Some slight noise caused Westcott to straighten up, and turn partially
around. He had barely time to fling up one arm in the warding off of a
blow. The next instant was one of mad, desperate struggle, in which he
realised only that he dare not relax his grip on the wrist of his
unknown antagonist. It was a fierce, intense grapple, every muscle
strained to the utmost, silent except for the stamping of feet, deadly
in purpose.
The knife fell from the cramped fingers, but the fellow struggled like
a demon, clutching at the miner's throat, but unable to confine his
arms. Twice Westcott drove his clenched right into the shadowed face,
smashing it the last time so hard the man's grip relaxed, and he went
staggering back. With a leap forward, the battle-fury on him, Westcott
closed before the other could regain position. Again the clenched fist
struck and the fellow went down in the darkness, whirling backward to
the earth--and lay there, motionless.
An instant, panting, breathless, scarcely yet comprehending what had
occurred, the victor stared at the huddled figure, his arm drawn back.
Then he became aware of excitement within, the sound of voices, the
tramp of feet on the floor, the sudden opening of a door. A gleam of
light shot out, revealing the figures of men. With one spring he was
across the shapeless form on the ground, and had vanished into the
darkness beyond.
Lacy was first to reach the unconscious body, stumbling over it in the
black shadow, as he rushed forward, revolver in hand. He cursed,
rising to his knees, and staring about in the silent darkness.
"There's a man lying here--dead likely. Bring a light. No, the fellow
is alive. Dammit, it's Moore, and completely knocked out. Here
you--what happened?"
The fellow groaned, opened his eyes, and looked about dazedly.
"Speak up, man!" and Lacy dragged him to a sitting position in no
gentle fashion. "Who hit you?"
"There--there was a fellow at that window there. I--I saw him from
below, and crept up behind but he turned around just as I struck."
"Who was he?"
"I never saw his face. He hit me first."
"He was at that window, you say?"
"Yes; kneelin' down like he was lookin' into the room. Oh, Lord!"
Lacy crunched over to the side of the shack, and bent down to get a
better view. His fingers came in contact with the knife which upheld
the sash, and he plucked it out, holding it up into the beam of light
passing through the rent in the torn curtain. He stared at the
curiously carved handle intently.
"This is certainly hell," he said soberly. "That's Jim Westcott's
jack-knife. He's been listening to all we said. Now we are up against
it."
"What's that?" The question came from Enright, still at the corner of
the house, unable to tell what had happened.
"Westcott has been here listening to our talk. He pried up the window
with this knife, so he could hear. Moore caught him, and got knocked
out."
"He--he heard our talk in--in there," repeated the dazed lawyer, his
lips trembling. "And--has got away? Good God! man, where has he gone?
After the sheriff?"
Lacy stared at him through the darkness, and burst into a roar of
unrestrained laughter.
"Who? Jim Westcott? The sheriff? Well, hardly at this stage of the
game. That's your way down East, no doubt, but out in this country the
style is different. No, sir; Westcott isn't after any sheriff. In the
first place he hasn't any evidence. He knows a thing or two, but he
can't prove it; and if we move faster than he does we'll block his
game--see?"
"What do you mean?"
Lacy leaned forward, and hissed his answer into Enright's ear.
"Put Cavendish where he can't get at him. There's no other chance. If
Jim Westcott ever finds that fellow alive our goose is cooked. And
we've got the advantage--we know where the man is."
"And Westcott doesn't?"
"Exactly, but he will know. He'll comb these hills until he finds the
trail--that's Jim Westcott. Come on back inside, both of you, and I'll
tell you my plan. No, there is no use trying to run him down
to-night--a hundred men couldn't do it. What's that, Moore? Go on to
the shaft-house, and let Dan fix you up. No, we won't need any guard.
That fellow will never come back here again to-night. Come on, boys."
The door closed behind them, shutting out the yellow glow, and leaving
the hillside black and lonely. A bucket of rock rattled onto the dump,
and Moore, limping painfully, swearing with every step, clambered up
the dark trail toward the shaft-house.
Miss Donovan did not go down to supper. Beaton waited some time in the
office, his eyes on the stairs, but she failed to appear, and he lacked
the necessary courage to seek her in her own room. Then Enright called
him and compelled his attendance. The absence of the girl was not
caused from any lack of appetite as she subsidised the Chinaman to
smuggle her a supply of food by way of the back stairs, which she ate
with decided relish, but she had no desire to show any anxiety
regarding a meeting with the newcomers.
Her newspaper experience had given her some knowledge of human nature
and she felt convinced that her task of extracting information would be
greatly simplified if these people sought her company first. To hold
aloof would have a tendency to increase their interest, for Beaton
would certainly tell of her presence in the hotel, and, if their
purpose there had any criminal intent, suspicion would be aroused.
This theory, however, became somewhat strained as the time passed
quietly, and seemed to break entirely when from her window she saw
Beaton and the heavy-set man ride out of town on a pair of livery
horses. She watched them move down the long street, and turn into the
trail leading out across the purple hills. The lowering darkness
finally hid them from view. She was still at the window beginning to
regret her choice when some one rapped at the door. She arose to her
feet, and took a step or two forward, her heart beating swifter.
"Come in."
The door opened, and the light from the windows revealed Miss La Rue,
rather tastefully attired in green silk, her blond hair fluffed
artfully, and a dainty patch of black court-plaster adorning one cheek.
She stood hesitating on the threshold, her eyes searching the other's
face.
"Pardon me, please," the voice somewhat high-pitched, "but they told me
down-stairs you were from New York."
"Yes, that is my home; won't you come in?"
"Sure I will. Why I was so lonesome in this hole I simply couldn't
stand it any longer. Have you only one chair?" She glanced about, her
eyes widening. "Heavens, what a funny room! Why, I thought mine was
the limit, but it's a palace beside this. You been here long?"
"Since yesterday; take the chair, please; I am used to the bed--no,
really, I don't mind in the least. It is rather funny, but then I
haven't always lived at the Ritz-Carlton, so I don't mind."
"Huh! for the matter of that no more have I, but believe me, there
would be some howl if they ever gave me a room like this--even in
Haskell. I know your name; it's Stella Donovan--well, mine is Celeste
La Rue."
"A very pretty name; rather unusual. Are you French?"
The other laughed, crossing her feet carelessly, and extracting a
cigarette case from a hand-bag.
"French? Well, I guess not. You don't mind if I smoke, do you?
Thanks. Have one yourself--they're imported. No? All right. I
suppose it is a beastly habit, but most of the girls I know have picked
it up. Seems sociable, somehow. No, I'm not French. My dad's name
was Capley, and I annexed this other when I went on the stage. It
tickles the Johnnies, and sounds better than Sadie Capley. You liked
it yourself."
"It is better adapted to that purpose--you are an actress then?"
"Well, nobody ever said so. I can dance and sing a bit, and know how
to wear clothes. It's an easier job than some others I've had, and
gets me into a swell set. Tell me, when were you in New York?"
"About a month ago."
"Well, didn't you see the Revue?"
"The last one? Certainly."
"That's where I shone--second girl on the right in the chorus, and I
was in the eccentric dance with Joe Steams; some hit--what?"
"Yes, I remember now; they called you the Red Fairy--because of your
ruby ring. What in the world ever brought you out here?"
Celeste laughed, a cloud of smoke curling gracefully above her blonde
hair.
"Some joke, isn't it? Well, it's no engagement at the Good Luck Dance
Hall yonder, you can bet on that. The fact is I've quit the business,
and am going to take a flier in mining."
"Mining? That sounds like money in these days. They tell me there is
no placer-mining any longer, and that it requires a fortune to develop.
I wouldn't suppose a chorus girl----"
"Oh, pshaw!" and Miss La Rue leaned forward, a bright glow on each
cheek. "There are more ways of making money in New York than drawing a
salary. Still, that wasn't so bad. I pulled down fifty a week, but of
course that was only a drop in the bucket. I don't mind telling you,
but all a good-looking girl needs is a chance before the
public--there's plenty of rich fools in the world yet. I've caught on
to a few things in the last five years. It pays better to be Celeste
La Rue than it ever did to be Sadie Capley. Do you get me?"
Miss Donovan nodded. Her acquaintance with New York fast life supplied
all necessary details, and it was quite evident this girl had no sense
of shame. Instead she was rather proud of the success she had achieved.
"I imagine you are right," she admitted pleasantly. "So you found a
backer? A mining man?"
"Not on your life. None of your wild west for me. As soon as some
business is straightened out here, it's back to Broadway."
"Who is it?" ventured the other cautiously. "Mr. Beaton?"
"Ned Beaton!" Miss La Rue's voice rose to a shriek. "Oh, Lord! I
should say not! Why that fellow never had fifty dollars of his own at
one time in his life. You know Beaton, don't you?"
"Well, hardly that. We have conversed at the table down-stairs."
"I suppose any sort of a man in a decent suit of clothes looks good
enough to talk to out here. But don't let Beaton fool you. He's only
a tin-horn sport."
"Then it is the other?"
"Sure; he's the real thing. Not much to look at, maybe, but he fairly
oozes the long green. He's a lawyer."
"Oh, indeed," and Miss Donovan's eyes darkened. She was interested,
now feeling herself on the verge of discovery. "From New York?"
"Sure, maybe you've heard of him? He knew you as soon as Beaton
mentioned your name; he's Patrick Enright of Enright and Dougherty."
Miss Donovan's fingers gripped hard on the footboard of the bed, and
her teeth clinched to keep back a sudden exclamation of surprise. This
was more than she had bargained for, yet the other woman, coolly
watching, in spite of her apparent flippancy, observed no change in the
girl's manner. Apparently the disclosure meant little.
"Enright, you say? No, I think not. He claimed to know me? That is
rather strange. Who did he think I was?"
Miss La Rue bit her lip. She had found her match evidently, but would
strike harder.
"A reporter on the _Star_. Naturally we couldn't help wondering what
you was doing out here. You are in the newspaper business, ain't you?"
"Yes," realising further concealment was useless, "but on my vacation.
I thought I explained all that to Mr. Beaton. I am not exactly a
reporter. I am what they call a special writer--sometimes write for
magazines like _Scribbler's_, other times for newspapers. I do
feature-stuff."
"Whatever that is."
"Human-interest stories; anything unusual; strange happenings in
every-day life, you know."
"Murders, and--and robberies."
"Occasionally, if they are out of the ordinary." She took a swift
breath, and made the plunge. "Like the Frederick Cavendish case--do
you remember that?"
Miss La Rue stared at her across the darkening room, but if she changed
colour the gloom concealed it, and her voice was steady enough.
"No," she said shortly, "I never read those things. What happened?"
"Oh, nothing much. It occurred to my mind because it was about the
last thing I worked on before leaving home. He was very rich, and was
found dead in his apartments at the Waldron--evidently killed by a
burglar."
"Did they get the fellow?"
"No, there was no clue; the case is probably forgotten by this time.
Let's speak about something else--I hate to talk shop."
Miss La Rue stood up, and shook out her skirt.
"That's what I say; and it seems to me it would be more social if we
had something to drink. You ain't too nice to partake of a cocktail,
are you? Good! Then we'll have one. What's the hotelkeeper's name?"
"Timmons."
"Do you suppose he'd come up if I pounded on the floor?"
Miss Donovan slipped off the bed.
"I don't believe he is in the office. He went up the street just
before dark. You light the lamp while I'll see if I can find the
Chinaman out in the hall."
She closed the door behind her, strode noisily down the hall, then
silently and swiftly retraced her steps and stooped silently down to
where a crack yawned in the lower panel. That same instant a match
flared within the room and was applied to the wick of the lamp. The
narrow opening gave only a glimpse of half the room--the wash-stand,
the chair, and lower part of the bed. She saw Miss La Rue drop the
match, then open her valise and go through it, swiftly. She found
nothing, and turned to the wash-stand drawer. The latter was empty,
and was instantly closed again, the girl staring about the room, as
though at her wit's end. Suddenly she disappeared along the edge of
the bed, beyond the radius of the crack in the door. What was it she
was doing? Searching the bed, no doubt; seeking something hidden
beneath the pillow, or mattress.
Whatever her purpose, she was gone scarcely a moment, gliding silently
back to the chair beside the window, with watchful eyes again fixed on
the closed door. Miss Donovan smiled, and straightened up, well
satisfied with her ruse. It had served to demonstrate that the
ex-chorus-girl was far from being as calmly indifferent as she had
assumed and it had made equally evident the fact that her visit had an
object--the discovery of why Miss Donovan was in Haskell. Doubtless
she had made the call at Enright's suggestion. Very well, the lady was
quite welcome to all the information obtained. Stella opened the door,
and the eyes of the two met.
"The Chinaman seems to have gone home," the mistress of the room said
quietly. "At least he is not on this floor or in the office, and I
could see nothing of Timmons anywhere."
"Then I suppose we don't drink," complained Miss La Rue. "Well, I
might as well go to bed. There ain't much else to do in this jay town."
She got up, and moved toward the door.
"If you're only here viewing the scenery, I guess you won't remain
long."
"Not more than a day or so. I am planning a ride into the mountains
before leaving," pleasantly. "I hope I shall see you again."
"You're quite liable to," an ugly curl to the lip, "maybe more than
you'll want. Good night."
Miss Donovan stood there motionless after the door closed behind her
guest. She was conscious of the sting in those final words, the
half-expressed threat, but the smile did not desert her lips. Her only
thought was that the other was angry, irritated over her failure, her
inability to make a report to her masters. She looked at the valise on
the floor, and laughed outright, but as her eyes lifted once more, she
beheld her travelling suit draped over the head-board of the bed, and
instantly the expression of her face changed. She had forgotten
hanging it there. That must have been where the woman went when she
disappeared. It was not to rummage the bed at all, but to hastily run
through the pockets of her jacket. The girl swiftly crossed the room,
and flung coat and skirt onto the bed. She remembered now thrusting
the telegram from Farriss into a pocket on the morning of its receipt.
It was gone!