WHOSE GAUNTLET?
The duty of assorting the papers and caring for the property of the late
officer had devolved upon Lieutenant Warner. Telegrams from relatives in
the distant East had requested that the remains be sent thither by
express for burial, and only a few hours after the accused murderer was
taken into custody the body of the victim of the midnight assassination
had been turned over to the undertaker in town for necessary
preparations. The garrison seemed still paralyzed by the shock, and
except the sentries at the storehouses and stables, there was little
appearance of military duty going on. Guard-mounting was conducted
without music, and the customary drills of the recruits were out of
sight. It was an atmosphere of gloom that pervaded the garrison, and
only one of its ladies had been seen on the promenade for two days. Mrs.
Whaling, like some human fungus, seemed to thrive in the pall-like
depth of the social darkness and depression. She circled from house to
house, and swooped down upon the inmates, flapping and croaking the old
story of woe and foreboding; or, what was welcome in comparison, some
new tale of further entanglement for Ray. Judging from that righteous
lady's conversation, there seemed no doubt that she and the Omnipotent
Judge had settled it between them just when he was to be hanged. She was
one of the first to receive and to enlighten with her views a serious
young man who came from Denver with a letter to the commanding officer,
and brought with him a prominent and rising attorney from Cheyenne.
These gentlemen seemed a trifle disconcerted at the fact that the few
questions they addressed to the colonel were promptly answered by his
wife, and when one of them finally looked at the other and remarked that
it was time to go and examine the premises and the effects, the bearer
of the letter not unnaturally hesitated and coughed dubiously,--he did
not know whether to ask permission of the officer or the lady. They
declined her invitation to have a cup of tea and some luncheon, saying
they had dined in town, and the colonel said he would walk down with
them. Only Mr. Warner had been allowed in the quarters since the
inquest.
They had gone but a few steps along the walk when a hack drove up, and
Mr. Blake, catching sight of them from its interior, shouted to the
driver, sprang out, and, stiffly saluting the commanding officer, handed
the lawyer a batch of telegraphic despatches, and, taking the little man
from Denver to one side, said a few words to him in a whisper, then
turned, and was walking away, when the colonel concluded it time to
assert himself.
"Mr. Blake!" he called.
"Sir," said Blake, facing him but coming no nearer.
"You appear to have been in town, sir. Had you permission to leave the
post?"
"I did not think to ask, sir. As the only friend Mr. Ray appeared to
have in this garrison I went with him to jail."
"You will think, hereafter, and not presume to go without my consent."
"Then I take this opportunity to ask permission, colonel; I desire to
return to my friend this afternoon,--in ten minutes in fact."
"The post regulations, sir, require that such applications should be
made at my office between nine and ten A.M. I am not disposed to
consider them at other times, especially where gentlemen absent
themselves without authority." And he turned majestically away.
"Am I to understand, colonel, that you refuse me permission to return to
Mr. Ray in such an emergency as this?" choked Blake.
"I will consider it, sir. I will take it into--ahem!--consideration when
I have finished other matters. Now, gentlemen, we will proceed." And so,
having established the fact that after all he was the post commander,
and laid the ghost of their lingering doubt, Colonel Whaling led on down
the row with the duly reassured civilians, and Blake, too much saddened
by recent events to feel the wrath that at other times would have
overpowered him, contented himself with glaring after his chief a
moment, ejaculating, "The bloodless old mummy!" and then turning on his
heel, he went to his lonely quarters.
The lawyer read the despatches, handed them to his Denver friend,
pointing significantly to a clause in one of them, and the colonel felt
himself omitted from their confidences. The sentry at the door of the
quarters lately occupied by Mr. Gleason presented arms to the post
commander and looked inquiringly at the civilians. "You may admit these
two gentlemen," he said, "and pass them in and out, but no one else
except the adjutant. Is he here now?"
Mr. Warner's voice from within answered yes, and the party entered. The
adjutant was seated at a table in the front room with a pile of
envelopes and letters before him. He rose as they entered.
"Mr. Warner," said the colonel, "this gentleman is sent here from Denver
under telegraphic request from department headquarters. They failed to
notify me of such intention," he added, in a tone of official grievance,
"but I presume it is all right. He is a member of the Mountain Detective
force, and desires to make full inspection of the premises. I presume
you can confer with him and with Mr.--a--Green."
He lingered a moment as though in expectation of an invitation to
remain, but none came.
Blake meantime had been searching about Ray's room. He ransacked through
an old valise that lay under the camp-bed, tossing diaries, scouting
books, itineraries, rough field maps and sketches out on the floor,
until he came to a package marked "Mem. Receipts." This he glanced
through, gave it a satisfied slap, and stowed it in a portable
writing-desk, replaced in the valise the disturbed items, and then went
on packing some changes of underclothing and linen in Ray's little
trunk. Twice he called for Hogan, but the shouts were unanswered. He
went to the door to summon the hack-driver to take the trunk, and the
man said that a lady had just stepped down to ask if he would come up
there to number eleven when he could find time. Looking thither, he saw
Mrs. Stannard at the open door of Truscott's quarters, and went at once.
Her voice trembled so that she could hardly ask for Ray.
"He is just what those who know him would expect him to be, Mrs.
Stannard, calm and resolute. I never saw a man appear to better
advantage than he did before the officials there in town. I never knew
how much there was in him until to-day. Mr. Green tendered his legal
services and had a short talk with him, and he's out here now; so is a
detective from Denver, and Colonel Rand will get here from department
headquarters to-morrow. Oh, we shan't be without friends, though it did
look mighty like it at first."
"But what about bail, Mr. Blake? How soon can he--will he return here?"
"He desires no bail, Mrs. Stannard; jail is preferable to Fort Russell
so far as his treatment is concerned," he said, indignantly. "You seem
to be the only friend he has."
Mrs. Stannard flushed and lowered her voice.
"Did you explain to him, or rather did he ask why Mrs. Truscott could
not receive his letter?"
"What was there to explain? What was there to ask?" he broke forth in
wrath. "Only one explanation was possible, and of course I would not
speak of it. What could any one think but that she believed him guilty,
and would have no communication with him?"
That was a shot that told. Before Mrs. Stannard could reply there was a
rustle of skirts and a stifled sob within the hall-way, a rush of light
footsteps up the stairs, but the door opened and Marion Sanford
appeared. Blake started to see how white and wan and sad she looked, but
she came straight to him.
"Good-morning, Mr. Blake; we were coming out to see you as you spoke,
Mrs. Truscott and I. We do not wonder that you and Mr. Ray should feel
as you do, but that was all a piteous mistake about that letter last
night." She held forth her soft white hand. "Shake hands, Mr. Blake. It
wasn't at all what you thought; it was a very, very different reason,
and he will forgive when he knows. You brought a note from him last
night. Will you take this to him from me?"
"Let me run in and see Mrs. Truscott a moment," said Mrs. Stannard at
this juncture, and hurried into the hall, leaving them alone on the
piazza.
Blake noted the dark circles under her pleading eyes; he saw plainly the
evidences of anxiety and sorrow; he could not but see that, despite the
resolution of her words and manner, her voice was tremulous, and the
brave eyes that looked unflinchingly into his were filling with tears
she could not repress. He recalled all her enthusiasm in that still
uncompleted purchase of Dandy, in her munificence to Hogan. He knew well
that no matter how he might have misjudged Mrs. Truscott's motives he
had no right or reason, whatever, in letting himself think that this
brave, glorious, loyal girl could have been shaken one instant in her
faith in his friend. Why, even Ray had checked him sternly when, during
the night, he had once burst forth in an impetuous tirade against the
worthlessness of a woman's faith, and now he could have kicked himself
had it been anatomically possible even for his marvellous length and
loose-jointedness of leg. In default thereof he would have dropped on
his knee; but somebody, several somebodies, watched the interesting
interview from a distance. He bowed over the extended hand as a courtier
might over that of a queen; he wished he dare kiss it on the same--on
any basis, but he took it warmly.
"Forgive me for every word, Miss Sanford; but I've been sore tried of
late."
"I would be less apt to forgive you if you did _not_ resent every
suspicion of Mr. Ray. It is too late to undo last night's wretched work,
or the misery it caused us. I have tried to explain it all for Mrs.
Truscott, but what I want now is to know what he needs. Is it money, or
influence, or anything? Tell me truly, Mr. Blake; I want to know all you
can tell me."
"You shall know before I tell another soul. As yet,--forgive me
again,--this will supply his greatest need." And holding up her note, he
turned quickly away.
She was blushing now--crimson,--but there was something she had to know,
and so recalled him.
"Has anything new been discovered,--have any steps been taken towards
finding the murderer?"
"Mr. Green, the lawyer whom we have consulted, has had an interview
with Ray, and he has a clue now of some kind that is being
investigated."
"And you know whom he suspects?"
"He has not told me, Miss Sanford, and--something that occurred recently
in the garrison had set me to asking him questions which he declined to
answer,--another matter entirely,--I saw he had reasons for keeping it
to himself----"
"Mr. Blake, have you still that note he sent last night?"
"No; he burned that this morning."
"Has he said nothing--nothing to indicate whom he suspects?"
"Not to me--as yet. We have had too much to attend to, perhaps, but it
is plainly something he hates to allude to."
"Look! Mr. Blake; they are calling you--down the row. You will come back
and tell us what it is?"
"Yes, and at once."
Warner and Mr. Green were indeed calling him. Among the letters in the
breast-pocket of Gleason's blouse were three signed Rallston. They were
reading them with eager interest when the little detective from Denver
sauntered in from the rear room.
"This--a--gauntlet, lieutenant, was lying with some other things on top
of the bureau. Were you going to pack it in the trunk?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Well, a single right-hand glove won't be of much use to the relatives
of the deceased, especially an old worn one like this. Where's the
mate?"
"I don't remember seeing one."
"Well, you soldiers don't generally keep one glove without the other.
Where was this before you put it with the things?"
"I picked it off the floor near the head of the bed."
"And there wasn't another thereabouts?"
"I saw none."
The detective went back to his work, and the officers with Mr. Green to
the letters. When they had read them through to the end, Blake arose.
"You will admit, Mr. Warner, that I have excellent reason for asking and
expecting permission to rejoin my incarcerated friend now," said he,
with sarcastic emphasis. "If _that_ doesn't knock the court-martial
charges cold as a wedge, what will?"
"I never fully believed Mr. Ray guilty of those charges, Blake, and you
know it. I must see the colonel, of course, and show him these letters."
"Pardon me, Mr. Warner," said the lawyer. "Tell him of them if you see
fit, but as Mr. Ray's legal adviser I do not propose to let such
important evidence for the defence fall into the hands of the
prosecution." (Warner flushed hotly.) "I do not refer to you, my dear
sir, but to your commanding officer, who is understood to have worked up
the case against my client, and will naturally feel chagrined to find
what liars his witnesses were. Human nature, sir; human nature."
"No, Warner, I don't mean you either,--in that case, that is," said
Blake, all excitement over the late discoveries; "but these are _ours_,
and by gad! we mean to hold them. Whoop! _Fiat justitia_, rue it,
Whaling's! Go and tell your distinguished chief that I will be pleased
to know whether he has considered my application yet. Here! Hold on,
Warner. D--n it all, man! I'm unpardonable for mixing you and him up in
the matter. Forgive me, but I'm all unstrung these last few days. If you
fellows only knew Ray as we do there wouldn't have been this trouble."
And they shook hands, and Warner went off to see his chief, and had a
quick conversation with him that brought the blood to the usually
colorless face of the well-preserved veteran. The colonel arose hastily
and said he would go with them. _He_ wanted to see those letters, and he
did, and looked strangely perturbed as they were read to him, and then
Blake again preferred his request for permission to visit town and to
remain all night. The colonel hemmed and hawed. These papers, of course,
had an important bearing on the case as it originally stood before the
court-martial as ordered, but matters had changed materially. "Mr. Ray
is now on trial for his life, you see, and before, he was only on trial
for--a----"
"Only for his honor," put in Blake, at the instant. "Very true, colonel,
only for his honor, and we have a singular fashion in our regiment of
looking upon the one as quite as important as the other."
The colonel was wrathy. He was essentially what is called an office
soldier. He had regulations and papers at his fingers' ends; his whole
army existence had been spent in the preservation of his health and the
cultivation of the peaceful branches of his art. No one ever heard of
his shooting, riding, hunting, or taking a risk of any kind. His habits
were methodical as those of the office clock, and his one dissipation
was the billiard-table. His theory of success was founded on common
sense: Take care of your health, avoid dissipation, shun any and all
danger, volunteer for nothing, do only what you are compelled to do,
shift all possible work on somebody else's shoulders, preserve a purely
negative record, and--you are bound to rise to the highest grades in the
army. It must be admitted that the laws of promotion are admirably
calculated to foster just such a line of argument, and that Whaling's
"head was level." Now, though wrathy at Blake, he saw at once that he
had been egregiously deceived as to the evidence to be given by Rallston
on the pending court; it was better policy to avoid all that might look
like persecution of Ray or Ray's friends; he gave a moment of thought to
the matter, and then said,--
"You may go, Mr. Blake, because I desire you and your regiment to
understand that I have no wish to obtrude my ideas of discipline upon
you at such a time. At any other I would not have overlooked your
misconduct."
"At any other time, sir, it probably would not have occurred," said
Blake, still hotly; but the entrance of the detective put an end to the
talk. He still carried the gauntlet in his hand.
"There is no mate to this in that room. What is more, this glove never
belonged to Lieutenant Gleason; it is four sizes too small for him. What
officer or soldier ever wore one like that?" he asked.
It was a worn and rein-soiled gauntlet, originally of white
wash-leather, finely stitched in silk, and with a cuff or gauntlet
heavily stiffened with leather inside; and this cuff instead of being
joined was slashed from wrist to end on the under side, and three little
buttons and straps were used to fasten it snugly to the arm after being
slipped over the hand. It was utterly unlike any gauntlet in use in the
United States cavalry at the time; it was utterly unlike those for sale
in the stores of Cheyenne. Blake examined it curiously, but could
remember none that resembled it. Leaving the others examining the glove,
he walked up the row.
Mrs. Stannard and Marion both came down. The mere sight of his face
brought eagerness and hope into their eyes. It was to be observed at
this juncture that Mrs. Stannard's arm was around that slender waist.
The symptom has no significance, of course, among school-girls or
womanhood in general, but it meant a good deal where either one of these
women was concerned, and Blake knew it.
"What wouldn't I give if the major were only here!" he exclaimed,
impetuously. "There are three letters from Rallston there with a lot of
others, showing clearly what a conspiracy had been worked up against Ray
by that--by Gleason. The last one was written in Denver only two days
before--only three days ago, and it shows that he had completely gone
back on Gleason, and accuses him of all manner of blackguardly work. He
_had_ some conscience after all, for he swears he never thought Gleason
would use what he told him to get Ray into trouble. He was mad because
Ray wouldn't pass his horses. Oh, it breaks up the whole business! Green
thinks he should be secured at once, and is going to have the detectives
after him the moment we can telegraph. Whew! Excuse me, ladies, but I'm
warm!" And Blake leaned limply against the railing and mopped his brow.
"Mr. Blake, have you eaten a thing to-day?" asked Mrs. Stannard. "Do
come in and let me get you a sandwich and a glass of wine."
"Not a morsel! I want to hurry back to town to hug Billy. I'm only
waiting for Green. He tells me that everything can be arranged so that
Ray shall stay where I left him,--in a comfortable room in the jailor's
home instead of where that old bag of skin and bones thought he'd get
him." And he vengefully shook his fist at the colonel, who was returning
homeward to tell his wife the wonderful tidings of the discoveries in
Gleason's pockets. Mrs. Stannard had not smiled for two entire days, but
Blake's reviving spirits and the welcome news combined to bring back the
sunshine to her tired face. Marion, too, though listening in silence to
what was said, clung closer to her friend, and looked up with
thanksgiving in her eyes. Just then the lawyer and the little detective
came, talking earnestly together, up the row, and, naturally, all three
studied their looks and gestures with eager attention.
"That little Denverite is on a scent," said Blake in a low tone; "he has
been hunting high and low for a mate to a peculiar gauntlet that was
found there. He says Gleason could never have owned it."
"A gauntlet? What was it like?" asked Miss Sanford, with a start.
"Like nothing we wear, that I ever saw. It's old and worn, but was a
handsome glove once."
"Mr. Blake, I--I want to see it! ask him if I may." And she stepped
eagerly forward, her blue eyes dilating, her whole frame tremulous.
Blake sprang from the railing, and was by the detective's side in three
long strides. At the whispered words he spoke both the lawyer and the
detective glanced quickly and keenly at the ladies: the former took off
his hat to them, the latter seemed to hesitate for a moment, then
stepping forward, he courteously bowed, took the gauntlet from an inner
pocket, and handed it to her. The instant she caught sight of it she
shuddered and shrank, though an eager, triumphant light shot into her
eyes; then, as though by an effort, she overcame the horror and
repugnance that had seized her, took it as she might a frog or worm,
between thumb and forefinger, and darted into the house, leaving all but
Mrs. Stannard petrified with amaze. "Never fear," said Mrs. Stannard. "I
know where she has taken it. She will be back in a moment."
Up the stairs she flew and into the front room, where Mrs. Truscott sat
by the window in a low rocking-chair.
"Grace Truscott! Look at this. _Don't_ touch it! Look at those
fastenings--those buttons. Who was the only person you ever saw wear a
glove like that?"
"Sergeant Wolf, Marion. Where--how?"
But she was gone like a flash. Down the stairs again, her feet twinkling
like magic, out in the free air among them all, her heart bounding, her
blue eyes blazing, her color vivid, brilliant.
"Take it!" she cried. "Take it! The man who murdered him, the man who
wore that glove, was Wolf, the deserter."