[Illustration:
NICK CARTER
STORIES]
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=No. 11.= NEW YORK, November 23, 1912. =Price Five Cents.=
NICK CARTER STRIKES OIL;
Or UNCOVERING MORE THAN A MURDER.
Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.
CHAPTER I.
THE CLERGYMAN.
“It ain’t right! It’s swindling, and you can’t make it anything else!”
These words, uttered in a loud, angry voice, were followed by a fierce
oath, and the man to whom they were addressed raised his hand, and there
was a look of pain on his pale face.
“I wish you wouldn’t swear,” he said gently. “Be calm, and tell me just
what you mean.”
The first speaker looked ashamed of himself, and probably would have
answered in a quiet way if another man who was standing near had not put
in:
“Don’t pay any attention to him, Mr. Judson. Let him rave. If he’s such
a fool that he can’t make money, it’s not your fault, and he has no
business to complain to you.”
“But,” said Mr. Judson, “he makes a serious charge against----”
The first speaker did not hear this, for he was angry almost beyond his
control, “mad clean through,” as the saying is in that part of the
country, Colorado, where the scene took place.
He did not hear, because he broke in violently:
“I’ve been swindled, robbed, do you hear? And you’re just as much to
blame as if you’d been the only one in the scheme. You wear the clothes
of a preacher, but, by----! you’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and you
deserve to be shot on the spot. If you want to keep that pious skin of
yours whole, you’d better not come around Hank Low’s way.”
“But, Mr. Low, listen to me,” the clergyman begged.
“Not a word, you black-coated devil! When I think of the way my wife and
kids have been cheated by a sneak thief of a minister, it puts murder in
my heart, it does! I won’t talk to you, for fear I’ll forgit and take
the law into my own hands. Geddap, Jenny.”
The man’s old mare responded to the command and a lash of the whip, and
jogged away, dragging the rickety old wagon in which sat the angry Hank
Low alone.
The clergyman turned, with a sigh, to his companion.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Claymore,” he said, “that all is not as it should be in
this matter.”
“Pooh!” returned Claymore easily; “you mustn’t mind the howling of such
a wild man. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He won’t hurt you.”
“Oh! that isn’t what I fear. I don’t like to hear a man talk like that,
because it shows that he believes he has been wronged. There might be
some truth in it. If so, I should be the first to make it right.”
“But there isn’t anything wrong. It was all a plain matter of business.
Hank Low had a lot of land that he couldn’t do anything with. We asked
him his price for it, we had a dicker with him, and he sold. What could
be simpler, or fairer, than that?”
Instead of answering, the clergyman looked over the ground where they
were standing. It was a level, but rocky, spot between high hills.
No house was in sight, but a half mile farther up the valley was Hank
Low’s cabin.
Three miles in the other direction was the small village of Mason Creek,
and some miles beyond that the city of Denver.
This spot where they stood had been part of Hank Low’s farm.
He had had a hard struggle trying to make a living out of his land, and
had not succeeded very well, and there was a heavy mortgage to be
lifted, besides.
One day a couple of men came to Mason Creek and spent a good deal of
time tramping about the country.
One of them was William Claymore.
After a few days of tramping about, Claymore offered to buy the most
useless part of Hank Low’s farm.
He mentioned the name of Reverend Elijah Judson as a man who was
interested with him in some kind of a plan.
Nothing very definite was said about it, but Low understood that the
clergyman meant to put up a private school for young ladies, and wanted
the land for that purpose.
A deal was made by which Low was able to pay off his mortgage, but
nothing more.
He would have been content with that if he had not discovered, when it
was too late, that the parties who bought his land had no idea of
putting up a school, or anything of that sort.
It was at the time when the fact was just becoming known that oil could
be found in great quantities in the far western lands.
Claymore and his companion, by making secret tests of the soil, had come
to the conclusion that this worthless end of Hank Low’s farm was the
best place in the State for oil wells. So they bought several acres for
next to nothing.
It might be supposed that their next step would be to sink wells and
build a refinery, or a pipe line. But such things cost money, and
neither Claymore nor his partner had any left to speak of.
They had to raise it, and in this task they had the assistance of the
Reverend Elijah Judson.
The clergyman had not been in Colorado when Hank Low’s land was bought.
In fact, he did not half understand the scheme.
He had not been a success as a preacher, but he had a little money, some
two or three thousand dollars, and Claymore had persuaded him that with
it he could make his fortune in oil.
There was nothing dishonest in discovering oil and digging for it, for
if there had been, the clergyman would not have touched the scheme.
Supposing that it was all right, he had put in his money, and had been
made the president of the company.
His name was printed in large type on the letters sent out by Claymore,
and these letters were sent to people in the far East, who had been
members of Reverend Elijah Judson’s church.
They were also sent to other places where his name was known, and they
told all about the wonderful discovery of oil.
Friends of the clergyman were to be allowed to invest in the company, if
they wanted a sure thing.
The letters did not state that the money was needed for digging the
wells or building a refinery.
Oh, no! Persons who received the letters were given to understand that
this was their chance to get rich quickly.
And the Reverend Elijah Judson’s name as president of the oil company
was enough to make everybody sure that it was all right. For, of course,
the clergyman would not go into any business that was not perfectly
straight and sure.
That was quite the case--at least, the clergyman thought it was. He
meant well, and he really believed that the company was square, and that
there would be great profits in the business.
There were many answers to the letters, and money came in rapidly. Not
many persons invested large amounts, but the sum total was considerable.
All this operation of raising money for the work took several months.
At last the clergyman went to Colorado to look over the plant and do his
share of the work.
He was surprised to find that there wasn’t any plant.
There was the land that had been bought; on it were a few small mounds
of loose dirt to show where borings had been made; and in Denver there
was the office of the company. Nothing more.
Claymore explained that it took time to get the machinery for sinking
the wells, and Mr. Judson was satisfied.
They went out to the land, and there happened to meet Hank Low, as he
was driving to the city with a small load of farm stuff for the market.
By that time, of course, Low had learned just why his land had been
bought.
The farmer honestly believed that he had been swindled, because nobody
had told him that the land he was selling was very valuable.
“They might have let me in on the deal,” he grumbled. “The land was
mine. S’pose it had been gold they found. Wouldn’t it be swindling to
make me sell it dirt cheap just because I didn’t know what ’twas worth?”
His neighbors told him he mustn’t expect any better treatment in a
business deal.
“But,” he argued, “they sprung the preacher on me, made me believe there
was to be a school there. Ain’t that false pretenses? You bet ’tis! An’
ef ever I git my hands on that preacher I’ll make him suffer!”
He hadn’t had his hands on the Reverend Elijah Judson, but he had made
him suffer, just the same.
“I hate to be called a swindler,” sighed the clergyman, as he stood
there with Claymore.
“Mr. Judson,” responded Claymore, “business is business, and the man who
gets left in a trade is always sore. That’s all there is to it, and you
mustn’t think anything more about it.”
“Well,” said Mr. Judson, “I’ll try to think it’s all right, but if I
should find that any wrong has been done I shall insist on making things
right with Low.”
There was a sneering expression on Claymore’s face, but he said nothing,
and they returned to the city.
Mr. Judson found new trouble there. He met one of his old church members
on the street, and shook hands with him.
“I didn’t know you were in this part of the country, Mr. Folsom,” said
the clergyman.
“I suppose not,” snapped Mr. Folsom, in reply, “and I presume you’d have
liked it better if I had stayed away.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“I came out here to look into the oil company I put my money in. That’s
what I mean.”
“Well----”
“There isn’t any well! There ought to be several, but there isn’t one,
and, what’s more, there won’t be any, and, what’s more yet, you know
it.”
“Why, brother Folsom----”
“Don’t ‘brother’ me! You’ve lent your name to a swindle, and you ought
to be ashamed of yourself. I can stand my loss, thank fortune! and it
will teach me not to trust a minister again; but there are others,
widows and orphans, who have put their all into your infernal scheme,
and they can’t stand it. You’ve made them beggars, just to fatten
yourself.”
The clergyman grew ghastly pale as he listened, and even Claymore, who
was still with him, looked troubled.
“This is dreadful!” gasped Mr. Judson. “I’d die if I believed it to be
half true!”
“Then you’d better die,” retorted Folsom. “That’s all I’ve got to say.
I’ve looked at that wonderful land the company bought, and there isn’t
enough oil in it to fill a lamp. Not a dollar that’s been put into it
will ever be got out again. But you’ll be fairly well off with the money
you’ve got from the widows and orphans--if you don’t get into jail for
swindling.”
With this, Mr. Folsom strode away.
“What does it mean?” asked Mr. Judson.
“Sorehead, that’s all!” responded Claymore. “He doesn’t know what he’s
talking about----”
“But he seems to, Mr. Claymore, if I find that there has been any
dishonest work in this business, I shall expose it all, understand that.
I shall die of the shame of it, but I will not commit suicide until I
have seen that the really guilty parties are punished.”
“Come, Mr. Judson, don’t talk of suicide. That’s foolish. You’re not
used to business, that’s all.”
“It is not all--ah! there’s Mr. Low’s wagon in front of that store. I am
going to speak to him.”
Claymore objected, but the minister was stubborn, and they went into the
store.
Low was there, and the clergyman asked him to call at the hotel to talk
over matters.
“I want to know all the facts,” said Mr. Judson.
“Waal,” answered Low slowly, “I’ve got some business to attend to, but
ef ye’re in at half past three I’ll be thar.”
“I shall look for you at that hour.”
It was then about noon, and while they were at dinner Claymore tried to
make the clergyman think that the business was all straight, but
evidently he did not succeed.
“I shall go to my room and think quietly till Low comes,” said Mr.
Judson, when they got up from the table, “and I repeat that if all does
not seem to be honest and aboveboard I shall take measures to right the
wrongs that have been done.”
“Go ahead, then,” grumbled Claymore. “I shall be at the office if you
want any information.”
They parted, and did not meet again.
Half past three came, and, prompt to the minute, Hank Low drove to the
hotel entrance and went in.
Mr. Judson’s room was on the fourth floor, the clerk told him, and
called a boy to show the visitor up.
“Never mind,” said Low, “I’ve been here before, and I know the way,” and
he went up alone.
Within five minutes he came down the stairs again, an angry look upon
his face.
He said nothing to anybody, but hastened to his wagon, got in, said
“Geddap, Jenny,” and drove away as rapidly as the old nag could take
him.
As nearly as anybody could make out, it was just previous to Low’s
departure that two or three persons on a street that ran along one side
of the hotel were fearfully startled by the sight of a man falling from
an upper story window.
He struck headfirst on the sidewalk, and was instantly killed.
Men were at his side before his heart stopped beating, but no word came
from the unfortunate man’s lips.
He was unknown to those who saw him die, but they knew from the cut of
his clothes that he was a clergyman.
Information was taken to the hotel office at once, and the clerk went
out, and he immediately identified the body as that of a guest of the
house, Reverend Elijah Judson.