Fairchild did not show the item to Harry. There was little that it
could accomplish, and besides, he felt that his comrade had enough to
think about. The unexpected turn of the coroner's inquest had added to
the heavy weight of Harry's troubles; it meant the probability in the
future of a grand jury investigation and the possible indictment as
accessory after the fact in the murder of "Sissie" Larsen. Not that
Fairchild had been influenced in the slightest by the testimony of
Crazy Laura; the presence of Squint Rodaine and his son had shown too
plainly that they were connected in some way with it, that, in fact,
they were responsible. An opportunity had arisen for them, and they
had seized upon it. More, there came the shrewd opinion of old Mother
Howard, once Fairchild and Harry had reached the boarding house and
gathered in the parlor for their consultation:
"Ain't it what I said right in the beginning?" the gray-haired woman
asked. "She 'll kill for that man, if necessary. It was n't as hard
as you think--all Squint Rodaine had to do was to act nice to her and
promise her a few things that he 'll squirm out of later on, and she
went on the stand and lied her head off."
"But for a crazy woman--"
"Laura's crazy--and she ain't crazy. I 've seen that woman as sensible
and as shrewd as any sane woman who ever drew breath. Then again, I
've seen her when I would n't get within fifty miles of her. Sometimes
she 's pitiful to me; and then again I 've got to remember the fact
that she 's a dangerous woman. Goodness only knows what would happen
to a person who fell into her clutches when she 's got one of those
immortality streaks on."
"One of those what?" Harry looked up in surprise.
"Immortality. That's why you 'll find her sneaking around graveyards
at night, gathering herbs and taking them to that old house on the
Georgeville Road, where she lives, and brewing them into some sort of
concoction that she sprinkles on the graves. She believes that it's a
sure system of bringing immortality to a person. Poison--that's about
what it is."
Harry shrugged his shoulders.
"Poison 's what she is!" he exclaimed. "Ain't it enough that I 'm
accused of every crime in the calendar without 'er getting me mixed up
in a murder? And--" this time he looked at Fairchild with dolorous
eyes--"'ow 're we going to furnish bond this time, if the grand jury
indicts me?"
"I 'm afraid there won't be any."
Mother Howard set her lips for a minute, then straightened proudly.
"Well, I guess there will! They can't charge you a million dollars on
a thing like that. It's bondable--and I guess I 've got a few things
that are worth something--and a few friends that I can go to. I don't
see why I should be left out of everything, just because I 'm a woman!"
"Lor' love you!" Harry grinned, his eyes showing plainly that the
world was again good for him and that his troubles, as far as a few
slight charges of penitentiary offenses were concerned, amounted to
very little in his estimation. Harry had a habit of living just for
the day. And the support of Mother Howard had wiped out all future
difficulties for him. The fact that convictions might await him and
that the heavy doors at Cañon City might yawn for him made little
difference right now. Behind the great bulwark of his mustache, his
big lips spread in a happy announcement of joy, and the world was good.
Silently, Robert Fairchild rose and left the parlor for his own room.
Some way he could not force himself to shed his difficulties in the
same light, airy way as Harry. He wanted to be alone, alone where he
could take stock of the obstacles which had arisen in his path, of the
unexplainable difficulties and tribulations which had come upon him,
one trailing the other, ever since he had read the letter left for him
by his father. And it was a stock-taking of disappointing proportions.
Looking back, Fairchild could see now that his dreams had led only to
catastrophes. The bright vista which had been his that day he sat
swinging his legs over the tailboard of the truck as it ground up Mount
Lookout had changed to a thing of gloomy clouds and of ominous futures.
Nothing had gone right. From the very beginning, there had been only
trouble, only fighting, fighting, fighting against insurmountable odds,
which seemed to throw him ever deeper into the mire of defeat, with
every onslaught. He had met a girl whom he had instinctively liked,
only to find a mystery about her which could not be fathomed. He had
furthered his acquaintance with her, only to bring about a condition
where now she passed him on the street without speaking and which, he
felt, had instigated that tiny notice in the _Bugle_, telling of her
probable marriage in the late autumn to a man he detested as a cad and
as an enemy. He had tried his best to follow the lure of silver; if
silver existed in the Blue Poppy mine, he had labored against the
powers of Nature, only to be the unwilling cause of a charge of murder
against his father. And more, it was clear, cruelly clear, that if it
had not been for his own efforts and those of a man who had come to
help him, the skeleton of Sissie Larsen never would have been
discovered, and the name of Thornton Fairchild might have gone on in
the peace which the white-haired, frightened man had sought.
But now there was no choosing. Robert was the son of a murderer. Six
men had stamped that upon him in the basement of the courthouse that
night. His funds were low, growing lower every day, and there was
little possibility of rehabilitating them until the trial of Harry
should come, and Fate should be kind enough to order an acquittal,
releasing the products from escrow. In case of a conviction, Fairchild
could see only disaster. True, the optimistic Farrell had spoken of a
Supreme Court reversal of any verdict against his partner, but that
would avail little as far as the mine was concerned. It must still
remain in escrow as the bond of Harry until the case was decided, and
that might mean years. And one cannot borrow money upon a thing that
is mortgaged in its entirety to a commonwealth. In the aggregate, the
outlook was far from pleasant. The Rodaines had played with stacked
cards, and so far every hand had been theirs. Fairchild's credit, and
his standing, was ruined. He had been stamped by the coroner's jury as
the son of a murderer, and that mark must remain upon him until it
could be cleared by forces now imperceptible to Fairchild. His partner
was under bond, accused of four crimes. The Rodaines had won a
victory, perhaps greater than they knew. They had succeeded in soiling
the reputations of the two men they called enemies, damaging them to
such an extent that they must henceforth fight at a disadvantage,
without the benefit of a solid ground of character upon which to stand.
Fairchild suddenly realized that he was all but whipped, that the
psychological advantage was all on the side of Squint Rodaine, his son,
and the crazy woman who did their bidding. More, another hope had gone
glimmering; even had the announcement not come forth that Anita
Richmond had given her promise to marry Maurice Rodaine, the action of
a coroner's jury that night had removed her from hope forever. A son
of a man who has been called a slayer has little right to love a woman,
even if that woman has a bit of mystery about her. All things can be
explained--but murder!
It was growing late, but Fairchild did not seek bed. Instead he sat by
the window, staring out at the shadows of the mountains, out at the
free, pure night, and yet at nothing. After a long time, the door
opened, and a big form entered--Harry--to stand silent a moment, then
to come forward and lay a hand on the other man's shoulder.
"Don't let it get you, Boy," he said softly--for him. "It's going to
come out all right. Everything comes out all right--if you ain't wrong
yourself."
"I know, Harry. But it's an awful tangle right now."
"Sure it is. But it ain't as if a sane person 'ad said it against you.
There 'll never be anything more to that; Farrell 'll 'ave 'er adjudged
insane if it ever comes to anything like that. She 'll never give no
more testimony. I 've been talking with 'im--'e stopped in just after
you came upstairs. It's only a crazy woman."
"But they took her word for it, Harry. They believed her. And they
gave the verdict--against my father!"
"I know. I was there, right beside you. I 'eard it. But it 'll come
out right, some way."
There was a moment of silence, then a gripping fear at the heart of
Fairchild.
"Just how crazy is she, Harry?"
"'Er? Plumb daft! Of course, as Mother 'Oward says, there 's times
when she 's straight--but they don't last long. And, if she 'd given
'er testimony in writing, Mother 'Oward says it all might 'ave been
different, and we 'd not 'ave 'ad anything to worry about."
"In writing?"
"Yes, she 's 'arfway sane then. It seems 'er mind 's disconnected,
some wye. I don't know 'ow--Mother 'Oward 's got the 'ole lingo, and
everybody in town knows about it. Whenever anybody wants to get
anything real straight from Crazy Laura, they make 'er write it. That
part of 'er brain seems all right. She remembers everything she does
then and 'ow crazy it is, and tells you all about it."
"But why did n't Farrell insist upon that tonight?"
"'E could n't have gotten 'er to do it. And nobody can get 'er to do
it as long has Squint's around--so Mother 'Oward says. 'E 's got a
influence about 'im. And she does exactly what 'e 'll sye--all 'e 's
got to do is to look at 'er. Notice 'ow flustered up she got when the
coroner asked 'er about that book?"
"I wonder what it would really tell?"
Harry chuckled.
"Nobody knows. Nobody 's ever seen it. Not even Squint Rodaine.
That's the one thing she 's got the strength to keep from 'im--I guess
it's a part of 'er right brain that tells 'er to keep it a secret! I
'm going to bed now. So 're you. And you 're going to sleep. Good
night."
He went out of the room then, and Fairchild, obedient to the big
Cornishman's command, sought rest. But it was a hard struggle.
Morning came, and he joined Harry at breakfast, facing the curious
glances of the other boarders, staving off their inquiries and their
illy couched consolations. For, in spite of the fact that it was not
voiced in so many words, the conviction was present that Crazy Laura
had told at least a semblance of the truth, and that the dovetailing
incidents of the past fitted into a well-connected story for which
there must be some foundation. Moreover, in the corner were Blindeye
Bozeman and Taylor Bill, hurrying through their breakfast that they
might go to their work in the Silver Queen, Squint Rodaine's mine, less
than a furlong from the ill-boding Blue Poppy. Fairchild could see
that they were talking about him, their eyes turned often in his
direction; once Taylor Bill nodded and sneered as he answered some
remark of his companion. The blood went hot in Fairchild's brain. He
rose from the table, hands clenched, muscles tensed, only to find
himself drawn back by the strong grasp of Harry. The big Cornishman
whispered to him as he took his seat again:
"It 'll only make more trouble. I know 'ow you feel--but 'old in.
'Old in!"
It was an admonition which Fairchild was forced to repeat to himself
more than once that morning as he walked uptown with Harry, to face the
gaze of the street loafers, to be plied with questions, and to strive
his best to fence away from them. There were those who were plainly
curious; there were others who professed not to believe the testimony
and who talked loudly of action against the coroner for having
introduced the evidence of a woman known by every one to be lacking in
balanced mentality. There were others who, by their remarks, showed
that they were concealing the real truth of their thoughts and only
using a cloak of interest to guide them to other food for the carrion
proclivities of their minds. To all of them Fairchild and Harry made
the same reply: that they had nothing to say, that they had given all
the information possible on the witness stand during the inquest, and
that there was nothing further forthcoming.
And it was while he made this statement for the hundredth time that
Fairchild saw Anita Richmond going to the post-office with the rest of
the usual crowd, following the arrival of the morning train. Again she
passed him without speaking, but her glance did not seem so cold as it
had been on the morning that he had seen her with Rodaine, nor did the
lack of recognition appear as easily simulated. That she knew what had
happened and the charge that had been made against his father,
Fairchild did not doubt. That she knew he had read the "personal" in
the _Bugle_ was as easily determined. Between them was a gulf--caused
by what Fairchild could only guess--a gulf which he could not essay to
cross, and which she, for some reason, would not. But there was
nothing that could stop him from watching her, with hungry eyes which
followed her until she had disappeared in the doorway of the
post-office, eyes which believed they detected a listlessness in her
walk and a slight droop to the usually erect little shoulders, eyes
which were sure of one thing: that the smile was gone from the lips,
that upon her features were the lines and hollows of sleeplessness, and
the unmistakable lack of luster and color which told him that she was
not happy. Even the masculine mentality of Fairchild could discern
that. But it could not answer the question which the decision brought.
She had become engaged to a man whom she had given evidence of hating.
She had refused to recognize Fairchild, whom she had appeared to like.
She had cast her lot with the Rodaines--and she was unhappy. Beyond
that, everything was blank to Fairchild.
An hour later Harry, wandering by the younger man's side, strove for
words and at last uttered them.
"I know it's disagreeable," came finally. "But it's necessary. You
'ave n't quit?"
"Quit what?"
"The mine. You 're going to keep on, ain't you?"
Fairchild gritted his teeth and was silent. The answer needed
strength. Finally it came.
"Harry, are you with me?"
"I ain't stopped yet!"
"Then that's the answer. As long as there 's a bit of fight left in
us, we 'll keep at that mine. I don't know where it's going to lead
us--but from appearances as they stand now, the only outlook seems to
be ruin. But if you 're willing, I 'm willing, and we 'll make the
scrap together."
Harry hitched at his trousers.
"They 've got that blooming skeleton out by this time. I 'm willing to
start--any time you say."
The breath went over Fairchild's teeth in a long, slow intake. He
clenched his hands and held them trembling before him for a lengthy
moment. Then he turned to his partner.
"Give me an hour," he begged. "I 'll go then--but it takes a little
grit to--"
"Who's Fairchild here?" A messenger boy was making his way along the
curb with a telegram. Robert stretched forth a hand in surprise.
"I am. Why?"
The answer came as the boy shoved forth the yellow envelope and the
delivery sheet. Fairchild signed, then somewhat dazedly ran a finger
under the slit of the envelope. Then, wondering, he read:
Please come to Denver at once. Have most important information for you.
R. V. Barnham,
H & R Building.
A moment of staring, then Fairchild passed the telegram over to Harry
for his opinion. There was none. Together they went across the street
and to the office of Farrell, their attorney. He studied the telegram
long. Then:
"I can't see what on earth it means, unless there is some information
about this skeleton or the inquest. If I were you, I 'd go."
"But supposing it's some sort of a trap?"
"No matter what it is, go and let the other fellow do all the talking.
Listen to what he has to say and tell him nothing. That's the only
safe system. I 'd go down on the noon train--that 'll get you there
about two. You can be back by 10:30 to-morrow."
"No 'e can't," it was Harry's interruption as he grasped a pencil and
paper. "I 've got a list of things a mile long for 'im to get. We're
going after this mine 'ammer and tongs now!"
When noon came, Robert Fairchild, with his mysterious telegram, boarded
the train for Denver, while in his pocket was a list demanding the
outlay of nearly a thousand dollars: supplies of fuses, of dynamite, of
drills, of a forge, of single and double jack sledges, of fulminate
caps,--a little of everything that would be needed in the months to
come, if he and 'Arry were to work the mine. It was only a beginning,
a small quantity of each article needed, part of which could be picked
up in the junk yards at a reasonable figure, other things that would
eat quickly into the estimate placed upon the total. And with a
capital already dwindling, it meant an expenditure which hurt, but
which was necessary, nevertheless.
Slow, puffing and wheezing, the train made its way along Clear Creek
cañon, crawled across the newly built trestle which had been erected to
take the place of that which had gone out with the spring flood of the
milky creek, then jangled into Denver. Fairchild hurried uptown, found
the old building to which he had been directed by the telegram, and
made the upward trip in the ancient elevator, at last to knock upon a
door. A half-whining voice answered him, and he went within.
A greasy man was there, greasy in his fat, uninviting features, in his
seemingly well-oiled hands as they circled in constant kneading, in his
long, straggling hair, in his old, spotted Prince Albert--and in his
manners. Fairchild turned to peer at the glass panel of the door. It
bore the name he sought. Then he looked again at the oily being who
awaited him.
"Mr. Barnham?"
"That's what I 'm called." He wheezed with the self-implied humor of
his remark and motioned toward a chair. "May I ask what you 've come
to see me about?"
"I have n't the slightest idea. You sent for me." Fairchild produced
the telegram, and the greasy person who had taken a position on the
other side of a worn, walnut table became immediately obsequious.
"Of course! Of course! Mr. Fairchild! Why did n't you say so when
you came in? Of course--I 've been looking for you all day. May I
offer you a cigar?"
He dragged a box of domestic perfectos from a drawer of the table and
struck a match to light one for Fairchild. He hastily summoned an ash
tray from the little room which adjoined the main, more barren office.
Then with a bustling air of urgent business he hurried to both doors
and locked them.
"So that we may not be disturbed," he confided in that high, whining
voice. "I am hoping that this is very important."
"I also." Fairchild puffed dubiously upon the more dubious cigar. The
greasy individual returned to his table, dragged the chair nearer it,
then, seating himself, leaned toward Fairchild.
"If I 'm not mistaken, you 're the owner of the Blue Poppy mine."
"I 'm supposed to be."
"Of course--of course. One never knows in these days what he owns or
when he owns it. Very good, I 'd say, Mr. Fairchild, very good. Could
you possibly do me the favor of telling me how you 're getting along?"
Fairchild's eyes narrowed.
"I thought you had information--for me!"
"Very good again." Mr. Barnham raised a fat hand and wheezed in an
effort at intense enjoyment of the reply. "So I have--so I have. I
merely asked that to be asking. Now, to be serious, have n't you some
enemies, Mr. Fairchild?"
"Have I?"
"I was merely asking."
"And I judged from your question that you seemed to know."
"So I do. And one friend." Barnham pursed his heavy lips and nodded
in an authoritative manner. "One, very, very good friend."
"I was hoping that I had more than that."
"Ah, perhaps so. But I speak only from what I know. There is one
person who is very anxious about your welfare."
"So?"
Mr. Barnham leaned forward in an exceedingly friendly manner.
"Well, is n't there?"
Fairchild squared away from the table.
"Mr. Barnham," came coldly; the inherent distrust for the greasy,
uninviting individual having swerved to the surface. "You wired me
that you had some very important news for me. I came down here
expressly because of that wire. Now that I 'm here, your mission seems
to be wholly taken up in drawing from me any information that I happen
to possess about myself. Plainly and frankly, I don't like it, and I
don't like you--and unless you can produce a great deal more than you
have already, I 'll have to chalk up the expense to a piece of bad
judgment and go on about my business."
He started to rise, and Barnham scrambled to his feet.
"Please don't," he begged, thrusting forth a fat hand, "please, please
don't. This is a very important matter. One--one has to be careful in
going about a thing as important as this is. The person is in a very
peculiar position."
"But I 'm tired of the way you beat around the bush. You tell me some
meager scrap of filmy news and then ask me a dozen questions. As I
told you before, I don't like it--and I 'm just about at the point
where I don't care what information you have!"
"But just be patient a moment--I 'm coming to it. Suppose--" then he
cupped his hands and stared hard at the ceiling, "Suppose that I told
you that there was some one who was willing to see you through all your
troubles, who had arranged everything for you, and all you had to do
would be to say the word to find yourself in the midst of comfort and
riches?"