SPECTRES OF THE PAST
Restless was the night that followed for Alexander Bancroft; his sleep
was troubled by many a dream in which one friend after another moved
swiftly on to violent death. With the coming of dawn he arose to look
out from the eastern windows of his room. The sky was a dome of rosy
light and below lay the vast plain, dim but colorful, its gray-green
mottled with vague bands and patches of opalescent lights and shadows
and dotted with little islands of vivid green. His eyes clung to these
darker spots, which he knew to be thickets of mesquite; piercing their
shade his inner vision showed him the still body of his friend. So real
was the mental picture that he turned pale about the lips and abruptly
left the window.
If anything had happened, he kept reassuring himself, it had been at
Dellmey Baxter's instigation. He himself had had nothing to do with it.
If Baxter had decided that his affairs would go more smoothly with
Conrad out of the way, why should he, Alexander Bancroft, trouble
himself further? And if--anything had happened--again he felt the
loosening of mental strain and his spirits rose in exultation at the
prospect of freedom and safety. Life was more attractive than ever with
that menacing figure no longer threatening him with disclosure,
disgrace, and death. He could go on with his plans for the accumulation
of fortune and the enjoyment of life. He could still hold Lucy's love
and honor, travel with her, marry again, work his way to a commanding
place in the world of business. The future opened before him as easy and
inviting as the stairs down which he went to breakfast.
Lucy ran to meet him with a good-morning kiss and a rose for his
buttonhole. "It's the prettiest I could find in my conservatory," she
smiled at him; "but it isn't half nice enough for my daddy dear. You
don't look well this morning, daddy," she went on anxiously. "Is
anything the matter?"
His hand slipped caressingly down over her curls and drew her to his
breast in a quick embrace, instinct with the native impulse of the
animal to protect its offspring. "She shall never know," was the
thought in his mind.
"Daddy! What a bear hug that was!" she laughed, "like those you used to
give me when I was a little girl. It didn't feel as if you were ill."
"I'm not," he answered lightly, kissing her pink cheek. "I guess I
smoked too much yesterday, and so didn't sleep very well. Yes; I
promise; I'll be more careful to-day."
At breakfast his eyes dwelt much upon Louise Dent's face, gentle and
pleasant. He had always liked her, and since her coming on this visit
she had seemed very attractive. He knew she had strength and poise of
character and a nature refined and cheerful. These qualities in her,
with a certain genial, unobtrusive companionableness, had long ago won
his warm friendship. But was there not in her steady gray eyes a hint of
passionate depths he had never thought of before? It stirred him so
deeply that for a little while, as they lingered over the breakfast
table, he forgot the other facts of life, noting the faint rose flush in
her cheeks, the graceful turn of her wrists, and the soft whiteness of
her throat as she threw back her head and laughed. And Lucy loved her so
devotedly! If she were willing to marry him their household would
surely be harmonious and happy.
Lucy fluttered beside him to the gate, her arm in his, as she chattered
to him of the funny things her Chinese cook had been saying and doing.
She lingered there, her eyes following his figure, until he turned, half
a block away, to wave his hat in response to her farewell handkerchief.
By the time he reached the foot of the hill Bancroft's mind was once
more engrossed with the need of knowing whether or not he was at last
secure from ignominious exposure. He no longer disguised from himself
the fact that news of Conrad's death would be most welcome. He looked
eagerly up and down the main streets; there was no sign of excitement.
Had nothing happened, then? But it was still early; moreover, news of
the affair might not reach the town for a day or two. The sound of
horses' feet coming at a swift trot down the street on the other side of
the stream made his heart beat quickly. He lingered at the door of his
bank until the horseman came into view under the big cottonwoods at the
next corner. It was Red Jack from the Socorro Springs ranch. At once his
heart leaped to certainty. He turned to enter the bank, but stopped and
looked back, undecidedly. Red Jack had not dismounted, but had drawn
rein in front of the court-house at the next corner, and was sitting
there quietly, looking up and down the road as if expecting somebody. He
led a saddled horse. Perhaps he was to take a physician back with him.
But he seemed in no haste, and in his manner there was neither
excitement nor anxiety. Bancroft could wait no longer to learn what had
happened. With hands in pockets he sauntered down the street.
"Hello, Jack," he said indifferently to the waiting horseman. "You're in
town early this morning."
"I sure hiked along from the ranch early enough," the cowboy replied.
"The boss hired a new man last night; and I had to come over this
morning after him."
Bancroft's eyes were on the cigar he was taking from his pocket, which
he handed to the cowboy, saying idly, "Why, he intended last night to
carry the man behind him. Did he change his mind? The man was a Mexican,
wasn't he?"
"Y-e-s; a measly coyote! The boss didn't bring him last night because he
thought it would be too hard on Brown Betty to carry double. I wonder if
mebbe that ain't my man comin' down the street right now! I've done
forgot his name; do you happen to know it, Mr. Bancroft?"
"I think it's Jose Gonzalez. He came here from Dellmey Baxter, who
recommended him to me as a first-rate cowboy."
"Well, he'll have to be a peach if he strikes the boss's gait," Red Jack
rejoined, motioning to the Mexican.
Bancroft walked back to his place of business with brows knitted and
mouth drawn into grim lines. His mind was acting rapidly and ruthlessly.
The sudden collapse of his house of cards, the knowledge that danger was
still as imminent as ever, left him savage with desire for Curtis
Conrad's death, or, rather, for the delectable land that lay beyond it.
Nobody but this young hothead with his insensate desire for revenge knew
or cared anything about that old affair now. With him out of the way
there would be no danger from anybody or anything. Why wasn't the man
sensible enough to take the money he was willing to pay, and be
satisfied? Perhaps the receipt of another check or two would soften his
purpose; it was worth trying. And--there was still the Mexican! Baxter
had surely said something to him, and the fellow seemed to understand
that he, also--but he had said nothing about it, and whatever the
creature suspected was his own inference. Evidently the Mexican did
suspect something and had some purpose in his mind. With Conrad so
intent upon his destruction had he not every right to protect himself
and his child? Of course he had, he told himself fiercely, and what
means he might use were his own affair.
At the door of the bank Rutherford Jenkins met him with a smiling
salutation: "Good-morning, Mr. Bancroft; this is lucky! I was waiting
for you here, but I've got so much to do that I'd begun to be afraid I
wouldn't be able to see you before I go back."
Bancroft greeted him pleasantly. "What do you mean, Jenkins," he went
on, "by deserting to Martinez? Hadn't you better think again about that?
We need you on our side."
"That's exactly what I want to see you about," said Jenkins in a
confidential tone. "Can't you come over with me to Bill Williams's hotel
for a few minutes? I want to have a talk with you."
They went back together, Bancroft wondering if Jenkins, who was regarded
as a desirable ally by both parties, notwithstanding his character, was
about to make overtures to him for deserting the Martinez fold and
coming back to Baxter's. "Perhaps that spanking Curt gave him has set
him against the whole Martinez following," he thought. "Baxter will be
mighty glad to get him back, and I'll do my best to cinch the bargain so
he can't crawl."
When they entered the hotel room Jenkins moved leisurely about, got out
a bottle of whiskey, and hunted up some cigars, talking all the time
glibly about other matters and jumping inconsequently from one subject
to another. Bancroft made several attempts to bring the conversation to
the point, but each time Jenkins either blandly ignored or skilfully
evaded his leading. Finally Bancroft said, looking at his watch: "Well,
Jenkins, I've got to be at the bank very soon, and if there's anything
particular you want to say suppose we get down to business."
"Yes, yes, certainly," Jenkins replied unconcernedly. "That's what I'm
coming to right now." He gave Bancroft a cigar, lighted one himself,
made some jokes as he bustled aimlessly around the room, and at last sat
down on the foot of the bed, facing the banker, who occupied the only
chair in the little room. He ceased speaking, and Bancroft, looking up
suddenly, caught in his face an expression of expectant triumph. The tip
of his tongue was darting over his lips, and his small dark eyes were
fixed on his guest with a look of malicious satisfaction. Instantly
Bancroft's nerves were alert with the sense of coming danger. He blew
out a whiff of smoke and calmly returned the other's gaze. Their eyes
met thus, the one gloating, the other outwardly unmoved but inwardly
astart with sudden alarm. Then Jenkins began, in a blandly insinuating
tone:
"Before we come to that matter about Martinez, I want to ask you,
Mr.--ah--Mr. Dela--ah, I beg your pardon, Mr. Bancroft--I thought I
would ask you--you've poked about a good deal, out here in the West--and
in out-of-the-way places, too--and I've been wondering--I thought
I'd ask you--if you've ever run across a gentleman of the name
of--of--Dela--Dela--let me see--yes, Delafield--that's it--Sumner L.
Delafield, of Boston. Do you remember whether or not you've ever met
him?"
Bancroft did not blanch nor flinch. For so many years he had schooled
himself to such constant watchfulness and incessant self-control that an
impassive countenance and manner had become a habit. Lucy, with her
uncompromising moral decisions and her swift, unsparing condemnations,
could come nearer to unnerving him than could any bolt from the blue
like this. He flicked the ash from his cigar, hesitating a moment as if
searching his memory, but really wondering whether Jenkins knew anything
or was merely guessing and trying to draw him out. The latter seemed
much the more likely.
"I can't say on the instant whether I ever met such a man or not. As you
say, I have gone about a good deal and, as my business most of the time
has been that of mining and trading in mines, it has often taken me into
out-of-the-way places, and I have met a great many people. At this
moment I don't recall the name."
"Don't you? I'm sorry, for I thought perhaps you could verify for me a
curious story about the man that has just come to my knowledge. You know
I'm always picking up information about people--I find it comes in handy
now and then. Well, if you've never met him, have you ever, in the
course of your Western travels, run across a man--he was a mining man,
too--a mining man named Hardy--John Mason Hardy? There's a curious
story about him, too, or, rather, about a man who was associated with
him in a mining enterprise down in old Mexico. The other man's name was
Smith--a very serviceable name is Smith; sort of like a black derby hat;
no distinguishing mark about it and easy to exchange by mistake if you'd
rather have some other man's."
Bancroft rose and looked at his watch. "If there's anything of
particular interest or importance in this, Mr. Jenkins, I'll be very
glad to listen to it some other time; but I can't stay any longer this
morning. I ought to have been at my desk half an hour ago."
Jenkins sat still and waved him back with insistent politeness. "One
moment more, Mr. Bancroft, if you please. I'm coming to the point right
away. This story is of some consequence to me, and I'd like to know if
you can verify it. Have another drink."
Bancroft swallowed the whiskey at a gulp and Jenkins noticed that his
fingers trembled as he took the glass. He was thinking, "I'd better stay
and find out exactly how much he knows." Jenkins smiled under his hand
as he smoothed his straggling moustache and watched Bancroft wipe the
sweat from his forehead.
"This man Smith," Jenkins continued, "John was his name, too--John Smith
and John Mason Hardy were partners in a mining enterprise down in
Mexico. One of them died down there--died, you know, in a quiet, private
sort of way, and the one that came up to the States again was named
Hardy, but it wasn't the same Hardy that had gone down there. You might
guess, if you wanted to, that Smith killed Hardy and took his name--"
He stopped and drew back suddenly, for Bancroft had sprung forward with
a white, angry face and was shaking a trembling fist under his nose.
"Stop there, you liar!" he exclaimed in low, tense tones. "I didn't do
that. He died a natural death--of fever--and I took care of him and did
my best to save his life."
Jenkins recovered his self-possession first. "Oh; then you know all
about it!" he said dryly, with a malicious smile.
Bancroft sank back in his chair drawing his hand across his eyes and
wondering why his self-control had so suddenly gone to pieces. He had
thought himself proof against any surprise, but this man's sudden blow
and persistent baiting had screwed his nerve tension to the snapping
point. But he told himself that it probably did not matter anyway, as
Jenkins evidently knew the whole story. With a desperate, defiant look
he turned upon his tormentor.
"Well, what do you want?" he demanded sharply. "Why have you raked up
this old story?"
"Oh, I found it interesting," Jenkins responded in a leisurely way, "as
an instance of the way things are done on the frontier and, as I told
you at first, I thought you might be able to verify it. For I was
inclined not to believe it, especially as it was about one of the most
prominent and respected citizens of New Mexico. But since you've
confessed its truth yourself--well, I've got to believe it now.
It has been a very blind trail I've followed, crooked and well
hidden--wonderfully well hidden, Mr. Bancroft--and the number of names
you've hoisted along its course has been bewildering. But I've managed
to track you through 'em all, and to discover in Alexander Bancroft, the
upright, honored, public-spirited citizen of New Mexico, the identical
person of Sumner L. Delafield, the defaulting and absconding financier
of Boston."
Bancroft looked Jenkins sullenly in the eye. "Well, now that you have it
all, what are you going to do about it?"
"Pardon me, Mr. Bancroft," said Jenkins with exaggerated suavity, "ah,
excuse me, I mean Mr. Delafield--that is for you to say."
The banker considered for a moment only. Evidently this man knew exactly
what he was about and exactly what he wanted, so that it would be of no
use to beat around the bush. "Will you please say precisely what you
mean?" was his answer.
"That is just what I have been doing, Mr. Delafield."
"Excuse me, Jenkins, but my name is Bancroft, not Delafield. I have a
legal right to the name of Bancroft, given me by the legislature of
Arizona. You will oblige me by addressing me in that way."
"Oh, yes; I know that; and a lot of trouble I had with this chase until
I found it out! But I thought you might like to hear yourself called
Delafield once more--sort of like meeting an old friend, you know. Won't
you have another cigar, Mr. Bancroft? No? Well, then, let's have another
drink." He poured out two glasses of whiskey. Bancroft drank his
without demur, but Jenkins barely touched his glass to his lips.
"Well, now, Mr. Bancroft," Jenkins went on affably, smiling and rubbing
his hands together, "let's get down to the practical side of this
romantic story from real life. You are getting on so well here under
your present name, and you have a young daughter--" he saw his listener
wince at this, and then carefully repeated his words--"and you have such
a beautiful and charming young daughter, who, as the heiress of a father
who is making a fortune with clean hands and no cloud on his past, can
be taken about the world and can make a good marriage some of these
days; considering all this, I take it for granted that you would prefer
to have this story buried too deep for resurrection. And it is for you
to say whether it shall be buried or not."
Bancroft sat in silence for a full minute, glaring at the man opposite,
his lips set in a livid line. Jenkins grew nervous in the dead stillness
of the room, and began to fidget. He cautiously rested his right hand on
the bed close by his pistol pocket, and kept his eyes on the banker,
watchful for the first hostile movement. There was need of wariness,
for Bancroft was debating with himself whether it would be better to go
on to the dreary end of this business and leave the room with a
blackmailer's noose around his neck, or to whip out his gun, put a
bullet through this man's brain, and another through his own.
But the fragrance of life rose sweet to his nostrils, and his innate
virility spurred him on to keep up the fight. Apparently he had brought
up against a stone wall, but he had fought too long and too desperately
to be willing to confess himself beaten until he could struggle no
longer. He felt sure that money would keep Jenkins quiet, and after a
while he might find some other means of stopping the man's mouth for
good. The fellow was always in some dirty job or other, and before long
doubtless some hold on him would become possible. There was Conrad still
to be reckoned with--but that could wait, at least until this man was
silenced.
"Well," he said quietly, "what do you want? For God's sake, come to the
point!"
Jenkins drew a breath of relief. "Well, Mr. Bancroft, I'm interested
this year in the success of Johnny Martinez. It's a matter of the first
importance to me for him to be elected. But I'm afraid he hasn't got
much chance if Silverside County and the rest of the South should go
against him. Now, you've got more influence down here than anybody else,
and you can swing it for him if you want to. That's what I want you to
do."
Bancroft looked up in sudden dismay. He had not expected anything of
this sort. "You know I'm committed to Baxter," he said.
"Oh, yes; I know. But that's nothing. In New Mexico it's not difficult
to change your politics. Why, I thought of coming out for Baxter myself
at first; but I'm solid for Martinez now."
Bancroft rose and began pacing the half-dozen steps to and fro that the
room afforded, seeking some loophole of escape from his obligations to
Baxter. There were mortgages the Congressman could foreclose that would
balk some of the banker's most promising plans should he attempt
political treachery. He could, and undoubtedly would, reveal his
associate's connection with the loan and mortgage operations in the Rio
Grande valley; and Bancroft winced as he thought of this coming to
Lucy's ears. And in that matter of Curtis Conrad and Jose Gonzalez--had
he not put himself at Baxter's mercy? In this moment of supreme
necessity the naked truth came before him; and he knew it to be true
that he was primarily responsible for any harm that might come to the
young cattleman through Gonzalez. If he did not keep faith with Baxter
the Congressman would tell Curtis who it was that desired his death; and
then Conrad would know where to find Delafield. In short, he knew that
Baxter would stop at nothing to compel his loyalty or punish his
treason. Having contemplated no course except that of fidelity in his
business and political relations with Baxter, the closeness of their
alliance had heretofore given him little uneasiness; and now, in this
crisis, he found himself wholly in the other's power. He flung himself
into his chair, his face pallid and the perspiration standing in great
drops on his forehead. His breath came hard and his voice was thick as
he asked:
"Is there no alternative?"
"Well, no; none that I can accept," Jenkins replied meditatively. "You
see, it's a very important matter for me to be able to make this present
to Johnny. If he wins this fight there'll be something big in it for me.
No; I'll have to insist upon this as the first condition."
Bancroft's lips moved soundlessly as he stared at the man sitting on the
edge of the bed, nursing his knee and showing his white teeth in a
triumphant smile. Then, suddenly, without a word of warning, the banker
leaped forward and seized his companion around the throat. Jenkins,
taken entirely off his guard, succeeded only in grasping his assailant's
coat as they went down on the bed together in a noiseless scuffle.
Bancroft's hands closed around his tormentor's throat, and a savage,
elemental satisfaction thrilled in him and goaded him on. More and more
tightly his fingers clutched as Jenkins struggled under his grip.
Neither of them uttered a sound, and the silence of the room was broken
only by the creaking of the bed or the occasional knocking of a foot
against the chair.
Bancroft's face was snarled like that of a wild beast as he watched
Jenkins's visage grow livid and his struggles weaken. Of a sudden reason
returned to him. If this man were to die under his hand there would be
grewsome consequences--and he had enough to deal with already. He stood
up, trembling, and looked anxiously at the still form on the bed.
"You--you're not dead, Jenkins, are you?" he stammered awkwardly.
Jenkins stirred a little, opened his eyes, put his hand to his throat,
and got up, looking warily at his assailant. "It's no thanks to you that
I'm not," he responded sullenly.
"I didn't mean to kill you--but you--you struck me too hard--it drove me
wild--and for a minute I didn't know what I was doing." Jenkins scowled,
rubbed his throat again, and drank a glass of whiskey. Bancroft helped
himself likewise, following it with a copious draught of water. As they
faced each other again Jenkins edged away suspiciously toward the door;
but Bancroft went back at once to the unsettled question.
"It would ruin me, financially and in every other way, to go back on
Baxter. You might just as well kill me outright as insist upon that."
"But I'm going to insist upon it," was Jenkins's sullen answer.
Bancroft made a despairing gesture. "But I tell you, Jenkins, the
thing's impossible! It would ruin me just as surely as for you to tell
all you know. You'll have to be satisfied with something else."
Jenkins leaned against the bed and stared angrily at Bancroft. Physical
pain had made him obstinate and determined him to press his point, more
to return injury for injury than because he wanted that particular
thing.
"I tell you now," Bancroft went on, "that I'd rather take the last way
out than try to go back on Baxter. It wouldn't be the healthiest thing
in the world for you if I should kill myself shut up in this room with
you, would it?"
"Well, I'll waive that for the present," Jenkins replied unwillingly;
"but, mind you, it's only for the present. We'll talk about it again,
later in the season. For the present I want a good, big sum before you
leave this room, and hereafter I've got to have a regular monthly
payment, a check on the first of every month when I don't come after the
cash myself."
Bancroft considered for only a moment. His dilemma was clear: he must
either buy this haltered freedom from Jenkins or kill him in his tracks.
This latter alternative was not to be considered; and doubtless before
long it would be possible to turn the tables on the creature and escape
from his clutches.
Jenkins folded away in his pocket-book a check and a roll of bills and
smiled as he looked at Bancroft's haggard face. "I hope, Mr. Dela--ah,
pardon me,--Mr. Bancroft, that I have not kept you too long from your
affairs at the bank." As his eyes followed the banker's disappearing
figure with a gleam of satisfaction, he patted his breast pocket and
whispered:
"Now for the other score!"