CHAPTER X—THE FRAME-UP

James J. Carrington was unscrupulous, but even his most devout enemy

could not have said that he lacked vision and thoroughness. And, while

he had been listening to Danforth in his apartment in the Castle

Hotel, he had discovered that Neil Norton had made a technical blunder

in electing Quinton Taylor mayor of Dawes. Perhaps that was why

Carrington had not seemed to be very greatly disturbed over the

knowledge that Danforth had been defeated; certainly it was why

Carrington had taken the first train to the capital.

Carrington was tingling with elation when he reached the capital; but

on making inquiries he found that the governor had left the city the

day before, and that he was not expected to return for several days.

Carrington passed the interval renewing some acquaintances, and fuming

with impatience in the barroom, the billiard-room, and the lobby of

his hotel.

But he was the first visitor admitted to the governor’s office when

the latter returned.

The governor was a big man, flaccid and portly, and he received

Carrington with a big Stetson set rakishly on the back of his head and

an enormous black cigar in his mouth. That he was not a statesman but

a professional politician was quite as apparent from his appearance as

was his huge, welcoming smile, a certain indication that he was on

terms of intimate friendship with Carrington. Formerly an eastern

political worker, and a power in the councils of his party, his

appointment as governor of the Territory had come, not because of his

ability to fill the position, but as a reward for the delivery of

certain votes which had helped to make his party successful at the

polls. He would be the last carpetbag governor of the Territory, for

the Territory had at last been admitted to the Union; the new

Legislature was even then in session; charters were already being

issued to municipalities that desired self-government—and the

governor, soon to quit his position as temporary chief, had no real

interest in the new régime, and no desire to aid in eliminating the

inevitable confusion.

“Take a seat, Jim,” he invited, “and have a cigar. My secretary tells

me you’ve been buzzing around here like a bee lost from the hive, for

the past week.” He grinned hugely at Carrington, poking the latter

playfully in the ribs as Carrington essayed to light the cigar that

had been given him.

“Worried about that man Taylor, in Dawes, eh?” he went on, as

Carrington smoked. “Well, it _was_ too bad that Danforth didn’t trim

him, wasn’t it? But”—and his eyes narrowed—“I’m still governor, and

Taylor isn’t mayor yet—and never will be!”

Carrington smiled. “You saw the mistake, too, eh?”

“Saw it!” boomed the governor. “I’ve been watching that town as a cat

watches a mouse. Itching for the clean-up, Jim,” he whispered. “Why,

I’ve got the papers all made out—ousting him and appointing Danforth

mayor. Right here they are.” He reached into a pigeon-hole and drew

out some legal papers. “You can serve them yourself. Just hand them to

Judge Littlefield—he’ll do the rest. It’s likely—if Taylor starts a

fuss, that you’ll have to help Littlefield handle the case—arranging

for deputies, and such. If you need any more help, just wire me. I

don’t pack my carpetbag for a year yet, and we can do a lot of work in

that time.”

Carrington and the governor talked for an hour or more, and when

Carrington left for the office he was grinning with pleasurable

anticipation. For a municipality, already sovereign according to the

laws of the people, had been delivered into his hands.

Just at dusk on Tuesday evening Carrington alighted from the train at

Dawes. He went to his rooms in the Castle, removed the stains of

travel, descended the stairs to the dining-room, and ate heartily;

then, stopping at the cigar-counter to light a cigar, he inquired of

the clerk where he could find Judge Littlefield.

“He’s got a house right next to the courthouse—on your left, from

here,” the clerk told him.

A few minutes later Carrington was seated opposite Judge Littlefield,

with a table between them, in the front room of the judge’s residence.

“My name is Carrington—James J.,” was Carrington’s introduction of

himself. “I have just left the governor, and he gave me these, to hand

over to you.” He shoved over the papers the governor had given him,

smiling slightly at the other.

The judge answered the smile with a beaming smirk.

“I’ve heard of you,” he said; “the governor has often spoken of you.”

He glanced hastily over the papers, and his smirk widened. “The good

people of Dawes will be rather shocked over this decision, I suppose.

But laymen _will_ confuse things—won’t they? Now, if Norton and his

friends had come to _me_ before they decided to enter Taylor’s name,

this thing would not have happened.”

“I’m glad it _did_ happen,” laughed Carrington. “The chances are that

even Norton would have beaten Danforth, and then the governor could

not have interfered.”

Carrington’s gaze became grim as he looked at the judge. “You are

prepared to go the limit in this case, I suppose?” he interrogated.

“There is a chance that Taylor and his friends will attempt to make

trouble. But any trouble is to be handled firmly, you understand.

There is to be no monkey business. If they accept the law’s mandates,

as all law-abiding citizens should accept it, all well and good. And

if they don’t—and they want trouble, we’ll give them that!

Understand?”

“Perfectly,” smiled the judge. “The law is not to be assailed.”

Smilingly he bowed Carrington out.

Carrington took a turn down the street, walking until his cigar burned

itself out; then he entered the hotel and sat for a time in the lobby.

Then he went to bed, satisfied that he had done a good week’s work,

and conscious that he had launched a heavy blow at the man for whom he

had conceived a great and bitter hatred.