Meanwhile, Billy Gee had reached his horse tethered conveniently
near by and struck out across the plains. It was still early
evening, the sky thick-strewn with brilliant stars. He rode along
for a short distance, then stopped and listened for sounds of
pursuit. He waited for some time and, convincing himself that
Sheriff Warburton had not believed a night pursuit worth while, set
his course for Geerusalem. From the distant camp came the thunder of
stamp mills grinding loose the yellow treasure from the clinging
pulp. A foraging coyote, miles off, yelped dismally.
As he galloped on, Billy Gee laughed. Again he had outwitted the
doughty sheriff of San Buenaventura County. There was a reckless
pride in the thought. He felt the spur of hazard over the
achievement—an urge to do something rash for the mere pleasure of
doing it, to make those denizens of Soapweed Plains sit up and take
notice and marvel at his daringness. It was a consuming, impelling
fascination.
He gazed up at the stars. It was a “large” night out, he told
himself, and he felt fit as a fiddle. Yes, sir, he would ride into
Geerusalem and give it the once over, before returning to Blue Mud
Spring and the faithful companionship of old Tinnemaha Pete.
Anyway, he reflected complacently, he had arranged it so Tinnemaha
would get possession of the bonanza hill. Poor old Tinnemaha, his
one friend, had worked hard, slaved for what he had found. And they
were partners—partners of the richest ground in the district! In the
last two days they had uncovered a pay chute that the desertarian
vowed was rich beyond the conception of prospectordom. They would
sell the claims outright, fifty-fifty the money, and leave Soapweed
Plains forever.
There were a lot of fairer and more congenial climes to which he
himself could go. Sheriff Warburton would never let him alone, would
never stop until he had tracked him down and headed him for the
penitentiary. And yet, he was going straight now, had been going
straight ever since that wonderful night in the Huntington hayloft,
when Dot had called him a “poor, wounded wild animal.” Funny how he
had needed just that one little bit of interest from a girl to make
him change. He had promised her and he had made good, thanks to that
grand old wheel horse Tinnemaha Pete, and that grandest little
mother who stuck to him heroically, though he had blighted her life
with heartaches. He had been such a no-account cur these last three
years.
He reached the road, turned into it, and followed it, musing. He
recalled that his mother had written him that Dot was working on a
novel about Billy Gee. As he let his mind dwell on the thought, he
felt the blood warm in his veins. His heart beat faster. Yes, sir,
he decided, Dot must surely get an education—for was not an
education necessary to write books? He was pretty certain it was,
considering it was a painful piece of work for him to write so
common a thing as a letter. And there must be a girl in that novel.
Who was she? Did Billy Gee come wounded to the ranch, and was he
cared for by the girl friend of his mother? There was the arrival of
that persistent sheriff, Bob Warburton. And did the wonderful girl
hide the wounded bandit in her room?
From speculating thus, he presently became possessed with the desire
to see Dot. He wanted to hear her voice again, those musical tones
of hers that he had never forgotten. His being craved for the pity
she poured out to him, her splendid sympathy for him, her
understanding of him. Besides, he knew he could give her so many
interesting sidelights into Billy Gee’s career, that he was sure she
could use to advantage in her novel. For instance, how he had risked
two trips to San Francisco to inquire after her; how he had called
on his mother one night, while Dot was asleep, and confessed his
love for the girl; how he had met his boyhood chum, Lex Sangerly, on
the branch-road line of survey a few days ago, and conversed with
him for half an hour without being recognized; how he was keeping
his promise—going the straight and narrow for her sake.
The staccato sound of an open muffler in the distance back of him,
interrupted his trend of thought. He glanced over his shoulder and
saw the twin lights of an automobile coming from the direction of
the Huntington ranch. He was not certain whose car it was. Sangerly,
he knew, had driven toward Mirage at sundown, for he had been
watching from afar and had seen him go. He believed that the
oncoming car was the one which had stopped at the ranch while he was
making his escape. Doubtless Warburton, by some means or another,
had discovered the way he went and was seeking——No, that couldn’t be
it. More than likely, it was Warburton hurrying to camp to organize
a posse. That would be the average sheriff’s method of working;
never single-handed—always twenty to one, playing safe.
He looked ahead. He had reached the mouth of Geerusalem Gulch. A
mile or so away, a few scattered lights twinkled, indicating the
outskirts of the settlement. The old rock shack, where he had
rescued Lennox from the Quintell gunmen, lay within pistol-shot
distance. It was a little too far off to make it unobserved, for it
just might be that the powerful headlights of the approaching
machine would reveal him. He could not afford to take a chance.
Spurring out of the road, he steered for a thick patch of brush near
by. He brought his horse to a halt behind it, swung from the saddle,
and waited, screened by the heavy foliage. The machine came dashing
up the road. As it got abreast of the hiding place, it slowed down,
and the headlights were switched off.
Mystified, Billy Gee crouched low to the ground, watching the
blue-black sky line, and gripped his revolver. Presently he heard
the crunch of gravel underfoot. He saw the shadowlike figure of a
man pass stealthily over the wash and vanish into the gloom.
“That you, Mr. Quintell?” suddenly came the low voice of another
man, some distance away.
A curse broke from the newcomer. “You damn boob! Are you trying to
advertise this thing? Come over here!”
A short pause followed, broken only by the sound of footsteps
blundering over the rocky wash.
Quintell spoke again: “Is it all right? Did you do exactly as I
said—the width of two claims?”
“Yes, sir. But I’m not—I did the best I could about marking the
spots. It’s too dark to see, and a pile of stones might excite
suspicion. I was afraid to strike matches.”
“Did you use up all the dust? How many spots are there?”
“Twenty-two. Yes, I used it all. That ought to be enough for an
assay test, I’d imagine—taking a little from each, you understand. I
distributed it so as to lead one to conclude that the entire gulch
prospects.”
“Let’s see one of the spots,” said Quintell curtly. “This business
has to go through without a hitch. The slightest hesitation would
mean failure. He’d become suspicious. You’ll have to go about the
job of picking the test gravel naturally. Make it appear that you’re
doing it haphazardly.”
Billy Gee heard them moving about, and curious to ascertain more
concerning what he knew to be a deliberate “salting” of worthless
ground for the purpose of selling it to some tenderfoot, he crept
after them. Soon he had made his way to within a few yards of them.
They were fumbling among the boulders. The broker growled
impatiently and struck a match. He shielded it with his hands so
that the light flashed downward, showing a diminutive monument of
two rocks, one laid upon the other. The match went out.
“That’ll do fine,” muttered Quintell. “They’re all like that, are
they? Now, as I said, Harrison, you’re to take charge of the
samples. I might not be able to get word to you to-morrow. Follow
the right of way, as near as possible. That’ll be the first test.
The other can be taken from any part of the gulch. I’m not dead sure
of this fellow, see? I found out this afternoon that he’s been
making inquiries about Jerome Liggs. It may be that he’s wise to the
strike and that he’s after the Huntington ranch, as a side issue.
Just because he’s a railroad man, don’t mean that he’d pass up a
bonanza, by any means.”
“You saw Huntington, of course?” said Harrison. “I dare say you had
matters all your own way?”
“I certainly did not—damn him! He laughed at me. I offered him ten
thousand for his brush ranch—think of that!—and he fussed and
giggled, and ended finally by telling me that his daughter and he
had agreed not to sell. I’ve seen the time when the old devil would
have sold his soul for a copper penny, if he could have jammed his
girl through college. He’s got a few beans, to-day, and—by the way,
Harrison, she’s a fancy skirt, and I hear she’s writing a novel with
your Uncle Dudley as one of the characters. Believe me, I’m dropping
in on her the very next trip to Frisco! Nothing like evincing
interest, you know.
“At that, I might have put the screws to Huntington and forced the
sale, if it hadn’t been for Sheriff Warburton. He was there, the big
bonehead. He rambled in while I sat there, check book in hand, and
eyed me like something the cat dragged in. He hates me for fair.
Let’s get to camp. I’m starting the boys after Huntington. I’ve
given him his chance. Now he takes what he gets.”
Billy Gee, listening, heard the two men moving off toward the car,
and followed them cautiously through the darkness.
“The proper thing, sir,” agreed Harrison. “By the way, did you
ascertain if Lennox is stopping there?”
“I’m not certain. That will be for Rankin to find out. But here’s
the situation, so far as Warburton and Huntington are concerned: As
I was going into the ranch, Billy Gee, the bandit—he’s back in the
country—was coming out. I don’t know what he was doing—talking to
Huntington, I imagine. Warburton was snooping around the house after
him and nailed me instead of him. The point is, we’ll circulate the
news that Billy Gee was staying at the ranch—hiding out, you
understand. In other words, we’ll frame Huntington, make him out the
outlaw’s friend, and the long hairs of the camp won’t make a cheep
at the action of a vigilance committee. If we work it smoothly,
we’ll have them with us. Here comes a machine. Quick! Run! Follow
me!”
Speeding down the road from the direction of the settlement, the
lights of an automobile appeared, visible now and again over the
boulders and clumps of brush. Quintell and his secretary dashed for
their car, sprang in, and went careening off for camp. Billy Gee
stood and watched the two machines whirl by each other. He stood in
the grip of conflicting emotions. The broker’s insulting reference
to Dot had been sufficient in itself to whip him into a murderous
fury, but the very urge he had felt to kill the fellow on the spot
had been restrained by an overwhelming discovery which he had made a
moment before.
Just now, he gazed vaguely through the night after the tail light
disappearing in the gloom of Geerusalem Gulch. Presently he tore his
eyes away from it to look at the other machine. It was approaching
at moderate speed, bouncing and swaying over the rough road. Of a
sudden, as it went bowling past him, a girl’s silvery laughter smote
his ears. The sound electrified him. He caught his breath, and his
body stiffened like steel. He thought he could make out the forms of
two women in the rear seat; the man driving wore the regulation
chauffeur’s cap.
The machine whirled on, and for many minutes he stared after it,
until it was swallowed up in the darkness toward the Huntington
ranch. He roused himself finally. It must be _she_, and that was his
mother with her. But why had they come? His heart began singing
within him. He threw back his head and smiled up at the stars. It
was a “large” night out, sure enough; but there was nothing in
Geerusalem to attract him.
Then his mind turned to what he had just overheard between Quintell
and Harrison, and a low whistle broke from him as he realized the
vast importance of the information he possessed. “This powerful
rogue, Jule Quintell, was preparing to sell salted ground to the
Mohave & Southwestern Railroad Company. To rob that company—not
openly as he had done—but stealthily, perfidiously, under the guise
of fair dealing. To-night, Quintell proposed to crush Huntington
too, to drive Dot’s father out of the country—probably kill him, as
had been done to others. He wanted the Billy Geerusalem claims, did
he? So, Mister Quintell believed it would be as easy as all
that—simply a matter of taking over the ranch and ousting Tinnemaha
Pete and himself? After they had found this big bonanza, Quintell
intended grabbing it, eh?”
He walked over to his horse presently and mounted. He was chuckling
harshly. He held Jule Quintell in the hollow of his hand. The one
menace now was Sheriff Warburton. Yes, Warburton was a menace, but
there was a way of winning him over, the only way. He turned his
horse about and went spurring off through the darkness for Blue Mud
Spring.
That voice! That face he had glimpsed by the light of the match!
“It’s a large night out, believe me!” he muttered grimly.