"No."
"When will those papers be ready?"
"To-night, if you want them."
"Good!" Wray turned, with his hand on the knob of the door. "When Pete
comes, send him back. Will you, Larry?"
Larry Berkely nodded, and Wray went into the back office and closed the
door behind him. He took out his keys and unlocked the desk, but,
instead of sitting at once, he went over to a cracked mirror in the
corner and examined his face, grinning at his image and touching the red
marks with his fingers.
"That was a love-tap for fair," he said. "I reckon I deserved it. But
she oughtn't to push a man too far. She was sure angry. Won't speak
now for a while." He turned with a confident air. "She'll come around,
though," he laughed. "You just bet she will." Then he sat down at his
desk, took a photograph in a brass frame out of the drawer, put it up
against the pen-rack before him, and, folding his arms across the
blotter, gazed at it steadily for a moment.
"It was a mean trick, wasn't it, Camilla girl?" he muttered, half aloud.
"I'm sorry. But you've got to learn who you belong to. There can't be
any fooling of other fellows around Jeff Wray's girl. I just had to
kiss you--had to put my seal on you, Camilla. I reckon you put yours on
me, too, black and blue." He laughed ruefully. "You'll forgive me,
though. A diamond necklace or so will square _that_. You bet it will!"
He put the picture down, hid it away, and took up some papers that lay
before him. But when, a while later, Larry Berkely showed Mulrennan in,
they found him sitting with his face to the window, looking out with his
baby stare over the hundred thousand acres of the Hermosa Company.
"Come in, Pete, and shut the door. You don't mind, Larry? Mulrennan
and I have got some private business." Then, when the door was closed,
he said in a half-whisper, "Well? What did you find out about the 'Lone
Tree'?"
Mr. Mulrennan carefully sought the cuspidor, then wiped his brow with a
dirty red handkerchief. "What didn't I find out? God, Jeff! that mine's
lousy with sylvanite. The watchman was asleep, and we got in
scrumpshus-like. It's half way down that short winze they made last
fall. Max had put some timbers up to hide it, and we pulled 'em down.
We only had matches to strike and couldn't see much, but what we saw was
a-plenty. It's the vein, all right. Holy Mother! but it started my
mouth to watherin'--I haven't had a wink of shlape. Where in h--l have
you been all day?"
"Business," said Jeff vaguely, "in the mountains."
"It's no time to be potherin' about wid little matthers." Mulrennan
brought his huge fist down on the table. "You've got to nail this deal,
Jeff, to-day."
"To-day? Bent hasn't been back."
"Well, you've got to find him--now."
"What for? See here, Pete, cool down. Can't you see if I go after him
he'll get suspicious--and then good-bye to everything. You leave this
deal to me. He'll sign. Larry's drawing the lease and bond now. Maybe
to-morrow----"
"To-morrow? To-morrow will be too late. That's what I'm gettin' at.
Max is ugly----"
Wray clenched his bony fingers over the chair arm and leaned across the
desk.
"Max!" he whispered angrily. "What----?"
"He's afther more money. He talked pretty big last night, but this
mornin'----" He broke off breathlessly. "Oh, I've had the h--l of a
day----"
"What did he say?"
"He's talkin' of goin' to the mine owner. He says, after all, Cort Bent
never harmed him any, and it's only a matter of who gives him the most."
Wray got to his feet and took two or three rapid turns up and down the
room.
"D--n him!" he muttered. And then suddenly, "Where is he now?"
"Up the bar playing pinochle with Fritz."
"Are you sure?"
"He was twenty minutes ago. I haven't left him a minute except to come
here. Fritz is losin' money to him. I told him to. That will kape him
for a while."
But Wray had already taken up his hat. "Come, let's go up there. We've
got to shut his mouth some way," he said, through set lips.
"I've been promisin' myself sick, but he's a sharp one--God! But I wish
them papers was signed," sighed Mulrennan.
As they passed through the office Jeff stopped a moment.
"If Bent comes in, Larry, tell him I'll be back in half an hour.
Understand? Don't seem anxious. Just tell him I'm going to Denver and
want to settle that deal one way or another as soon as possible."
Berkely nodded and watched the strange pair as they made their way up
the street. Wray, his head down and hands in his pockets, and the
Irishman using his arms in violent gestures.
"I'm _sure_ it's an ugly duckling," commented the sage.
* * * * *
It was three years now since Berkely had come to Colorado for his
health, and two since Fate had sent him drifting down to Mesa City and
Jeff Wray. Mesa City was a "boom" town. Three years ago, when the "Jack
Pot" mine was opened, it had become the sudden proud possessor of five
hotels (and saloons), three "general" stores, four barber shops, three
pool rooms, a livery stable, and post office. Its main (and only) street
was a quarter of a mile in length, and the plains for a half mile in
every direction had been dotted with the camps of the settlers. It had
almost seemed as if Saguache County had found another Cripple Creek.
A time passed, and then Mesa City awoke one morning to find that the
gamblers, the speculators, and the sporting men (and women) had gone
forth to other fields, and left it to its fate, and the town knew that
it was a failure.
But Jeff Wray stayed on. And when Berkely came, he stayed, too, partly
because the place seemed to improve his health, but more largely on
account of Jeff Wray. What was it that had drawn him so compellingly
toward the man? He liked him--why, he could not say--but he did--and
that was the end of it. There was a directness in the way Wray went
after what he wanted which approached nothing Berkely could think of so
much as the unhesitating self-sufficiency of a child. He seemed to have
an intuition for the right thing, and, though he often did the wrong
one, Berkely was aware that he did it open-eyed and that no book wisdom
or refinement would have made the slightest difference in the
consummation of his plans. Berkely was sure, as Wray was sure, that the
only reason Jeff hadn't succeeded was because opportunity hadn't yet
come knocking at his door. He liked Wray because he was bold and
strong, because he looked him in the eye, because he gave a sense of
large areas, because his impulses, bad as well as good, were generous
and big, like the mountains and plains of which he was a part. His
schemes showed flashes of genius, but neither of them had money enough
to put them into practice. He was always figuring in hundreds of
thousands or even in millions, and at times it seemed to Berkely as
though he was frittering his life away over small problems when he might
have been mastering big ones. At others he seemed very like Mulberry
Sellers, Munchausen, and D'Artagnan all rolled into one.
What was happening now, Berkely could not determine, so he gave up the
problem and, when his work was done, filled his pipe, strolled to the
door, and watched the changing colors on the mountains to the east of
him, as the sun, sinking lower, found some clouds and sent their shadows
scurrying along the range to the southward. With his eye he followed
the line of the trail up the canon, and far up above the cottonwoods
that skirted the town he could see two figures on horseback coming down.
He recognized them at once, even at that distance, for they were a sight
to which Mesa City had become accustomed.
"Camilla and Bent," he muttered. "I'm glad Jeff's not here. It's been
getting on his nerves. I hope if Bent sells out he'll hunt a new field.
There are too few women around here--too few like Camilla. I wonder if
she really cares. I wonder----"
He stopped, his eyes contracted to pin points. The pair on the horses
had halted, and the man had drawn close to his companion, leaning
forward. Was he fixing her saddle? An unconscious exclamation came from
Berkely's lips.
"He's got his nerve--right in plain view of the town, too. What----?"
The girl's horse suddenly drew ahead and came galloping down through the
scrub-oak, the man following. Berkely smiled. "The race isn't always
to the swift, Cort Bent," he muttered.
At the head of the street he saw Miss Irwin's horse turn in at the
livery stable where she kept him, but Cortland Bent's came straight on
at an easy canter and halted at Berkely's door.
"Is Wray there?" asked Bent.
"No, but he told me to ask you to wait. Won't you come in?"
"Just tell him I'll be in in the morning."
"Jeff may go to Denver to-morrow," said Larry, "but of course there's no
hurry----"
Bent took out a silver cigarette case and offered it to Berkely. "See
here, Larry," he said, "what the devil do you fellows want with the
'Lone Tree'? Are you going to work it, or are you getting it for some
one else? Of course, it's none of my business--but I'd like to know,
just----"
"Oh, I'm not in this. This is Jeff's deal. I don't know much about it,
but I think he'd probably work it for a while."
Together they walked into the office, and Berkely spread some papers out
over the desk. "Jeff told me to draw these up. I think you'll find
everything properly stated."