones of his voice.
"That's enough of that, Lawrence," Van interrupted quietly. "Every
word of this is true. You accepted twenty thousand dollars to falsify
that line. Your chief was murdered to get him out of the way, because
it was _known_ you could be bribed. I came here to get you, and I'll
get all the crowd, if it kills half the town in the fight." With one
quick movement he seized his man by the collar. "Here, Bill, hustle
him out," he said to Christler. "We've got no time to waste."
Lawrence, the sheriff, and himself were projected out upon the sidewalk
by one of his quick maneuvers. A crowd of men came running to the
place. Above the rising murmur of their voices, raised in excitement,
came a shrill and strident cry.
"Van! Van!" was the call from someone in the crowd.
It was lean old Gettysburg. Dave and Napoleon were pantingly chasing
where he ran.
"Van!" yelled Gettysburg again. "It's Barger!--Barger!--dead in the
tent--it's Barger--up there--dead!"
Barger! The name acted as swiftly on the crowd as oil upon a flame.
It seemed as if the wave of news swept like a tide across the street,
down the thoroughfare, and into every shop.
Two automobiles were halted in the road, their engines purring as they
stood. Their drivers dismounted to join the gathering throng. One of
the men was Bostwick, down from the hills. He had searched for Beth at
Mrs. Dick's, and then had followed here.
"Barger! Barger's dead in camp and the 'Laughing Water' claim was
stolen--and Culver killed!" One man bawled it to the crowd--and it
sped to Bostwick's ears.
One being only departed from the scene--Trimmer, the lumberman, swiftly
seeking McCoppet.
Van, in his heat, had told too much, accusing the prisoner in hand. He
silenced Gettysburg abruptly and started to force aside the crowd.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, move aside," he said. "I've got--by Jupe!
there's Bostwick!"
It was Bostwick fleeing to his car that Van had discovered. Searle had
seen enough in the briefest of glances. He had heard too much. He
realized that only in flight could the temper of the mob be avoided.
He had seen this mob in action once before--and the walls of his
stomach caved.
Like a youthful Hercules in strength and action, Van went plunging
through the crowd to get his man. But he could not win. Bostwick had
speeded up his motor in a panic for haste and his car leaped away like
a dragon on wings, the muffler cut-out roaring like a gattling.
Van might perhaps have shot and killed the escaping man who held the
wheel, but he wanted Searle alive.
A roar from the crowd replied to the car. A score of men ran madly in
pursuit. None of them knew the details of the case, but they knew that
Bostwick was wanted.
They drifted rearward from the hurtling car like fragments of paper in
its wake. The few down street who danced for a moment before the
modern juggernaut, to stop it in its course, sprang nimbly away as it
rocketed past--and Searle was headed for the desert.
One wild, sweeping glance Van cast about, for a horse or something to
ride. Suvy was stabled, unsaddled, up the street. Bostwick and his
cloud of dust were dropping away in a swiftly narrowing perspective.
And there stood a powerful, dusty-red car--empty--its motor in motion!
There was no time to search for its owner. There were half a dozen
different cars with which Van Buren was familiar. He ran to it,
glanced at its levers, wheel, and clutch, recognized the one type he
had coveted, and hurled himself into the seat.
"Here! You!" yelled the owner, fighting through the crowd, but three
big miners fell upon him and bore him to the earth. They hoped to see
a race.
They saw it begin with a promptness incredible.
One--two changes of the snarling gears they heard before the deafening
cut-out belched its explosions. Then down the street, in pursuit of
the first, the second machine was fired.
The buildings, to Van, were blended in grayish streaks, on either side,
as his gaze was fastened on the vanishing car ahead. He shoved up his
spark, gave her all the gas, froze to the wheel like a man of
steel--and swooped like a ground-skimming comet out upon the world.
The road for a distance of fully five miles was comparatively level.
It was rutted by the wheels of heavy traffic, but with tires in the
dusty ruts a car ran unimpeded.
Both, for a time were in the road, flaying up a cloud of smoke like a
cyclone ripping out its path.
Searle had not only gained a half-mile lead, but his car was apparently
swifter. He knew its every trick and ounce of power. He drove
superbly. He was reckless now, for he had not missed the knowledge
that behind him was a meteor burning up his trail.
Like a leaping beast--a road-devouring minotaur--the car with Van shot
roaringly through space. He could not tell that Searle, ahead, was
slipping yet further in the lead. He only knew that, come what might,
till the mechanism burst, or the earth should split, he would chase his
man across the desert. The dust in the air from Bostwick's car drove
blindingly upon him. Far, far away, a mere speck on the road, he
beheld a freight-team approaching--a team of twenty animals at least,
that he and Bostwick must encounter.
A sudden memory of road conditions decided him to move. The ruts where
he was were bad enough--they were worse where the team must be passed.
He did not reduce his speed to take to the brush. The car beneath him
flung clean off the ground as he swung to climb out of the grooves. It
landed with all four wheels a-spin, but only struck on two. A sudden
swerve, far out of the course, and the monster righted abruptly.
Another sharp turn, and away it went again, crushing the brush and
flinging up the sand in a track of its own that paralleled the road,
but rougher though free from the ruts.
The brush was small, six inches high, but the wheels bounced over it
madly. The whole car hurtled and bounded in a riot of motion. It
dived, it plunged nose upward, it roared like a fiend--but it shot with
cannon-ball velocity across the desert's floor.
Five minutes later Bostwick's car was almost fronting the team in the
road, with its score of dusty mules. He dared not take the ruts at
speed, and groaned as he slowed to climb the bank. He lost but little
time, however, since once on the side he was going ahead again like
mad; nevertheless, he cast a glance behind and saw that his gap had
narrowed. Moreover, he would not attempt to return to the ruts as
before, as a second of the teams was coming a mile or so away.
Like two pitching porpoises, discharging fiery wrath and skimming the
gray of the desert sea, the two devices raced upon the brush. And
nerve began to tell. Van was absolutely reckless; Searle was not. The
former would have crowded on another notch of speed, but Bostwick
feared, and shut off a trifle of his power. Even then he was rocking,
quivering, careening onward like a star escaped from its course; and
the gains Van made were slow.
The man on the second team paused to see them pass. In smoke and dust
and with war's own din they cleaved the startled air. And the man who
saw the look that had set on Van's hard-chiseled face was aware that
unless his car should fail there was nothing on earth he could not
catch.
Bostwick had begun to weaken. The pace over sage-brush, rocks, and
basins of sand was racking both the car and the nerves that held the
wheel. How long such a flight could be continued he dared not guess.
Even steel has limitations. To what he was fleeing he could scarcely
have told, since the telegraph would send its word throughout the
desert-land, and overhaul him finally.
A sickening apprehension assailed him, however, within the minute. One
of his cylinders was missing. His trained ear caught at the change of
the "tune," and he felt his speed decreasing. He glanced back briefly,
where the dusty lump of steel, like a red-hot projectile, thundered in
his wake.
He beheld a sudden fan-like flare of dust in the cloud Van was making.
He even faintly heard the far report, and a grim joy sprang in his
being.
Van had blown out a tire. Striking the high places, crowding on the
speed, holding to a straight-away course like a merciless fate, the
horseman heard an air cushion go, felt the lurch and lameness of the
car, and steadied it back upon its road. He did not retreat by so much
as a hair the lever advancing his spark. He did not budge the gas
control, but left it still wide open. If all of his tires should blow
out together he would not halt his pace. He would drive that car to
destruction, or to triumph in the race.
Searle's rejoicing endured but the briefest span. His motor had begun
again to splutter, in mechanical death. Then, with a sudden memory,
sweat broke out on Bostwick's face. His gasolene was gone! He had
thoroughly intended refilling his tank, having barely had a sufficient
supply to run him from the claim to camp; and this had been neglected.
His car bumped slowly for a score of yards, then died by the side of
the road. He leaped out madly, to assure himself the tank was really
dry. He cursed, he raved. It seemed absurd for this big, hot creature
to be dead. And meantime, like a whirlwind coming on, Van Buren was
crashing down upon him.
"By God!" he cried, "I'll fix you for this!" and a wild thought flashed
to his mind--a thought of taking Van Buren's car and fleeing as before.
He leaped in the tonneau and caught up a heavy revolver, stored beneath
the seat. He glanced at the cylinder. Four of the cartridges only
were unused. He remained inside the "fort" of the car, with the weapon
cocked and lowered out of sight.
Charging down like a meteor, melting its very course, Van and the red
car came by leaps and plunges. He was shutting off the power
gradually, but still rushing up with frightening speed, when Bostwick
raised his gun and fired.
The bullet went wide, and Van came on. Bostwick steadied and fired
again. There was no such thing as halting the demon in the car. But
the target's size was rapidly increasing! Nevertheless, the third shot
missed, like the others. Would the madman never halt?
Bostwick dropped a knee to the floor, steadied the barrel on the
cushion, lined up the sights, and pulled the trigger.
With the roar of the weapon Van abruptly drooped. The bullet had
pierced his shoulder. And he still came on. His face had suddenly
paled; his lips had hardened in a manner new to his face. He halted
the car, aware that his foe had exhausted his ammunition, since no more
shots were fired.
His own big gun he drew deliberately. To sustain himself, through the
shock of his wound, was draining the utmost of his nerve. He was
hardly ten feet away from the man who stood there, a captive in his car.
"Well, Searle," he said, "you're a better shot than I thought--and a
better driver. In fact you drive so almighty well I am going to let
you drive me back to camp." He arose from his seat. He was bleeding.
His left arm was all but useless. "Come down," he added. "Come down
and take my seat. And don't make the slightest error in etiquette,
Searle, or I'll see if a forty-some-odd ball will bounce when it lands
on your skull."
Bostwick had expected to be shot on the spot. No cornered rat could
have been more abjectly afraid. His nerve had oozed away the more for
the grimness of the man who stood before him--a man with such a wound
as that who was still the master of his forces!
He was terribly white. His teeth fairly chattered in his head. He had
played a desperate part--and lost. The race and this present
_denouement_ had shattered the man completely. He came down to the
ground and stood there, silently staring at Van.
Despite his show of strength Van stepped with difficulty to the back of
his car and seated himself within.
"Up in the seat there, Searle," he repeated, "and drive back at
moderate speed."
Bostwick's surrender was complete. He climbed to the driver's
position, still silently, and started the car in an automatic way that
knew no thought of resistance. At the rear of his head Van held the
gun, and back towards Goldite they rolled.
Two miles out the sheriff, in a borrowed car, grimly seated at the
driver's side, came bearing down upon them. The cars were halted long
enough for the sheriff to take his place with Searle, and then they
hastened on.
Christler had instantly seen that Van was wounded. He as quickly
realized that to rush Van to town and medical attendance was the only
possible plan.
He merely said, "You're hurt."
Van tried to smile. "Slightly punctured." He was rapidly losing
strength.
Christler thought to divert him. He shouted above the purring of the
car.
"Found Matt all right. I'm goin' to take him back to the State
authorities in that convict suit that's hangin' 'round the store."
Van was instantly aroused. "No you don't Bill! No you don't! I've
got use for those stripes myself. You'll buy Matt the best suit of
clothes in town, and charge the bill to me."
If Bostwick heard, or understood, he did not make a sign. He was
driving like a servant on the box, but he could not have stood on his
feet.
They were nearing the town. A cavalcade of horsemen, drivers of
buggies, and men on foot came excitedly trooping down the road to meet
the short procession.
Despite his utmost efforts, Van was gone. Weak from the loss of blood
and the shock, he could hold up his frame no longer.
"Bill," he said, as the sheriff turned around, "I guess I'm--all
in--for a little. Cold storage _him_, till I get back on my feet."
He waved a loose gesture towards Bostwick, then sank unconscious on the
floor.