THE YELLOW ENVELOPE AGAIN!
Old man King, red eyed with wrath, had gone out after the cattle
rustlers in his own direct fashion, seeking to follow the trail of
running steers through the mountain passes, his eye hard, his rifle
ready, his mind eager to suspect any man to whom that trail might lead.
But he found only confused tracks which ran toward the state border line
and which vanished before even his sharp eyes, leading nowhere.
Young Bud King, his own anger little less than his father's, went forth
on another trail, not after the running steers but after a man. And he
went to the town of Dead Man's Alley. Mentally he had made his list of
the men to whom one might look to for the commission of the crime which
had driven the Bar X outfit to action. Being no man's fool, young King
planned to go first to the source of the stream, as it were, and thence
to travel downward seeking to see who had muddied the waters. And his
"one chief bet" was that the source was in Hill's Corners.
The result of Bud King's investigations, so far as he was concerned, was
little different from that of his father's and negligible. But his
journey to the town of the bad name was of vast importance to others.
Winifred Waverly, upon the morning after the dance, came down late to
her breakfast, and found that Pollard had waited for her. Although he
was not in the habit of offering her this little courtesy, she thought
nothing of it at first, having enough of other matters in her brain,
perplexing her. But before the meal was over she knew why Henry Pollard
had waited for her.
It was plain to her that he realized that some real importance might be
attached to the matter of her having seen Buck Thornton last night, of
having danced and talked with him. On the ride home he had not referred
to the cattle man nor had she. Now, in great seeming carelessness but
with his eyes keen upon her, he spoke lightly of the dance, mentioned
that he had seen Thornton talking to one of the men at the schoolhouse
door and wondered why he had gone so early.
She managed to look at him innocently and to say carelessly as he had
spoken:
"I had a dance with him. He didn't say anything about leaving so soon."
She even achieved a little laugh which sounded quite natural, ending,
"He seemed rather put out that I did not receive him like an old
friend!"
"You did not accuse him of having robbed you?"
"Not in so many words," quietly. "But I was certainly not polite to him!
For a little I thought that he was going to return your money to me."
"Why?" Pollard asked sharply, and now she was sure of his readiness to
suspect her of holding back something from him.
"He said," she went on, her interest seeming chiefly for her bacon and
eggs, "that he was returning something to me I had left at the cabin at
Harte's place. I couldn't think of anything but your money."
"What was it?"
"A spur rowel. It had been loose for several days, and dropped out in
the cabin. He brought it back to me."
From this they passed on to speak of other incidents of the dance and of
other people, but the girl saw that her uncle's interest waned with the
change of topic. Then, her heart fluttering in spite of her, but her
voice steady enough, Winifred said lightly:
"I think I'll go for a little ride after breakfast. My horse needs the
exercise, and," she added laughingly, "so do I."
"Good idea," he returned, nodding his approval. But then he asked which
way she was riding, and finally volunteered to go with her, assuring her
smilingly that he had nothing of importance to do, and adding gravely,
that he would feel safer if she were not out alone in this rough
country.
So he rode with her and after an hour of swift galloping out toward the
mountains, for the most part in silence, they came back to the town.
Pollard left her at his own gate and rode back through the street, "to
see a man." But he returned almost immediately and for the rest of the
day did not leave the house. It was a long day for the girl, filled with
restlessness and a sense of being spied upon, of being watched almost
every moment by her uncle. And before the day was done, there had come
with the other emotions a little thrill of positive, personal fear.
It was midafternoon. The silence here at this far end of the street hung
heavy and oppressive. She had gone up and down stairs half a dozen
aimless times, eager for something to do. The long hours had been hers
for reflection, and after weighing the hundred little incidents of these
last few weeks, now there was no faintest shadow of a doubt that Henry
Pollard was at least guilty of criminal complicity in a scheme to send
an innocent man to the penitentiary if not to the gallows; she was more
than half persuaded that Pollard was in some way seeking to shield
himself by using Thornton as a scapegoat; she had got to the point where
she began to wonder if Henry Pollard and Ben Broderick shared share and
share alike both in the profits of these crimes and in their actual
commission.
She came down stairs for a book, having at last finished the one in her
room, resigned to inactivity for another day, perhaps for two or three
days, until her uncle's watch upon her movements was less keen and
suspicious. She reflected that if she read something she might coax her
thoughts away from considerations which he could not understand in
their entirety, and which terrified her when she thought that she did
understand.
In her quest she passed down the hall and to Pollard's office at the
front of the house. The room was by no means private; she had gone into
it many times before; sometimes it was used as a sitting room. She had
thought that her uncle was in it, but when she came to the open door she
saw that it was empty.
She went to the long table at which Pollard wrote his few letters. Upon
one end of it, at the far end from the pen and ink, were some books and
old magazines, piled carelessly. Yesterday she had seen here a fairly
recent novel the title of which promised her an interesting story. A
glance showed her the book, lying open, where Pollard had evidently been
reading it. And in the same careless glance she saw something else which
sent the blood into her face and made her turn swiftly, apprehensively,
toward the door.
There, beside Pollard's chair, was his waste paper basket, filled to
overflowing with crumpled papers. And, thrusting upward through the
papers, catching her eye because the papers were white and it was
another colour, was a long, yellow envelope. An envelope exactly like
the one in which Mr. Templeton had put the bank notes she was to carry
to her uncle!
Obeying her swift impulse she stepped to the basket and drew the
envelope out. It was not only like the one she knew, yellow and cloth
lined, but it was the same one! She knew that beyond a hint of doubt.
For she remembered how, while sealing the thing for her, Mr. Templeton
had laid it down on his table, upon his ink-wet pen, how he had
carelessly blotted it. And here was the blot!
She came swiftly around the table. Her back was toward the open door.
And....
Henry Pollard was standing behind her, watching her! She did not see
him, she could not be sure that she had heard his soft step on the hall
carpet, but she knew that he was there. She seemed to sense his presence
with the subtle sixth sense.