He stooped and Anita, laughing at her posture, clambered upon his back,
her arms about his neck, arms which seemed to shut out the biting blast
of the blizzard as he staggered through the high-piled snow and
downward to the road. There he continued to carry her; Fairchild found
himself wishing that he could carry her forever, and that the road to
the sheriff's office were twenty miles away instead of two. But her
voice cut in on his wishes.
"I can walk now."
"But the drifts--"
"We can get along so much faster!" came her plea. "I 'll hold on to
you--and you can help me along."
Fairchild released her and she seized his arm. For a quarter of a mile
they hurried along, skirting the places where the snow had collected in
breast-high drifts, now and then being forced nearly down to the bank
of the stream to avoid the mountainous piles of fleecy white. Once, as
they floundered through a knee-high mass, Fairchild's arm went quickly
about her waist and he lifted her against him as he literally carried
her through. When they reached the other side, the arm still held its
place,--and she did not resist. Fairchild wanted to whistle, or sing,
or shout. But breath was too valuable--and besides, what little
remained had momentarily been taken from him. A small hand had found
his, where it encircled her. It had rested there, calm and warm and
enthralling, and it told Fairchild more than all the words in the world
could have told just then--that she realized that his arm was about
her--and that she wanted it there. Some way, after that, the stretch
of road faded swiftly. Almost before he realized it, they were at the
outskirts of the city.
Grudgingly he gave up his hold upon her, as they hurried for the
sidewalks and for the sheriff's office. There Fairchild did not
attempt to talk--he left it all to Anita, and Bardwell, the sheriff,
listened. Taylor Bill had confessed to the robbery at the Old Times
dance and to his attempt to so arrange the evidence that the blame
would fall on Harry. Taylor Bill and Blindeye Bozeman had been caught
at work in a cross-cut tunnel which led to the property of the Blue
Poppy mine, and one of them, at least, had admitted that the sole
output of the Silver Queen had come from this thieving encroachment.
Then Anita completed the recital,--of the plans of the Rodaines to
leave and of their departure for Center City. At last, Fairchild
spoke, and he told the happenings which he had encountered in the
ramshackle house occupied by Crazy Laura. It was sufficient. The
sheriff reached for the telephone.
"No need for hurry," he announced. "Young Rodaine can't possibly make
that trip in less than two hours. How long did it take you to come
down here?"
"About an hour, I should judge."
"Then we 've got plenty of time--hello--Central? Long distance,
please. What's that? Yeh--Long Distance. Want to put in a call for
Center City." A long wait, while a metallic voice streamed over the
wire into the sheriff's ear. He hung up the receiver. "Blocked," he
said shortly. "The wire 's down. Three or four poles fell from the
force of the storm. Can't get in there before morning."
"But there 's the telegraph!"
"It 'd take half an hour to get the operator out of bed--office is
closed. Nope. We 'll take the short cut. And we 'll beat him there
by a half-hour!"
Anita started.
"You mean the Argonaut tunnel?"
"Yes. Call up there and tell them to get a motor ready for us to shoot
straight through. We can make it at thirty miles an hour, and the skip
in the Reunion Mine will get us to the surface in five minutes. The
tunnel ends sixteen hundred feet underground, about a thousand feet
from Center City," he explained, as he noted Fairchild's wondering
gaze. "You stay here. We 've got to wait for those prisoners--and
lock 'em up. I 'll be getting my car warmed up to take us to the
tunnel."
Anita already was at the 'phone, and Fairchild sank into a chair,
watching her with luminous eyes. The world was becoming brighter; it
might be night, with a blizzard blowing, to every one else,--but to
Fairchild the sun was shining as it never had shone before. A thumping
sound came from without. Harry entered with his two charges, followed
shortly by Bardwell, the sheriff, while just beneath the office window
a motor roared in the process of "warming up." The sheriff looked from
one to the other of the two men.
"These people have made charges against you," he said shortly. "I want
to know a little more about them before I go any farther. They say you
've been high-jacking."
Taylor Bill nodded in the affirmative.
"And that you robbed the Old Times dance and framed the evidence
against this big Cornishman?"
Taylor Bill scraped a foot on the floor.
"It's true. Squint Rodaine wanted me to do it. He 'd been trying for
thirty years to get that Blue Poppy mine. There was some kind of a
mix-up away back there that I did n't know much about--fact is, I did
n't know anything. The Silver Queen didn't amount to much and when
demonetization set in, I quit--you 'll remember, Sheriff--and went
away. I 'd worked for Squint before, and when I came back a couple of
years ago, I naturally went to him for a job again. Then he put this
proposition up to me at ten dollars a day and ten per cent. It looked
too good to be turned down."
"How about you?" Bardwell faced Blindeye. The sandy lashes blinked
and the weak eyes turned toward the floor.
"I--was in on it."
That was enough. The sheriff reached for his keys. A moment more and
a steel door clanged upon the two men while the officer led the way to
his motor car. There he looked quizzically at Anita Richmond, piling
without hesitation into the front seat.
"You going too?"
"I certainly am," and she covered her intensity with a laugh, "there
are a number of things that I want to say to Mr. Maurice Rodaine--and I
have n't the patience to wait!"
Bardwell chuckled. The doors of the car slammed and the engine roared
louder than ever. Soon they were churning along through the driving
snow toward the great buildings of the Argonaut Tunnel Company, far at
the other end of town. There men awaited them, and a tram motor,
together with its operator,--happy in the expectation of a departure
from the usual routine of hauling out the long strings of ore and
refuse cars from the great tunnel which, driving straight through the
mountains, had been built in the boom days to cut the workings of mine
after mine, relieving the owners of those holdings of the necessity of
taking their product by the slow method of burro packs to the
railroads, and gaining for the company a freight business as enriching
as a bonanza itself. The four pursuers took their places on the
benches of the car behind the motor. The trolley was attached. A
great door was opened, allowing the cold blast of the blizzard to whine
within the tunnel. Then, clattering over the frogs, green lights
flashing from the trolley wire, the speeding journey was begun.
It was all new to Fairchild, engrossing, exciting. Close above them
were the ragged rocks of the tunnel roof, seeming to reach down as if
to seize them as they roared and clattered beneath. Seepage dripped at
intervals, flying into their faces like spray as they dashed through
it. Side tracks appeared momentarily when they passed the opening of
some mine where the ore cars stood in long lines, awaiting their turn
to be filled. The air grew warmer. The minutes were passing, and they
were nearing the center of the tunnel. Great gateways sped past them;
the motor smashed over sidetracks and spurs and switches as they
clattered by the various mine openings, the operator reaching above him
to hold the trolley steady as they went under narrow, low places where
the timbers had been placed, thick and heavy, to hold back the sagging
earth above.
Three miles, four, five, while Anita Richmond held close to Fairchild
as the speed became greater and the sparks from the wire above threw
their green, vicious light over the yawning stretch before them. A
last spurt, slightly down-grade, with the motor pushing the wheels at
their greatest velocity; then the crackling of electricity suddenly
ceased, the motor slowed in its progress, finally to stop. The driver
pointed to the right.
"Over there, sheriff--about fifty feet; that's the Reunion opening."
"Thanks!" They ran across the spur tracks in the faint light of a
dirty incandescent, gleaming from above. A greasy being faced them and
Bardwell, the sheriff, shouted his mission.
"Got to catch some people that are making a get-away through Center
City. Can you send us up in the skip?"
"Yes, two at a time."
"All right!" The sheriff turned to Harry. "You and I 'll go on the
first trip and hurry for the Ohadi road. Fairchild and Miss Richmond
will wait for the second and go to Sheriff Mason's office and tell him
what's up. Meet us there," he said to Fairchild, as he went forward.
Already the hoist was working; from far above came the grinding of
wheels on rails as the skip was lowered. A wave of the hand, then
Bardwell and Harry entered the big, steel receptacle. At the wall the
greasy workman pulled three times on the electric signal; a moment more
and the skip with its two occupants had passed out of sight.
A long wait followed while Fairchild strove to talk of many
things,--and failed in all of them. Things were happening too swiftly
for them to be put into crisp sentences by a man whose thoughts were
muddled by the fact that beside him waited a girl in a whipcord riding
suit--the same girl who had leaped from an automobile on the Denver
highway and--
It crystallized things for him momentarily.
"I 'm going to ask you something after a while--something that I 've
wondered and wondered about. I know it was n't anything--but--"
She laughed up at him.
"It did look terrible, didn't it?"
"Well, it would n't have been so mysterious if you had n't hurried away
so quick. And then--"
"You really did n't think I was the Smelter bandit, did you?" the laugh
still was on her lips. Fairchild scratched his head.
"Darned if I know what I thought. And I don't know what I think yet."
"But you 've managed to live through it."
"Yes--but--"
She touched his arm and put on a scowl.
"It's very, very awful!" came in a low, mock-awed voice. "But--" then
the laugh came again--"maybe if you 're good and--well, maybe I 'll
tell you after a while."
"Honest?"
"Of course I 'm honest! Is n't that the skip?"
Fairchild walked to the shaft. But the skip was not in sight. A long
ten minutes they waited, while the great steel carrier made the trip to
the surface with Harry and Sheriff Bardwell, then came lumbering down
again. Fairchild stepped in and lifted Anita to his side.
The journey was made in darkness,--darkness which Fairchild longed to
turn to his advantage, darkness which seemed to call to him to throw
his arms about the girl at his side, to crush her to him, to seek out
with an instinct that needed no guiding light the laughing, pretty lips
which had caused him many a day of happiness, many a day of worried
wonderment. He strove to talk away the desire--but the grinding of the
wheels in the narrow shaft denied that. His fingers twitched, his arms
trembled as he sought to hold back the muscles, then, yielding to the
impulse, he started--
"Da-a-a-g-gone it!"
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
But Fairchild was n't telling the truth. They had reached the light
just at the wrong, wrong moment. Out of the skip he lifted her, then
inquired the way to the sheriff's office of this, a new county. The
direction was given, and they went there. They told their story. The
big-shouldered, heavily mustached man at the desk grinned cheerily.
"That there's the best news I 've heard in forty moons," he announced.
"I always did hate that fellow. You say Bardwell and your partner went
out on the Ohadi road to head the young 'un off?"
"Yes. They had about a fifteen-minute start on us. Do you think--?"
"We 'll wait here. They 're hefty and strong. They can handle him
alone."
But an hour passed without word from the two Searchers. Two more went
by. The sheriff rose from his chair, stamped about the room, and
looked out at the night, a driving, aimless thing in the clutch of a
blizzard.
"Hope they ain't lost," came at last.
"Had n't we better--?"
But a noise from without cut off the conversation. Stamping feet
sounded on the steps, the knob turned, and Sheriff Bardwell,
snow-white, entered, shaking himself like a great dog, as he sought to
rid himself of the effects of the blizzard.
"Hello, Mason," came curtly.
"Hello, Bardwell, what 'd you find?"
The sheriff of Clear Creek county glanced toward Anita Richmond and was
silent. The girl leaped to her feet.
"Don't be afraid to talk on my account," she begged. "Where's Harry?
Is he all right? Did he come back with you?"
"Yes--he's back."
"And you found Maurice?"
Bardwell was silent again, biting at the end of his mustache. Then he
squared himself.
"No matter how much a person dislikes another one--it's, it's--always a
shock," came at last. Anita came closer.
"You mean that he 's dead?"
The sheriff nodded, and Fairchild came suddenly to his feet. Anita's
face had grown suddenly old,--the oldness that precedes the youth of
great relief.
"I 'm sorry--for any one who must die," came finally. "But
perhaps--perhaps it was better. Where was he?"
"About a mile out. He must have rushed his horse too hard. The sweat
was frozen all over it--nobody can push a beast like that through these
drifts and keep it alive."
"He did n't know much about riding."
"I should say not. Did n't know much of anything when we got to him.
He was just about gone--tried to stagger to his feet when we came up,
but could n't make it. Kind of acted like he 'd lost his senses
through fear or exposure or something. Asked me who I was, and I said
Bardwell. Seemed to be tickled to hear my name--but he called it
Barnham. Then he got up on his hands and knees and clutched at me and
asked me if I 'd drawn out all the money and had it safe. Just to
humor him, I said I had. He tried to say something after that, but it
was n't much use. The first thing we knew he 'd passed out. That's
where Harry is now--took him over to the mortuary. There isn't anybody
named Barnham, is there?"
"Barnham?" The name had awakened recollections for Fairchild; "why
he's the fellow that--"
But Anita cut in.
"He 's a lawyer in Denver. They 've been sending all the income from
stock sales to him for deposit. If Maurice asked if he 'd gotten the
money out, it must mean that they meant to run with all the proceeds.
We 'll have to telephone Denver."
"Providing the line's working." Bardwell stared at the other sheriff.
"Is it?"
"Yes--to Denver."
"Then let's get headquarters in a hurry. You know Captain Lee, don't
you? You do the talking. Tell him to get hold of this fellow Barnham
and pinch him, and then send him up to Ohadi in care of Pete Carr or
some other good officer. We 've got a lot of things to say to him."
The message went through. Then the two sheriffs rose and looked at
their revolvers.
"Now for the tough one." Bardwell made the remark, and Mason smiled
grimly. Fairchild rose and went to them.
"May I go along?"
"Yes, but not the girl. Not this time."
Anita did not demur. She moved to the big rocker beside the old base
burner and curled up in it. Fairchild walked to her side.
"You won't run away," he begged.
"I? Why?"
"Oh--I don't know. It--it just seems too good to be true!"
She laughed and pulled her cap from her head, allowing her wavy, brown
hair to fall about her shoulders, and over her face. Through it she
smiled up at him, and there was something in that smile which made
Fairchild's heart beat faster than ever.
"I 'll be right here," she answered, and with that assurance, he
followed the other two men out into the night.
Far down the street, where the rather bleak outlines of the hotel
showed bleaker than ever in the frigid night, a light was gleaming in a
second-story window. Mason turned to his fellow sheriff.
"He usually stays there. That must be him--waiting for the kid."
"Then we 'd better hurry--before somebody springs the news."
The three entered, to pass the drowsy night clerk, examine the register
and to find that their conjecture had been correct. Tiptoeing, they
went to the door and knocked. A high-pitched voice came from within.
"That you, Maurice?"
Fairchild answered in the best imitation he could give.
"Yes. I 've got Anita with me."
Steps, then the door opened. For just a second, Squint Rodaine stared
at them in ghastly, sickly fashion. Then he moved back into the room,
still facing them.
"What's the idea of this?" came his forced query. Fairchild stepped
forward.
"Simply to tell you that everything 's blown up as far as you 're
concerned, Mr. Rodaine."
"You needn't be so dramatic about it. You act like I 'd committed a
murder! What 've I done that you should--?"
"Just a minute. I would n't try to act innocent. For one thing, I
happened to be in the same house with you one night when you showed
Crazy Laura, your wife, how to make people immortal. And we 'll
probably learn a few more things about your character when we 've
gotten back there and interviewed--"
He stopped his accusations to leap forward, clutching wildly. But in
vain. With a lunge, Squint Rodaine had turned, then, springing high
from the floor, had seemed to double in the air as he crashed through
the big pane of the window and out to the twenty-foot plunge which
awaited him.
Blocked by the form of Fairchild, the two sheriffs sought in vain to
use the guns which they had drawn from their holsters. Hurriedly they
gained the window, but already the form of Rodaine had unrolled itself
from the snow bank into which it had fallen, dived beneath the
protection of the low coping which ran above the first-floor windows of
the hotel, skirted the building in safety and whirled into the alley
that lay beyond. Squint Rodaine was gone. Frantically, Fairchild
turned for the door, but a big hand stopped him.
"Let him go--let him think he 's gotten away," said grizzled Sheriff
Mason. "He ain't got a chance. There 's snow everywhere--and we can
trail him like a hound dawg trailing a rabbit. And I think I know
where he 's bound for. Whatever that was you said about Crazy Laura
hit awful close to home. It ain't going to be hard to find that
rattler!"