The Lennox episode threw the forces that governed Geerusalem into a
vengeful attitude, not unmixed with doubt, and set working the
stealthy brotherhood under Big George Rankin to ascertain who had
aided the mining engineer, not only in escaping assassination and
mysteriously disappearing, but in killing four of the element’s most
daring and dependable gunmen. But far-reaching and thorough though
the investigation proved, not the least light was shed on the
matter. All that there seemed to be to the incident was that the
four had been found dead on the road, near the mouth of Geerusalem
Gulch, a hundred yards or more from a deserted cabin, and that
Lennox, unarmed, according to the statement of the man who had given
him temporary refuge in his office, had got away.
What gave the occurrence a sinister aspect and set the Quintell gang
guessing, was the fact that this was the first time a plot of theirs
had miscarried, with such disastrous results—the first time their
assassins had been wiped out to the last man. Lennox, it was argued,
given guns and ammunition could not have possibly shot four men
without being killed. Besides, it was known that he was ignorant in
the use of firearms. He had received help then. Doubtless, he had
led the four into a trap to be slaughtered. By whom? Could it be
possible that the decent citizenry of the camp had organized, that
they had launched a secret war of extermination with a view of
shattering the power of the element? Was the Quintell dictatorship
threatened? These and other questions were discussed by the brains
of the camp’s control at a conference held in the Brokers’ Exchange
Building and laughed at by their big, arrogant leader.
“Let them organize!” he whipped out harshly, his hard eyes sweeping
the circle seated around the conference table. “Let them start
heckling the combination, if they think they’re lucky! We’ll take
them down the line! If they’re looking for blood we’ll swim the camp
in it. I’m handling the thing, see? We’re going to ascertain
conditions, then we’ll strike suddenly. They won’t have a chance.
The first matter to be cleared up is Lennox, the damned traitor
knows too much. He must be found and stopped. It’s worth five
thousand dollars to us to put him where he can’t talk. I have his
Pasadena home address, and men will leave on the night train to get
him, if he’s gone there. Others are investigating the scene of the
killing to see if they can pick up his trail. We’ll get him. We have
to get him, or he’ll get us. Once he begins spouting and that
moss-back grand jury begins digging around up here, we may as well
begin jumping into Mexico.”
At the conclusion of the meeting and just as his confederates were
preparing to depart, Quintell said:
“Huntington has returned home, and the two railroad detectives are
in camp with their baggage. I’ve been informed by the Western Union
night operator they were wired to return to Los Angeles. Huntington
is alone at the ranch. That means, the ranch is ours. I’ll have the
quit-claim by midnight to-night. In the morning, Rankin will rush a
bunch of men out there to attend to Peter Boyd and Jerome Liggs. By
the way, does anybody know where Huntington’s daughter is staying in
Frisco? Well, no matter. I’ll find out. If the old bum don’t come
through decent, he gets the limit. The new strike, gentlemen, is as
good as ours.”
When they were gone, Quintell sat back in his swivel chair and began
glancing through a fistful of that day’s mail. He halted over one
letter, frowned at it a moment, and pressed the buzzer under the
edge of his desk. That letter bore the signature: “Lex Sangerly,
Division Superintendent, M. & S. R. R. Co.”
The door leading into the outer offices opened, and a tall
hawk-eyed, middle-aged man entered. He came forward with long,
noiseless strides, watching his employer over his glasses.
“Harrison, how about this?” snapped Quintell, handing over
Sangerly’s letter to the other. “The date! Look at the date! It’s
ten days since we received——”
“Permit me, Mr. Quintell,” broke in Harrison suavely. “You
instructed me to file it, pending receipt of certificates of record
from the county recorder, if you will remember. They came to-day,
sir. The surveyors will complete their work this afternoon, I
understand. In fact, the only thing remaining to be done is to draw
up papers of incorporation of the Lucky Boy Placer Company, if that
is the name you have decided on for the group.”
“Draw them up immediately! Rush them through! That name will do as
well as any other. On your way out, send me in a stenographer to
take dictation.”
“Pardon, Mr. Quintell.” The man hesitated. “But if you intend to
answer Mr. Sangerly’s letter—er—you were in conference, sir, and I
wouldn’t disturb you. He’s out there, waiting to speak with you.”
The other stared, then rose slowly to his feet. “Sangerly? Are you
sure?”
“Yes, sir. Division superintendent of the——”
A curse broke from Quintell. He stood with his powerful hands
resting on the desk, his penetrating coal-black eyes playing slowly
over the room for a few moments.
“I want them to find gold on the Lucky Boy, Harrison, understand?”
he said in low, harsh tones, gazing intently at the man. “I want you
to go out there this evening, see? You know the vicinity of the
proposed right of way. Salt it! The thing must be done thoroughly,
cleverly. Salt it, in patches, on either side of the bench marks.
Mark those patches. When I take Sangerly out there in the morning,
you come along with us. It’ll be up to you to take samples of the
ground. Those samples must wash gold, understand?
“I’m leaving this matter to you, Harrison. If we put over this deal
you get a thousand-dollar bonus and a substantial salary increase.
But there must be no slip. When you do business with a railroad
company you’re going against the real thing. Remember that! They’ve
got the dough and they’re wise as hell.” He turned abruptly and,
going over to a large safe on the opposite side of the room, took
from its interior a wide-mouthed bottle containing several ounces of
placer gold. “Here’s your salt. Use it all if you have to, but make
a good job of it,” he added, giving Harrison the bottle. “You have
your instructions. See that you follow them. Now, show him in.”
The man bowed respectfully and left the room.
Lex Sangerly, in obedience to a telegram received from his father,
had left San Francisco hurriedly and arrived in Geerusalem that
morning. Motoring out to the Huntington ranch, he found Coates and
Tyler preparing to leave for the south, temporarily called away from
the Billy Gee chase to take up some work of more immediate
importance. Lex had a long talk with Lennox, as the latter lay
stretched out in bed, his leg in a plaster cast, and from what the
mining engineer told him, concluded that far from exaggerating the
ruthlessness and power of the Quintell combination, Mrs. Liggs, in
her warning to him had quite obviously given him but the barest
glimpse of existing conditions. Lemuel, attired in a rakishly-cut
corduroy suit and the best that money could buy in buckled boots,
smoked his cigar with amazing dignity and talked cattle raising with
Lex, like the owner of ten thousand herds.
Driving the two detectives to camp, Sangerly bade them good-by and
steered his roadster up through the jam of traffic to the Brokers’
Exchange Building. Now, at Harrison’s invitation, he entered
Quintell’s inner office and waited, while the boss of Geerusalem,
without deigning his visitor so much as a glance, finished perusing
his mail. He sat back finally and trained his piercing, black eyes
on the other.
“Mr. Sangerly, I presume,” he began, with cold business courtesy,
and paused awkwardly as he recognized in his caller the stranger
with whom he had collided on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Liggs’
store one evening some weeks before.
He got up out of his chair now and approached Lex, smiling
deprecatingly, his hand extended.
“Mr. Sangerly, I owe you my humblest apology as regards my rude
behavior on the occasion of our first meeting. I have worried
considerably about it and have made inquiries in an effort to learn
your name and whereabouts. The fact that I had been drinking does
not, of course, excuse my conduct. However, I sincerely hope you
will forgive me for insulting you as I did. I am extremely sorry,
sir.”
“The incident is past and, so far as I am concerned, forgotten, Mr.
Quintell,” said Lex pleasantly. “I, in turn, am sorry that you let
it bother you for, to be candid, I haven’t given it a second
thought.”
Quintell drew up a chair before his desk, motioned the other into
it, and resumed his own. He brought out a box of choice cigars and
held a lighted match for his visitor.
“You doubtless surmise my errand, Mr. Quintell,” said Lex presently.
“It is in relation to——”
“For the second time, I must ask you to bear with me,” broke in
Quintell, picking up the letter he had discussed with Harrison.
“Through a regrettable oversight on the part of my secretary, your
communication was not called to my attention until fifteen mintes
ago. You should have had an answer a week since.”
“It hardly matters. I have been away from the office since I wrote
you,” said Lex and added: “To get down to business, Mr. Quintell, I
see that your surveyors are going ahead, that you seem disposed to
block construction of a branch line into Geerusalem.”
“Discourage the coming of the railroad!” burst out the other. “Why,
Mr. Sangerly, I’m not altogether a madman! I want the railroad. The
camp is a unit for it. It spells progress, greater industry, greater
opportunity!”
Lex nodded. “My father, who is Western manager of the road,
instructed me to speak with you quite plainly on the matter. To
begin, every landowner along the entire fifty-three miles of
proposed line, from the station of Mirage to Geerusalem, has granted
us the privilege of a right of way for the asking. Coöperation has
been extended to us on every hand. We were encouraged and we
proceeded with construction. Almost twenty miles of track have been
laid out of Mirage.
“To-day, at this end, we are confronted with a situation that, were
it not so grave in its ultimate results, would be ridiculous to a
degree. I refer to that old, abandoned group of claims—the Lucky Boy
group, I believe you called them in your letter—which has suddenly
come to life. As we both know, they are located across the mouth of
Geerusalem Gulch, boasting as their only improvements a dilapidated
twelve-foot-square shack. We have learned that you and seven other
men have quite recently filed on these claims, as placer ground.
Since the proposed branch must cross this ground of yours to reach
the terminal site here in camp, we assume your action was taken with
the deliberate intention of making us come to you. Now, the point
is, Mr. Quintell, do you gentlemen propose to grant us the same
right of way privileges we have been receiving, or are you simply
out to hold us up?”
It was a blunt question, but Quintell laughed it away in his gayest
manner.
“My dear Mr. Sangerly, you are utterly in error. You don’t seem to
view the situation from the right angle. In much the same way, not
being a railroad man, I myself cannot fully appreciate your method
of reasoning. Just for instance, what would you say if I told you
that the Lucky Boy group is perhaps one of the richest placer-gold
deposits discovered in California in the last twenty years?”
He had risen and was standing before his visitor, his hands thrust
into his pockets, his shrewd eyes fixed on Lex.
“Of course,” he qualified impressively, “when I say richest, please
don’t mistake my meaning. Indications on the surface are such as to
leave no doubt that gold is present in enormous quantities. This,
Mr. Sangerly, is an actual fact. Moreover, I will prove the truth of
my statement whenever it suits your convenience.”
Lex regarded him in silence for some seconds. “How long since you
made this discovery?” he asked at last.
“About two weeks ago. We’ve been keeping it quiet—which is a hard
thing to do in a mining camp. We’ve had men looking up the records
to be certain that we were not going up against a hang-fire title
and subsequent litigation. To-morrow we intend to plaster the front
pages of the newspapers with the story. Armed guards will be placed
on the property to protect it from claim jumpers.” He paused,
dropped back into his chair, and nursed one knee in his hands. “So,
Mr. Sangerly, you surely must appreciate our reluctance in complying
with your company’s request for permission to lay tracks across this
ground. It is far too valuable, we believe. Frankly, it is a
question of money with us, and you can scarcely criticize us if we
regard the matter from a purely financial standpoint. But to say
that we are deliberately trying to hold your people up, that
statement, Mr. Sangerly, is both uncalled for and unkind.”
Lex lit his cigar thoughtfully. He frowned at the elaborate rug at
his feet. Quintell watched him intently.
“Of course, if my company desired a right of way over the Lucky Boy
group badly enough you would grant it the privilege of purchase—for
a reasonable figure?” said Lex presently. “You just stated that the
railroad would prove a big asset to the camp.”
“In view of the fact that my partners and myself have interests here
that would be indirectly benefited by better transportation
facilities, yes, we would be glad to consider such a purchase. You
must understand, Mr. Sangerly, that we have no fight with your
company. The whole thing is a cold business proposition. If you know
the difference between lode and placer mining you must realize that
the latter’s workable area is strictly surface. Such being the case,
a railroad bed passing over gold-bearing gravel——”
“Approximately, what would it stand us to get a single-track right
of way over this ground, Mr. Quintell? I would like to wire
immediate word to my people,” broke in Lex.
The other rubbed his heavy chin thoughtfully. “The price would have
to be based on the valuation per cubic yard of pay dirt over which
the roadbed must of necessity have to pass. This strip, as you can
readily see, would be lost to development; we could not work it.
Samples of the gravel would be taken and a thorough assayer’s test
made to ascertain its average gold-bearing value. On the whole, Mr.
Sangerly, we want only what is legitimately coming to us—no more, no
less.”
Lex rose to go. “In my opinion, you should encourage the
construction of this branch line rather than place an obstacle in
the way of its building. At best it is only a venture, depending
entirely on the continued prosperity of Geerusalem, and it is
costing more per mile than any strip of road the company has laid in
years. I’d like to look over this placer ground, Mr. Quintell—that
is, take samples of the gravel. When would it be convenient for you
to accompany me?”
“I was about to suggest that you come here about—say, ten o’clock,
to-morrow morning. A party of us are motoring down there, and I’d be
happy to have you join us,” said Quintell genially, getting to his
feet. “Allow me also to extend to you the hospitality of my home
while you are here, Mr. Sangerly. The hotels are abominable. I have
a modern little bungalow, an extra room, and all the city’s
conveniences—including a Japanese chef, who is really a culinary
artist.” He laughed.
“That’s indeed a tempting invitation, and I’d snap it up if it
weren’t for the fact that I’m pretty comfortably established at the
Huntington ranch,” said Lex.
Quintell’s black eyes opened in genuine surprise. “Well! So you’re a
friend of old Lem’s, too? There’s a corking fine type of Westerner
for you, Sangerly. Too bad it’s dying out, going the way of the
traditional hospitality of the West. While I think of it, how is
Miss Dot getting on?”
“Remarkably well. She has taken up a number of special summer
courses at the University of California and is forging right ahead.”
Lex paused and added with a smile: “She’s bent on immortalizing
Geerusalem and Soapweed Plains. She’s writing a novel.”
“A novel?” echoed Quintell, interested.
“Nothing less, and on no more romantic a personage than Billy Gee,
the bandit. There are other notables in the story, for instance,
yourself, myself, the wildcat bunch, Mrs. Agatha Liggs, who used to
keep the little dry-goods store, Sheriff Warburton, and a lot of
others. I’ll wager she’ll dispose of five thousand copies in this
section alone. Besides, it is quite probable my company will
purchase several thousand for advertising purposes.”
Quintell looked pleased. “She can count on me for five hundred; you
may tell Lem that. Your mention of Mrs. Liggs reminds me—do you
happen to know if she’s related to a Jerome Liggs?”
Lex stopped in the act of putting on his hat. The other was quick to
note the odd look that came into his eyes.
“Jerome was her son,” he said slowly. “Why do you ask? I’m just a
little curious.”
“Do you mean that he’s dead? You said—_was_ her son?” countered
Quintell adroitly. But his manner was plainly skeptical, and Lex saw
it.
“That is what I’ve been told. It isn’t possible that you’ve heard——”
“Oh, no! Some days ago I happened to run across an old transaction
in which his name appeared. There was a sum of money
involved—nothing to speak of, though,” lied Quintell glibly.
But Sangerly did not believe him. As he walked out of the Brokers’
Exchange Building, he reviewed the matter in his mind and decided to
reopen the subject with Quintell in the morning. Could Mrs. Liggs
have deceived him regarding Jerome’s death? Could it really be that
she had deliberately lied—Mrs. Liggs, the most upstanding, the best
little woman he had ever known? He would not allow himself to
believe it. The very thought was a sacrilege. And yet he remembered
now that she had never so much as mentioned Jerome’s name, since the
day he met her at the store, when, seated in the living room, he had
inquired after his boyhood chum. Indeed, now that he recalled that
meeting, it did seem as if she had acted strangely and that she had
scarcely referred to her son as a bereaved mother would; and if any
mother ever loved her son, it was Mrs. Liggs.
Thinking thus, he made his way down the crowded street to the
Miners’ Hotel, called for his mail, and arranged with Merriman, the
proprietor, to hold his room for him as headquarters for railroad
officials who would visit the camp from time to time. As he turned
to walk out of the hotel office, a copy of that afternoon’s
_Searchlight_ lying on the desk caught his eye. He glanced at it
idly, then stared; and his bewilderment grew as he read the double
column of black-face type, announcing what was reported to be a
rumor that Tinnemaha Pete Boyd and Jerome Liggs, prospectors, had
made the sensational gold strike of the year. The account,
conforming with the style so popular among certain newspapers to
swell their sales, was staggering to the eye but hazy as to details,
and merely hinted that the new bonanza was situated in a range
southwest of camp.
Now, while the coincidental appearance of the name of the man of
whom he had just been thinking, dumfounded Lex for the moment, it
had a diametrically opposite effect on Jule Quintell when he saw it.
Following Sangerly’s departure, the boss of Geerusalem had settled
back in his chair and fallen into moody reflection.
“It just might be that this old fossil, Tinnemaha Pete, entered the
son’s name in those claim notices, instead of the mother’s,” he
muttered to himself. “Sangerly says he’s dead, and he spoke as if he
knew. Well, nothing like being sure.” He reached for a pencil and
pad and wrote:
Jerome Liggs, wanted for robbery of Marysville city treasury three
years ago, is operating claims on Lemuel Huntington ranch near
Geerusalem.
Leaving the note unsigned he read it over grimly and rang for
Harrison. That individual came bolting into the room almost
instantly, carrying in one outflung hand a copy of the _Searchlight_
and banging the door after him.
“McQuaid’s spilled the beans!” he cried. “Look at this, sir! He
published the story of the strike—the Huntington ranch story, sir!”
Quintell glared at his secretary in unbelief; then his big body
stiffened, and his face purpled with rage. He tore the paper from
the other’s grasp and skimmed through the account with flaming eyes.
A frightful oath burst from him.
“Damn him! The bonehead! Another traitor!” he sputtered savagely.
“I’ll teach the fool a lesson. He’ll pay for this——” He snatched the
receiver off the telephone and called up the _Searchlight_ editorial
rooms. A man’s voice answered presently.
“Hello! This you, McQuaid?”
“Mr. McQuaid is no longer here. Is there anything I can do——”
“What do you mean—no longer there? Say, who is this talking? I said,
McQuaid—the editor. Tell him Quintell wants him.”
“I got you the first time, friend,” was the quiet reply. “Mr.
McQuaid sold out this morning. The _Searchlight_ is under new
management.”
Quintell took a slow breath. His rage cooled. “This is rather
unexpected news. I wasn’t prepared for it. May I ask who bought him
out?”
“Los Angeles people. We are reorganizing the paper, making a change
in policy, and all that sort of thing.”
“I see,” said Quintell and added: “Is there any truth to that Boyd
and Liggs gold-strike story? I see you’ve featured it.”
“Why, we’re trying to verify the report. I’d say it looks the
goods.”
Quintell chuckled, but his eyes were smoldering venomously. “Who
started the rumor—got any idea?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Quintell, but we do not divulge our sources of
information,” said the other.
“Oh, certainly—certainly. Beg pardon. I should have known better. I
assume you’re the new editor?”
“Yes—Babcock. I have heard a lot about you, Mr. Quintell, and hope
to have the pleasure of meeting you——”
“The pleasure will be mutual, Mr. Babcock,” said Quintell
significantly, as he hung up.
For some moments the boss of Geerusalem sat motionless, his gaze
riveted on that prominently displayed first-page story which he and
his confederates had guarded so carefully for weeks past against
circulation, while they bided their time until Lemuel Huntington
should return to the solitude of his ranch and, under the influence
of their power, be forced to part with his holdings. Quintell knew
positively that whoever tipped the story off to the _Searchlight’s_
new management was well aware that the strike was on Huntington’s
land. An attempt to verify the rumor would result, Quintell was
certain, in the location of the bonanza and all the details
appearing, possibly in the very next issue of this paper over which
he and his gang had, with mysterious suddenness, lost all control.
Huntington would see the account, public attention would be focused
on the Huntington ranch, and Quintell & Co. would have to pay a
fancy price if they hoped to acquire the property.
Following a short interval of black reflection, Quintell sprang out
of his chair and stormed about his office. Harrison stood, toying
nervously with a pencil, watching his master.
“McQuaid sold us out—the rat!” roared the broker. “He had the
details. He got his price and crossed us, the cur! Jumped out of
camp before we could——”
“He may not have, sir,” interrupted the secretary suavely. “McQuaid
never impressed me as being that type.”
“No? Who, then? Who, then? These prospectors, who have no legal
rights? What a chance!”
“You forget, Mr. Quintell, that Dick Lennox also knew, and he evaded
capture.”
The other stopped in his furious pacing and wheeled, fastening his
penetrating black eyes on Harrison. He started to speak, then
changed his mind. His lips parted in a cold, triumphant smile.
“If Lennox is still in the country I’ll know it in half an hour,” he
said at last. “Wherever he is, I’ll know. I should have thought of
this before—fool, that I am!” He strode over to his desk, picked up
the unsigned note he had written, and handed it to the secretary.
“Here, wire this to Sheriff Warburton, at the county seat! See that
it can’t be traced back to us. Get Rankin up here as soon as you
can. This cocky new editor will never print the verification of that
story, Harrison. You can gamble on that! And listen: Don’t forget
that little job you have at the Lucky Boy to-night. I’m driving out
to Huntington’s around eight and I’ll be coming away from there not
later than nine thirty. If you’ll wait for me I’ll pick you up on my
way in. We’re putting over these two propositions,
Harrison—possession of the new strike claims and sale of the Lucky
Boy group—if we have to go to hell to do it.”
“I quite agree with you, sir,” said the other as he left the room.
True to his boast, half an hour afterward—following a brief talk
with the town constable over the telephone—Quintell got proof that
Lennox was in hiding in the district. The official reported in
person to say that, as the broker had suggested, he had gone to the
post office and, representing that Lennox was being investigated in
connection with a felony charge and that he wished to ascertain the
fellow’s whereabouts, had learned from the postmaster that the
mining engineer’s mail had been turned over to Lex Sangerly that
very afternoon, on presentation by the latter of a written request
signed by Lennox.
Since Sangerly had told him that he was staying at the Huntington
ranch, Quintell decided that it was the logical place to look for
the man who had betrayed the confidence of the gang.