WILLIE DART PICKS A LOCK
The summer sped by like one long golden day under its rare blue sky;
yet always upon the horizon was that single black cloud. Not until
summer had gone its bright way and winter had come, locked the mountain
passes and departed again, was the way to be made clear.
If Wayne Shandon could have had the opportunity to act at once when
Wanda told him the reason of her father's open enmity he would have
gone immediately in his headlong way to MacKelvey. He would have told
the sheriff his own version of the tragedy; he would have recounted the
finding of the revolver by Wanda, her giving it to him, his certainty
that Arthur had taken his own life. But having promised Wanda to do
nothing rashly, without again talking with her, having pondered deeply
as he rode back to the Bar L-M and during the days which followed, he
came to see sanely that for his own sake and for the sake of the girl
he loved it would be better if he held his peace until time and thought
brought clear vision.
He was already suspected by Martin Leland, perhaps by MacKelvey
himself, perhaps by many men among whom he came and went. Would the
story he had to tell lessen suspicion in any single breast? Would it
not rather give the sheriff just such a bit of evidence as he had long
been seeking?
Much alike in one great essential Wayne Shandon and Wanda Leland had
hearts that were tuned to happiness. To such people it is easier to be
gay than sad; the trouble, stern as it was, that had entered their
lives so early was less than the brightness which dissipated all other
troubles but that one. Good fortune had disclosed to them a meeting
place as high as the waving treetops where no one's curious eye would
penetrate; they could converse across the miles almost as people may
call across a street; they could be together two or three times a week
without their world knowing. These things gave wings to the summer.
They were busy days, clad in action, crowned with dreamings. Wanda's
cave became a dainty bower for a fair lady. Across the cliffs, by
tortuous trail, it was a scant five miles to the little mountain town
of White Rock. Many a dim morning before the shadows lifted to the
rising sun the trail had echoed to the clanging hoofs of Shandon's
horse as he rode down and back, bringing a surprise for Wanda. A
packhorse had brought in supplies, bought in Shandon's own reckless
way, which when piled high against the rock walls made Wanda gasp and
ask him if he thought that she was going to take in boarders. There
were camp stools, there were rugs. A tiny sheetiron camp stove came
one day, and when Wanda put her rosy face through the screen that Wayne
had substituted for her old one, her nostrils were assailed by the
odours of boiling coffee, frying bacon, sizzling apples and burning
bread.
There were strings of onions, and potatoes popping out of their bag
before the summer died; a side of bacon swung against a ham where Wayne
had driven a dead branch into a crevice in the rocks; there was a table
he had constructed rudely but securely; there were books on it; there
were candles burning everywhere.
"Because," he had laughed at her surprise, "winter will come one of
these days, and do you think that I'm not going to see you until it's
gone again? Oh, I suppose I'll have to be down at the lower pastures
with the stock, but I'll get up here now and again. Then when a fine
day comes and you want a long ski ride, you'll know where to come,
won't you, Wanda? Where a hot luncheon will be waiting for you? And,
who knows," he whispered, "maybe we'll spend our honeymoon here
sometime!"
Shandon at first had thought of going to Garth Conway, of asking him
frankly what the deal was in which he and Sledge Hume and Mr. Leland
were interested, and if they were counting upon needing the Bar L-M
water as Ruf Ettinger had told him they were. But in this matter also
had he altered his first quick decision. He had always liked Conway,
at least, without thinking a great deal about it he supposed he had,
for the very simple reason that they were cousins and had, in a way,
grown up together. But on the other hand they were men essentially
unlike, in no respect congenial. They had never been confidential;
were they the only two men in the world it is doubtful if one would
have carried his personal thoughts and emotions to the other. That
little reserve which had always existed, scarcely noted by Wayne
Shandon, was suddenly a wall between them. This was Conway's business;
if he chose to keep it his secret from his cousin, Wayne Shandon was
not the man to ask him to talk about it.
Moreover, perhaps even more important now than that consideration,
there was another. Leland and Hume had at least been upon the point of
going into this matter just before Arthur's death, and they had taken
Arthur into their confidence. Perhaps he was to have been one of their
corporation when one was formed. Now that Wayne owned the Bar L-M and
the water, the logical thing for them to do was to come to him. They
had brought Garth into the circle of their endeavour; they had ignored
Shandon. A little hurt at the obvious significance of this Shandon
shrugged his shoulders and resolved that when the first word was spoken
it would not be by himself.
And soon he came close to forgetting it. The incentive to bestir
himself had at last come into his life and he was not loitering.
Little by little, through long talks with Garth, with Big Bill and
other men of his outfit, he came to have a grasp upon the work which
should have been his a year before, and an interest in it. Only now
for the first time did he take the trouble to learn the real meaning of
resources and liabilities; to estimate profit and loss; to speculate
upon success in the business which he found rather larger than he had
suspected. He called a round-up to learn to the head how many steers
and cows and calves carried the Bar L-M brand. He brought a quick look
of surprise that was close to suspicion into Garth's eyes by asking
casually just what sums had been taken in during the last year by sales
of beef, how the money had been reinvested, if there was a surplus in
the bank. He went into the matter of the wages of all of the men, and
learned that Garth himself was drawing the same salary he had drawn
under Arthur.
"Oh, I'm not thinking that you're holding out on me," he laughed at
Garth's expression. "I've just begun thinking that it's about time I'm
doing part of my own work. So everything you got out of the sales last
year you slapped back into the business, buying more cattle?"
"I sent you four thousand, you remember," Garth reminded him.
"You don't quite get me, Garth. What's left of that four thousand
wouldn't buy a sack of tobacco. We haven't banked any cash, have we?"
Even now Garth hesitated, Garth's way. Then he answered.
"Arthur left fifteen hundred in the bank. I haven't touched that, of
course. If you haven't--"
"I didn't know it was there," laughed Wayne. "When I pulled out and
gave you my power of attorney I let everything slide off my shoulders
on to yours. Is that all?"
"I banked pretty heavily from sales," Garth went on. "Under my own
name, as it saved trouble and I didn't know when you'd show up. I drew
out again, for the men's wages, for a few improvements and running
expenses, for the other cattle I bought. I've got the vouchers, if you
want to see them."
"I don't want to see them."
"There is still something left," Garth said, his voice careless, his
eyes glancing up at Shandon and down again. "It's still in my name.
About four thousand."
"Good boy," cried Wayne. "That's going to save me some trouble. Will
you give me a check for it, Garth?"
"It's yours," Garth replied, going to look for pass book and check
book. But when he returned he could not refrain from asking, "What are
you going to do with it, Wayne?"
"Double it!" laughed Shandon. "Bet it on a horse race, my boy! But
look here," seriously. "I want only five thousand. Counting the other
fifteen hundred there's something over that. You've been working like
a dog for a year, drawing just foreman's wages while you've been taking
the owner's responsibilities. I'm going to shove the other five
hundred down your throat as the rest of the unpaid wages due you, or a
bonus or whatever you like to call it."
And as Garth's momentary stupefaction was followed by what threatened
to be very profuse thanks, Shandon fled to the stable and Little Saxon.
Already word of the race to be run in the springtime, in June when the
snows would be gone, had travelled up and down the country. Sledge
Hume's money was in the hands of Charlie Granger at El Toyon, and the
order signed by him to turn over the five thousand dollars to the man
who came in first, himself or Wayne Shandon, containing the clause
which he had insisted upon, making it clear that if only one man
entered the race he was to take the money.
Five thousand dollars wagered on a single race; Red Reckless and Sledge
Hume riding; Endymion, who had already shown those who knew him that
for beauty and speed and endurance he was the peer of his aristocratic,
thoroughbred sire and dam; Little Saxon, whom men knew yet only as a
wild hearted colt being tamed by a man who knew horses and who was
willing to lay five thousand on him against his brother; the course a
ten mile sweep of mountain and valley, of broken trail and grassy
meadow, leading from the high lands to the east of Bar L-M and Echo
Creek, ending at the Bar L-M corrals; this one event was enough to draw
the attention of men up and down the cattle country, in the mining
towns and lumber camps. Word of it went everywhere; letters came to
Wayne Shandon from other men who had horses, who suggested this, that
and the other race, who sought to find men to cover their bets.
It would be an all day meet; the Bar L-M outfit would entertain
generously; there would be barbecued beef; every one was welcome; big
wagons would be busy a week beforehand bringing in enough food for a
small army. Any man had the opportunity of entering his own horse with
these provisos: this was to be a Western race in all essentials; the
horse must be Western, born and bred, the man who owned it must ride
his own horse. There would be no professional jockeys; there would be
no bookmakers.
News of the race, before the winter had come, more than six months
before the day set in June, had gone over the crest of the Sierra and
appeared in the papers at Reno. It had flashed across telegraph wires
to Sacramento; had been talk for a day in many a place where sporting
men foregather in San Francisco. Men who had never heard of them
before came to know of Sledge Hume and Wayne Shandon, of Endymion and
Little Saxon. And still Little Saxon was but a half broken colt.
"It's all right," grunted Willie Dart to himself, kicking his heels
from the top of the corral and watching his Noble Benefactor risking
his life in the company of a great, belligerent red-bay horse. "It's
all right, seeing I'm here. Suppose I wasn't, suppose I was still
dodging cops on Broadway, then what? Then Sledgehammer Hume would put
some death-on-rats in Hell Fire's hay, or pick Red off with a shot gun,
and who cops onto the five thou? A man don't have to have a fortune
teller for a mother to get wised up to that."
Little by little the proud spirited horse learned his lesson. He came
to see that his destiny lay in the hands of the man who came out to him
daily. He gave over trying to beat the man to death with his flying
heels; he no longer sought to tear at him with bared teeth; he
recognised that it was as futile to seek to hurl the man from his back
as to break the strong cinch which held the saddle; that he might run
until he killed himself, but that he could not run away from the man
who rode him and laughed. He learned that in this world that had been
so utterly free for him there was one single being who was his master
in all things, whom he must obey. And, when obedience came, pleasure
in that obedience followed, and trust and faith and love.
That year winter came in as it had not come to these mountains for
twenty-seven years, early, unheralded and hard. The cattle and horses
had not yet been moved down to the lower ranges when one day, in
mid-afternoon, the air thickened, bursting black clouds drove up from
the southwest, the forests rocked moaning and shuddering under the
smashing impact of the sudden storm, the sun was lost in a darkness
that grew impenetrable toward the time of dusk, and the skies opened to
a downpour of rain. For upwards of an hour the great drops drove
unceasingly into the dry ground while giant daggers of lightning
stabbed at the earth that seemed to bellow its torment in reverberating
roars. Then the slanting rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, the
wind went howling through the forests and was gone, and in the
stillness which ushered in the true night the snow began.
All night it snowed, steadily, without cease. The morning dawned wanly
on a white world; distant peaks and ridges were blotted out in the
grey, snow filled air. Men who were careless yesterday became to-day
filled with an activity which was swift and tireless. In candlelight
and lamplight they dressed hurriedly and made speedy breakfasts. This
storm might be nothing but a warning of winter; it might be the first
day of a snowfall that would continue for two weeks. In any event it
was high time to have the cattle on the run to the lower valleys.
"Two days of this," grunted Big Bill as he kicked his way viciously
through the snow already over ankle deep on the way to the stable, "an'
the passes'll be so choked up we can't whoop the cow brutes through
'em. An' me, I ain't hankerin' after totin' a bawlin' calf under each
arm, nuther."
All day long, upon the Bar L-M and the Echo Creek, men were riding deep
into the sheltered ravines, bringing out the stock, heading the
stragglers westward down the valleys, gathering the different herds
into one on each ranch to crowd them out of the belt of hard winter.
Many men rode many miles that day, changing their horses at noon,
making a hasty meal when they could, riding again.
Always before this year the herds of the Bar L-M had been pushed across
the bridge or made to swim the river where it was wide and shallow, and
driven across a corner of the Echo Creek ranch by the most direct route
out. But this year Wayne Shandon briefly gave new orders, telling his
men to keep on the Bar L-M property as long as they could, then to
throw the herds across the ridge to the south and along a harder,
longer trail to the county road ten miles further west. He offered no
explanation, his men asked none. It was but another indication to them
of the thing which was already no secret, that there was some sort of
serious trouble between Wayne Shandon and Martin Leland.
Wayne and Garth intended to stay that night at the range house, being
the last two men to leave, after attending to the countless little
things which must be done about a ranch before it is abandoned to the
winter and solitude. They planned to follow the rest of the Bar L-M
outfit in the morning.
Even Martin Leland who usually moved his stock early had been caught
unprepared. The fine weather preceding the storm had tricked him; he
had not planned the drive until two weeks yet. He, too, having worked
with his men all day, having ridden the first half dozen miles with
them, came back to spend the night at his home.
That afternoon, while the men of both ranges were doing two days' work
in one, Willie Dart called upon Wanda. Mr. Dart made it a part of his
business in life to be on good terms with every one. He ignored the
contemptuous grunts of Wanda's father, and in speaking of him referred
to him as, "My old pal, Mart." Martin tolerated him, Mrs. Leland was
amused by him, Wanda welcomed him as coming from Wayne's home, as
always a possible bearer of tidings from Wayne himself. And such he
was to-day.
For there had been no time for signalling, the snow had veiled the
cliffs across the miles, and Wayne must send word of his sudden
necessary change of plans. So he entrusted a note to Mr. Dart, having
first sealed it in its envelope and informed the carrier that if he
pried into it the police in New York would learn by telegraph of the
present whereabouts of Mr. Dart.
Wanda and Dart were alone in the big living room while Mrs. Leland was
busied with Julia in making preparations within the house for the siege
of winter. As she left the room Mr. Dart winked slyly at Wanda, tapped
his breast pocket, winked the other eye and assumed the air of a man
bearing secret and very mysterious messages. In due time he brought
out the letter, the flap of the envelope showing so little sign of
having been tampered with that it was not to be expected that the eager
girl would note it. Mr. Dart afterwards admitted that he prided
himself upon the appearance of that envelope, all things, including
inclement weather, considered--and presented it with a whispered,
"Red wouldn't trust anybody with it but me. Say, he's some kid, ain't
he, Wanda?"
Beaming on her like a cherub in checked suit and brilliant necktie, he
approached a little nearer and whispered again,
"Me, I'll just mosey out on the porch while you flash your eyes over
Red's handwrite. Delicacy's my other name, times like this."
Still beaming he winked again, still winking let himself silently out
of the front door.
Considering that all Wayne Shandon had to write a letter about was to
tell Wanda that he was hurrying out with the herds to-morrow, that when
during the next few weeks he could get back he would signal with smoke
from the cliffs above her cave, it must have taken him a long time to
say it. Considering how little she had to read Wanda must have been
very deliberate in reading Wayne's scrawl. At any rate, long before
she had finished, Mr. Willie Dart had gone silently down the porch,
peered in the kitchen window at Mrs. Leland and Julia, continued on to
the door of Martin's study and let himself in. The door had been
locked, at that, when Dart's beautiful fingers first touched it, and
they had done what Mr. Dart himself termed "plying his profession."
"I ain't had a chance like this since I was three," Mr. Dart told
himself contentedly. "Honest, I ain't. Now, if these nice old country
gents think they can put over something with my old pal Red, and me not
know just how they're figuring on the skinning party, they better wise
up."
He closed the door silently, and any sound he made might have been that
of a pin dropped on a thick carpet. He surveyed the room with eyes
that missed nothing.
"I knew it," he smiled, as though at the sight of an old friend as he
found the safe in the far corner of the room. "I heard your door shut
the other day, old party, when I was chumming with Wanda and you and
the rest of the combination was talking war talk. Not to waste time
we'll begin with you."
It was an old safe, an old, old make and style, and Mr. Dart sighed and
shook his head a little disappointedly as he knelt, brought out of his
pockets a set of bright, new tools and set to work.
"Any time," he mused when the door swung open, "that they put a pal of
mine out of the running they better get up-to-date."