CHAPTER XIII—THE SHADOW OF TROUBLE

Elam recovered slowly, for Carrington had choked him into

unconsciousness. Out of the blank, dark coma Parsons came, his brain

reeling, his body racked with agonizing pains. His hands went to his

throat before he could open his eyes; he pulled at the flesh to ease

the constriction that still existed there; he caught his breath in

great gasps that shrilled through the room. And when at last he

succeeded in getting his breath to come regularly, he opened his eyes

and saw Carrington seated in a chair near him, watching him with a

cold, speculative smile.

He heard Carrington’s voice saying: “Pretty close, wasn’t it,

Parsons?” But he did not answer; his vocal cords were still partially

paralyzed.

He closed his eyes again and stretched out in the chair. Carrington

thought he had fainted, but Parsons was merely resting—and thinking.

His thoughts were not pleasant. Many times during the years of their

association he had seen the beast in Carrington’s eyes, but this was

the first time Carrington had even shown it in his presence, naked and

ugly. Carrington had told him many times that were he not hemmed in

with laws and courts he would tramp ruthlessly over every obstacle

that got in his way; and Parsons knew now that the man had meant what

he said. The beast in him was rampant; his passions were to have free

rein; he had thrown off the shackles of civilization and was prepared

to do murder to attain his aims.

Parsons realized his own precarious predicament. Carrington controlled

every cent Parsons owned—it was in the common pool, which was in

Carrington’s charge. Parsons might leave Dawes, but his money must

stay—Carrington would never give it up. More, Parsons was now afraid

to ask for an accounting or a division, for fear Carrington would kill

him.

Parsons knew he must stay in Dawes, and that from now on he must play

lackey to the master who, at last in an environment that suited him,

had so ruthlessly demonstrated his principles.

In a spirit of abject surrender Parsons again opened his eyes and sat

up. Carrington rose and again stood over him.

“You understand now, Parsons, I’m running things. You stay in the

background. If you interfere with me I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you if

you laugh at me again. Your job out here is to take care of Marion

Harlan. You’re to keep her here. If she gets away I’ll manhandle you!

Now get out of here!”

An hour later Parsons was sitting on the front porch of the big house,

staring vacantly out into the big level below him, his heart full of

hatred and impotent resentment; his brain, formerly full of craft and

guile, now temporarily atrophied through its attempts to comprehend

the new character of the man who had throttled him.

In Dawes, Carrington was getting into his clothing. He was smiling,

his eyes glowing with grim satisfaction. At nine o’clock Carrington

descended the stairs, stopped in the hotel lobby to light a cigar;

then crossed the street and went into the courthouse, where he was

greeted effusively by Judge Littlefield. Quinton Taylor, too, was

going to the courthouse.

This morning at ten o’clock, according to information received from

Neil Norton—sent to Taylor by messenger the night before—Taylor was to

take the oath of office.

Taylor was conscious of the honor bestowed upon him by the people of

Dawes, though at first he had demurred, pointing out that he was not

actually a resident of the town—the Arrow lying seven miles southward.

But this objection had been met and dismissed by his friends, who had

insisted that he was a resident of the town by virtue of his large

interests there, and from the fact that he occupied an apartment above

the Dawes bank, and that he spent more time in it than he spent in the

Arrow ranchhouse.

But on the ride to Dawes—on Spotted Tail—(this morning wonderfully

docile despite Tuesday’s slander by his master)—Taylor’s thoughts

dwelt not upon the honor that was to be his, but upon the questionable

trick he had played on Marion Harlan, with the able assistance of the

tall young puncher, Bud Hemmingway.

He looked down at the foot, now unbandaged, with a frown. The girl’s

complete and matter-of-fact belief in the story of his injury; her

sympathy and deep concern; the self-accusation in her eyes; the

instant pardon she had granted him for staying at the ranchhouse when

he should not have stayed—all these he arrayed against the bald fact

that he had tricked her. And he felt decidedly guilty.

And yet somehow there was some justification for the trick. It was the

justification of desire. The things a man wants are not to be denied

by the narrow standards of custom. Does a man miss an opportunity to

establish acquaintance with a girl he has fallen in love with, merely

because custom has decreed that she shall not come unattended—save by

a negro woman—to his house?

Taylor made desire his justification, and his sense of guilt was

dispelled by half.

Nor was the guilt so poignant that it rested heavily on his conscience

since he had done no harm to the girl.

What harm had been done had been done to Taylor himself. He kept

seeing Marion as she sat on the porch, and the spell of her had seized

him so firmly that last night, after she had left, the ranchhouse had

seemed to be nothing more than four walls out of which all the life

had gone. He felt lonesome this morning, and was in the grip of a

nameless longing.

All the humor had departed from him. For the first time in all his

days a conception of the meaning of life assailed him, revealing to

him a glimpse of the difficulties of a man in love. For a man may love

a girl: his difficulties begin when the girl seems to become

unattainable.

Looming large in Taylor’s thoughts this morning was Carrington. Having

overheard Carrington talking of her on the train, Taylor thought he

knew what Carrington wanted; but he was in doubt regarding the state

of the girl’s feelings toward the man. Had she yielded to the man’s

intense personal magnetism?

Carrington was handsome; there was no doubt that almost any girl would

be flattered by his attentions. And had Carrington been worthy of

Marion, Taylor would have entertained no hope of success—he would not

even have thought of it.

But he had overheard Carrington; he knew the man’s nature was vile and

bestial; and already he hated him with a fervor that made his blood

riot when he thought of him.

When he reached Dawes he found himself hoping that Marion would not be

in town to see that his ankle was unbandaged. But he might have saved

himself that throb of perturbation, for at that minute Marion was

standing in the front room of the big house, looking out of one of the

windows at Parsons, wondering what had happened to make him seem so

glum and abstracted.

When Taylor dismounted in front of the courthouse there were several

men grouped on the sidewalk near the door.

Neil Norton was in the group, and he came forward, smiling.

“We’re here to witness the ceremony,” he told Taylor.

Taylor’s greeting to the other men was not that of the professional

politician. He merely grinned at them and returned a short: “Well,

let’s get it over with,” to Norton’s remark. Then, followed by his

friends, he entered the courthouse.

Taylor knew Judge Littlefield. He had no admiration for the man, and

yet his greeting was polite and courteous—it was the greeting of an

American citizen to an official.

Taylor’s first quick glance about the interior of the courthouse

showed him Carrington. The latter was sitting in an armchair near a

window toward the rear of the room. He smiled as Taylor’s glance swept

him, but Taylor might not have seen the smile. For Taylor was deeply

interested in other things.

A conception of the serious responsibility that he was to accept

assailed him. Until now the thing had been entirely personal; his

thoughts had centered upon the honor that was to be his—his friends

had selected him for an important position. And yet Taylor was not

vain.

Now, however, ready to accept the oath of office, he realized that he

was to become the servant of the municipality; that these friends of

his had elected him not merely to honor him but because they trusted

him, because they were convinced that he would administer the affairs

of the young town capably and in a fair and impartial manner. They

depended upon him for justice, advice, and guidance.

All these things, to be sure, Taylor would give them to the best of

his ability. They must have known that or they would not have elected

him.

These thoughts sobered him as he walked to the little wooden railing

in front of the judge’s desk; and his face was grave as he looked at

the other.

“I am ready to take the oath, Judge Littlefield,” he gravely

announced.

Glancing sidewise, Taylor saw that a great many men had come into the

room. He did not turn to look at them, however, for he saw a gleam in

Judge Littlefield’s eyes that held his attention.

“That will not be necessary, Mr. Taylor,” he heard the judge say. “The

governor, through the attorney-general, has ruled you were not legally

elected to the office you aspire to. Only last night I was notified of

the decision. It was late, or I should have taken steps to apprise you

of the situation.”

Taylor straightened. He heard exclamations from many men in the room;

he was conscious of a tension that had come into the atmosphere. Some

men scuffled their feet; and then there was a deep silence.

Taylor smiled without mirth. His dominant emotion was curiosity.

“Not legally elected?” he said. “Why?”

The judge passed a paper to Taylor; it was one of those that had been

delivered to the judge by Carrington.

The judge did not meet Taylor’s eyes.

“You’ll find a full statement of the case, there,” he said. “Briefly,

however, the governor finds that your name did not appear on the

ballots.”

Norton, who had been standing at Taylor’s side all along, now shoved

his way to the railing and leaned over it, his face white with wrath.

“There’s something wrong here, Judge Littlefield!” he charged.

“Taylor’s name was on every ballot that was counted for him. I

personally examined every ballot!”

The judge smiled tolerantly, almost benignantly.

“Of course—to be sure,” he said. “Mr. Taylor’s name appeared on a good

many ballots; his friends _wrote_ it, with pencil, and otherwise. But

the law expressly states that a candidate’s name must be _printed_.

Therefore, obeying the letter of the law, the governor has ruled that

Mr. Taylor was not elected.” There was malicious satisfaction in Judge

Littlefield’s eyes as they met Taylor’s. Taylor could see that the

judge was in entire sympathy with the influences that were opposing

him, though the judge tried, with a grave smile, to create an

impression of impartiality.

“Under the governor’s ruling, therefore,” he continued, “and acting

under explicit directions from the attorney-general, I am empowered to

administer the oath of office to the legally elected candidate, David

Danforth. Now, if Mr. Danforth is in the courtroom, and will come

forward, we shall conclude.”

Mr. Danforth was in the courtroom; he was sitting near Carrington; and

he came forward, his face slightly flushed, with the gaze of every

person in the room on him.

He smiled apologetically at Taylor as he reached the railing,

extending a hand.

“I’m damned sorry, Taylor,” he declared. “This is all a surprise to

me. I hadn’t any doubt that they would swear you in. No hard

feelings?”

Taylor had been conscious of the humiliation of his position. He knew

that his friends would expect him to fight. And yet he felt more like

gracefully yielding to the forces which had barred him from office

upon the basis of so slight a technicality. And despite the knowledge

that he had been robbed of the office, he would have taken Danforth’s

hand, had he not at that instant chanced to glance at Carrington.

The latter’s eyes were aglow with a vindictive triumph; as his gaze

met Taylor’s, his lips curved with a sneer.

A dark passion seized Taylor—the bitter, savage rage of jealousy. The

antagonism he had felt for Carrington that day on the train when he

had heard Carrington’s voice for the first time was suddenly

intensified. It had been growing slowly, provoked by his knowledge of

the man’s evil designs on Marion Harlan. But now there had come into

the first antagonism a gripping lust to injure the other, a

determination to balk him, to defeat him, to meet him on his own

ground and crush him.

For Carrington’s sneer had caused the differences between them to

become sharply personal; it would make the fight that was brewing

between the two men not a political fight, but a fight of the spirit.

Taylor interpreted the sneer as a challenge, and he accepted it. His

eyes gleamed with hatred unmistakable as they held Carrington’s; and

the grin on his lips was the cold, unhumorous grin of the fighter who

is not dismayed by odds. His voice was low and sharp, and it carried

to every person in the room:

“We won’t shake, Danforth; you are not particular enough about the

character of your friends!”

The look was significant, and it compelled the eyes of all of Taylor’s

friends, so that Carrington instantly found himself the center of

interest.

However, he did not change color; on his face a bland smile testified

to his entire indifference to what Taylor or Taylor’s friends thought

of him.

Taylor grinned mirthlessly at the judge, spoke shortly to Norton, and

led the way out through the front door, followed by a number of his

friends.

Norton took Taylor into his office, adjoining the courthouse, and

threw himself into a chair, grumbling profanely. Outside they could

see the crowd filing down the street, voicing its opinion of the

startling proceeding.

“An election is an election,” they heard one man say—a Taylor

sympathizer. “What difference does it make that Taylor’s name wasn’t

_printed_? It’s a dawg-gone frame-up, that’s what it is!”

But Danforth’s adherents were not lacking; and there were arguments in

loud, vigorous language among men who passed the door of the _Eagle_

office.

“I could have printed the damned ballots, myself—if I had thought it

necessary,” mourned Norton. “And now we’re skinned out of it!”

Norton’s disgust was complete and bitter; he had slid down in the

chair, his chin on his chest, his hands shoved deep into the pockets

of his trousers.

Yet his dejection had not infected Taylor; the latter’s lips were

curved in a faint smile, ironic and saturnine. It was plain to Norton

that whatever humor there was in the situation was making its appeal

to Taylor. The thought angered Norton, and he sat up, demanding

sharply: “Well, what in hell are you going to do about it?”

Taylor grinned at the other. “Nothing, now,” he said. “We might appeal

to the courts, but if the law specifies that a candidate’s name must

be printed, the courts would sustain the governor. It looks to me,

Norton, as though Carrington and Danforth have the cards stacked.”

Norton groaned and again slid down into his chair. He heard Taylor go

out, but he did not change his position. He sat there with his eyes

closed, profanely accusing himself, for he alone was to blame for the

complete defeat that had descended upon his candidate; and he could

not expect Taylor to fight a law which, though unjust and arbitrary,

was the only law in the Territory.

Taylor had not gone far. He stepped into the door of the courthouse,

to meet Carrington, who was coming out. Danforth and Judge Littlefield

were talking animatedly in the rear of the room. They ceased talking

when they saw Taylor, and faced toward him, looking at him

wonderingly.

Carrington halted just inside the threshold of the doorway, and he,

too, watched Taylor curiously, though there was a bland, sneering

smile on his face.

Taylor’s smile as he looked at the men was still faintly ironic, and

his eyes were agleam with a light that baffled the other men—they

could not determine just what emotion they reflected.

And Taylor’s manner was as quietly deliberate and nonchalant as though

he had merely stepped into the room for a social visit. His gaze swept

the three men.

“Framing up—again, eh?” he said, with drawling emphasis. “You sure did

a good job for a starter. I just stepped in to say a few words to

you—all of you. To you first, Littlefield.” And now his eyes held the

judge—they seemed to squint genially at the man.

“I happen to know that our big, sleek four-flusher here”—nodding

toward Carrington—“came here to loot Dawes. Quite accidentally, I

overheard him boasting of his intentions. Danforth was sent here by

Carrington more than a year ago to line things up, politically. I

don’t know how many are in the game—and I don’t care. You are in it,

Littlefield. I saw that by the delight you took in informing me of the

decision of the attorney-general. I just stepped in to tell you that I

know what is going on, and to warn you that you can’t do it! You had

better pull out before you make an ass of yourself, Littlefield!”

The judge’s face was crimson. “This is an outrage, Taylor!” he

sputtered. “I’ll have you jailed for contempt of court!”

“Not you!” gibed Taylor, calmly. “You haven’t the nerve! I’d like

nothing better than to have you do it. You’re a little fuzzy dog that

doesn’t crawl out of its kennel until it hears the snap of its

master’s fingers! That’s all for you!”

He grinned at Danforth, felinely, and the man flushed under the odd

gleam in the eyes that held his.

“I can classify you with one word, Dave,” he declared; “you’re a

crook! That lets you out; you do what you are told!”

He now ignored the others and faced Carrington.

His grin faded quickly, the lips stiffening. But still there was a

hint of cold humor in his manner that created the impression that he

was completely in earnest; that he was keenly enjoying himself and

that he did not feel at all tragic. And yet, underlying the mask of

humor, Carrington saw the passionate hatred Taylor felt for him.

Carrington sneered. He attempted to smile, but the malevolent

bitterness of his passions turned the smile into a hideous smirk. He

had hated Taylor at first sight; and now, with the jealousy provoked

by the knowledge that Taylor had turned his eyes toward Marion Harlan,

the hatred had become a lust to destroy the other.

Before Taylor could speak, Carrington stepped toward him, thrusting

his face close to Taylor’s. The man was in the grip of a mighty rage

that bloated his face, that made his breath come in great labored

gasps. He had not meant to so boldly betray his hatred, but the

violence of his passions drove him on.

He knew that Taylor was baiting him, mocking him, taunting him; that

Taylor’s words to the judge and to Danforth had been uttered with the

grimly humorous purpose of arousing the men to some unwise and

precipitate action; he knew that Taylor was enjoying the confusion he

had brought.

But Carrington had lost his self-control.

Without a word, but with a smothered imprecation that issued

gutturally from between his clenched teeth, he swung a fist with

bitter malignance at Taylor’s face.

The blow did not land, for Taylor, self-possessed and alert, had been

expecting it. He slipped his head sidewise slightly, evading the fist

by a narrow margin, and, tensed, his muscles taut, he drove his own

right fist upward, heavily.

Carrington, reeling forward under the impetus of the force he had

expended, ran fairly into the fist. It crashed to the point of his jaw

and he was unconscious, rigid, and upright on his feet in the instant

before he sagged and tumbled headlong out through the open doorway

into the street.

With a bound, his face set in a mirthless grin, Taylor was after him,

landing beyond him in the windrowed dust at the edge of the sidewalk,

ready and willing to administer further punishment.