“Put that up, Tom, it's only me,” he said composedly.
“Oh, it's you, Ben, old pardner? Didn't know who it was. When did you get back?”
“I just came. Buck told me you were here and wanted to see me.”
Tom had quitted the bunk, now he was sitting on the edge of it. Rogers could just distinguish his head with its thick unkempt thatch of grey hair, and his bulk of bone and muscle.
“Well, Ben,” he said in a drawling voice, “I reckon you're going to see the last of me; I reckon I'm going to quit the country this time. I've stayed mainly to be near you, old pardner, but I'm clean crowded out at last.”
The colonel was quite unmoved by the other's sentiment, he had heard the same thing before many times. Tom had come into a comfortable property on his father's death; this he had promptly squandered. He had gone from bad to worse—guide, scout, packer, and lastly buffalo hunter, who between debauches had done his part in the ruthless war of extermination which had been waged against the great herds of the plain; but the herds had disappeared, and this shiftless means of livelihood had gone with them. Sometimes he worked with Roger's forces, but most of the time he spent in and about Carson, subsisting by means it was not well to inquire too closely into. He was counted a dangerous man, not that he had ever risen to any very splendid villainies, but he was a man that the other men shunned unless they were of his own class.
“What is it, Tom?” said Rogers, “You're in trouble, I suppose, or you wouldn't be here hiding.”
“There was trouble in Carson,” said Tom in a meditative drawl. “Benny, these here cow towns is the God forsakenest places in all this God forsaken country. Who'd a thought that me at my time of life, when I've always done what I thought was right—”
The colonel moved impatiently.
“Get down to business, Tom,” he urged.
“Well, say Benny, can you stake me for a long jump? I reckon it'll be plumb to Texas this time.”
“What have you done, Tom?” asked Rogers.
“I've shot a man, Ben.”
“I reckoned so,” said the colonel in a hard voice.
“A man that said I sold beef that hadn't 'airy brand of mine on it. Now that was a hell of a thing to say of a man who's always tried to act right and square.”
“Who was it?”
“Which he knew it was a lie, and you know it was a lie, Benny.”
“Who was it?” repeated Rogers.
“Chesney.”
“Did you kill him?”
“I dunno. Hope so,” said Tom indifferently. “I didn't wait to see, I just pushed out for here.”
“And they'll be pushing after you.”
“I reckon that's so all right, as soon as they can get together a posse.”
“I can't have them find you here, Tom,” said the colonel. “You know there's a limit—”
“I didn't think you'd show me your back! I've been a good friend to you, Ben, and if I hadn't been, father was. Can you deny that—no, sir!”
“He was the best friend I ever had.”
“I'm glad you ain't forgot it, Ben Rogers! He gave you your start—you've always been man enough to own that.”
“Don't you think I've about squared that with you?” said the colonel again impatiently.
“I ain't here to ask no favours, Benny, you can rest easy on that; I'm here to make a fair trade.”
“Yes,” said Rogers wearily. He was familiar with the old buffalo hunter's idea of a fair trade.
“You're seeing the last of me, Benny, you'll be clean shut of me when I hit the trail this time.”
The colonel hoped so, though this hope did not find, expression in words.
“I'll want a good horse, for I played mine out getting here.”
“Yes,” said Rogers.
“And I want money—but hold on a minute, I got something I want to sell you, Ben. Yes, sir, I am going to make a fair trade; a thousand dollars.”
“That's more than I can lay my hands on to-night, Tom, so come down to reason.”
“Well, five hundred then,” said Raymond eagerly.
“What's your trade, Tom?”
“You know when father took you in you gave him a buckskin bag full of papers. Where do you reckon they are now?”
“I don't know, I never had any more than your word for it, but you always said when I asked about them, that they had either been lost or destroyed, at least they were not among your father's papers when you came to look them over, but perhaps you lied.”
“That's about the size of it, Benny,” said Raymond coolly. “I lied. I had my own reasons for wanting to keep them papers out of your hands.”
“But they were not yours! If I had been with your father at the time of his death he would have given them to me.”
“Maybe he would, he was mighty curious in them ways; but you wa'n'. there, so he did the next best thing, he gave them to me instead.”
“To give to me, I suppose.”
“That part of it's plumb slipped my mind. Anyhow I got the papers.”
“And you want to send them to me now?”
“That's the idea, Benny.”
“And if I gave you the money?”
“Five hundred dollars, Benny.”
“You'll clear out of here for Texas?”
“I bet I will,” said Raymond cheerfully.
“Where are the papers?” questioned Rogers.
“I got 'em by me;” but he made no move to produce them.
“I'll go to the house and get the money, and I'll have Buck get up a horse for you.”
“All right;” and Raymond stretched himself out in the bunk again. He felt certain that the posse would not arrive at the ranch until early in the morning, and by then he would have put many miles between it and himself.
He was alone but a few minutes, and then he was rejoined by Rogers, who carried a lantern.
“Did you fetch the money, Benny?” demanded the old buffalo hunter eagerly.
“Yes, I have it here. Now let me see those papers.”
Raymond produced a greasy pocket-book, and rescued from its depths a small flat parcel wrapped in several folds of oilskin. He surrendered it to Rogers, who undid the parcel and satisfied himself by a glance that the yellow papers he held in his hand were those for which he had bargained. Raymond watched him, a toothless smile relaxing his lean jaws.
“All right, Benny?”
“They seem to be—yes.”
“Then fork over, and I'll quit you here and now.”
The money Rogers gave him he hid about his person; then he gathered up his hat and weapons, and moved to the door. Rogers followed him, and in the shadow of the corral fence they saw Buck holding a horse. Raymond moved toward it with alacrity, and swung himself into the saddle.
“I don't know as I was so much run out of the country after all. I been wanting a change. Well, good-bye, Benny, take care of yourself, old pardner! So long, Buck!” and with that he put his horse to an easy canter.
Rogers watched him out of sight with a feeling of infinite relief. He had ceased to see him long before the clatter of his horse's hoofs died out in the distance; but at last there was neither sight nor sound of him. The colonel turned to Buck.
“I guess if any one asks about him, Buck, he ain't been here—just bear that in mind.”
“Do you think he'll get away all right?” asked Buck.
“Oh, I reckon he will. I find I'm sort of counting on his doing it. Perhaps I shouldn't, but I am—Hullo! What's that?” for his ear had caught the sound of a rapidly ridden horse, but coming in the opposite direction from that Raymond had just taken. Buck heard it, too.
“Tom hit the trail none too soon,” he said. “His luck always was the damndest,” by which he meant that it far exceeded his deserts.
“I can only make out one horse,” said Rogers at last. “It ain't the posse. We'll just walk up toward the house;” and they had scarcely reached it when the horseman galloped up and drew rein.
“Who's that?” called Rogers.
“It's me—Crittendon, colonel,” said the horseman.
“What's the matter, Riley?” his voice showed that he was immensely relieved. “Get down. Buck will take your horse;” but Riley had nothing to say until Buck had moved off out of hearing, then he turned to Rogers.
“Look here, colonel—Tom Raymond's in trouble again, and mighty serious trouble, too.”
“I know, Riley, he's been here; just gone, in fact.”
“I knew he'd come here the first thing. Just after you left this morning I got the word he'd shot Chesney, and that they were getting together at Carson to go after him; and I hustled out here to warn you that there was nothing you or any one could do for him, that they are bound to have him.”
“He'll have to take his chances. I've done all I could; given him a horse and money. He's started for Texas.”
“He'd better keep going—yes, he better had!” said Reddy.
“I reckon he knows that,” said Rogers significantly. “Well, I've done as much, and more than most honest men would do under similar circumstances, and it's up to Tom to do the rest. He's getting along in life, and I reckon his capers are about at an end.”
“Chesney's dead, you know,” said Reddy.
“No, you don't tell me!” Rogers fell back a step. “You don't mean it, Riley?”
“Died within an hour after he was shot,” said Reddy briefly.
“Well, I just had to help Tom,” said the colonel, after a momentary silence. “It was one of those things I couldn't get out of doing. I've always been doing things for Tom I wouldn't do for any other man alive—but come into the house, I got something I want to show you. Something Tom left with me.”
Rogers conducted Reddy into the dining-room where his own supper was still waiting for him. Mrs. Rogers wearied by the long drive had already eaten and had retired for the night.
“I reckon you're hungry after your ride, Riley,” said Rogers. “So am I. Getting Tom off sort of put me out of the notion of eating even if I'd had the time.”
The two men ate in silence, but when the rigours of their hearty appetites were satisfied, the colonel produced the papers Tom Raymond had left with him. He told their history, and then the two fell to examining them with much eagerness.
“Well,” said Rogers at last. “I can't see that there's anything here that concerns me. I reckon they ought to be passed along to Mrs. Landray, though I can't see that they are of any value. Still I ought to send 'em to her.”
“No doubt about that,” said Reddy.
“You know her, Riley?”
“Well, yes, I've met her, and she knows who I am well enough.”
“How'd you like to send 'em to her, Riley? You could tell her the way they first came into my hands just as I've told you; how Tom Raymond got hold of them, and how he'd always said they were lost. I'd like you to make it plain to her it wasn't me held 'em back, I wouldn't want her to think that.”
“No, of course not.”
“Mind writing her?” inquired Rogers. He was rather sensitive about his own penmanship—and Margaret was in Cheyenne.
“No, not exactly, but if it's all the same to you I'd rather send 'em to her lawyer. He could sort of explain things to her. I'd feel freer to write him. I was going to write him anyhow, he's an old friend of mine.”
“That's the best idea yet, Riley,” said the colonel, much pleased by the suggestion. “I reckon a little tact won't be out of place in bringing these papers to her notice, and her lawyer's the man for the job.” He folded up the papers as he spoke. “I'll leave the whole thing in your hands, Riley; take your time to it, and make it plain to your friend how I got the papers first, how they were lost, and how I got 'em again from Tom Raymond.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
REDDY wrote Ben Wade and sent him the papers, asking him to explain matters to Mrs. Landray; and Wade took them at once to her together with Crittendon's letter. Virginia was not at home; Mrs. Walsh was there, however, and he left the papers with her. Then he remembered that he was to dine that night with Stephen and Benson. His watch warned him that he had no time to spare, it was already after six, so he hurried across town to keep his engagement.
“I'd about given you up, Ben,” said Stephen, meeting him in the hall. “I thought you had forgotten.”
“I had to go to your aunt's on an errand; sorry I'm late;” and he followed Stephen into the dining-room, where they joined Benson and Gibbs.
As Reddy's letter seemed a matter that he could make public, and as there were certain questions he wished to ask Benson, he turned to the lawyer after they were seated, to say:
“Mr. Benson, do you remember a man by the name of Rogers who went West with Stephen's grandfather and uncle?”
“Yes, perfectly; and no doubt Gibbs does, too.”
“A fellow who thought he could suppress the news of the discovery of gold in California,” said Gibbs.
“He had a son; had he not?”
Gibbs nodded.
“A little chap of eight or ten—you recollect him well enough, Jake—he was the apple of Rogers's eye.”
“Yes, I remember him,” said the lawyer absently. He was hardly hearing what was said. Words, apparently chance words, were taking him swiftly back to the past. He felt in his face the rain and sleet of that March morning long past, when he had gone to Tucker's Red Brick Tavern to say good-bye to the Landrays. He saw the canvas-covered wagons looming large in the darkness, the one dim light in the bar, and poor old Tucker, half-crazed with drink and grief. He glanced at Gibbs and wondered if he recalled that day; but the general had not been engulfed by any such rush of sentiment. His conscience was singularly inactive: not a line of his bad old face showed emotion. He was eating and drinking with unabated relish; perhaps it had not occurred to him that out of his part in that day's doings a tragedy had come.
“Yes, I remember the child,” repeated the lawyer.
“Well,” said Wade, “Reddy's nearest neighbour is this man Rogers's son.”
“Impossible!” cried Benson.
“Why impossible, Mr. Benson?” said Wade.
“Because the boy was killed along with the others, Ben.”
“It seems not,” said Wade. “He's furnished pretty conclusive evidence that he is very much alive. He's just sent through Reddy a bundle of old papers that belonged to Stephen Landray.”
The knife dropped from Benson's hand with a noisy clatter. He uttered an angry exclamation, but recovered himself immediately. It seemed an accident, though later each of the three men present at his table remembered the circumstance.
“What were these papers, do you know?” he gave Wade a sharp glance.
“I don't,” said Wade, and he met his glance frankly. “But it seems they were papers that Stephen Landray gave the boy the day he was killed. He wanted them sent to his wife; but they fell into the hands of a third party, and Rogers only recently recovered them. In the meantime he appears to have forgotten all about them. It will be rather startling to Mrs. Landray to receive them after all these years.”
“I still think there must be some mistake,” said Benson. “As you are Mrs. Landray's lawyer you'd better advise her to be cautious in dealing with this man Rogers. Of course, Crittendon is perfectly honest and well meaning in the matter.”
Wade looked at the older man with a puzzled smile. This struck him as the absurdest of theorizing, the most primitive of suspicions. It was the first weak spot he had ever detected in the lawyer's judgment. It was more than primitive, it was positively childish.
“Perhaps, you were not aware that I visited the scene of the massacre; I was accompanied by a man who had taken part in the fight, and who assured me that every member of the party but himself had been killed by the Indians. As he afterward buried the bodies, it is scarcely likely that he could have been mistaken.”
“But it seems he was—that is, I am going on the assumption that the papers are what they purport to be. A point, of course, that only Mrs. Landray can settle.”
The lawyer gave him a frankly hostile glance. It angered him that Wade should abide by his own conclusions in spite of what he had said.
“My guide, he was the survivor of the party, of whom I have spoken, stated specifically that the boy was dead. It is incredible that he could have been mistaken, when he returned to the scene of the massacre weeks, it may have been months, afterward, and buried the bodies.”
“I admit that's a hard point to get around. On the other hand, how does Reddy's friend know all the facts he appears to know? Can you explain that?”
“Likely enough he got 'em out of Mrs. Crittendon; she knows a good deal about the Landrays,” suggested the general.
“Her father's cousin was a member of the party,” said Benson. “It is possible she knows all that any of us can know.”
“But the papers, Mr. Benson, the papers! Suppose they are genuine, what then?” asked Wade.
“We don't know that yet. Mrs. Landray will determine that point.”
“And you always understood that the boy was killed with the others?”
“Yes, Raymond distinctly stated—”
“Wait a minute—who's Raymond, Mr. Benson?” interrupted Wade hastily.
“He's the man of whom I've been telling you.”
“Well, Rogers claims to have recovered these papers from a man named Raymond.”
Benson looked a trifle blank at this. He tried to remember just how Raymond had impressed him, but the years had effaced whatever impression good or bad he may once have had of his guide. He was troubled in spite of himself. While he could not think that the papers meant anything, yet there was something ominous in their recovery after all these years.
“Well, you must admit it's a mighty singular incident any way you view it,” said Wade. After all he was not disposed to hang to a point when it displeased Benson, for the older lawyer had been useful to him in the past, and it would not be his fault if this use was not repeated in the future.
“I'd advise Mrs. Landray to look out for this man Rogers. His recovery of the papers comes too pat on Mrs. Crittendon's meeting with him.”
“Oh, I don't think that,” said Wade. “Reddy says he's a rich man, and that he's known him intimately for some time.”
“Rogers is the name of the girl Reddy's going to marry,” said Stephen.
He had been an interested listener to all that had been said, though he had taken no part in the conversation. He believed that the whole circumstance of the recovery of the papers was merely one of those mysteries that occasionally come into the lives of people. He was willing to accept the explanation Reddy had offered for what it was worth; he could not imagine any motive for fraud such as Benson apparently suspected.
“That's so!” said Wade. “Rogers is her name, and she is the daughter of one of his neighbours. I guess it's the same, Stephen.”
Benson had quite recovered his composure, and that he had lost it had been only evidenced by a certain sharpness that had crept into his voice when he addressed Wade. If the papers were what Reddy said they were, they were probably nothing more than letters; or perhaps the list of the share-holders in the ill-starred venture in which Stephen Landray had lost his life; undoubtedly this was what they would prove to be.
With the passing of Benson's opposition to Wade's facts, the conversation drifted into other channels, and presently, for the time being at least, they forgot all about Reddy's singular communication.
That is, all forgot but Benson; he could not forget.
And even while they were discussing them, Virginia and Mark Norton had been poring over the papers.
“It is a very remarkable circumstance,” murmured the banker. “I see—accounts of the Benson and California Mining and Trading Company. Did you know that my father had money in that venture? I declare, here's a list of the stock-holders—and here's his name—he's down for two shares. No, I can't see that these papers are of any importance to you, or ever could have been. They relate to matters that must have been long since settled by Mr. Benson.” He had been turning the papers slowly as he spoke. Suddenly he paused to glance sharply at a paper he held in his hand.
“What is it?” Virginia asked.
“Why, how much land did you own in Belmont County?”
“One thousand acres.”
“One thousand acres,” he repeated, “that's what I thought, then there is some mistake here. In the list of his holdings, your husband has entered two thousand acres as held by him and his brother in Belmont County. You can see—here,” and he showed her the place.
“But I only sold Mr. Benson one thousand acres, no, there couldn't have been more than that; there is some mistake.”
“Oh, you sold the land to Mr. Benson?”
“He bought it for Page Stark.”
“Well, here is your husband's memorandum in his own handwriting; he mentions two thousand acres which he owned in Belmont County. I don't know, but of course there may be some mistake. Yes, there must be, though it's hardly likely that he could have been in error in such a matter. Mr. Benson, you say, sold this land for you to Mr. Stark, sold all the land you owned there? I wonder if it is possible that you could have transferred a larger acreage than you were aware of.”
“Impossible!” cried Virginia. “Mr. Benson is too careful a man for anything like that to have happened.”
“Of course, it is hardly a reasonable supposition, but on the other hand, Mrs. Landray, your husband certainly knew whether it was one or two thousand acres he owned.”
“You don't doubt Mr. Benson?”
“I don't know whether I do or not,” said the banker. “I certainly think your husband would not have written the word two if he had meant one! I think you'd better show this to Ben Wade; let him ferret around among these papers. I'll send him up here to-morrow.” The next morning, Mark Norton stopped at Wade's office on his way downtown.
“You're early, Ben,” he said.
“I don't want any clients to turn away because my door's shut; and not only that, I was expecting a letter from Clara on the early mail.”
“Her mother complains that you seem to be getting all the letters; but see here, Ben, Mrs. Landray had me glance over those papers you left for her last night.” He looked rather grave. “I don't understand them; and the more I've thought about them, the less I understand them. So what I want to say is this, you go over them carefully.”
“Why, what's wrong?” asked Wade eagerly.
“Mrs. Landray will tell you. I don't understand the matter at all. But I want you to be quite sure you're right before you hazard an opinion, or there may be serious consequences; serious to her, and serious to us all. Just keep this clearly in mind, that's all.”
“Do you mean that she wants to see me this morning?”
“Yes, can you go there now?”
“Certainly, if she wants me;” and Wade reached for his hat.
What the banker had said, took him in hot haste to the cottage.
“I wonder if old Benson has been up to any tricks!” he speculated as he strode along. “He was her lawyer when she had money, and she looks after her business in a way to make her a temptation to her attorney.”
Mr. Wade was himself quite honest. He had certain large ambitions, and these coupled with small opportunity had saved him from any false steps; but he did not always give others the credit of seeing as far ahead as he saw.
He reached the cottage, and found Virginia waiting for him. She rose from her chair as he entered the room.
“I have just left Mr. Norton,” said Wade, as he greeted her. “He said you wished me to call.”
“Yes, Mr. Wade, I did,” said Virginia gravely. She had been seated at a table that stood by one of the windows through which the morning sun was streaming, and Wade saw that the table was littered with papers. He conjectured that they were the papers that Reddy had sent.
“Did Mr. Norton tell you anything?” asked Virginia.
“Not a word, Mrs. Landray, except that you wanted to see me. He intimated though that something had happened.”
“Something has happened,” said Virginia, with a swift intake of her breath. “Please sit down, Mr. Wade—here by the table—is the light too strong? I want you to look over these papers. They are those you left yesterday.”
“You mean that I am to read them, Mrs. Landray?” he asked, as he seated himself and deftly arranged the papers in a neat little pile.
“Yes, Mr. Wade,” and Virginia placed herself opposite him.
He realized that her composure had received some sort of a shock, but he understood that if it had been merely some belated word of farewell from the dead man she would not have sent for him. No, clearly it was a business matter, and he thought of Benson again with a hard cynical smile. Was he to be given a glimpse of some past dereliction on the part of the old lawyer! Mr. Wade's smile was both evil and unkind, but the next instant his lips straightened themselves, and his gravity was equal to Virginia's as he asked, “These papers are exactly what they assume to be?”
“How do you mean, I don't understand your question,” said Virginia.
“I mean they are genuine?”
“Yes, they were my husband's.”