A PLOT THAT WORKED
Sanderson left the board walk and cut through a yard to the railroad.
He followed the rails until he reached the station. To his question
the station agent informed him that Dave Silverthorn might be found in
his office on the second floor of the building.
Sanderson went up. A sign on a glass door bore Silverthorn's name.
Sanderson entered without knocking.
Silverthorn was seated at a desk in a far corner of the room. He
looked up as Sanderson opened the door, and said shortly:
"Well--what is it?"
Sanderson crossed the room and halted beside the desk. For an instant
neither man spoke. Sanderson saw a man of medium height with a rather
well-rounded stomach, sloping shoulders, and a sleek, well-fed
appearance. His cheeks were full and florid, his lips large and loose;
his eyes cold, calculating, and hard.
Silverthorn saw a lean-faced, broad-shouldered young man with a strong
chin, a firm mouth, and an eye that fixed him with a steady, unwavering
interest.
By the gleam in Sanderson's eyes Silverthorn divined that he was in the
presence of a strong, opposing force, and he drew a slow, deep breath.
"Well?" he said, again.
"You're Dave Silverthorn?"
The other nodded. "What can I do for you?" he questioned.
"You can listen while I talk," said Sanderson.
"I'm Will Bransford, of the Double A. I have heard from several
sources that you an' Alva Dale are after the title to the Double A.
You want the water-rights. You can't have them. An' the title to the
Double A stays with me. Understand that? I am goin' to hold on to the
property.
"I've heard you can juggle the law--that's your business. But you
can't juggle the law enough to horn in on the Double A. If you do, I'm
comin' for you with a law of my own!" He tapped his gun bolster
significantly.
"That's all," he concluded. "Are you sure you understand?"
"Perfectly," answered Silverthorn. He was smiling mirthlessly, his
face blotched and bloated with mingled fear and rage. "But I'll have
you understand this: I am not afraid of your threats. You can't bully
me. The S. and M. Railroad has dealt with your kind on more than one
occasion. There is an opportunity here to develop a large section of
land, and my company means to do it. We mean to be fair, however.
We'll buy your title to the Double A. How much do you want for it?"
Sanderson grinned. "The Double A is not for sale. I wouldn't sell it
to you for a million! You cheap crooks think that all you have to do
is to take anything you want. I just stopped in to tell you that I'm
wise to your game, an' that the kind of law I represent ain't cluttered
up with angles an' technical processes. She runs straight to a square
deal all around. That's all, Mr. Silverthorn."
He turned and went out, closing the door behind him.
He had not intended to have his talk with Tom Maison, Okar's banker,
until the following morning. But upon returning to Okar's street he
saw Maison ahead of him on the sidewalk. He followed the banker, saw
him enter the front door of the bank building, and a few minutes later
he was sitting opposite Maison at a table in the banker's private room.
Maison was short and pudgy, short of breath, with a pasty complexion.
"Will Bransford, eh?" he said, looking sharply at Sanderson over the
table. "H'm. You don't look much like your father."
"Nor I don't act like him, either," smiled Sanderson. "For instance,"
he went on at the banker's quick look, "dad was slow; he wasn't alive
to his opportunities. How long has it been since the railroad came to
Okar?"
"Five years."
"Then dad was five years slower than he ought to have been. He ought
to have seen what water would do to the basin. He didn't--left that
for me."
"Meaning what?" asked Maison, as Sanderson paused.
"Meanin' that I want to turn the Double A water into the basin. That's
what I came here to see you for. I want to mortgage the Double A to
the limit; I want to build a dam, irrigation canals, locks, an'
everything that goes with it. It will take a heap of money."
Maison reflected. "And you want me to supply it," he said. "Yes, that
project will require a large sum. H'm! It is--er--do you purpose to
try to handle the project yourself, Mr. Bransford?"
"Me an' Mary Bransford. I'll hire an engineer."
Maison's cheeks reddened a trifle. He seemed to lose interest slightly.
"Don't you think it is rather too big a thing for one man to
handle--aided by a woman?" He smiled blandly at Sanderson. "I have
thought of the water situation in the basin. It is my opinion that it
might be worked out successfully.
"Why not organize a company--say a company composed of influential and
powerful men like Silverthorn and Dale and--er--myself. We could issue
stock, you know. Each would take a certain number of shares--paying
you for them, of course, and leaving you in possession of a large block
of it--say--forty per cent. We could organize, elect officers----"
"An' freeze me out," smiled Sanderson.
Maison sat erect and gazed haughtily at his visitor.
"No one has ever questioned my honesty," he declared.
Sanderson smiled at him. "Nor I don't. But I want to play her a lone
hand."
"I am afraid I wouldn't be interested in that sort of project," said
Maison.
The thought that Maison _would_ be interested--not publicly, but
privately--made Sanderson grin. The grin angered Maison; he arose
smiling coldly.
"I am sorry to have taken your time, Mr. Bransford," he said,
dismissing his visitor.
Sanderson did not give up. "My father left some money in your bank,"
he said; "I'll take it."
"Certainly," said the banker. He got a withdrawal blank and laid it
before Sanderson.
"The amount is three thousand two hundred," he said. "Just fill that
out and sign your name and yon can have the money."
Sanderson did not sign; he sat, looking at the blank, suddenly
afflicted with the knowledge that once more the troublesome "Bransford"
signature had placed him in a dilemma.
Undoubtedly Maison, Silverthorn, and Dale were confederates in this
matter, and Dale's insistence that he sign the register claim was a
mere subterfuge to obtain a copy of the Bransford signature in order to
make trouble for him. It occurred to Sanderson that the men suspected
him, and he grinned coldly as he raised his eyes to Maison.
Maison was watching him, keenly; and his flush when he saw Sanderson
looking at him convinced the latter that his suspicions were not
without foundation.
If Sanderson could have known that he had hardly left the hotel when a
man whispered to Maison; and that Maison had said to the man: "All
right, I'll go down and wait for him," Sanderson could not have more
accurately interpreted Maison's flush.
Sanderson's grin grew grim. "It's a frame-up," he told himself. His
grin grew saturnine. He got up, folded the withdrawal blank and stuck
it in a pocket.
"I'm leavin' the money here tonight," he said. "For a man that ain't
been to town in a long while, there'd be too many temptations yankin'
at me."
He went out, leaving Maison to watch him from a window, a flush of
chagrin on his face.
Sanderson walked down the street toward the hotel. He would have Owen
sign the withdrawal blank before morning--that would defeat Maison's
plan to gain evidence of the impersonation.
Sanderson had not been gone from Silverthorn's office more than five
minutes when Dale entered. Silverthorn was sitting at his desk
scowling, his face pale with big, heavy lines in it showing the strain
of his interview with Sanderson.
"Bransford's been here!" guessed Dale, looking at Silverthorn.
Silverthorn nodded, cursing.
"You don't need to feel conceited," laughed Dale; "he's been to see me,
too."
Dale related what had happened on the street some time before, and
Silverthorn's scowl deepened.
"There are times when you don't seem to be able to think at all, Dale!"
he declared. "After this, when you decide to do a thing, see me
first--or Maison. The last thing we want to happen right now is to
have this fake Bransford killed."
"Why?"
"I've just got word from Las Vegas that he's submitted his affidavit
establishing his identity, and that the court has accepted it. That
settles the matter until--or unless--we can get evidence to the
contrary. And if he dies without us getting that evidence we are
through."
"Him dyin' would make things sure for us," contended Dale. "Mary
Bransford wouldn't have any claim--us havin' proof that she ain't a
Bransford."
"This fellow is no fool," declared Silverthorn. "Suppose he's wise to
us, which he might be, and he has willed the property to the girl.
Where would we be, not being able to prove that he isn't Will
Bransford?"
Dale meditated. Then he made a wry face. "That's right," he finally
admitted. He made a gesture of futility. "I reckon I'll let you do
the plannin' after this."
"All right," said Silverthorn, mollified. "Have you set Morley on
Barney Owen?"
"Owen was goin' right strong a few minutes after this Bransford guy
left him," grinned Dale.
"All right," said Silverthorn, "go ahead the way we planned it. But
don't have our friend killed."
When Sanderson entered the hotel the clerk was alone in the office
pondering over the register.
Dusk had fallen, and the light in the office was rather dim. Through
the archway connecting the office with the saloon came a broad beam of
light from a number of kerosene lamps. From beyond the archway issued
the buzz of voices and the clink of glasses; peering through the
opening Sanderson could see that the barroom was crowded.
Sanderson mounted the stairs leading from the office. When he had left
Owen, the latter had told Sanderson that it was his intention to spend
the time until the return of his friend in reading.
Owen, however, was not in the room. Sanderson descended the stairs,
walked to the archway that led into the saloon, and looked inside. In
a rear corner of the barroom he saw Owen, seated at a table with
several other men. Owen's face was flushed; he was talking loudly and
extravagantly.
Sanderson remembered what Owen had told him concerning his appetite for
strong liquor, he remembered, too, that Owen was in possession of a
secret which, if divulged, would deliver Mary Bransford into the hands
of her enemies.
Sanderson's blood rioted with rage and disgust. He crossed the barroom
and stood behind Owen. The latter did not see him. One of the men
with Owen did see Sanderson, though, and he looked up impudently, and
smilingly pushed a filled glass of amber-colored liquor toward Owen.
"You ain't half drinkin', Owen," he said.
Sanderson reached over, took the glass, threw its contents on the floor
and grasped Owen by the shoulder. His gaze met the tempter's, coldly.
"My friend ain't drinkin' no more tonight," he declared.
The tempter sneered, his body stiffening.
"He ain't, eh?" he grinned, insolently. "I reckon you don't know him;
he likes whisky as a fish likes water."
Several men in the vicinity guffawed loudly.
Owen was drunk. His hair was rumpled, his face was flushed, and his
eyes were bleared and wide with an unreasoning, belligerent light as he
got up, swaying unsteadily, and looked at Sanderson.
"Not drink any more?" he demanded loudly. "Who says I can't? I've got
lots of money, and there's lots of booze here. Who says I can't drink
any more?"
And now, for the first time, he seemed to realize that Sanderson stood
before him. But the knowledge appeared merely to increase his
belligerence to an insane fury. He broke from Sanderson's restraining
grasp and stood off, reeling, looking at Sanderson with the grin of a
satyr.
"Look who's telling me I can't drink any more!" he taunted, so that
nearly every man in the room turned to look at him, "It's my guardian
angel gentlemen--Will Bransford, of the Double A! Will Bransford--ha,
ha, ha! Will Bransford! Come an' look at him, gentlemen! Says I
can't drink any more booze. He's running the Double A, Bransford is.
There's a lot I could tell you about Bransford--a whole lot! He
ain't----"
His maudlin talk broke off short, for Sanderson had stepped to his side
and placed a hand over his mouth. Owen struggled, broke away, and
shouted:
"Damn you, let me alone! I'm going to tell these people who you are.
You're----"
Again his talk was stilled. This time the method was swift and
certain. Sanderson took another step toward him and struck. His fist
landed on Owen's jaw, resounding with a vicious smack! in the sudden
silence that had fallen, and Owen crumpled and sank to the floor in an
inert heap.
Sanderson was bending over him, preparing to carry him to his room,
when there came an interruption. A big man, with a drawn six-shooter,
stepped to Sanderson's side. A dozen more shoved forward and stood
near him, the crowd moving back, Sanderson sensed the movement and
stood erect, leaving Owen still on the floor. One look at the hostile
faces around him convinced Sanderson that the men were there by design.
He grinned mirthlessly into the face of the man with the drawn pistol.
"Frame-up, eh?" he said. "What's the game?"
"You're wanted for drawin' a gun on Dave Silverthorn--in his office.
I'm a deputy sheriff, an' I've got a warrant for you. Want to see it?"
Sanderson did not answer. Here was a manifestation of Dale's power and
cupidity.
The charge was a mere subterfuge, designed to deprive him of his
liberty. Sanderson had no intention of submitting.
The deputy saw resistance in the gleam of Sanderson's eyes, and he
spoke sharply, warningly:
"Don't try any funny business; I've a dozen men here!"
Sanderson laughed in his face. He lunged forward, striking bitterly
with the movement. The deputy's body doubled forward--Sanderson's fist
had been driven into his stomach. His gun clattered to the floor; he
reached out, trying to grasp Sanderson, who evaded him and struck
upward viciously.
The deputy slid to the floor, and Sanderson stood beside the table, his
gun menacing the deputy's followers.
Sanderson had worked fast. Possibly the deputy's men had anticipated
no resistance from Sanderson, or they had been stunned with the
rapidity with which he had placed their leader out of action.
Not one of them had drawn a weapon. They watched Sanderson silently as
he began to back away from them, still covering them with his pistol.
Sanderson had decided to desert Owen; the man had proved a traitor, and
could not expect any consideration. Owen might talk--Sanderson
expected he would talk; but he did not intend to jeopardize his liberty
by staying to find out.
He stepped backward cautiously, for he saw certain of the men begin to
move restlessly. He cautioned them, swinging the muzzle of his pistol
back and forth, the crowd behind him splitting apart as he retreated.
He had gone a dozen steps when someone tripped him. He fell backward,
landing on his shoulders, his right elbow striking hard on the board
floor and knocking the pistol out of his hand.
He saw the men surge forward, and he made a desperate effort to get to
his feet. But he did not succeed. He was on his knees when several
men, throwing themselves at him, landed on top of him. Their combined
weight crushed him to the floor, but he squirmed out of the mass and
got to his feet, striking at the faces he saw around him, worrying the
men hither and yon, dragging them with him as he reeled under savage
blows that were rained on him.
He had torn himself almost free; one man still clung to him, and he was
trying to shake the fellow off, that he might hit him effectively, when
a great weight seemed to fall on his head, blackness surrounded him,
and he pitched face down on the floor.