Mrs. Agatha Liggs occupied a neat cozy four-room cottage in the
residential section of San Francisco, known as Richmond District. A
well-kept garden, colorful with blossoming plants, flanked and
fronted it; and there was a Cherokee rose which spread its wild
luxuriant arms across the length of the porch and festooned it thick
with its pink, floppy flowers during the early spring. Six blocks
away, across a field of lupins, the waves of the blue Pacific lapped
a narrow stretch of beach under the shadow of crumbling shale
cliffs. The Presidio fortifications loomed here and there along the
heights, frowning, formidable piles of concrete out of which peeped
the grim noses of long-range guns turned seaward, reminding one of
dogs of war everlastingly on the alert for the first scent of
danger.
It was a mile or more from the Longwell Seminary to Mrs. Liggs’
home, and on the way there, Billy Gee’s mother found time to finish
telling Dot her story, which the maid had interrupted when she came
to summon the girl before the preceptress. This had to do
principally with the fact that the bandit, after his escape, had
written her a letter which she had received the same day Lemuel’s
telegram reached her. He told her where he was in hiding and,
following a night of harrowing thought—fearful that he might risk a
trip to Geerusalem to see her, and be captured—she had decided to
dispose of her dry-goods store and move away from Soapweed Plains.
Learning that Dot was to enter school in San Francisco, and having
no definite plans as to where to establish her residence, she had
chosen the metropolis, happy in the knowledge, she said, that she
would be near her friend whom she would see often, besides feeling
certain that her outlaw son could make his home with her, secure in
the crowded confines of a great city, and abandon forever his
lawless calling.
Selling her store, she had boarded a train and gone south with
Tinnemaha Pete, and under the guidance of the old desert prospector,
had found Billy Gee’s hiding place—a lonely desert cave, in a
lonelier cañon of the Calico Range. But the outlaw was absent, and
though they waited several days for him, until the provisions they
had brought along were gone, he did not return. At last, filled with
misgivings, she had come away at the instance of Tinnemaha Pete who,
after accompanying her to the nearest settlement, went back to
acquaint her son with her plans when he came. Arriving in the city,
she had rented the cottage and written Billy Gee, giving her new
address, and had received a long letter from him the day before.
“And it’s the blessedest letter I ever got from him, Dot,” she
concluded, her old eyes swimming. “I think he’s—I think he’s quit
the awful life. I’m praying God every, every night, to give him
strength.”
Dot made no reply. Her arm stole around the other, and she gazed
ahead, an odd light in her eyes.
The taxi drew up to the cottage, and they got out. Mrs. Liggs led
the way along the narrow walk, pausing every few steps to point out
to the girl the glories of the garden. As they were about to go in
the house, Lex Sangerly’s machine arrived. He came bounding through
the gate, shouting out a merry greeting to Mrs. Liggs.
“You should know better than try to sneak away from me, Mother
Liggs,” he cried, as he halted before her, wringing her hands and
laughing at her bewilderment. “That was a shameless way to treat a
fellow—not even tell him you were selling out. I absolutely demand
an apology—and a pumpkin pie. I followed you all the way from the
seminary.”
“Goodness me, Lex, what in the world—— It was all so sudden, Lex,
that I——” she began, with a tremulous pathetic smile. “You’ve got to
forgive me. Sometimes things don’t go just right for folks, and they
act without thinking. This is Mr. Sangerly, Dot. And you’ve heard me
speak of Miss Huntington, Lex.”
“Indeed, yes,” he smiled pleasantly. “Mrs. Liggs has said some very
flattering things about you, Miss Huntington. I am always delighted
to meet a good friend of hers.”
Here Mrs. Liggs briefly explained to Dot that the Sangerlys had once
been neighbors of hers in San José and gave a number of humorous
instances to prove Lex’s shocking capacity for pumpkin pie.
Laughing, they entered the cottage and, while the visitor waited in
the parlor, the women went through the prosaic process of removing
their street clothes and donning house dresses. A little later, Mrs.
Liggs bustled off for the kitchen—for they must have a cup of her
favorite tea, she merrily announced—and Dot joined Lex.
They sat opposite each other and, as they talked, the man admitted
to himself that this girl, inhabitant of the desert though she was,
surpassed in many respects the young women with whom he was
acquainted in such cultured California centers as Pasadena and
Burlingame. There was a native refinement about her, a charming
grace of movement—little subtle characteristics of elegance—that
caused him to marvel and to conclude that she must have inherited
them from her mother, since her father certainly lacked them. But
what particularly impressed him was the fresh, striking beauty of
her, the spirit and frankness and deep strain of sympathy in her
face, and that elusive something that marked her at a glance a
daughter of the waste lands.
They talked on. Yes, he had heard she was attending Longwell
Seminary, and she had been informed that his father was Western
manager of the Mohave & Southwestern Railroad. They both liked
Geerusalem. She told him a number of things about herself, chiefly
how she loved to read and how greatly she wanted to write
stories—gripping stories of adventure. He sat and listened to her
and confidentially affirmed to himself that here was a girl who
would have fitted into his life as perhaps no other would—not even
his petite, brown-eyed fiancée, daughter of the steamship company’s
president whose guest he was during his stay in San Francisco.
Doubtless it was this strong appeal which Dot’s personality had for
him that made it quite impossible for him to explain his mission to
her. He shied at opening the subject, and as for deliberately
cross-examining her, he felt that it was out of the question. She
was too obviously not the type of girl to have anything to do with
an illegal act of any kind; of that he was assured. Rather, he
believed, she was the sort who would have reported to Warburton at
the time whatever suspicions she might have had regarding Billy
Gee’s movements. However, he presently contrived to turn the
conversation to the outlaw’s escape and he noted a new interest
flash up in her eyes, as he did so. It puzzled him.
“Perhaps, I’m biased, Miss Huntington, because of my association
with the M. & S., but nothing would make me happier than to hear
that he was lodged in a San Quentin dungeon for life, or shot down
by a posse,” he replied slowly, in answer to her questions as to his
opinion of the outlaw’s exploits. “Rather brutal, isn’t it?”
“Altogether brutal, Mr. Sangerly,” she said frankly. “But then, I’m
also biased. You see, I owe him considerable, in a way, and won’t
allow myself to forget it.” She paused, meeting his eyes. “If my
father had not captured him and gotten the reward, I wouldn’t be in
San Francisco to-day, with the opportunity of an education before
me—the chance of seeing something outside of Soapweed Plains and
Geerusalem all my life. I am candid in telling you this. It’s true.”
Her expression changed. “Sometimes the thought sickens me. It’s like
blood money.”
He broke into a hearty laugh. “Nonsense, Miss Huntington! Why, if we
were to stop and consider the history of the dollar—the grief,
misery, degradation, filth that each almighty dollar has been the
means of creating—we’d be too nauseated to look at it, to say
nothing of buying our daily bread with it and dropping it in the
collection plates!”
“There may be a lot in that, but in my case the evidence is right
before me—staring me out of countenance. To me, it’s just like
selling a soul. And because I feel that way about it, I know I’m
deeply indebted to Billy Gee——”
“Bosh!” cried Lex. “He’s a law-breaker—a dangerous desperado. He
robs men, seizes other men’s belongings, appropriates to himself
what isn’t his, threatens men’s lives to do it. Miss Huntington,
anybody who captures such an animal, who rids the world of such an
animal, deserves far more than your father received from the M. &
S.” He had spoken brusquely, animated by a conscientious detestation
of crime and criminals in any form. She was watching him, studying
him curiously. “The only regret I have,” he added, “is that he had
to die. I would rather see such a man wearing out his soul in
prison.”
“He’s dead, did you say? Why, father wrote me that Mr. Warburton was
of the opinion that——” A faint smile hovered about her lips, a
tantalizing smile.
“Bob Warburton is a person of foresight; usually he knows what he’s
talking about. But in this case—— Why, if Billy Gee were alive, Miss
Huntington, we would have heard from him long ago. He was one of
those ugly customers who have a mania for seeing their names in
print. Isn’t it significant that our trains have not been robbed—not
even molested—since the day of his capture? Billy Gee was a
bred-in-the-bone crook, Miss Huntington, the type that never
reforms. He perished on the desert, and I’m saying that with all due
respect to the opinion of our good friend, Warburton.”
Dot did not reply. Her mind went back to the night she had parted
with Billy Gee in the dark hayloft, the moon shining through the
hole under the eaves, showing him standing knee-deep in the loose
hay, reflecting on the bloody bandage around his head. She heard his
voice again, saying:
“You’re goin’ to hear from me, Miss Huntington—some time. An’—an’ I
hope you’ll be proud, like you jest said.” It was the sound of his
voice, the way he had spoken those words, that remained ever vivid
in her memory. To-day, she had met the mother of Billy Gee!
At this juncture Mrs. Liggs entered the parlor to announce that
luncheon was ready. They seated themselves at the table in the cool
little dining room, and their hostess poured the tea and led the
conversation, which ran the gamut from reminiscences of bygone days
in San José to a series of interesting episodes in and around
Geerusalem. But she steered carefully clear of any mention of
lawlessness, being fearful of bringing the name of her bandit son
into the discussion and hearing Lex’s criticism of him—the chum he
believed dead.
“You men folks think us women don’t know anything about business,”
she laughed gayly. “But there’s some of us do, Lex, and I’m one of
them. Of course, you’ll say that when it comes to selling overalls
and socks and cotton shirts I’m fine, but that I ain’t got any idea
about big business—real big business. Now, won’t you?”
The talk had turned to a speculation of Geerusalem’s future, Lex
taking issue with Mrs. Ligg’s statement that as a gold-producer it
would surpass both the Nevada camps of Goldfield and Tonopah.
“No, I wouldn’t say that, Mother Liggs,” he replied. “Honestly, I
believe you have keen foresight. I’d rather take your opinion than
that of many mining engineers I know. But it really seems an
exaggeration to say that——”
“I’m agreeing with you, Mother Liggs,” broke in Dot
enthusiastically, and added in serious tones: “Geerusalem, Mr.
Sangerly, is only in its infancy, as you know, and yet, look at its
mines! They’re enormously rich, and new prospects are being
uncovered right along. The only thing that’s keeping it back is the
unscrupulous type of men that have control—rule it. Have you heard
of the terrible power they wield—the awful acts they commit?”
Lex nodded, his mind going back to his encounter with Boss Quintell
that evening before Mrs. Liggs’ dry-goods store, the scene in the
street when Quintell’s henchmen rallied, surrounded him, glowering
and menacing, at the sound of their master’s voice.
“I haven’t the slightest doubt but that Geerusalem has a flattering
future,” he admitted presently. “As a matter of truth, it is so
certain of being a permanent camp that the M. & S. is about to begin
surveying for a spur track into it, from the Mirage station. That
goes to prove the company’s confidence in it. And I may say, Miss
Huntington, that your father’s ranch, from what I’m able to learn,
is quite likely to be on the right of way.”
A glad cry broke from Dot. “Oh, won’t that be wonderful! Just
imagine, Mother Liggs, sitting on the front porch, watching the
trains go by!”
“In my opinion, it will increase the value of the property to an
appreciable degree,” said Lex. “I’ve been wondering why your father
hasn’t gone in for cattle raising——”
He ceased speaking. An audible little gasp had escaped Mrs. Liggs.
He looked at her and saw that her pale-blue eyes were fixed on him,
wide with excitement and dismay.
“Good heavens!” she burst out. “It just come to me who told me about
that branch line, Lex. There’s a scheme on to stop it. They’re going
to keep it out of Geerusalem if they got to kill and murder to do
it.”
A short silence fell. Lex regarded her curiously a moment before he
spoke.
“I think you must be mistaken, Mother Liggs,” he said finally. “I
don’t think any one would oppose a spur into Geerusalem. It would
help make the camp. Who do you mean by _they_?”
“Jule Quintell and his crowd. Listen! About a month ago, George
Harrison—he’s Quintell’s private secretary—came into my store to buy
something. I’ve known him ever since he arrived in camp; that’s
about two years. He’d been drinking this afternoon. We got talking,
and I asked him if there was anything new—sociablelike, you know.
And he said they’d been tipped off that a railroad company was
figuring on building a track into camp from the main line.
“I told him I thought it’d be just the thing we needed. He
laughed—oh, so nasty!—and leaned over the counter and said: ‘Mrs.
Liggs, railroads generally get their own way, but they won’t in this
neck of the woods. We’re going to draw a line in the sand and tell
them they’ll go that far and no further.’ ‘You sure ain’t going to
stop them, Mr. Harrison?’ I asked. ‘We’re going to make them come to
us. And if they try their strong-arm tactics we’ll give them all
they’re looking for. If it’s a case of fight we’ll make Soapweed
Plains look like a slaughterhouse.’ I seen that he’d been drinking
considerable and I figured he might he bragging, and I never thought
nothing more about it till just now when you mentioned the spur
track.”
Lex lit a cigarette and gave her a smile. “I think you’ll find he
was doing that very thing, Mother Liggs—bragging. Admitting that
this fellow Quintell is a power in Geerusalem and that his word is
law—why, if he so much as voiced an objection to so important a
factor to the camp’s progress, as a railroad, his most trusted
followers would turn against him. Men nowadays appreciate the value
of transportation facilities. They may buck the railroad companies
on every issue and all that sort of thing, but they can’t get along
without trains and they know it. Quintell wouldn’t dare put a
single, solitary obstacle in the way of a spur track. On the
contrary, he’ll peel off his coat and help us.”
“Don’t you be too sure about that,” said Mrs. Liggs, with a warning
shake of her head. “You don’t know him, Lex. Old Nick ain’t any
trickier than he is, and when it comes to being real dirty and cruel
and murderous, he’s worse than the devil and all his fiends. He just
plays with men—like a cat does with a mouse. Any man that crosses
him is as good as gone. If Quintell can’t crush him to the wall,
ruin him, run him out of camp, he has his throat cut; the buzzards
finish him. And it’s all done quietly. There’s no proof or nothing.
And all the time it’s getting stronger and stronger, the Quintell
machine is working day and night, growing bolder, reaching out here
and there and grabbing mining property, deliberately stealing it.
I’ve heard that a lot of good men have been forced to join the
gangsters, ’cos they’re afraid if they don’t stand in, they’ll lose
their mines—if they don’t turn up missing themselves, some morning.”
Lex gave a short laugh. “I remember you warned me that evening I met
him in front of your store,” he said easily; “and I’m going to
repeat what I told you. It’s this: He’ll meet the wrong man—at the
right time, Mother Liggs. But tell me, his power lies in the slum
element of the camp only, doesn’t it?”
“You see that!” she cried triumphantly. “You ain’t got the least
idea how he works, how cunning he is. No, it doesn’t! There’s mining
engineers, brokers, and assayers—influential rascals—in his clique.
They’re the brains of the gang. The slum element, as you call it,
are just the tools and they do what they’re told—all the
claim-jumping and fighting and killing. Quintell, as anybody’ll tell
you, is the boss. They control the constable and the courts, and no
matter what one of the gang does, he ain’t even arrested. I tell
you, Lex, he’s dangerous, as deadly as sin. He’s always put me in
mind of a big, horrible, poisonous spider that gets fat killing
little bugs and eating them.”
“Well, there’s one satisfaction, Mother Liggs,” he replied, as he
reached over and patted her hand: “The career of a bad man is
usually short. He’s like a mosquito—he stings one time too many.
There was Billy Gee, for example. Never was there a more
contemptible scoundrel ever lived than that miserable renegade——”
“Pardon me for interrupting you, Mr. Sangerly, but are you in the
mood for a surprise?”
It was Dot who spoke. While Mrs. Liggs and Lex were talking she had
quietly left the table and gone into the bedroom. She stood now just
inside the door, her face sightly flushed, her eyes shining with an
odd light. In her hand, she held the loot of the M. & S., wrapped in
her mother’s old silk shawl. Mrs. Liggs, her snowy head resting on
her hand, gazed listlessly into her plate.
“A surprise is always in order, Miss Huntington,” laughed Lex.
“Providing, of course, it is a pleasant one.”
“I’m going to leave you to judge whether this one is or not,” said
Dot.
She went over to his side of the table, cleared away the dishes, and
placed the neatly-bound sheaf of bills before him.
A dramatic silence fell. He looked, then stared in blank
astonishment at the green and yellow pile for a long moment. Dot was
watching him with dancing eyes. As for Mrs. Liggs, her face was a
study in stark bewilderment.
“What—what’s this? You can’t really mean—is it possible, Miss
Huntington, that——” stammered Lex, and stopped.
“Dot, darling!” burst like a sob from Mrs. Liggs’ parted lips.
“Yes, Mr. Sangerly, those are the actual bills—the exact amount—that
your company lost, twenty thousand dollars,” said Dot in clear,
ringing tones. “I am returning it to you for Billy Gee. I have one
request to make, and that is that you exonerate my father from the
ridiculous charge your detectives have placed against him. If there
has been an accomplice in this matter it is I.” She paused, then
resumed with a smile: “I’ll relate the facts to you and let you
decide for yourself. First, however, in order that you may not labor
under a misapprehension—Billy Gee is alive.”