THE PLOTTERS
Riding down the gentle slope of the basin, Alva Dale maintained a
sullen silence. He rode far in advance of the two men who accompanied
him, not listening to their voices, which occasionally reached him, not
seeming to be aware of their presence.
Defeat had always brought bitterness to Dale; his eyes were glowing
with a futile rage as he led his men homeward.
Dale's scheme to dispose of Ben Nyland had been carefully planned and
deftly carried out. He had meant to hang Nyland, take possession of
his property, and force Peggy to accept whatever conditions he cared to
impose upon her.
The unlooked-for appearance of Mary Bransford's brother had disturbed
his plans. As a matter of fact, the coming of Bill Bransford would
make it necessary for Dale to make entirely new plans.
Dale was puzzled. During the elder Bransford's last days, and for a
year or more preceding the day of Bransford's death, Dale had professed
friendship for him. The pretense of friendship had resulted profitably
for Dale, for it had enabled him to establish an intimacy with
Bransford which had made it possible for Dale to learn much of
Bransford's personal affairs.
For instance, Dale had discovered that there was in Las Vegas no record
of Mary Bransford's birth, and though Bransford had assured him that
Mary was his child, the knowledge had served to provide Dale with a
weapon which he might have used to advantage--had not Bill Bransford
returned in time to defeat him.
Dale had heard the story of the trouble between Bransford and his son,
Will; it was the old tale of father and son not agreeing, and of the
son leaving home, aggrieved.
Dale had made it his business to inquire often about the son, and when
one day Bransford told him he had received a letter from his boy, Dale
betrayed such interest that the elder Bransford had permitted him to
read the letter.
That had been about a year before Mary had written the letter that
Sanderson had found in one of Will Bransford's pockets. The letter
told of the writer's longing to return home. The elder Bransford
declared that his heart had not softened toward the boy and that he
would not answer him. Leaving Dale, Bransford had dropped the letter,
and Dale had picked it up.
Dale still had the letter, and because of his pretended friendship for
the father he had been able to insinuate himself into Mary's good
graces. He had advised Mary to write to her brother, and he had seen
the letter from the younger Bransford in which the latter had told his
sister that he would return.
After reading Will Bransford's letter, and learning from Mary that she
was sending a thousand dollars to her brother, Dale wrote to a friend
in Tucson. Dale's letter accompanied Mary's to the latter town, and
the evil-visaged fellow who received it grinned widely in explaining
the circumstance to two of his friends.
"We'll git him, sure as shootin'," he said. "A thousand dollars ain't
a hell of a lot--but I've put men out of business for less!"
Dale knew the man to whom he had written, and he had received a reply,
telling him that the job would be done. And that was why, when
Sanderson had calmly announced that he was Will Bransford, Dale had
been unwilling to believe his statement.
Dale did not believe, now, that the man who had interfered to save
Nyland was Will Bransford. Dale rode slowly homeward, scowling,
inwardly fuming with rage, but unable to form any decided plan of
action.
It was several miles to the Bar D, Dale's ranch, and when he arrived
there he was in an ugly mood. He curtly dismissed the two men who had
accompanied him and went into the house. Opening the door of the room
he used as an office, he saw a medium-sized man of fifty sitting in a
big desk chair, smoking a cigar.
The man smiled at Dale's surprise, but did not offer to get up, merely
extending his right hand, which Dale grasped and shook heartily.
"Dave Silverthorn, or I'm a ghost!" ejaculated Dale, grinning. "How in
thunder did you get here?"
"Rode," smiled the other, showing a set of white, flashing teeth. "I
saw you pass the window. You looked rather glum, and couldn't see my
horse, I suppose. Something gone wrong?"
"Everything," grunted Dale; "that confounded young Bransford has showed
up!"
The smile left the other's face. His eyes glowed and the corners of
his mouth took on a cruel droop.
"He has, eh?" he said, slowly. His voice was expressionless. "So that
lead has petered out."
He puffed slowly at his cigar, studying Dale's face, while the latter
related what had occurred.
"So Nyland is still at large, eh?" he remarked, when Dale had finished.
"Why not set a gunman on him?"
Dale scowled. "There ain't a gunman in this section that would take a
chance on Nyland--he's lightning!" Dale cursed. "Besides, there ain't
no use in goin' after Nyland's place unless we can get the Double A."
"Then there wasn't any use of going after it yesterday, or today, as
you did," said the other. "Unless," he added, looking intently at
Dale, "the sister has been on your mind some."
Dale reddened.
"I don't mind admittin' she is," he grinned.
"Look out, Dale," warned the other; "there's danger there. Many a big
project has been ruined by men dragging a woman into it. You have no
right to jeopardize this thing with a love affair. Peggy Nyland is
desirable to a man of your intense passion, I suppose; but this project
is bigger than any woman's love!"
"Bah!" sneered Dale. "I can 'tend to her without losin' sight of the
main object."
"All right, then," laughed the other. "The success of this thing
depends largely on you. We can't do a thing with the Legislature;
these sagebrush fools are adamant on the question of water-rights, They
won't restrict an owner's right and title to possession of all the
water on his land.
"And he can dam the stream as much as he pleases, providing he don't
cut down the supply that normally flows to his neighbors; and the gorge
doesn't supply any water to the basin, so that Bransford would be
justified in directing the gorge stream.
"In other words, old Bransford's title to the land that the gorge runs
through is unassailable. There is only one way to get at him, and that
is in some way to get possession of the title."
"That's tied up tighter than blazes," said Dale. "Record and all are
clear. An' there ain't no judge we can get at. But if young Bransford
hadn't come----"
"Yes," smiled Silverthorn. "It's too bad. We had a man, ready to come
on at the word, to impersonate young Bransford. He would have stayed
here long enough to get a clear title to the Double A, and then he
would have turned it over to us for a consideration. It rather looks
as though we are stumped, eh?"
Dale frowned. Then he got up, went to a drawer in the desk before
which Silverthorn sat, and drew out a letter--the letter young
Bransford had written to his father about a year before.
"We've still got a chance," he told Silverthorn. And then he told the
latter of his suspicions about Sanderson.
Silverthorn's eyes gleamed. "That's possible," he said, "but how are
you going to prove it?"
"There's a way," returned Dale. He went to the door, and shouted the
names of two men, standing in the doorway until they came--the two men
who had accompanied him that morning. He spoke to them, briefly:
"You're ridin' straight to Tucson as fast as your cayuses can take you.
You ought to make it in a week. I'll give you that long. Find Gary
Miller. Tell him I sent you, an' find out what he knows about young
Bill Bransford. Then hit the breeze back. If it takes you more than
two weeks I'll knock your damned heads off!"