SENTENCE OF DEATH
As the Spring days passed, in unbroken procession of rosy dawns,
cloudless and glowing noons, and gorgeous sunsets, Louise Dent's
resentment against Curtis Conrad grew keen and bitter. She saw the lines
of worry appearing in Bancroft's face, and surprised now and then in his
eyes an anxious abstraction; and in her heart she stormed against the
man she supposed to be the sole cause of it all. Dreading his next visit
lest she might betray her feeling, she longed to drive him from the
house, when he should come, with burning, shaming words. But Bancroft,
who knew as much of his intention as she did, was on terms of cordial
friendship with him, and she must take her cue from her friend and host.
Toward Bancroft himself her heart grew more tenderly solicitous as her
womanly instincts divined his feeling toward her. A thousand unconscious
touches of tone and manner had already revealed his love, and she
surmised that he would not speak because of the imminence of this sore
danger. She longed to give him her open sympathy, to counsel with him,
to lock hands with him so that they might face the trouble together. Yet
she was stopped from word or action by the necessity of seeming to know
nothing. The fact of Bancroft's identity had been disclosed to her by
his wife, her dear and intimate friend, who, at point of death, had told
her, under solemn promise of secrecy, the whole story, that she might
the better shield Lucy should disclosure ever threaten. Now, her heart
melting with pity, love, and sympathy for her friend, and burning with
angry resentment against his foe, she must perforce sit in apparent
ignorance of it all, be calm and cheerful toward Bancroft, and smile
pleased welcome upon Conrad. That hidden volcano in her breast, whose
possibility Lucy and Curtis had half seriously discussed, had become a
reality, and the concealment of it demanded all her self-control.
The only relief she dared give herself was occasional disapproval of the
young cattleman in her talks with Lucy. Louise was surprised and puzzled
by the varying moods in which the girl received these criticisms.
Sometimes she kept silence or quickly changed the subject. Rarely she
tossed her head and joined in the condemnation with an angry sparkle of
the eye. Or, again, with flushing cheek, she defended him from Miss
Dent's aspersions. Louise decided, with a fond smile, that her vagaries
of mood were due to pique at the lack of more constant attentions from
Conrad. For the young woman, to her father's and Miss Dent's loving
amusement, was proving herself adept in the art of queening it over a
court of masculine admirers. What with walks over the _mesa_, rides and
picnics up the canyon, music of evenings, and Sunday afternoon calls,
Lucy was leading a gay life, and Louise, as her chaperon, a busy one.
Being a normal, buoyant-hearted girl, Lucy enjoyed the gayety and the
attention and admiration showered upon her in such copious measure for
their own sake, and she was glad of them also because, together with her
household cares, they kept her too well occupied for sad thoughts.
So the days passed until mid-June was at hand and the time come for the
trial of Jose Maria Melgares. Curtis Conrad was in Golden as one of the
principal witnesses for the prosecution--his first visit to the town
since the Spring round-up. Lucy, glancing frequently down the street,
was trying to interest herself in Miss Dent's conversation as they sat
together on the veranda. They spoke of the trial, and Lucy said she had
seen Mr. Conrad on his way to the court-house when she went down town to
market.
"I've been disappointed in Mr. Conrad," said Louise; "I don't understand
how he can talk so recklessly about people needing to be killed. To me
it is very repellent. You know how he speaks about Mr. Baxter."
Lucy's head went up. "But Mr. Baxter is a very bad man!" she exclaimed.
"He has been responsible for a great deal of suffering. Just think of
Melgares and his poor wife! But for Mr. Baxter they might still be
living happily on their little ranch. And he's done many other things
just as wicked and unjust. Oh, he's a very bad man, and I can't blame
Mr. Conrad for feeling that way about him." She broke off, flushing to
her brows, then went on more quietly: "But I don't think, Dearie, that
Mr. Conrad means half he says when he talks that way; it's just his way
of feeling how brave he is."
"If he does not mean it, he should not speak so recklessly of serious
matters," Louise responded with decision. "He must have a cruel nature,
or he would not harbor such ideas."
Lucy leaned forward, her face aglow. "Indeed, no, Dearie! Mr. Conrad
isn't cruel; he's really very tender-hearted--just think of the way he
carried that wounded bird all the way to Golden to have its leg fixed.
And one day when we were walking on the _mesa_, he was so distressed
because he accidentally stepped on a little horned toad. It's unjust to
call him cruel, Dearie!"
Her glance darted down the street again, and she saw Curtis nearing her
gate. His quick, energetic stride and eager face were like a trumpet
call to her youth and her womanhood. Forgetting all but the fact of his
presence, she felt her heart leap to meet him with joyful welcome. But
instantly came remembrance and reaction, and she greeted him with
unusual gravity of manner.
Conrad wanted them at the ranch for the Fourth of July. "We are to have
a big barbecue and _baile_," he said. "Both the Castletons are coming
this year to look things over, and I wrote Ned that if Mrs. Ned was
coming with him perhaps it would amuse her if we did something of the
sort. The idea seemed to just strike his gait, and he wrote back at once
to go ahead and whoop it up for all I'm worth. Mrs. Ned and Mrs. Turner
are both coming, and I'm asking a lot of people from all over the
Territory. I want you two ladies and Mr. Bancroft to be sure to come out
the day before the Fourth and stay at least until the day after, and as
much longer as you find convenient. My brother Homer is coming on next
week for the rest of the Summer, and he'll be there too."
Lucy was delighted, clapped her hands, and declared it would be great
fun--of course they would go. Repugnant to the idea but knowing that
only one course was seemly, Miss Dent gave smiling acquiescence. As they
talked, Curtis telling them of the great wealth of the Castleton
brothers, the rivalry of the two ladies, the dash and beauty and vogue
of Mrs. Turner, and the Spanish ancestry of Mrs. Ned, Lucy's eyes
continually sought his face. Her spirits began to rise, and soon they
were gayly tilting at each other after their usual custom, she all
smiles and dimples and animation, and he beaming with admiration. They
went to the conservatory to see the tanager and presently brought it
back with them, telling Miss Dent that they were going to set it free.
Lucy stood beside him as they watched it soar away through the sunlight,
a flash of silvery pink flame, and it seemed to her that their mutual
interest in the little creature had made a bond between them and given
her an understanding of his character deeper and truer than any one else
could have.
Conrad went down the hill, whistling softly a merry little tune, his
thoughts dwelling tenderly upon Lucy. He wished her to enjoy the
barbecue and _baile_ even more than she expected--it was to be her first
experience of that sort--and he began to plan little details that might
add to her pleasure. So absorbed was he and so pleasant his thoughts
that for a time he quite forgot the Delafield affair. But it came to
mind again when Bancroft asked him, as they talked together at the door
of the bank, if he had had any more trouble with Jose Gonzalez.
"Oh, no; Jose's all right. He's the best cowboy I've got and as docile
as a yearling. He's agreed to stay right on at the ranch with me. I'm
glad to have such a smart, competent fellow to leave under Peters, for
after the Fourth I expect to be away a good deal. I'll have some time
for myself then and I'm going into this hunt after Delafield for all I'm
worth; I don't think it will take me long to run him down now."
Bancroft hesitated a moment, then, laying his hand on Conrad's arm he
spoke earnestly: "For God's sake, Curt, give up this fool notion of
yours. If you don't, you'll never get through alive. No sane man is
going to let you get the drop on him, as you seem to think you can. He's
undoubtedly watching you right along, ready to put an end to the
business as soon as he thinks you're really dangerous. Let him pay you
if he will; but stop this foolishness."
Conrad laughed heartily and slapped Bancroft's shoulder. "Why, Aleck,"
said he, "the most satisfaction I've ever had comes out of knowing that
I'm so hot on his tracks that I've got him buffaloed. Give it up? Not
much! I'm going to lope down that trail at a two-minute gait, and Sumner
L. Delafield is mighty soon going to wish he'd never been born."
Bancroft turned half away, with a tightening of his lips under his
brown moustache. "Very well. I'll not trouble you with any more advice
on the subject. But when you meet with disaster, as you undoubtedly
will, you must remember that you've got nobody but yourself to blame.
How's the trial going?" he asked abruptly.
"Pretty fast; the case will go to the jury to-morrow. It won't take them
more than ten minutes to reach a verdict. You ought to come in and hear
Judge Banks's charge, Aleck. Dan tells me it's sure to be interesting.
He says you never can tell whether Banks will deliver an original poem
or make up his charge out of quotations from Shakespeare."
As the banker went up the hill to his home he remembered that he had
heard Rutherford Jenkins was in town. To-morrow he must see the man and
try again to induce him to consider the dangers of an indictment for
conspiracy. At any rate, he would hold that affidavit of Melgares' up
his sleeve, and the time might come when it would be efficacious, even
should Jenkins still scoff at it now. Conrad--he had given Conrad
another warning, as plain as day, and if the man would rush on
recklessly he must take the consequences. Jose Gonzalez was still at
Socorro Springs--an accident could happen--and there was no time to
lose!
Lucy saw her father coming when he was a block away and, instead of
running to the gate to meet him, pretended not to have noticed him, and
hastened into the house. Louise Dent remained on the veranda, pushing
forward a lounging chair for him as he mounted the steps. She saw that
he looked paler and more haggard than usual, and she longed to put her
arms about him, as a mother might around a suffering child, and charm
away his trouble and wretchedness. In her maiden life the innate
mother-longing had found little appeasement; and so, when this youthful
love came into her enriched and mellowed heart of middle life, it
gathered into itself the repressed yearning of her nature, and the
maternal side of it was strong and fierce. She neither condoned nor
belittled the sins of the man she loved. For his wrongdoing and the
suffering he had caused she felt sorrow, pity, remorse--remorse almost
as keen as if she herself had been the guilty one. But her love enfolded
him in spite of his sins, and even included them. For she told herself
that if he had not been guilty she might never have known him, their
paths might never have crossed.
In gentle, unobtrusive ways she ministered to his comfort; then, sitting
beside him, her calm brow and steady eyes giving no sign of the tumult
in her heart, she talked with sympathy and interest, gradually leading
his thoughts away from the present into happy plans for the future. With
keen satisfaction she saw the weary, desperate look fade from his face
and eyes, giving place to one of comfort and content, and the assurance
that she had made him forget his troubles, even for a little while,
filled her heart with pleasure.
Lucy, sitting in her room, heard the murmur of their voices through her
open windows. Her high spirits of the hour before were gone, and she sat
dejected, her face mournful, and her head hanging like a flower broken
on its stem. Presently she slipped down to the conservatory, took the
pot of cactus Conrad had given her, ran across the back-yard, and threw
it over the fence. Then she joined her father and Louise, seating
herself on the arm of his chair and throwing her arm around his neck as
she asked with loving concern about his welfare, told him he had not
been looking well of late, and that he was working too hard and ought
to have a rest. But that evening, after dinner, she rushed across the
yard and out of the gate, and gathered up the cactus pot in her arms as
if it were some small animal she had hurt. She returned it to its place
in the conservatory, pressing her hands around it until its spines
brought little drops of blood.
"I can't help it!" she exclaimed in a vehement whisper. "I have to like
him, and I shan't try any more not to! He wouldn't hurt daddy, I know he
wouldn't--because--because he wouldn't--and because--he loves me!" A
tiny smile curved her lips as she touched the plant caressingly and
presently her whisper went on: "If I could only tell daddy that he
needn't be afraid or worried! Oh, I wish I could! But he mustn't guess I
know." Her lips ceased moving and she stared unseeingly at the cactus,
as her thought slowly took shape: "It's worrying daddy awfully, and I
mustn't let it go on any longer. I'll tell Mr. Conrad who Delafield
is and he'll stop right then--I know he will. He'll despise us
afterward--oh, he won't love me after that!--but--poor daddy! he won't
be worried any more."
Bancroft and Miss Dent were alike convinced that his pursuer would be
ruthless in the fulfilment of revenge. Arguing from their knowledge of
men, their experience of the world, and their observation of his
character, each had come to the fixed conclusion that no softening of
heart or staying of hand could be expected from him when he knew the
truth. Lucy, having neither knowledge of men nor experience of the world
to guide her, had not reasoned about the matter at all. She had jumped
at once to her conclusion, as soon as she knew her father's identity,
that he had nothing to fear from Curtis. Her decision was partly due to
her own temperament, which she instinctively felt to be somewhat akin
to Conrad's, and partly to her knowledge of a side of his character
of which Louise knew little and her father still less. It was further
strengthened by her intuition that he loved her--something the young man
himself had not yet realized. Other than this belief in his love she
could have offered no reason for her assurance that he would give over
his purpose as soon as he learned to whose door his quest was leading
him. But neither her father nor Louise, had it been possible for them to
argue with her, could have shaken her conviction.
The next day Bancroft, Conrad, and Pendleton went together to the
court-house to see the closing scenes of the Melgares trial. The leading
men of the town were there, as well as the usual hangers-on of a
court-room, and a few women, both Mexican and American, sat in a little
railed space at one side. Every seat was filled, and a standing line of
late comers fringed the walls. Across the room Bancroft saw Rutherford
Jenkins. The crowd was disappointed by the judge's charge to the jury,
which was brief, simple, and confined to bare statements of law and
fact. So it sat still and waited after the jury had filed out, feeling
sure that the deliberation would not be long, and that something
interesting might be expected afterward from the judge; for he had the
reputation of doing and saying whimsical things. He was a bookish man,
who studied his law volumes much, but for relaxation turned often to
romance and poetry. He had a knack for making jingles himself, and his
pronouncements from the bench, whether he was charging a jury, calling
for order, sentencing a prisoner, or making peace between warring
attorneys, were as likely as not to be in rhyme of his own improvisation
or in aptly applied quotations from the words of the mighty.
The jury came back presently with a verdict of murder in the first
degree. Judge Banks asked the prisoner if he knew of any reason why the
court should not sustain the finding of the jury. Melgares said nothing,
and Dellmey Baxter, his counsel, who had made the best fight for the
Mexican that he could, shook his head; he had given his services, and
cared to take no further trouble. All that now stood between the
prisoner and the gallows was a little space of time. The judge looked
out of the window into the trembling green depths of the cottonwoods
beside the court-house, and for a moment there was silence in the room.
He was a slight man, with dreamy blue eyes, and a square, fine face,
framed by side-whiskers, short and thin. It was quite like him to be
trying to realize, in that brief moment, just how it would seem to have
the gallows looming in one's path so short a way ahead.
He ordered the prisoner to stand. Sheriff Tillinghurst, his usual smile
absent from his kindly face, helped Melgares to his feet. The Mexican's
wife, who had been seated beside him, drooped forward, her breast shaken
with sobs and her lips moving in whispers of prayer.
"Jose Maria Melgares, you have heard the finding of the jury," began the
judge, and waited for the sonorous voice of the court interpreter to
send the words rolling in musical Spanish over the room, "and it is now
necessary for me to pronounce upon you the sentence of this court. The
rains will soon be here, Jose Maria Melgares, the grass will spring
forth, the flowers bloom, and all the plains and hillsides grow green
and luxuriant. But you will not be here to see and enjoy their beauty,
Jose Maria Melgares. The rains of Summer, the golden days of October,
the storms of Winter, will all alike pass unknown and unheeded over your
head. Spring will come again with its new life, and the lambs will
frolic beside their mothers and the little calves bleat in the valleys.
But your eyes will not see the sights, nor your ears hear the sounds,
Jose Maria Melgares. It will not matter to you that the skies of New
Mexico bend blue and beautiful above your head. The stars will march
across the midnight heavens, proclaiming that God is good, and that He
holds the universe in the hollow of His hand. Day after day the sun will
rise in his fiery might and blazon forth upon earth and sky the goodness
and the glory of the Almighty. The moon will swim across the violet
skies of night, wax from slender crescent to fair white disk, and wane
again. But to you, Jose Maria Melgares, it will all be as nothing. For
you, life is a tale that has been told; there is nothing more for you
now, Jose Maria Melgares, save the moral, and even that is no longer of
interest to you. For you have been guilty of a heinous crime, Jose Maria
Melgares; you have taken the life of your fellow-man, and therefore your
life is forfeit. It is the sentence of this court, Jose Maria Melgares,
that you be hanged by the neck until dead. And may God have mercy upon
your soul!"
The last melodious syllables of the interpreter's voice resounded
through the room, and died in sudden silence. Then the moment's hush was
broken by a shriek as Senora Melgares sprang to her feet, stretching her
arms out wildly to the judge.
"No, no, Senor Judge! It is not right that my husband should die," she
cried out in Spanish. "He was made to steal the mare, and the man who
hired him to do it and brought all this trouble upon us--he is the one
who should die! There he sits over there! Senor Jenkins, Don Rutherford
Jenkins! He is the one who made my husband steal the mare, who gave him
money to do it, because he had a grudge against Senor Conrad; and he is
the one--"
Sheriff Tillinghurst, his hand on her shoulder, was urging her to sit
down, her husband was ordering her to stop, and there was a sudden
hubbub all over the room. The judge rapped on his desk and threatened to
have the room cleared. Jenkins sat quite still, glaring wrathfully at
Bancroft. Conrad clenched his fist, his blue eyes blazing as he exploded
an oath into Pendleton's ear; it was his first intimation that the man
from Las Vegas had been behind the attempted theft of his mare.
Jenkins was waiting for Bancroft at the door of the bank. "I want to see
you at once, in private," he said curtly, and without a word the banker
led the way to his office. "A nice trick you played me," Jenkins began,
his voice hot and sneering. "I thought of going straight to Conrad; and
that's what I ought to have done, to serve you right."
"Well, why didn't you?" Bancroft asked, impassively.
Jenkins took quick alarm. Had the young ranchman, with his impetuous
loyalty, told his friend what had happened in the Albuquerque hotel?
But perhaps Bancroft was only bluffing, in which case he himself could
bluff as well as another. "I didn't because I thought it would be the
square thing to see you first, and find out if you have any explanation
to offer of that woman's performance. Unless you can satisfy me you had
nothing to do with it, I shall see Conrad and tell him everything he
doesn't know about you before I leave town to-night."
Bancroft reflected. If Jenkins approached Curtis in that young man's
present mood there was ample likelihood that the blackmailer would never
trouble him again. Yet there was the chance that he might say in time to
save himself the word that would stay Conrad's hand. He dared not take
the chance.
"I advise you," he said slowly, "if you value a whole skin, not to go
near Curt Conrad while he is in the state of mind in which I just left
him. As for Senora Melgares, are you crazy enough to suppose I had
anything to do with that?"
"It's evident, Bancroft, that you put her up to something you were
afraid to do yourself. You wanted to put me in a hole, and you got her
to do it for you."
Bancroft made a gesture of annoyance. "Oh, well, if you've got no more
_sabe_ than that--" he began, but went on quietly, "I give you my word
of honor--"
"The word of honor of Sumner L. Delafield!" Jenkins sneered.
The banker's eyes flashed as he made an impulsive start, but he went on
with quiet emphasis: "I give you my word of honor that I knew no more
than you what the Melgares woman was going to say when she jumped up.
You ought to see yourself that it would have been to my advantage to
keep this knowledge entirely in my own hands."
"Nevertheless," Jenkins replied sullenly, "you could have prevented her
outbreak if you'd wanted to; and if there are any legal proceedings
started against me because of what she said I expect you and Dell Baxter
to stop them at once. And I want you to give me, before I leave this
room, a sum of money or a check equal to what I receive on the first of
every month. And understand that this has no connection with that
payment, which will come on the first of next month, as agreed. It's
little enough, after this outrage."
Bancroft glared at his companion for a moment; Jenkins sat up with a
defiant look and glared back. The banker turned to his desk and wrote
the check without a word. "And the woman's charge?" the other asked
threateningly, as he took it.
"If any action is begun I'll do my best to stop it."
Well satisfied with the result, Jenkins hastened down the street,
intending to cross over to his hotel at the next bridge and wait in the
privacy of his room until train time. As he approached the court-house
corner Sheriff Tillinghurst, Little Jack Wilder, Pendleton, and Conrad
came out of the building. Curtis saw the hurrying figure, and the light
of battle leaped into his eyes. He rushed past the others, and before
Jenkins had time to draw his revolver was upon him and had pinioned his
arms.
Pendleton ran forward, shouting, "Give it to him, Curt! He deserves it!"
"Jack," smiled the sheriff, "I reckon this is goin' to be a sure good
scrap, but we don't need to see it. We'd better hike." And they
disappeared up the side street.
Jenkins was vainly struggling to reach his hip pocket. Conrad got him
down, set one knee on his chest, plucked forth the gun, and threw it to
Pendleton. "Now, you damned skunk," he exclaimed, "you're going to get
every lick that's coming to you! I won't dirty powder by using my gun on
you, but I'm sure going to set the standard for lickings in this town."
And to this day, in the city of Golden, the pummelling that Rutherford
Jenkins forthwith received is spoken of as the utmost measure of
punishment that a man may take and live. At the end Conrad took the limp
body under one arm and carried it to the physician's office. "Here,
Doc," he said, "is some work for you. Send the bill to me."