CHAPTER XXIV—A DEATH WARRANT

Carrington was not a coward; he was not even a cautious man. And the

bitter malice that filled his heart, together with riotous impulses

that seethed in his brain prompted him to go straight to the Arrow,

wreak vengeance upon Taylor and drag Marion Harlan back to the big

house he had bought for her.

But a certain memory of Taylor’s face when the latter had been

pursuing him through the big house; a knowledge of Taylor’s ability to

inflict punishment, together with a divination that Taylor would not

hesitate to kill him should there arise the slightest opportunity—all

these considerations served to deter Carrington from undertaking any

rash action.

Taylor’s opposition to his desires enraged Carrington. He had met and

conquered many men—and he had coolly and deliberately robbed many

others, himself standing secure and immune behind legal barriers. And

he had seen his victims writhe and squirm and struggle in the meshes

he had prepared for them. He had heard them rave and wail and

threaten; but not one of them had attempted to inflict physical

punishment upon him.

Taylor, however, was of the fighting type. On two occasions, now,

Carrington had been given convincing proof of the man’s ability. And

he had seen in Taylor’s eyes on the latest occasion the implacable

gleam of iron resolution and—when Taylor had gone down, fighting to

the last, in the sanguinary battle at the big house, he had not failed

to note the indomitability of the man—the tenacious and dogged spirit

that knows no defeat—a spirit that would not be denied.

And so, though Carrington’s desires would have led him to recklessly

carry the fight to the Arrow, certain dragging qualms of reluctance

dissuaded him from another meeting with Taylor on equal terms.

And yet the malevolent passions that gripped the big man would not

tolerate the thought of opposition. Taylor was the only man who stood

between him and his desires, and Taylor must be removed.

During the days of Carrington’s confinement to his rooms above the

Castle—awaiting the slow healing of the wound Taylor had inflicted

upon him, and the many bruises that marred his face—mementoes of the

terrible punishment Taylor had inflicted upon him—the big man nursed

his venomous thoughts and laid plans for revenge upon his enemy.

As soon as he was able to appear in Dawes—to undergo without

humiliation the inspection of his face by the citizens of the town—for

news of his punishment had been whispered broadcast—he boarded a

westbound train.

He got off at Nogel, a little mining town sitting at the base of some

foothills in the Sangre de Christo Range, some miles from Dawes.

He spent three days in Nogel, interrogating the resident manager of

the “Larry’s Luck” mine, talking with miners and storekeepers and

quizzing men in saloons—and at the beginning of the fourth day he

returned to Dawes.

At about the time Miss Harlan and Taylor were sitting on the rock on

the bank of the river near the Arrow, Carrington was in the courthouse

at Dawes, leaning over Judge Littlefield’s desk. A tall, sleek-looking

man of middle age, with a cold, steady eye and a smooth smile, stood

near Carrington. The man was neatly attired, and looked like a

prosperous mine-owner or operator.

But had the judge looked sharply at his hands when he gripped the one

that was held out to him when Carrington introduced the man; or had he

been a physiognomist of average ability, he could not have failed to

note the smooth softness of the man’s hands and the gleam of guile and

cunning swimming deep in his eyes.

But the judge noted none of those things. He had caught the man’s

name—Mint Morton—and instantly afterward all his senses became

centered upon what the man was saying.

For the man spoke of conscience—and the judge had one of his own—a

guilty one. So he listened attentively while the man talked.

The thing had been bothering the man for some months—or from the time

it happened, he said. And he had come to make a confession.

He was a miner, having a claim near Nogel. He knew Quinton Taylor, and

he had known Larry Harlan. One morning after leaving his mine on a

trip to Nogel for supplies, he had passed close to the “Larry’s Luck”

mine. Being on good terms with the partners, he had thought of

visiting them. Approaching the mine on foot—having left his horse at a

little distance—he heard Taylor and Harlan quarreling. He had no

opportunity to interfere, for just as he came upon the men he saw

Taylor knock Harlan down with a blow of his fist. And while Harlan lay

unconscious on the ground Taylor had struck him on the head with a

rock.

Morton had not revealed himself, then, fearing Taylor would attack

him. He had concealed himself, and had seen Taylor, apparently

remorseful, trying to revive Harlan. These efforts proving futile,

Taylor had rigged up a drag, placed Harlan on it, and had taken him to

Nogel. But Harlan died on the way.

To Littlefield’s inquiry as to why Morton had not reported the murder

instantly, the man replied that, being a friend to Taylor, he had been

reluctant to expose him.

After the man concluded his story the judge and Carrington exchanged

glances. There was a vindictively triumphant gleam in Littlefield’s

eyes, for he still remembered the humiliation he had endured at

Taylor’s hands.

He took Morton’s deposition, told him he would send for him, later;

and dismissed him. Carrington, appearing to be much astonished over

the man’s confession, accompanied him to the station, where he watched

him board the train that would take him back to Nogel.

And on the platform of one of the coaches, Carrington, grinning

wickedly, gave the man a number of yellow-backed treasury notes.

“You think I won’t have to come back—to testify against him?” asked

the man, smiling coldly.

“Certainly not!” declared Carrington. “You’ve signed his death warrant

this time!”

Carrington watched the train glide westward, and then returned to the

courthouse. He found the judge sitting at his desk, gazing

meditatively at the floor. For there had been something insincere in

Morton’s manner—his story of the murder had not been quite

convincing—and in spite of his resentment against Taylor the judge did

not desire to add anything to the burden already carried by his

conscience.

Carrington grinned maliciously as he halted at Littlefield’s side and

laid a hand on the other’s arm.

“We’ve got him, Littlefield!” he said. “Get busy. Issue a warrant for

his arrest. I’ll have Danforth send you some men to serve as

deputies—twenty of them, if you think it necessary!”

The judge cleared his throat and looked with shifting eyes at the

other.

“Look here, Carrington,” he said, “I—I have some doubts about the

sincerity of that man Morton. I’d like to postpone action in this case

until I can make an investigation. It seems to me that—that Taylor,

for all his—er—seeming viciousness, is not the kind of man to kill his

partner. I’d like to delay just a little, to——”

“And let Taylor get wind of the thing—and escape. Not by a damned

sight! One man’s word is as good as another’s in this country; and

it’s your duty as a judge of the court, here, to act upon any

complaint. You issue the warrant. I’ll get Keats to serve it. He’ll

bring Taylor here, and you can legally examine him. That’s merely

justice!”

Half an hour later, Carrington was handing the warrant to a big,

rough-looking man with an habitual and cruel droop to the corners of

his mouth.

“You’d better take some men with you, Keats,” suggested Carrington.

“He’ll fight, most likely,” he grinned, evilly. “Understand,” he

added; “if you should have to kill Taylor bringing him in, there would

be no inquiry made. And—” he looked at Keats and grinned, slowly and

deliberately closing an eye.