CONFESSION
In spite of his perplexities, Peter slept soundly and was only awakened
by the jangling of the telephone bell. But Peter wanted to do a little
thinking before he saw McGuire, and he wanted to ask the housekeeper a
few questions, so he told McGuire that he would see him before ten
o'clock. The curious part of the telephone conversation was that McGuire
made no mention of the shooting. "H-m," said Peter to himself as he hung
up, "going to ignore that trifling incident altogether, is he? Well,
we'll see about that. It doesn't pay to be too clever, old cock." His
pity for McGuire was no more. At the present moment Peter felt nothing
for him except an abiding contempt which could hardly be modified by any
subsequent revelations.
Peter ran down to the creek in his bath robe and took a quick plunge,
then returned, shaved and dressed while his coffee boiled, thinking with
a fresh mind over the events and problems of the night before. Curiously
enough, he found that he considered them more and more in their relation
to Beth. Perhaps it was his fear for her happiness that laid stress on
the probability that Jim Coast was Ben Cameron, Beth's father. How
otherwise could Mrs. Bergen's terror be accounted for? And yet why had
Coast been so perturbed at the mere mention of Ben Cameron's name? That
was really strange. For a moment the man had stared at Peter as though
he were seeing a ghost. If he _were_ Ben Cameron, why shouldn't he have
acknowledged the fact? Here was the weak point in the armor of mystery.
Peter had to admit that even while Coast was telling his story and the
conviction was growing in Peter's mind that this was Beth's father, the
very thought of Beth herself seemed to make the relationship grotesque.
This Jim Coast, this picturesque blackguard who had told tales on the
_Bermudian_ that had brought a flush of shame even to Peter's
cheeks--this degenerate, this scheming blackmailer--thief, perhaps
murderer, too, the father of Beth! Incredible! The merest contact with
such a man must defile, defame her. And yet if this were the fact, Coast
would have a father's right to claim her, to drag her down, a prey to
his vile tongue and drunken humors as she had once been when a child.
Her Aunt Tillie feared this. And Aunt Tillie did not know as Peter now
did of the existence of the vile secret that sealed Coast's lips and
held McGuire's soul in bondage.
Instead of going directly up the lawn to the house Peter went along the
edge of the woods to the garage and then up the path, as Coast must have
done a few nights before. The housekeeper was in the pantry and there
Peter sought her out. He noted the startled look in her eyes at the
moment he entered the room and then the line of resolution into which
her mouth was immediately drawn. So Peter chose a roundabout way of
coming to his subject.
"I wanted to talk to you about Beth, Mrs. Bergen," he began cheerfully.
She offered him a chair but Peter leaned against the windowsill looking
out into the gray morning. He told her what he had discovered about her
niece's voice, that he himself had been educated in music and that he
thought every opportunity should be given Beth to have her voice
trained.
He saw that Mrs. Bergen was disarmed for the moment as to the real
purpose of his visit and he went on to tell her just what had happened
at the Cabin with Shad Wells the day before, and asking her, as Beth's
only guardian, for permission to carry out his plan to teach her all
that he knew, after which he hoped it would be possible for her to go to
New York for more advanced training.
Mrs. Bergen listened in wonder, gasping at the tale of Shad Wells's
undoing, which Peter asked her to keep in confidence. From Mrs. Bergen's
comments he saw that she took little stock in Shad, who had been
bothering Beth for two years or more, and that her own love for the girl
amounted to a blind adoration which could see no fault in anything that
she might do. It was clear that she was delighted with the opportunities
Peter offered, for she had always known that Beth sang "prettier than
anybody in the world." As to going to the Cabin for the lessons, that
was nobody's business but Beth's. She was twenty-two--and able to look
out for herself.
"I'm an old woman, Mr. Nichols," she concluded timidly, "an' I've seen a
lot of trouble, one kind or another, but I ain't often mistaken in my
judgments. I know Beth. She ain't nobody's fool. And if she likes you,
you ought to be glad of it. If she's willin' to come to your cabin, I'm
willin' that she should go there--no matter who don't like it or why.
She can look after herself--aye, better than I can look after her." She
sighed. And then with some access of spirit, "You're different from most
of the folks around here, but I don't see nothin' wrong with you. If you
say you want to help Beth, I'm willin' to believe you. But if I thought
you meant her any harm----"
She broke off and stared at him with her mild eyes under brows meant to
be severe.
"I hope you don't want to think that, Mrs. Bergen," said Peter gently.
"No. I don't want to. Beth don't take up with every Tom, Dick and Harry.
And if she likes you, I reckon she knows what's she's about."
"I want to help her to make something of herself," said Peter calmly.
"And I know I can. Beth is a very unusual girl."
"Don't you suppose I know that? She always was. She ain't the same as
the rest of us down here. She always wanted to learn. Even now when
she's through school, she's always readin'--always."
"That's it. She ought to complete her education. That's what I mean. I
want to help her to be a great singer. I can do it if you'll let me."
"Where's the money comin' from?" sighed Mrs. Bergen.
"No need to bother about that, yet. I can give her a beginning, if you
approve. After that----" Peter paused a moment and then, "We'll see," he
finished.
He was somewhat amazed at the length to which his subconscious thought
was carrying him, for his spoken words could infer nothing less than his
undertaking at his own expense the completion of the girl's education.
The housekeeper's exclamation quickly brought him to a recognition of
his meaning.
"You mean--that _you_----!" she halted and looked at him over her
glasses in wonder.
"Yes," he said blandly, aware of an irrevocable step. "I do, Mrs.
Bergen."
"My land!" she exclaimed. And then again as though in echo, "My land!"
"That's one of the reasons why I've come here to you to-day," he went on
quickly. "I want to help Beth and I want to help _you_. I know that
everything isn't going right for you at Black Rock House. I've been
drawn more deeply into--into McGuire's affairs than I expected to be and
I've learned a great many things that aren't any business of mine. And
one of the things I've learned is that your peace of mind and Beth's
happiness are threatened by the things that are happening around you."
The housekeeper had risen and stood leaning against the dresser,
immediately on her guard.
"Mrs. Bergen," he went on firmly, "there's no use of trying to evade
this issue--because it's here! I know more than you think I do. I'm
trying to get at the root of this mystery because of Beth. You told me
the other night that Beth's happiness was involved when that stranger
came to the kitchen porch----"
"No, no," gasped the woman. "Don't ask me. I'll tell you nothin'."
"You saw this man--outside the kitchen door in the dark," he insisted.
"You talked with him----"
"No--no. Don't ask me, Mr. Nichols."
"Won't you tell me what he said? I saw him last night--talked with him
for an hour----"
"_You_--talked--with him!" she gasped in alarm. And then, haltingly,
"What did he say to you? What did he do? Is he coming back?"
She was becoming more disturbed and nervous, so Peter brought a chair
and made her sit in it.
"No. He's not coming back--not for a month or more," he replied
reassuringly. "But if I'm to help you, I've got to know something more
about him, and for Beth's sake you've got to help me." And then quietly,
"Mrs. Bergen, was this man who came to the kitchen door, Ben Cameron,
Beth's father?"
"My God!" said the housekeeper faintly, putting her face in her hands.
"Won't you tell me just what happened?" Peter asked.
"I--I'm scared, Mr. Nichols," she groaned. "The whole thing has been too
much for me--knowin' how scared Mr. McGuire is too. I can't understand,
I can't even--think--no more."
"Let me do your thinking for you. Tell me what happened the other night,
Mrs. Bergen."
The woman raised a pallid face, her colorless eyes blinking up at him
beseechingly.
"Tell me," he whispered. "It can do no possible harm."
She glanced pitifully at him once more and then haltingly told her
story.
"I--I was sittin' in the kitchen there, the night of the supper
party--by the door--restin' and tryin' to get cool--when--when a knock
come on the door-jamb outside. It sounded queer--the door bein'
open--an' my nerves bein' shook sorter with the goin's on here. But I
went to the door an' leaned out. There was a man standin' in the
shadow----"
Mrs. Bergen paused in a renewed difficulty of breathing.
"And then----?" Peter urged.
"He--he leaned forward toward me an' spoke rough-like. 'You're the cook,
ain't you?' he says. I was that scared I--I couldn't say nothin'. An' he
went on. 'You tell McGuire to meet me at the end of the lawn to-morrow
night.'"
"And what did you say?"
"Nothin'. I couldn't."
"What else did he tell you?"
Mrs. Bergen bent her head but went on with an effort.
"He says, 'Tell McGuire Ben--Ben Cameron's come back.'"
"I see. And you were more frightened than ever?"
"Yes. More frightened--terrible. I didn't know what to do. I mumbled
somethin'. Then you an' Beth come in----"
"And _was_ it Ben Cameron that you saw?"
The poor creature raised her gaze to Peter's again.
"B-Ben Cameron? Who else could it 'a' been? An' I thought he was dead,
Mr. Nichols--years ago."
"You didn't recognize him, then?"
"I--I don't know. It was all so sudden--like seein' a corpse--speakin'
that name."
"He wore a short beard?"
"Yes. But Ben Cameron was smooth shaved."
"Did Ben Cameron have any distinguishing mark--anything you could
remember him by?"
"Yes. Ben Cameron's little finger of his left hand was missin'----. But
of course, Mr. Nichols, I couldn't see nothin' in the dark."
"No, of course," said Peter with a gasp of relief. "But his voice----?"
"It was gruff--hoarse--whisperin'-like."
"Was the Ben Cameron you knew, your brother-in-law--was he tall?"
She hesitated, her brows puckering.
"That's what bothered me some. Beth's father wasn't over tall----"
"I see," Peter broke in eagerly, "and this man was tall--about my
size--with a hook nose--black eyes and----"
"Oh, I--I couldn't see his face," she muttered helplessly. "The night
was too dark."
"But you wouldn't swear it was Ben Cameron?"
She looked up at him in a new bewilderment. "But who else could it 'a'
been--sayin' that name--givin' that message?"
Peter rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Queer, isn't it? I don't wonder that you were alarmed--especially for
Beth, knowing the kind of man he was."
"It's terrible, Mr. Nichols. A man like Ben Cameron never gets made
over. He's bad clear through. If you only knew----" Mrs. Bergen's pale
eyes seemed to be looking back into the past. "He means no good to
Beth--that's what frightens me. He could take her away from me. She's
his daughter----"
"Well--don't worry," said Peter at last. "We'll find a way to protect
you." And then, "Of course you didn't take that message to McGuire?" he
asked.
"Why, no--Mr. Nichols. I couldn't. I'd 'a' died first. But what does it
all mean? _Him_ bein' scared of Ben Cameron, too. I can't make it
out--though I've thought and thought until I couldn't think no more."
She was on the point of tears now, so Peter soothed her gently.
"Leave this to me, Mrs. Bergen." And then, "You haven't said anything of
this to any one?"
"Not a soul--I--I was hopin' it might 'a' been just a dream."
Peter was silent for a moment, gazing out of the window and thinking
deeply.
"No. It wasn't a dream," he said quietly at last. "You saw a man by the
kitchen door, and he gave you the message about Ben Cameron, _but the
man you saw wasn't Ben Cameron_, Mrs. Bergen, because, unless I'm very
much mistaken, Ben Cameron is dead----"
"How do you----?"
"He didn't die when you thought he did, Mrs. Bergen--but later. I can't
tell you how. It's only a guess. But I'm beginning to see a light in
this affair--and I'm going to follow it until I find the truth. Good-by.
Don't worry."
And Peter, with a last pat on the woman's shoulder and an encouraging
smile, went out of the door and into the house.
Eagerly Peter's imagination was trying to fill the gap in Jim Coast's
story, and his mind, now intent upon the solution of the mystery, groped
before him up the stair. And what it saw was the burning Gila Desert ...
the mine among the rocks--"lousy" with outcroppings of ore ... "Mike"
McGuire and "Hawk" Kennedy, devious in their ways, partners in a vile
conspiracy....
But Peter's demeanor was careless when Stryker admitted him to McGuire's
room and his greeting in reply to McGuire's was casual enough to put his
employer off his guard. After a moment's hesitation McGuire sent the
valet out and went himself and closed and locked the door. Peter refused
his cigar, lighting one of his own cigarettes, and sank into the chair
his host indicated. After the first words Peter knew that his surmise
had been correct and that his employer meant to deny all share in the
shooting of the night before.
"Well," began the old man, with a glance at the door, "what did he say?"
Peter shook his head judicially. He had already decided on the direction
which this conversation must take.
"No. It won't do, Mr. McGuire," he said calmly.
"What do you mean?"
"Merely that before we talk of what Hawk Kennedy said to me, we'll
discuss your reasons for unnecessarily putting my life in danger----"
"This shooting you've spoken of----"
"This attempted _murder_!"
"You're dreaming."
Peter laughed at him. "You'll be telling me in a moment that you didn't
hear the shots." And then, leaning forward so that he stared deep into
his employer's eyes, "See here, Mr. McGuire, I'm not to be trifled with.
I know too much of your affairs--more than you think I do----"
"He talked----?" McGuire's poise was slipping from him.
"One moment, if you please. I want this thing perfectly understood. Your
arrangements were cleverly made--changing the guards--your instructions
to me--the flashlight and all the rest. You didn't want to kill me if
you could help it. I'm obliged for this consideration. You forgot that
your hand isn't as steady now as it was when you were a dead shot out in
Arizona--Ah! I see that you already understand what I mean."
McGuire had started forward in his chair, his face livid.
"You know----?"
"Yes. More than I wanted to know--more than I would ever have known if
you'd played fair with me. You cared nothing for my life. You shot,
twice, missed killing your man and then when the light went out, sneaked
away like the coward that you are----"
"D----n you," croaked McGuire feebly, falling back in his chair.
"Leaving me to the mercies of your ancient enemy in the dark--who
thought _me_ your accomplice. You can hardly blame him under the
circumstances. But I got the best of him--luckily for me, and disarmed
him. If you had remained a few moments longer you might have taken part
in our very interesting conversation. Do you still deny all this?"
McGuire, stifled with his fear and fury, was incapable of a reply.
"Very good. So long as we understand each other thus far, perhaps you
will permit me to go on. As you know, I came to you in good faith. I
wanted to help you in any way that a gentleman could do. Last night you
tricked me, and put my life in danger. If you had killed Kennedy
everything would have been all right for _you_. And I would have been
accused of the killing. If _I_ had been killed no harm would have been
done at all. That was your idea. It was a clever little scheme. Pity it
didn't work out."
McGuire's faltering courage was coming back.
"Go on!" he muttered desperately.
"Thanks," said Peter, "I will. One shot of yours scraped Kennedy's
shoulder. He was bleeding badly, so I took him to the Cabin and fixed
him up. He was rather grateful. He ought to have been. I gave him a
drink too--several drinks. You said he wouldn't talk, but he did."
"You _made_ him talk, d----n you," McGuire broke in hoarsely.
"No. He volunteered to talk. I may say, he insisted upon it. You see, I
happened to have the gentleman's acquaintance----"
"You----!"
"We met on the steamer coming over when we were escaping from Russia.
His name was Jim Coast then. He was a waiter in the dining saloon. So
was I. Funny, isn't it?"
To McGuire it seemed far from that, for at this revelation his jaw
dropped and he stared at Peter as though the entire affair were beyond
his comprehension.
"You knew him! A waiter, _you_!"
"Yes. Misfortune makes strange bedfellows. It was either that or
starvation. I preferred to wait."
"For--for the love of God--go on," growled McGuire. His hands were
clutching the chair arm and there was madness in his shifting eyes, so
Peter watched him keenly.
"I will. He told me how you and he had worked together out in Colorado,
up in the San Luis valley, of the gold prospect near Wagon Wheel Gap, of
its failure--how you met again in Pueblo and then went down into the
copper country--Bisbee, Arizona."
Peter had no pity now. He saw McGuire straighten again in his chair, his
gaze shifting past Peter from left to right like a trapped animal. His
fingers groped along the chair arms, along the table edge, trembling,
eager but uncertain. But the sound of Peter's narrative seemed to
fascinate--to hypnotize him.
"Go on----!" he whispered hoarsely. "Go on!"
"You got an outfit and went out into the Gila Desert," continued Peter,
painting his picture leisurely, deliberately. "It was horrible--the
heat, the sand, the rocks--but you weren't going to fail this time.
There was going to be something at the end of this terrible pilgrimage
to repay you for all that you suffered, you and Hawk Kennedy. There was
no water, but what you carried on your pack-mules--no water within a
hundred miles, nothing but sand and rocks and the heat. No chance at all
for a man, alone without a horse, in that desert. You saw the bones of
men and animals bleaching along the trail. That was the death that
awaited any man----"
"You lie!"
Peter sprang for the tortured man as McGuire's fingers closed on
something in the open drawer of the table, but Peter twisted the weapon
quickly out of his hand and threw it in the corner of the room.
"You fool," he whispered quickly as he pinioned McGuire in his chair,
"do you want to add another murder to what's on your conscience?"
But McGuire had already ceased to resist him. Peter hadn't been too
gentle with him. The man had collapsed. A glance at his face showed his
condition. So Peter poured out a glass of whisky and water which he
poured between his employer's gaping lips. Then he waited, watching the
old man. He seemed really old now to Peter, a hundred at least, for his
sagging facial muscles seemed to reveal the lines of every event in his
life--an old man, though scarcely sixty, yet broken and helpless. He
came around slowly, his heavy gaze slowly seeking Peter's.
"What--what are you going to do?" he managed at last.
"Nothing. I'm no blackmailer." And then, playing his high card, "I've
heard what Hawk said about Ben Cameron," said Peter. "Now tell me the
truth."
At the sound of the name McGuire started and then his eyes closed for a
moment.
"You know--everything," he muttered.
"Yes, _his_ side," Peter lied. "What's yours?"
McGuire managed to haul himself upright in his chair, staring up at
Peter with bloodshot eyes.
"He's lied to you, if he said I done it----," he gasped, relapsing into
the vernacular of an earlier day. "It was Hawk. He stabbed him in the
back. I never touched him. I never had a thing to do with the killin'. I
swear it----"
Peter's lips set in a thin line.
"So Hawk Kennedy killed Ben Cameron!" he said.
"He did. I swear to God----"
"And then _you_ cleared out with all the water, leaving Hawk to die.
_That_ was murder--cold-blooded murder----"
"My God, don't, Nichols!" the old man moaned. "If you only knew----"
"Well, then--tell me the truth."
Their glances met. Peter's was compelling. He had, when he chose, an air
of command. And there was something else in Peter's look, inflexible as
it was, that gave McGuire courage, an unalterable honesty which had been
so far tried and not found wanting.
"You know--already," he stammered.
"Tell me your story," said Peter bluntly.
There was a long moment of hesitation, and then,
"Get me a drink, Nichols. I'll trust you. I've never told it to a living
man. I'll tell--I'll tell it all. It may not be as bad as you think."
He drank the liquor at a gulp and set the glass down on the table beside
him.
"This--this thing has been hanging over me for fifteen years,
Nichols--fifteen years. It's weighted me down, made an old man of me
before my time. Maybe it will help me to tell somebody. It's made me
hard--silent, busy with my own affairs, bitter against every man who
could hold his head up. I knew it was going to come some day. I knew it.
You can't pull anything like that and get away with it forever. I'd made
the money for my kids--I never had any fun spending it in my life. I'm a
lonely man, Nichols. I always was. No happiness except when I came back
to my daughters--to Peggy and my poor Marjorie...."
McGuire was silent for a moment and Peter, not taking his gaze from his
face, patiently waited. McGuire glanced at him just once and then went
on, slipping back from time to time into the speech of a bygone day.
"I never knew what his first name was. He was always just 'Hawk' to us
boys on the range. Hawk Kennedy was a bad lot. I knew it up there in the
San Luis valley but I wasn't no angel from Heaven myself. And he had a
way with him. We got on all right together. But when the gold mine up at
the Gap petered out he quit me--got beaten up in a fight about a woman.
I didn't see him for some years, when he showed up in Pueblo, where I
was workin' in a smelter. He was all for goin' South into the copper
country. He had some money--busted a faro bank he said, and talked big
about the fortune he was goin' to make. Ah, he could talk, when he had
something on his mind.... I had some money saved up too and so I quit my
job and went with him down to Bisbee, Arizona. I wish to God I never
had. I'd gotten pretty well straightened out up in Pueblo, sendin' money
East to the wife and all----. But I wanted to be rich. I was forty-five
and I had to hurry. But I could do it yet. Maybe this was my chance.
That's the way I thought. That's why I happened to listen to Hawk
Kennedy and his tales of the copper country.
"Well, we got an outfit in Bisbee and set out along the Mexican border.
We had a tip that let us out into the desert. It was just a tip, that's
all. But it was worth following up. It was about this man Ben Cameron.
He'd come into town all alone, get supplies and then go out again next
day. He let slip something over the drink one night. That was the tip we
were followin' up. We struck his trail all right--askin' questions of
greasers and Indians. We knew he'd found somethin' good or he wouldn't
have been so quiet about it.
"I swear to God, I had no idea of harmin' him. I wanted to find what Ben
Cameron had found, stake out near him and get what I could. Maybe Hawk
Kennedy had a different idea even then. I don't know. He never said what
he was thinkin' about.
"We found Ben Cameron. Perched up in a hill of rocks, he was, livin' in
the hole he'd dug where he'd staked his claim. But we knew he hadn't
taken out any papers. He never thought anybody'd find him out there in
that Hell-hole. It was Hell all right. Even now whenever I think of what
Hell must be I think of what that gulch looked like. Just rocks and
alkali dust and heat.
"It all comes back to me. Every little thing that was said and
done--every word. Ben Cameron saw us first--and when we came up, he was
sittin' on a rock, his rifle acrost his knees, a hairy man, thin,
burnt-out, black as a greaser. Hawk Kennedy passed the time of day, but
Ben Cameron only cursed at him and waved us off. 'Get the Hell out of
here,' he says--ugly. But we only laughed at him--for didn't we both see
the kind of an egg Ben Cameron was settin' on?
"'Don't be pokin' jokes at the Gila Desert, my little man,' say Hawk,
polite as you please. 'It's Hell that's here and here it will remain.'
And then we said we were short of water--which we were not--and had he
any to spare? But he waved us on with his rifle, never sayin' a word. So
we moved down the gulch a quarter of a mile and went into camp. There
was ore here, too, but nothin' like what Ben Cameron had.
"Hawk was quiet that night--creepin' about among the rocks, but he
didn't say what was on his mind. In the mornin' he started off to talk
to Ben Cameron an' I went with him. The man was still sittin' on his
rock, with the rifle over his knees--been there all night, I reckon. But
he let us come to hailin' distance.
"'Nice claim you got there, pardner,' says Hawk.
"'Is it?' says he.
"'Ain't you afraid of rubbin' some o' that verdigris off onto your
pants,' says Hawk.
"'They're my pants,' says Cameron. 'You ain't here for any good. Get
out!' And he brings his rifle to his hip. We saw he was scared all
right, maybe not so much at what we'd do to him as at sharin' what he'd
found.
"'The Gila Desert ain't _all_ yours, is it, pardner? Or maybe you got a
mortgage on the earth!' says Hawk, very polite. 'You ain't got no
objection to our stakin' alongside of you, have you? Come along, now.
Let's be neighbors. We see what you've got. That's all right. We'll take
your leavin's. We've got a right to them.'
"And so after a while of palaverin' with him, he lets us come up and
look over his claim. It didn't take any eye at all to see what he'd got.
He wasn't much of a man--Ben Cameron--weak-eyed, rum-dum--poor too. You
could see that by his outfit--worse off than we were. Hawk told him we
had a lot of friends with money--big money in the East. Maybe we could
work it to run a railroad out to tap the whole ridge. That kind of got
him and we found he had no friends in this part of the country--so we
sat down to grub together, Ben Cameron, like me, unsuspectin' of what
was to happen.
"My God, Nichols, I can see it all like it had happened yesterday. Hawk
Kennedy stood up as though to look around and then before I knew what he
was about had struck Ben Cameron in the back with his knife.
"It was all over in a minute. Ben Cameron reached for his gun but before
his hand got to it he toppled over sideways and lay quiet.
"I started up to my feet but Hawk had me covered and I knew from what
had happened that he'd shoot, too.
"'Don't make a fuss,' he says. 'Give me your gun.' I knew he had me to
rights and I did what he said. 'Now,' he says, 'it's yours and mine.'"
McGuire made a motion toward the glass. Peter filled it for him and he
drank.
"And then--what happened?" asked Peter quietly.
"Hawk Kennedy had me dead to rights. There was only one thing to do--to
make believe I was 'with him.' We buried Ben Cameron, then went down and
brought our outfit up, Hawk watchin' me all the while. He'd taken my gun
and Ben Cameron's and unloaded them and carried all the ammunition about
him. But I didn't know what I was in for. That night he made me sit down
while he drew up a paper, torn from an old note book of Ben Cameron's--a
partnership agreement, a contract."
McGuire broke off suddenly and got up, moving nervously to the safe,
from one of the drawers of which he took a blue linen envelope and
brought forth a paper which he handed to Peter.
"That's the hellish thing, Nichols," he said hoarsely. "That's why I'm
afraid of Hawk Kennedy. A lie that he forced me to sign! And there's
another paper like this in his possession. Read it, Nichols."
Peter took the paper in his fingers and looked at it curiously. It was
soiled and worn, broken at the edges, written over in lead pencil, but
still perfectly legible.
AGREEMENT BETWEEN HAWK KENNEDY AND MIKE McGUIRE
Us two found Ben Cameron on his copper claim in Madre Gulch.
We killed him. Both of us had a hand in it. This mine is
Hawk Kennedy's and Mike McGuire's and we are pardners in the
same until death us do part, so help us God.
(Signed) MIKE MCGUIRE.
HAWK KENNEDY.
"He wanted it on me----" McGuire gasped. "You see? To keep me quiet."
"I understand," said Peter. "This is 'what you've got and what I've got'
referred to in the placard."
"Yes," said McGuire. "A partnership agreement and a confession--of
something I didn't do."
Peter's eyes were searching him through and through.
"You swear it?"
McGuire held up his right hand and met Peter's gaze without flinching.
"Before God, I do."
Peter was silent for a moment, thinking.
"And then, you left Hawk Kennedy there to die," he said slowly, watching
the man.
McGuire sank into his chair with a sigh, the perspiration now beaded on
his pale forehead.
"I didn't know what to do, I tell you," he almost whispered. "He had
me. I was unarmed. I'd 'a' killed him if I'd had a gun. But I waited a
few days after we buried Cameron--makin' believe I was satisfied with
everything and he believed me, and at last he fell asleep tired with
keepin' watch on me. He was all in. I bored holes in Ben Cameron's
barrels, lettin' the water out down the rocks, then took the three
horses and the mules with all the water that was left and got away
before he woke up.
"It was a terrible thing to do, Nichols--call it murder if you like. But
it served him right. It was comin' to him--and I got away with it. At
first when I reached water I had a thought of goin' back--to save him
before he died--to get that paper I couldn't get that was inside his
shirt."
McGuire leaned forward, his face in his hands for a moment, trying to
finish.
"But I didn't go back, Nichols. I didn't go back. That's the crime I'm
payin' for now--not the other--not the murder of Ben Cameron--I didn't
do that--the murder of Hawk Kennedy--who has come back."
"What happened then?"
"I turned Ben Cameron's horse and burros loose where there was water and
grass and went on to Bisbee. I told them my buddy had died of a fever. I
thought he had by now. They didn't ask any questions. I was safe. The
rest was easy. I filed a claim, found some real money and told what I'd
found. I waited a month, then went back to Madre Gulch with Bill Munroe,
the fellow that helped stake us. There was no one there. We searched the
rocks and plains for miles around for signs of Hawk Kennedy's body, for
we knew he couldn't have got far in that heat without water. But we
found nothin'. Hawk Kennedy had disappeared."
"Then," said Peter, "you built a railroad in and sold out for half a
million dollars----?"
McGuire looked up, mystified.
"Or thereabouts," he muttered. "But Hawk Kennedy was alive. I found that
out later when he wrote from London. We steered him off the track. But I
knew he'd come back some day with that paper I'd signed. That's what's
been hangin' over me. An' now it's fallen. I've told you the truth. I
had to. You believe me, don't you?" he asked appealingly.
Peter had watched him keenly. There seemed little doubt that what he
told was the truth. There was no flaw in the tale.
"Yes," he said after a pause. "I believe you've told me the truth. But
you can hardly blame Hawk Kennedy, murderer though he is, for hating you
and wanting what he thinks is his."
"No. That's true."
"And you can't blame me for being angry at the trick you played me----"
"I was desperate. I've been desperate since I saw him in New York.
Sometimes I've been a bit queer, I reckon--thinkin' about Peggy hearin'
this. I wanted to kill him. It was a good chance last night. Nobody
would have blamed me, after his being around the place. It was an easy
shot--but my hand wasn't steady----"
"Pity you didn't know that before you put me in danger."
"I'm sorry, Nichols--sorry. I'll do anything you like. What do you want
me to do?"
Instead of replying at once Peter took out a cigarette and lighted it
carefully. And then,
"You've never taken the trouble to make any inquiries as to the
whereabouts of the family of Ben Cameron?" he asked.
The old man shook his head.
"Why not?"
"I was afraid to ask."
"I see. Don't you think it's about time you did? It's _his_ money that
made your fortune."
"He was no good. Nobody knew him. So far as I ever heard, nobody ever
asked about him."
"Nevertheless he must have had some friends somewhere."
"Maybe. I don't know. I'm willing to help them if I can, providing this
thing can be kept quiet." And then, pleadingly, "You're not going to
talk--to use it against me, Nichols?"
Peter's pity for McGuire had come back. The man's terror, his
desperation of the past weeks had burned him out, worn him to a shell.
"No, I'm not going to talk. Hawk Kennedy didn't dare tell what you've
told me. That's why I believe you."
"And you'll stay on here and help me?"
"Yes----We'll see how we can balk Hawk Kennedy."
"I'll pay him fifty thousand--a hundred thousand--for that
agreement----"
"Not a dollar. I've got a better use for your money than that."
McGuire thought Peter referred to the necessary improvements of the
estate. But Peter had another idea in mind.