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THE BAD MAN
A Novel
by
CHARLES HANSON TOWNE
Based on the Play by Porter Emerson Browne
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1921
Copyright, 1921, by G. P. Putnam's Sons
Printed in the United States of America
[Illustration: HOLBROOK BLINN AS "THE BAD MAN."]
To
HOLBROOK BLINN
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I.--Wherein it is shown that a young American had the courage to come into
a new country; how fate played against him, and a neighbor looked longingly
at his ranch
II.--Wherein, far away, another man hears whispers of the wealth along the
border, and comes down to see about it
III.--Wherein Uncle Henry speaks his mind--as usual
IV.--Wherein "Red" reveals his heart, and Mrs. Quinn gives him good coffee
and good advice
V.--Wherein Gilbert Jones is worried, and Lucia Pell is asked to do an
impossible thing
VI.--Wherein an old love awakens, Pell reveals his true colors, a mortgage
is about to be foreclosed, the contents of a satchel are made known, Uncle
Henry springs a sensation, and Pell takes an option
VII.--Wherein Lucia sees treachery brewing, Pell proves himself a brute,
and an unexpected guest appears
VIII.--Wherein the bandit expounds a new philosophy, and makes marionettes
of the Americans
IX.--Wherein Uncle Henry chatters some more, there is an auction, and
things look black indeed
X.--Wherein an old friendship comes to life, Lopez learns a thing or two,
and finally makes a match
XI.--Wherein a man proves himself a craven, a shot rings out, and the bad
man explains one little hour
XII.--Wherein the bad man cannot understand the good man, and disappears;
and a dead man stirs
XIII.--Wherein an old situation seems about to be repeated, another shot is
fired, and the bad man comes back
XIV.--Wherein an old friend returns, and there is a joyful reunion
THE BAD MAN
CHAPTER I
WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN THAT A YOUNG AMERICAN HAD THE COURAGE TO COME INTO A
NEW COUNTRY; HOW FATE PLAYED AGAINST HIM, AND A NEIGHBOR LOOKED LONGINGLY
AT HIS RANCH
Looking back now, after so many months of struggle and foreboding, he
wondered how he had ever had the high courage to come to this strange
country. Had he been a few years older he would not have started forth--he
was sure of that now. But the flame of youth was in him, the sure sense
that he could conquer where others had miserably failed; and, like all
virile young Americans, he had love of adventure, and zest for the unknown
was in his blood. The glamour of Arizona lured him; the color of these
great hills and mountains he had come to love captivated him from the
first. It was as if a siren beckoned, and he had to follow.
For days he had been worried almost to the breaking point. Things had not
shaped themselves as he had planned. Event piled upon event, and now
disaster--definite disaster--threatened to descend upon him.
All morning, despite the intense heat, he had been about the ranch,
appraising this and that, mentally; pottering in the shed; looking at his
horses--the few that were left!--smiling at the thought of his wheezing
Ford, wondering just when he would clear out altogether.
Not that young Gilbert Jones was a pessimist. And yet he wasn't one of
those damnable Pollyanna optimists he so abominated--the kind who went
about saying continually that God was in His heaven and all was right with
the world. No, indeed! He was just a normal, regular fellow, ready to face
a difficult situation when it came about as the natural result of a series
of events. He saw the impending catastrophe as the logical finale of many
happenings--for some of which he was not in any way responsible.
Who could have foreseen the Great War, for instance? Surely _that_ was not
his fault! A pitiful archduke was murdered in a European city. He
remembered reading about it, and then instantly dismissing it from his mind
as of no consequence. He never connected himself with so remote an event.
Yet a few years later he, with many others, was fighting in France--a
lieutenant in the United States Army--just because a shot had been fired at
a man he had never heard of!
A strange world, he pondered, as he looked out over the blue hills, heavy
with heat, and meandering away to God knows where.
Then, surely it was no fault of his if the Government under which he lived
made no strenuous effort to stop the Mexican massacres of American citizens
all along the border. One firm word, one splendid gesture, and daring raids
would have ceased; and there would have been no menace of bandits
hereabouts. It would have been a country fit to live in. There would have
developed a feeling of permanence and peace, and a young chap could have
made his plans for the future with some sense of security and high
optimism. Surely they were entitled to protection--these brave boys and
stalwart sons of America who fearlessly took up claims, staked all, and
strove to make homes in this thrilling section along the borderland. They
were not mere adventurers; they were pioneers. They were of the best stuff
that America contained--clean-cut, clear-eyed, with level heads and high
hearts. Yet their own Government did not think enough of them to offer them
the sure protection they were entitled to.
Gilbert looked back on that distant day when he had gone up to Bisbee and
purchased four head of cattle, and brought them himself to this ranch he
had purchased, happy as only a fool is happy. Within a week they had
mysteriously disappeared.
Rumors of Mexican thieves and assassins had come to him, as they had come
to all the young land-owners along the line. He recalled how, after one
raid, in which a good citizen had been foully murdered in his bed, he had
called a meeting of the ranchers in their section, and with one voice they
agreed to send a protest to Washington.
They did so. Nothing happened. An aching silence followed. They wrote
again; and then one day a pale acknowledgment of their communication came
in one of those long and important-looking unstamped envelopes. It seemed
very official, very impressive. But mere looks never helped any cause. They
were not naïve enough to expect the Secretary of State to come down in
person and see to the mending of things. But a platoon of soldiers--a
handful of troops--would have worked wonders. Jones always contended that
not a shot would have to be fired; no more deaths on either side would be
necessary. The mere presence of a few men in uniform would have the desired
effect. The bandits, now prowling about, would slink over the invisible
border to their own territory, and never be heard of again. Of that he felt
confident.
But no! Watchful waiting was the watchword--or the catchword. And the
eternal and infernal raids went on.
It was while they were having their community meeting that he had come to
know Jasper Hardy and his young daughter Angela, who occupied the next
ranch, about a mile and a half south of his. Before that he had been too
busy to bother about neighbors. "Red" Giddings, his foreman, had spoken
once or twice about "some nice folks down the line," but he hadn't heard
much of what he said. There were always a hundred and one odd jobs to be
done around the place--something was forever needing attention; and when
Uncle Henry wasn't grumbling about something, he was forcing his nephew to
play checkers or cribbage or cards with him. And, working so hard all day,
he was glad to turn in early at night. Social life, therefore--unless you
could call high words with a crabbed invalid a form of social life--didn't
come within Gilbert's ken. It was work, work, work, and the desire to make
good every moment for him.
But Hardy proved to be an aggressive fighter when the meeting took place,
and spoke in sharp tones of the Government's dilatoriness. He had come to
Arizona right after his wife's death in the East, and brought his only
daughter and a few servants with him. He seemed to have plenty of money,
and he was anxious lest the invading Mexicans should get any of it away
from him. His holdings, in the eight years since he had come to the border,
amounted to several thousand well-cultivated acres; and he looked like a
man who, when he set out to get anything, would get it. He had an
inordinate desire to grab up some more territory. Tall and thin, and
sharp-featured, as well as sharp-tongued, he resembled a hawk. It was
difficult to realize the fact that the pert and lovely little Angela--who
lived up to her name only once in a while!--was his own flesh and blood. It
was as incongruous as though a rose had grown on a beanstalk.
On their very first meeting, Gilbert had not been pleasantly impressed with
Hardy. But he soon saw that the man had a certain rugged strength, and
there was no doubt he had suffered from the depredations of Mexico's casual
visitors, and was ready to protect not only his own interests but those of
any newcomers. He seemed to have the spirit of fair-mindedness; and he
believed firmly in the possibilities of this magic land, particularly for
young men. "It's God's country," he told Gilbert on more than one occasion.
"Get into the soil all you can. Dig--and dig deep."
He said this over and over. It ran like a refrain through every
conversation he had with anyone. He preached the gospel of labor. And he
did work himself; there was no shadow of doubt as to that. He had struck
oil himself, and had made a goodly extra pile. Now, unknown to young Jones,
he was casting envious eyes on his ranch; and when the war came and Gilbert
went overseas in a burst of fine patriotism, and later came other
disasters, he was quick to snatch his opportunity.
Why go to Bisbee, he told Jones, to see who would take up his mortgage?
What were neighbors for, if not to come in handy in such unpleasant
emergencies? And he laughed.
The long and short of it was that Hardy took an option on Gilbert's
property, and held it at this very moment. It was better so, thought
Gilbert. Better to be foreclosed by a friendly neighbor, who might hesitate
to drive one out at the last moment, than under the thumb of some unknown
individual way down the valley.
Four years of it--and he had come to this! Well, he'd take his medicine
like a man. He had done his best, and no one could do more.