“Good fellow, thy shooting is good,
An’ if thy heart be as good as thy hand,
Thou art better than Robin Hood.”
--_Guy of Gisborne._
When he woke the soft-voiced, white-handed man again sat beside the
bed, again in the same equestrian attitude, clasping the back of the
chair, beaming with good humor.
“And how is our young friend now? Much better, I trust. We have had a
long and refreshing sleep. Is our brain quite clear?”
Here the fat man--the less ill-favored one--rose silently from beside
the fire and left them.
“Our young friend is extremely hungry,” said Jeff. “Our young friend’s
brain is clear, but our young friend’s head is rather sore. Where am I?
In jail?” He sat up and pushed back the bandage for clearer vision.
The jovial gentleman laughed--a merry and mellow peal. “What a spirited
fellow you are! And what an extremely durable headpiece you have! A
jail? Well, not exactly, my dear fellow, not exactly. Let us say, in
a cache, in a retreat, sometimes used by gentlemen wishing temporary
retirement from society. You are also, though I grieve to say it, in a
jackpot--to use a phrase the precise meaning and origin of which I do
not comprehend, but which seems to be, in the vernacular, a synonym for
the more common word predicament.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “A
very sad predicament, indeed! Quite unintentionally, and in obedience
to a chivalrous impulse--which does you great credit, I assure
you--you have had the misfortune to mar a very-well-laid plan of mine.
Had I not been a quick thinker, marvelously fertile in expedients, your
officiousness would have placed me in an awkward quandary. However,
in the very brief time at my disposal I was able to hit upon a device
equally satisfactory--I may say even more satisfactory than the
original.”
“Hold on!” said Jeff. “I don’t quite keep up. You planned a midnight
assassination which did not go off smoothly. I’ve got that. You were
one of the men in the cab. There was a fight----”
“There was, indeed!” interrupted the genial gentleman. His eyes lit up
with enthusiasm; his shapely fingers tapped the chair-back. “Such a
fight! It was magnificent! Believe me, my dear Bransford, it inspired
me with an almost affectionate admiration for you! And your opponent
was a most redoubtable person, with a sensitive trigger finger----”
“Excuse the interruption,” said Jeff. “But you seem to have the
advantage of me in the matter of names.”
“So I have, so I have! As you will infer, I looked through your
pockets. Thorpe is my name--S. S. Thorpe. Stay--here is my card. You
will see that I am entitled to the prefix ‘Hon.,’ having been sometime
State Senator. Call me Judge. I have never occupied that exalted
position, but all the boys call me Judge. To go back--we were speaking
of your opponent. Perhaps you knew him? No? Mr. Broderick, Mr. Oily
Broderick, once of San Antonio, a man of some renown. We shall miss
him, Mr. Bransford, we shall miss him! A very useful fellow! But your
eyes ask the question--Dead? Dear me, yes! Dead and buried these many
hours. He never knew what ailed him. Both of your bullets found a
vital spot. A sad loss! But I interrupt. I am much interested to see
how nearly accurate your analysis of the situation will be.”
“The short man--was he killed, too?” asked Jeff.
“The worthy Krouse was killed as well,” said Judge Thorpe, sighing
with comfortable resignation. “But Krouse was a negligible quantity.
Amiable, but a bungler. Go on!”
“Your intended victim seems to have escaped----”
“Survived,” corrected Judge Thorpe gently, with complacent inspection
of his shapely hands. “Survived is the better word, believe me. Captain
Charles Tillotson, Captain of the Rangers. An estimable gentleman, with
whom, I grieve to say, I was not on the best of terms. To our political
enmity, of long standing--and you perhaps know that Southwestern
politics are extremely bitter--has been added of late a certain social
rivalry. But I digress. You were saying----”
“But you are prompting me,” said Jeff testily. “It is hardly necessary.
Your enemy not being killed outright, you choose to assassinate his
good name, juggling appearances to make it seem that he was the
murderer--and to that end you have spirited me away.”
“Exactly! You are a man after my own heart--a man of acumen and
discernment,” said Judge Thorpe, beaming, “although I did, as you
suggest, prompt you at some points--knowing that you were not
familiar with all the premises. Really, Mr. Bransford, though I would
not unduly exalt myself, I cannot help but think my little device
showed more than mere talent. It was, considering the agitating
circumstances, considering that both conception and execution had to
be instantaneous, little less than Napoleonic! I feel sure that when I
tell you the details you will share my enthusiasm.”
Jeff was doing some quick thinking. He recalled what he had heard of
Thorpe. He was best known as a powerful and wealthy politician of El
Paso, who in his younger days had been a dangerous gunfighter. Of late
years, however, he had become respected and reputable, his youthful
foibles forgotten.
The appalling frankness of this avowal could bode no good to Jeff.
Evidently he was helplessly in this man’s power, and his life had been
spared for some sinister and shameful purpose.
“Before you favor me with any more details, Judge,” said Jeff, “can’t
you give me an old boot to chew on?”
“What wonderful spirits, what splendid nerves! I compliment you!” said
the Judge. “Our good Mac went, when you first awoke, to prepare steak,
eggs and coffee for you. You will pardon us if we do not have your
meals brought in from a restaurant. It would not do. We are quiet here,
we do not court observation. For the same reason we have been forced
to abstain from medical attendance for you, otherwise so desirable. I,
myself, have filled that office to the best of my ability. Now as to
the replenishing of the inner man. Mac is an excellent cook.”
“Cleaner than Borrowman,” said Jeff.
“And is, as you observe, much cleaner than Borrowman. He will prepare
whatever the market affords. You have only to ask. And, while we are
waiting, I will return to my story.”
“I was, as you so readily surmised, in the cab, together with my good
friend, colleague and lieutenant, Mr. Sam Patterson. We had telephoned
ahead to Krouse and Broderick that Tillotson was on his way. We were to
be witnesses that Krouse acted purely in self-defense, you know--as,
indeed, were also the cab driver and Broderick. Broderick was to
hold himself in reserve and not to assist, except in case of mishap.
We supposed that Krouse would kill Tillotson without difficulty.
Krouse bungled. He inflicted three wounds, painful but not dangerous;
including one which creased the scalp and produced unconsciousness.”
The man took such shameless delight in parading his wickedness that
Jeff began to wonder if, after all, it would not have saved himself
much difficulty if Broderick had killed him. But he set his mind like a
flint to thwart this smiling monster at any cost.
The Judge went on: “Such was the distressing situation when I came up.
Some men would have finished Tillotson on the spot. But I kept my
presence of mind; I exercised admirable self-restraint. It would be but
an instant before the aroused neighborhood would be on the street. We
bundled you and your gun into the cab and the driver hurried you away
to a certain rendezvous of ours. To have done with the driver, I will
say at this time that he came in and gave his testimony the next day
very effectively, fully confirming ours; accounting for his conduct
by the very natural excuse that he was scared and so ran away lest he
should be shot.
“The gun in Broderick’s right hand, you may remember, had not been
fired. His stiffening fingers still held it. I picked up his other
gun, unbuckled his belt, buckled it around Tillotson, and dropped
Broderick’s empty gun by him. No more was needed. The populace found
me caring for Captain Tillotson like a brother, pouring whisky down
him--and thereby heaping coals of fire on his head.
“Now, as to our evidence. As you may readily guess, we were driving
by when the trouble began. We saw Captain Tillotson when he fired the
first shot, killing Broderick with it. He continued to shoot after
Broderick dropped; Krouse, defending his friend, was killed also,
wounding Tillotson, who kept on shooting blindly after he fell. The
circumstantial evidence, too, was damning, and bore us out in every
respect. Broderick, a man of deadly quickness, had been killed before
he could shoot. Tillotson had emptied one gun and fired four shots
from the other; his carrying two guns pointed toward deliberate,
fore-planned murder. The marks on the houses, made by a number of his
wild bullets, were in a line directly beyond Broderick’s body from
where Tillotson lay. Broderick was between you and the others, you
know,” explained the Judge parenthetically. “But as nothing is known
of you, the marks of Broderick’s bullets are supposed to be made by
Tillotson’s--incontrovertible evidence that he began the fighting.”
Nothing could have been more hateful, more revolting, than this bland,
smiling complacency: Jeff’s fingers itched to be at his throat. It
became clear to him that either this man would be his death, or, which
was highly improbable, the other way about. His resolution hardened; he
began to have visions of this smiling face above a noose.
“When Tillotson regained consciousness he told a most amazing story,
obviously conflicting with the facts. He had carried but one gun;
Krouse had made a wanton attack upon him, without warning; he had
returned the fire. Simultaneously Broderick had been killed by some
fourth man, a stranger, whom Tillotson did not know, and who had
mysteriously disappeared when the people of the neighborhood arrived.
It looks very black for Captain Tillotson,” purred the Judge, shaking
his hands and head sorrowfully. “Even those who uphold him do not
credit this wildly-improbable tale. It is universally thought that
his wealth and position will not save him from the noose. El Paso is
reforming; El Paso is weary of two-gun men.
“And now, my dear Bransford, comes the crucial point, a matter so
delicate that I hesitate to touch upon it. All of my ingenious little
impromptu was built and founded on the natural hypothesis of your
demise, which, in my haste, I did not stop to verify. It did not occur
to me as among the possibilities that any man--even myself--could
weather six shots, at hand-grips, from Oily Broderick. Imagine, then,
my surprise and chagrin when I learned that you were not even seriously
hurt! It was a shock, I assure you! But here comes Mac with the tray.
I will bathe your hands, Mr. Bransford. Then I beg that you will fall
to at once. We will discourse while you break your fast.”
“Oh, I can get up,” said Jeff. “I’m not hurt. Put it on the table.”