When Lex was gone, Dot gave the sympathetic hotel man the details of
the raid on the ranch, omitting nothing except the fact of her
father’s abduction and subsequent rescue; for she believed it unwise
at this time when Lemuel was being accused of having friendly
relations with Billy Gee, to mention the important part—heroic and
praiseworthy though it was—the latter had played in the night’s
events. She was positive that the raiders themselves would keep
silent on the matter, if for no other reason than to cover up the
lawlessness of their own act.
“But have you any proof that Quintell is at the bottom of this
persecution, Dot?” asked Merriman, when she concluded.
“No. Not direct proof, but——”
“In that case, I wouldn’t make any rash move. If you have him
arrested, it will simply aggravate the situation. You’d be worse off
for it. Right now, Quintell is a power in Geerusalem. He is the new
president of the Mining Exchange, besides. His clique is in absolute
control. You couldn’t get a person to believe your charges. I’d
advise you to wait—talk it over with Warburton first.”
“But, Mr. Merriman, this whole thing is a plot to ruin us,” cried
the girl. “I don’t know why. We have never had dealings with the
people of this camp, except to patronize the stores, and all our
bills are paid. In the light of what happened last night, would you
have us fold our hands and let them do what they seem bent on
doing—force us to leave the country?”
Merriman patted her shoulder paternally. “I’m sure it’s not as bad
as all that, Dot,” he said with a smile. “Things will adjust
themselves, I know. Right now, the prudent course to pursue is to
say nothing and see that your father remains away for a while.”
Dot gazed significantly at him a moment, then she said: “Quintell
was out to see father early last evening. He wanted to buy the
ranch. He offered better than thirty dollars an acre—ten thousand
dollars. Would you pay that much for the Huntington ranch, Mr.
Merriman, just as it stands?”
The man’s eyes opened wide with surprise. He whistled softly and
replied, with a shrewd nod of his head: “So that’s it! I think I see
the scheme, Dot—and it is a scheme. Something about your father’s
ranch has made it valuable to Jule. And it’s mineral—nothing less.
I’d say it was pretty good, because he never bothers with anything
that isn’t pretty good. He’s liable to go the limit, Dot. Perhaps I
shouldn’t say it, but he can be mighty dirty in his methods.”
“You might be right, but I don’t think he wants the ranch for the
mineral that may be on it,” said the girl. “I am sure he has some
other object. Did you ever hear talk of a resort, to be established
a few miles out of camp?”
“Do you mean a summer resort?”
“Yes, something on that order.”
He smiled. “I was discussing with Harrison, Quintell’s secretary,
some weeks ago, the possibility of starting such an enterprise. He
seemed interested—enthusiastic, I might say. I believe we mentioned
your father’s ranch as one of the sites. Of course, you understand,
we were just speculating. While a resort would be a veritable mint
once it got going, the initial investment would be prohibitive so
far as I’m concerned. Why do you ask?”
Dot’s eyes glowed on him. “Mr. Merriman, if I entertained any doubts
as to whether Quintell had a hand in last night’s outrage, you have
dispelled them,” she said. Thereupon, she related to him the
particulars of Dick Lennox’s visit to her and Lemuel at the Golden
West Hotel in San Francisco.
They were still talking when Lex returned. He announced that he had
dispatched a machine to bring Mrs. Liggs to camp, and instructed the
driver to tell Warburton—in the event the latter was at the
ranch—that Dot wished to see him immediately. Moreover, he had sent
a cowboy riding for Blue Mud Springs, with a letter counseling
Lemuel to remain in hiding, as well as requesting Warburton’s
presence in Geerusalem.
While Dot and Lex were at breakfast in the hotel dining room, six
horsemen rode singly out of camp. They were armed. They were old in
the game of hip-shooting—practiced in the grim art of killing. They
could keep a can dancing in midair as long as loaded six-shooters
held out. In the pocket of each was a neat little roll of bills,
slipped there by Jule Quintell’s right bower, Harrison. Their
instructions were to seize the hill on the Huntington ranch, destroy
the location monuments and notices on what were known as the Billy
Geerusalem group of claims—locators, Tinnemaha Pete Boyd and Jerome
Liggs—and relocate over their own signatures.
Reposing in Quintell’s safe in the Broker’s Exchange Building were
deeds signed in advance by the six, which transferred what they
intended to get possession of to the boss of Geerusalem and his
associates. The deep motive beneath this move, however, was the
death of Jerome Liggs and Tinnemaha Pete. That Dot’s father escaped
a similar sentence was due, not entirely to Quintell’s hesitation to
take so rash a step, as to the fact that, after hearing the report
of the vigilantes’ work as given by Big George Rankin, the
broker—following a furious scene in his office—had arrived at the
conclusion that the havoc wrought at the ranch coupled with the
terror with which Huntington and his daughter must be now inspired,
sufficed to force them into a position to meet his terms for the
purchase of the ranch.
But of his contemplated cold-blooded murder of the discoverers of
the rich Billy Geerusalem strike, Quintell said nothing to his
associates. Their putting away had nothing directly to do with this
obvious act of dispossession. As has been said, Huntington owned the
land on which the bonanza find had been made; the broker knew this
and, in consequence, realized only too well that legal right to it
must come from its owner, who, it must be remembered, had not the
remotest idea of the fabulous treasure buried in the bleak, solitary
hill west of his home.
Meanwhile, Quintell was busy stirring up public sentiment in the
camp against Huntington. He had called a meeting the night before
and charged that Billy Gee, the outlaw, had been found in hiding on
the Huntington ranch. While he had not seen the bandit, Quintell
gave a graphic account of an exciting chase after that elusive
person, which had terminated when Sheriff Warburton mistook him for
Billy Gee in the darkness, and dragged him into the house, resulting
in the outlaw’s escape.
His whole story was a clever network of lies, convincingly told, and
calculated to brand Dot’s father as an undesirable resident, if
nothing worse; one who was scarcely as honest as Billy Gee, since
Quintell made him appear as an accomplice who had been masquerading
for years in the rôle of a reputable, law-abiding rancher. Moreover,
he assailed Warburton by pointing to the latter’s friendship for
Huntington, and intimated that Billy Gee’s sensational get-away from
the sheriff, following Lemuel’s delivery of his prisoner to the
official, was framed for the purpose of getting the reward which, he
gave as his opinion, had been divided equally among the three. And
because Quintell had a smooth tongue and a way of putting things
over, Geerusalem believed his charges.
At the appointed hour—ten o’clock—Lex Sangerly left Dot in the hotel
parlor and stepped over to Quintell’s office to accompany the broker
on an inspection tour of the Lucky Boy placer claims. He went with
reluctance, feeling more keenly than on the day previous his
suspicions of Quintell in regard to the right of way matter, to
which was added a profound indignation and rage against this
wildcatter who was, from all Lex could hear, the cause of the
Huntington raid.
A few minutes after Lex’s departure, Mrs. Liggs and Sheriff
Warburton arrived in camp, and, as the result of a short talk he had
with Dot, Warburton prevailed on her to take no immediate action
looking to the arrest of Quintell, until he had investigated the
case. Leaving the two women, he strolled out of the hotel and stood
listening to a discussion going on among the members of a crowd of
men standing before the entrance. Lemuel Huntington was being
roundly condemned. There were ominous grumblings, threats being
voiced; mob law was being openly fomented. To Warburton, wise in the
psychology of crime and the natures of men, darkness alone was
needed to spread the flame of lawlessness over that wild desert
settlement. It would sweep through the underworld section, and
thence from one mine bunk house to another, calling out the habitués
of the dens and the grimy underground workers to mass in one
vicious, formidable army, that, venting its violence on the
Huntington ranch and its household, might finish out the night with
an orgy of destruction and murder in the camp itself.
He looked up and down the street. Groups of men were everywhere. His
eyes rested on the gilt sign bearing Quintell’s name, on the
Brokers’ Exchange Building. A grim smile parted his lips. Quintell
was surely a power in Geerusalem, he told himself. Presently his eye
fell on the dapper figure of the town constable. The fellow, in
correct mining camp attire—the rakish cut approved by the ranking
element—stood spread-legged on the sidewalk, complacently smoking a
cigarette. Warburton’s jaws set. He strode over to the man.
“Hullo, Mitchell!” he said gruffly.
The other glanced at the sheriff’s face with its two weeks’ growth
of bristly whiskers, at the dirty shirt and overalls, then back at
their owner’s face.
“It isn’t possible that it’s Sheriff Warburton?” he began, with a
grin.
“It is. When I’m doin’ my duty, Mitchell, I don’t tog up. I’d like
to talk to you a minute.” He led the way to the hotel office,
halting just inside the entrance. “What’re you goin’ to do about
this thing—all this lynch-law stuff they’re cookin’ up?” he asked.
The constable chuckled. “Do? Why, I’m powerless to do anything. A
man would be crazy to interfere. The sentiment of the camp is such
that if I butted in, they’d swear I was trying to protect Huntington
and——”
“What’re you sportin’ that tin buzzer for,” broke in Warburton, with
a contemptuous nod at the silver star on the breast of Mitchell’s
tailored coat.
The man flushed angrily. “Say, Warburton, what’s eating you,
anyhow?” he asked defiantly. “I’m constable of this township and——”
“You’ll find out what’s eatin’ me, in jest about ten minutes,”
snapped the sheriff. “You git on the job or, by God, you’ll wisht
you had! I’m tellin’ you somepn, Mitchell.” Glaring at the other, he
turned and walked out of the door.
Mitchell’s rough laugh followed him.
Raging inwardly, cursing to himself, Warburton halted on the
sidewalk. Word of his presence in camp had traveled like magic, and
the crowd before the hotel was fast filling the street from curb to
curb. It was an ominous crowd, the dregs of the settlement mingling
with the army of mine workers, with here and there one of Quintell’s
associates, circulating through the ranks whispering words of
advice. Standing there in full view of the multitude, glancing it
over, Warburton marked the hostility in its look and attitude.
Caustic remarks began to be directed at him.
“Where’s your bandit friend, sheriff?”
“Hey, fellers, there’s Huntington’s bodyguard!”
“Billy Gee’s duck-hunting on the Huntington ranch, Warburton. Why
don’t you go get him?”
Warburton’s jaw set. His eyes flickered dangerously. A few yards
away, grouped together on the sidewalk, stood a dozen or more
cow-punchers—members of the Las Animas ranch, a large principality
of fertile range on the north rim of Soapweed Plains—their great
hats and gaudy silk neckerchiefs conspicuous in that sea of drab
sameness. Having nothing in common with the men of the mines, they
stood, curious spectators of the drama that was being enacted before
them, maintaining a strictly neutral attitude in an affair of which
they knew absolutely nothing. They had arrived in camp an hour
before for a three-day lark and, true to the traditions of their
kind, were willing to accept whatever fate tendered them—so long as
it promised a departure from the usual humdrum of their daily
existence.
Warburton gave them a significant look, then he faced the crowd
again and raised his hand for silence.
So it was, that, as Quintell, accompanied by Lex Sangerly, Harrison,
and two other men drove down the street in a machine bound for the
Lucky Boy placer claims, they found the greatest throng ever
assembled in Geerusalem gathered before the Miners’ Hotel, listening
to Sheriff Warburton’s defense of Lemuel Huntington. The official
was speaking vehemently, angrily, looking massive and potential from
his elevated position on a hotel chair.
Quintell, who was driving, steered the car through the jam of men to
a point opposite the speaker. He was pale, his eyes blazing with
hatred. Warburton was just bringing his talk to a conclusion.
“An’ that’s how I happen to be in these parts. I’ve swore to git
Billy Gee, dead or alive, an’ that’s what I aim to do. I was at the
ranch last night from start to finish—like I jest said. An’ the man
that says Lem Huntington is in cahoots with Billy Gee is a damn
liar.”
Quintell slipped out from back of the steering wheel and stood up.
Neatly groomed, his appearance—compared with the sheriff’s—at once
dignified and impressive, he merited in every particular the title
he had earned—boss of Geerusalem. With a sharp glance over the
crowd, he began in a slow, ringing voice:
“Men of Geerusalem! I want you to all know that, regardless of what
this sheriff of San Buenaventura County has said, he is not only an
intimate friend of Lemuel Huntington, but the very man who has let
Billy Gee slip through his fingers twice. There stands efficiency
for you.” He leveled an accusing finger at Warburton. “There’s the
stripe of official the taxpayers of this county are supporting—an
official who has the audacity to address an intelligent audience of
this kind in an endeavor to whitewash the shrewdest crook who ever
betrayed the trust of the good people of this camp and section.
Gentlemen, it’s this official’s word against mine. I charge Lemuel
Huntington with being on intimate terms with an outlaw. Whom are you
going to believe?”
A wild, deafening roar went up, increasing in volume as Warburton,
his face purple with fury, made an attempt to speak.
“Lynch him! Lynch him! Get Huntington!” howled the multitude.
They swarmed about Quintell’s machine, clamoring their approval of
the broker. The din and excitement grew. Sheriff Warburton stood
deserted, ignored, outraged. The veins on his forehead and neck were
swelled to bursting, his big hands opened and shut with an odd, slow
movement. Lex Sangerly, sitting in the seat beside Quintell, watched
him curiously. From behind the curtains of a second-story window,
Dot and Mrs. Liggs looked down terrified at the mob of infuriated
men.
Warburton’s eyes sought the group of cow-punchers again. He stepped
down off the chair and reached them in two strides. A few curt words
sent them hurrying off to a stable around the nearest corner. Then,
his jaw set determinedly, the sheriff elbowed his way through the
crowd to the side of Quintell’s machine.
“I’m warnin’ every man here ag’in startin’ anything,” he shouted.
“As sheriff of this county, I’ll enforce the law if I got to shoot
to do it. Understand that! An’ if I can’t do it, there’s national
guards that kin. Keep away from Huntington an’ his ranch, if you
ain’t lookin’ for trouble.” He turned to Quintell, who stood eying
him venomously. “As for you, Mr. Man, if you don’t want to be
throwed in for inspirin’ violence, you’d better git a-goin’. Drive
on, or I’ll show you what kind of an official you got to deal with!”
Quintell hesitated; then he slid reluctantly into his seat. As the
car started moving off, he fastened his fiery gaze on Warburton.
“We’ll meet again, sheriff,” he snarled back. “You can’t bluff me.
You may protect a crook, but you won’t get away with it—not if I can
stop it! Huntington goes. Remember that!”
The cow-punchers of the Las Animas ranch came spurring into the
street at that moment, and at Warburton’s orders began dispersing
the crowd. A little later, while Constable Mitchell was indignantly
condemning the sheriff’s action to a group of Quintell’s supporters
in the hotel office, Warburton entered and placed him under arrest
and marched him off to the camp’s jail. Relieving him of his keys,
the sheriff locked the fellow in a cell and placed two riders on
guard.
“This ain’t very formal, Mitchell,” he said grimly, “’cos I ain’t
got time to monkey with warrants and citations. You kin take yore
pick whether you turn in yore star or git yanked up before the grand
jury.”