As has been said, Geerusalem was at the time the Mecca of the
gregarious creatures designated as wildcatters—ruthless, scoundrelly
gentlemen who wax fat by selling worthless blocks of fabulous mining
stock to gullibles and trusting innocents in far-away places, women
being for the most part their easier victims. To-day, they were the
power in Geerusalem, and Mrs. Liggs in her talk with Lex Sangerly
had not exaggerated the methods of these money-grabbing rascals one
whit. They controlled the camp and the representatives of the law.
They had the respectable citizenry figuratively by the throat, the
newspapers truckling to their wishes. Briefly, they did what they
pleased; not altogether openly, however. There was a grand jury down
at the county seat, a hundred miles or so away, that might happen to
train an eye in their direction, and certain State officials who
might start an investigation.
Everything then that was done unlawfully was done under a veneer of
mystery, or lacking that, “framed” so cleverly as to deceive the
wiliest inquisitor, should such a rare bird appear on the ground.
In the first place, the master mind of this invisible organization
was Jule Quintell. He was a formidable character physically and
mentally, merciless at the base, diplomatic and rash by turns; in
many ways a dual personality who could be trusted to put over
whatever he undertook. His was the gift to scheme, to set the stage,
to spring the trap, to wrest the holdings from the victim, whether
by eviction or the six-shooter, for property—mining property—was
what Quintell and his confederates wanted and were getting.
Individual claims and groups of claims were piling in on them, and
as fast as they were acquired they were parceled off, given a name,
put through the process of incorporation, and the stock floated.
Exquisitely engraved certificates found their way across the
continent to the gullibles and trusting innocents, who dreamed in
vain of enormous dividends which would set them on Easy Street in
short order.
Claims that gave promise of paying were never thus exploited,
however. They were carefully prospected, “dressed up” if they did
not fulfill expectations, and through the medium of glowing reports
published in the subsidized newspapers, they sold for fancy prices;
for there were always rich suckers drifting into this infant prodigy
of gold camps, looking to invest.
Boss Quintell’s associates, whom Mrs. Liggs had designated as the
“brains” of the element were, even as she had said, assayers, mining
engineers, surveyors, stockbrokers. There were more than a score of
them; as smug and high-handed a coterie of crooks as ever
sidestepped the penitentiary. Against their influence and methods,
the reputable competitor was promptly starved out, forced to seek a
living in other fields. The monopoly of swindling was perfected to a
point where the professions most intimately affiliated with mining
were included, these being amply represented in the trusted
membership of the magic circle.
And yet, taken as a whole, this aggregation of grafters which had
its tentacles spread out across the entire Geerusalem mining
district, slowly killing the spirit of industry and discovery
without which no camp can live, were of themselves not only lacking
in strength but devoid of the necessary courage to defy the decent
element of the town, had the latter voiced objection to their
tactics. Whatever influence the Quintell crowd possessed, the very
success of their lawless enterprise, in fact the death grip they had
on the camp—these things they owed to that majority of population
that seems as much a part in the founding of a settlement in the
wilderness, as its tents and rock huts—the underworld.
Here had forgathered the undesirable from the four winds—gunmen,
thieves, criminals of high and low degree, and they kept flocking in
and plied their vicious trades without fear of interruption. And
flocking in, also, came the type of woman that men know best and
fall easier prey to because they do, while added to these denizens
of the city’s slums, were the drifters, adventurers, and saloon
hangers-on, all bent on getting their share of gold at some other
fellow’s expense.
With this formidable army of undesirables at its back, the Quintell
crowd ruled Geerusalem, and from it, chose its tools who went out at
night and beat up men, drove them off their claims, killed them if
they proved too troublesome. These tools got money for their work.
The element as a whole got protection—license to carry on as its
membership saw fit without interference from the local authorities,
whom Quintell, through bribe and political influence, held in the
hollow of his hand. Crime thrived accordingly, and the remote cases
that did come up for trial in the courts proved ridiculous farces
conducted more to impress the County Bar Association at the distant
county seat that jurisprudence was on the job, than as a matter of
stern equity.
Now, on the very day that Lemuel Huntington had brought Billy Gee a
prisoner into camp, Quintell’s field men reported that Tinnemaha
Pete had discovered a rich gold ledge on the Huntington ranch. Late
that afternoon, while Lex Sangerly and Detectives Coates and Tyler
were searching for the outlaw’s loot at the ranch house half a mile
away, Quintell experts were investigating the ground with a view of
determining the extent of the deposit and estimating its value.
They returned, bringing word that the find was a bonanza from the
grass roots, that the hill on the west end of the Huntington ranch
carried the croppings of three parallel ledges that apparently were
a continuation of the Geerusalem mineral belt. Tinnemaha Pete’s
location notices were made out in the names of Peter Boyd and Jerome
Liggs.
Jule Quintell and his confederates held a two-hour meeting that
evening. They listened to the reports of the experts, heard them
voice the opinion that the new discovery promised to be a monumental
strike, eclipsing anything ever opened up before in the district.
They sat silent, grim of face, ominous, and blew wreaths of smoke
toward the ceiling. Presently they began discussing the matter.
They must acquire this ground. The Geerusalem mines were good
producers, but here was something far better. Moreover, a sister
camp on the same mineral belt, only four miles distant, meant that
its owners would be millionaires overnight. It was not a proposition
of doing business with Tinnemaha Pete and Jerome Liggs. Whoever
these desert rats were did not enter into the issue, for though they
had found and located the deposit, they had no legal claim to it.
Lemuel Huntington owned the ground; it was patented ground. Lemuel
Huntington was the man they must deal with—Lem used to hobnob with
the crowd before he captured Billy Gee and got a start in the world.
The meeting was held in Boss Quintell’s spacious private office in
the Brokers’ Exchange Building, a three-story frame structure that
housed the elaborate publicity and advertising departments—so
essential to successful wildcatting—of three of Geerusalem’s most
prominent stockbrokers.
Messengers began arriving, one to say that Huntington and his
daughter had left for San Francisco, another with the information
that railroad detectives were occupying the ranch house.
Quintell advanced the scheme to be followed for the acquisition of
the bonanza strike. “Big George” Rankin, owner of the Northern
Saloon and dominant figure in the camp’s underworld, was in San
Francisco on business. He was wired to meet Huntington and his
daughter at the ferry terminal, follow them, and telegraph back the
name of the hotel they put up at. Dick Lennox, a young mining
engineer—one of the lesser lights of the gang, but more intimate
with the rancher than any member of it—was chosen to go to the
metropolis and try to bargain for the purchase of the ranch. The
thing was to see Huntington before he returned to Geerusalem, for,
as Quintell pointed out, it was just possible that Dot’s father,
once back in the country, would hear rumors of the discovery of
mineral on his ground and refuse to sell except at his own terms.
Lemuel, then, must not surmise there was one pennyweight of gold on
his land. The land must be bought for a song, as it were.
Receipt by Quintell of Lennox’s telegram telling of his failure to
turn the deal, along with Rankin’s report charging Lennox with
betraying the gang to win favor with Dot, infuriated the boss of
Geerusalem and his associates, made the mining engineer a marked
man, whose arrival in camp was awaited by gunmen with instructions
to “bump him off” as quietly as they could. But Lennox, returning
unexpectedly, got word of his danger from a member of the gang, who,
yielding to the other’s entreaties, hid him in a rear office room,
Lennox agreeing to leave as soon as it was dark.
Terrified at the startling predicament in which he found himself and
not daring to risk flight by train or automobile, Lennox in his
extremity thought of Lex Sangerly, who he remembered was conducting
an investigation at the Huntington ranch. If Sangerly was there, he
knew he could prevail on him to drive him to Mirage; if he was not,
the ranch because of its isolation would furnish him a secure hiding
place until such time as he could find his way in safety out of the
country.
With nightfall then, he struck out afoot for the ranch. He held to
the deserted back streets and went fast, stumbling along in his
feverish haste, glancing over his shoulder. When he reached the
outskirts of camp, where the rough rock cabins of the squatters
began to thin out and the vast emptiness of Soapweed Plains became
discernible through the wide mouth of Geerusalem Gulch, he breathed
easier and slackened his pace. He had eluded the assassins. He was
safe!
But though he had been one of the Quintell crowd, Lennox had never
realized the depth of perfidy in its ranks. The very man who had
warned him and given him shelter, had done so merely to deliver him
into the hands of the killers. Therefore, no sooner had he reached a
lonely point beyond the camp’s confines, where the sagebrush and
greasewood rose thick on each side of the road, than he heard the
quick patter of running feet behind him. The moon was shining. As
Lennox turned, he made out four men bearing down on him less than a
hundred yards away.
“Hey, Lennox, hold on a minute! The gang’s straightened things out.
The boss wants you to come back,” called out a jovial voice.
The fugitive halted undecidedly for an instant. Then, recognizing
his pursuers as uncouthly dressed fellows whom he was sure he did
not know, he took to his heels. Instantly a volley of shots roared
out, and a hail of bullets went screaming past him. In the grip of
terror, he redoubled his speed, dashing desperately onward, gazing
about him for some means of escape. Presently his eyes lighted on a
shack looming black against the background of hill, a few yards to
one side of the road. Just as he discovered it his pursuers sent
another swarm of bullets after him. This time they got him. His leg
suddenly buckled under him, and he pitched headlong to the ground.
“Help! Help!” he cried frenziedly, making a futile effort to get to
his feet.
An answering shout broke from the quartet. Lennox glared around and
saw them coming, racing toward him. He could hear the gravel
crunching nearer with every footfall. He knew that they would shoot
him where he lay, without mercy, as they would shoot a dog, and his
horrible thought picked him off the road and sent him crawling madly
for the shack.
He reached the door and pounded on it.
“Open! They’re going to murder me. Open, in God’s name!” he panted
distractedly.
There was a movement inside the cabin; then the door opened.
“Come in!” said a man’s voice out of the darkness.
Lennox dragged himself inside and lay half-fainting on the floor,
gasping for breath.
Outside he could hear the sounds of the Quintell men approaching the
shack. Then the voice of his unknown deliverer broke quietly through
the place.
“Stop where you are, strangers!”
A heavy silence followed his words.
“We’re deputy sheriffs, pal. You’ve got a man in there we want,”
said one of the men gruffly.
“Let’s see yore authority. Depities kin always flash a tin buzzer.
Let’s see yourn.”
“Never mind the authority. Do you turn him over or not?”
The occupant of the shack gave a low chuckle. “You sure talk like a
depity, sport,” he said in genial tones. “But don’t you never let
Sheriff Warburton hear you make a crack like that——”
The deafening crash of revolvers cut him short, as, without warning,
the gunmen fired. The bullets tore through the partly opened door,
and a shower of splinters fell on Lennox.
“Get him, fellows! Get the——” cursed the spokesman.
“At yore risk, men!” called out the unknown. He threw the door wide
and began shooting with a rapidity that set the mining engineer,
wounded and terrified though he was, marveling vaguely.
The battle ended as suddenly as it had begun. A deep silence
followed. Soon Lennox heard his deliverer moving through the dark
interior and got a glimpse of him as he walked out into the
moonlight. He returned presently and halted in the gloom.
“You hurt bad?” he asked. He spoke calmly, his voice pleasingly low.
“My leg is broken,” said Lennox. “I don’t know that I can ever repay
you for saving my life, friend.”
“I ain’t takin’ pay for savin’ a man’s life. I know what it is to be
a mouse with the cat after it. I’ll fix up yore leg the best I kin
in the dark. ’Tain’t safe to make a light. You got to have a doctor,
I reckon.”
“Not from Geerusalem. It would be signing my own death warrant.
Quintell and his gang are after me.”
“Huh! So, that’s who they were, eh? Purty hard-boiled bunch, that.
Now let’s see that busted leg.”
Kneeling on the floor beside Lennox, he began bandaging above and
below the wound to stop the flow of blood. He worked in the dark
dexterously, tearing long strips of cloth and binding them tightly
around the fractured limb. At the end of ten minutes he rose to his
feet and lit a cigarette and stood for a moment at the door,
listening.
“Why’re they tryin’ to git you?” he asked abruptly.
“They sent me to Frisco to buy a ranch—the Huntington ranch; you
must know it. Anyway, I couldn’t turn the deal, and they blamed me.
Say, do you suppose there’s any danger of blood-poisoning?”
The other did not reply. Lennox, propped on his elbow, waited
anxiously, a new alarm creeping into his heart. Silhouetted
statuelike in the rectangle of moonlight formed by the open door,
stood the stranger. He stood thus, motionless, for a short interval.
Then he inhaled deeply of his cigarette, tossed it away, and came
over to Lennox.
“You give me an idea,” he said, with an odd chuckle. “I’ll git you
to the Huntington ranch. I figger I kin hustle up a doctor who won’t
talk.” He dropped to his haunches beside the other. “Here, ketch me
’round the neck. I’m packin’ you! My hoss is down the gulch a ways.”
With the wounded man clinging to his back, he padlocked the door and
struck out through the brush.
“What happened to them—the four, you know?” asked Lennox, glancing
about over the ground. “It isn’t possible they escaped, and——”
“Sometimes, it’s healthy to keep yore front yard clean, pardner.
Folks are’ awful curious—if you know what I mean,” was the quiet
reply.
The unknown’s horse stood tethered in a small draw. Helping Lennox
into the saddle, the man climbed on behind. They rode on in silence
for many minutes, following the deeply rutted, dusty road that
wormed its way among the windrows of sand and boulders which dotted
Soapweed Plains at this point. Behind them the Geerusalem hills rose
into the sky—a jumbled, massive gray pile, looking like some great,
nameless monster crouching in the night.
“What they want the ranch for?” said the stranger, breaking the long
silence.
“It’s immensely rich—in mineral. I hear it’s the richest gold strike
in the district. But they wouldn’t sell.”
“By _they_, you mean Lem Huntington, don’t you?”
“He was willing enough, at first. But his daughter——Well, to tell
the truth, it was a dirty scheme. I was to tell them the ranch was
wanted for a resort—one of those free-and-easy hangouts for the
sporting crowd. It seems as if there’s a grave in the garden—her
mother’s grave. And the girl wouldn’t—I certainly understand how she
feels.”
“Her mother’s grave,” repeated the unknown very slowly.
The horse jogged along with its double burden. Far ahead, a tiny
blur of black showed the location of the Huntington ranch.
“My leg is hurting me fearfully,” said Lennox at last. “Damn them!
You don’t think there’s danger of blood-poisoning, do you?”
“I’ve heard a lot about Miss Huntington. They say she’s a mighty
fine gal. I’d kinder like to know the pertick’lars if you don’t mind
tellin’ ’em. No, I don’t guess there’s danger o’ blood-poisonin’.
You’ll be all right in a month or two, mebby.”
Lennox groaned at the cheerless prospect that confronted him.
Presently, however, he began the story of the efforts of the
Quintell gang to purchase the Huntington holdings. His indignation
over their treatment of him loosened his tongue, caused him to
overlook not one detail that might go to illustrate the infamous
methods by which they operated. From their discovery that the two
prospectors, Peter Boyd and Jerome Liggs, had located the bonanza
claims, how he had been delegated to talk Huntington into selling,
his meeting with Big George Rankin in San Francisco and later with
Dot and her father in the Golden West Hotel; all this he related and
concluded with the quarrel he and Rankin had had on the street
following his failure to buy the ranch.
“An’ he said that—that Quintell mebby could use her, as his
stenographer?” said the stranger. His voice was like ice in the
other’s ear.
“Yes, and about as nasty as a man could say it.”
“Ain’t this Rankin the feller that owns the Northern Saloon—big
walloper with a red face, sorter straw boss o’ the Stingeree bunch?”
“That’s he. I’ve heard he was bad clean through, one of the worst
characters——”
“I know all about them kind, pal. They sure kin squeal, when you
start workin’ on ’em. Use her as his stenographer, eh?” he repeated,
as if to himself.
They rode along in silence after that, save for the occasional groan
of suffering that broke from Lennox. Within a few hundred yards of
the Huntington ranch, the stranger drew rein and slid to the ground.
“I’m goin’ to let you make it in alone,” he said in low tones.
“You’ll find two detectives there—Sangerly’s men. Jest holler, an’
they’ll come out. Don’t tell nobody about meetin’ me or about the
shootin’ or anythin’. You understand? If they ask questions, jest
say Quintell’s men shot you, an’ that a friend took you in, an’ give
you a hoss.”
“I’ll certainly never forget you, old man, for what you’ve done,”
replied the other. “My name is Dick Lennox. I’m a mining engineer,
and any time I can be of service to you, why——But who am I indebted
to? What is your name?”
“There’ll be a doctor out here in an hour. You kin trust him. If
you’ll hang the bridle rein over the horn of the saddle, she’ll come
back to me. Mollie, git a-goin’!” he added, slapping the animal on
the flanks.
A few minutes later, when Detective Coates came out to turn the
horse into the field, after he and his partner had carried Lennox
into the house, he found it gone. In the distance, toward
Geerusalem, he heard it galloping along, and concluded that, in
obedience to its natural instincts, it was returning home.