A MAN BORROWS MONEY
The incident of Devil's Hole had changed the character of the fighting
between Sanderson and Dale. Dale and his fellow-conspirators had
deserted that law upon which, until the incident of Devil's Hole, they
had depended. They had resorted to savagery, to murder; they had
committed themselves to a course that left Sanderson no choice except
to imitate them.
And Sanderson was willing. More, he was anxious. He had respected the
law; and still respected it. But he had never respected the law
represented by his three enemies. He was determined to avenge the
murder of his men, but in his own time and in his own way.
His soul was in the grip of a mighty rage against Dale and the others;
he longed to come into personal contact with them--to feel them writhe
and squirm in his clutch. And had he been the free agent he had always
been until his coming to the Double A he would have gone straight to
Okar, thus yielding to the blood lust that swelled his veins.
But he could not permit his inclinations to ruin the girl he had
promised to protect. He could kill Dale, Silverthorn, and Maison quite
easily. But he would have no defense for the deed, and the law would
force him to desert Mary Bransford.
For an entire day following the return of himself and his men from the
scene of the stampede Sanderson fought a terrific mental battle. He
said nothing to Mary Bransford, after giving her the few bare facts
that described the destruction of the herd. But the girl watched him
anxiously, suspecting something of the grim thoughts that tortured him,
and at dinner she spoke to him.
"Deal," she said, "don't be rash. Those men have done a lawless thing,
but they still have the power to invoke the law against you."
"I ain't goin' to be lawless--yet," he grinned.
But Sanderson was yielding to an impulse that had assailed him. His
manner betrayed him to Owen, at least, who spoke to Mary about it.
"He's framing up something--or he's got it framed up and is ready to
act," he told the girl. "He has got that calm during the past few
hours that I feel like I'm in the presence of an iceberg when I'm near
him."
Whatever was on Sanderson's mind he kept to himself. But late that
night, when the ranchhouse was dark, and a look through one of the
windows of the bunkhouse showed Sanderson there were only two men
awake--and they playing cards sleepily--he threw saddle and bridle on
Streak and rode away into the inky darkness of the basin.
Shortly after dusk on the same night Silverthorn, Dale, and Maison were
sitting at a table in Maison's private office in the bank building.
They, too, were playing cards.
But their thoughts were not on the cards. Elation filled their hearts.
Dale was dealing, but it was plain that he took no interest in the
game. At last, with a gesture of disgust, he threw the cards face up
on the table and smiled at the others.
"What's the use?" he said. "I keep thinking of what happened at
Devil's Hole. We ought to have been sure that we finished the job, an'
we would have been sure if we hadn't known that that damned Colfax
sheriff was hanging around somewhere.
"He took two hundred head from Sanderson--when he ought to have taken
the whole damn herd--which he'd orders to do. And then, instead of
driving them direct to Lester's he made camp just on the other side of
Devil's Hole--three or four miles, Morley said. I don't know what for,
except that maybe he's decided to give Sanderson the steers he'd taken
from him--the damned fool! You've got to break him, Maison, for
disobeying orders!"
"I'll attend to him," said Maison.
"That's the reason we didn't go through Devil's Hole to see what had
become of Sanderson," resumed Dale. "We was afraid of running into the
sheriff, and him, being the kind of a fool he is, would likely have
wanted to know what had happened. I thought it better to sneak off
without letting him see us than to do any explaining."
Silverthorn looked at his watch. "Morley and the others ought to be
here pretty soon," he said.
"They're late as it is," grumbled Dale. "I ought to have gone myself."
They resumed their card-playing. An hour or so later there came a
knock on the door of the bank--a back door--and Dale opened it to admit
Morley--the big man who had drawn a pistol on Sanderson when he had
tried to take Barney Owen out of the City Hotel barroom.
Morley was alone. He stepped inside without invitation and grinned at
the others.
"There's no sign of Sanderson. Someone had been there an' planted the
guys we salivated--an' the guy which went down in the run. We seen his
horse layin' there, cut to ribbons. It's likely Sanderson went into
the sand ahead of the herd--they was crowdin' him pretty close when we
seen them runnin'."
"You say them guys was planted?" said Dale. "Then Sanderson got out of
it. He would--if anyone could, for he was riding like a devil on a
cyclone when I saw him. He's got back, and took his men to Devil's
Hole."
Maison laughed. "We'll say he got out of it. What of it? He's broke.
And if the damned court would get a move on with that evidence we've
sent over to prove that he isn't a Bransford, we'd have the Double A
inside of a week!"
Dale got up, grinning and looking at his watch.
"Well, gentlemen, I'm hitting the breeze to the Bar D for some sleep.
See you tomorrow."
Dale went out and mounted his horse. But he did not go straight home,
as he had declared he would. After striking the neck of the basin he
swerved his horse and rode northeastward toward Ben Nyland's cabin.
For he had heard that day in Okar that Ben Nyland had taken a train
eastward that morning, to return on the afternoon of the day following.
And during the time Dale had been talking with Maison; and Silverthorn,
and playing cards with them, he thought often of Peggy Nyland.
Silverthorn and Morley did not remain long in Maison's private room in
the bank building.
Morley had promised to play cards with some of his men in the City
Hotel barroom, and he joined them there, while Silverthorn went to his
rooms in the upper story of the station.
After the departure of the others, Maison sat for a long time at the
table in the private room, making figures on paper.
Maison had exacted from the world all the luxuries he thought his
pampered body desired. His financial career would not have borne
investigation, but Maison's operations had been so smooth and subtle
that he had left no point at which an enemy could begin an
investigation.
But years of questionable practice had had an inevitable effect upon
Maison. Outwardly, he had hardened, but only Maison knew of the many
devils his conscience created for him.
Continued communion with the devils of conscience had made a coward of
Maison. When at last he got up from the table he glanced
apprehensively around the room; and after he had put out the light and
climbed the stairs to his rooms above the bank, he was trembling.
Maison had often dealt crookedly with his fellow-men, but never, until
the incident of Devil's Hole, had he deliberately planned murder. Thus
tonight Maison's conscience had more ghastly evidence to confront him
with, and conscience is a pitiless retributive agent.
Maison poured himself a generous drink of whisky from a bottle on a
sideboard before he got into bed, but the story told him by Dale and
the others of the terrible scene at Devil's Hole--remained so staringly
vivid in his thoughts that whisky could not dim it.
He groaned and pulled the covers over his head, squirming and twisting,
for the night was warm and there was little air stirring.
After a while Maison sat up. It seemed to him that he had been in bed
for an age, though actually the time was not longer than an hour.
It had been late when he had left the room downstairs. And now he
listened for sounds that would tell him that Okar's citizens were still
busy with their pleasures.
But no sound came from the street. Maison yearned for company, for he
felt unaccountably depressed and morbid. It was as though some danger
impended and instinct was warning him of it.
But in the dead silence of Okar there was no suggestion of sound. It
must have been in the ghostly hours between midnight and the
dawn--though a cold terror that had gripped Maison would not let him
get up to look at the clock that ticked monotonously on the sideboard.
He lay, clammy with sweat, every sense strained and acute, listening.
For, from continued contemplation of imaginary dangers he had worked
himself into a frenzy which would have turned into a conviction of real
danger at the slightest sound near him.
He expected sound to come; he waited for it, his ears attuned, his
senses alert.
And at last sound came.
It was a mere creak--such a sound as a foot might make on a stairway.
And it seemed to have come from the stairs leading to Maison's rooms.
He did not hear it again, though, and he might have fought off the new
terror that was gripping him, if at that instant he had not remembered
that when leaving the lower room he had forgotten to lock the rear
door--the door through which Morley had entered earlier in the evening;
the door through which Silverthorn had departed.
He had not locked that door, and that noise on the stairs might have
been made by some night prowler.
Aroused to desperation by his fears he started to get out of bed with
the intention of getting the revolver that lay in a drawer in the
sideboard.
His feet were on the floor as he sat on the edge of the bed preparatory
to standing, when he saw the door at the head of the stairs slowly
swing open and a figure of a man appear in the opening.
The light in the room was faint--a mere luminous star-mist--hut Maison
could see clearly the man's face. He stiffened, his hands gripping the
bedclothing, as he muttered hoarsely:
"Sanderson!"
Sanderson stepped into the room and closed the door. The heavy
six-shooter in his hand was at his hip, the long barrel horizontal, the
big muzzle gaping forebodingly into Maison's face. There was a cold,
mirthless grin on Sanderson's face, but it seemed to Maison that the
grin was the wanton expression of murder lust.
He knew, without Sanderson telling him, that if he moved, or made the
slightest outcry, Sanderson would kill him.
Therefore he made neither move nor sound, but sat there, rigid and
gasping for breath, awaiting the other's pleasure.
Sanderson came close to him, speaking in a vibrant whisper:
"Anyone in the house with you? If you speak above a whisper I'll blow
you apart!"
"I'm alone!" gasped Maison.
Sanderson laughed lowly. "You must have known I was comin'. Did you
expect me? Well--" when Maison did not answer--"you left the rear door
open. Obliged to you.
"You know what I came for? No?" His voice was still low and vibrant.
"I came to talk over what happened at Devil's Hole."
Maison's eyes bulged with horror.
"I see you know about it, all right. I'm glad of that. Seven men
murdered; three thousand head of cattle gone. Mebbe they didn't all go
into the quicksand--I don't know. What I do know is this: they've got
to be paid for--men an' cattle. Understand? Cattle an' men."
The cold emphasis he laid on the "and" made a shiver run over the
banker.
"Money will pay for cattle," went on Sanderson. "I'll collect a man
for every man you killed at Devil's Hole."
He laughed in feline humor when Maison squirmed at the words.
"You think your life is more valuable than the life of any one of the
men you killed at Devil's Hole, eh? Soapy was worth a hundred like
you! An' Sogun--an' all the rest! Understand? They were real men,
doin' some good in the world. I'm tellin' you this so you'll know that
I don't think you amount to a hell of a lot, an' that I wouldn't suffer
a heap with remorse if you'd open your trap for one little peep an' I'd
have to blow your guts out!"
A devil of conscience had finally visited Maison--a devil in the flesh.
For all the violent passions were aflame in Sanderson's face, repressed
but needing only provocation to loose them.
Maison knew what impended. But he succeeded in speaking, though the
words caught, stranglingly, in his throat:
"W-what do you--want?"
"Ninety thousand dollars. The market price for three thousand head of
cattle."
"There isn't that much in the vaults!" protested Maison in a gasping
whisper. "We never keep that amount of money on hand."
He would have said more, but he saw Sanderson's grin become bitter; saw
the arm holding the six-shooter stiffen suggestively.
Maison raised his hands in horror.
"Wait!" he said, pleadingly. "I'll see. Good God, man, keep the
muzzle of that gun away!"
"Ninety thousand will do it," Sanderson grimly told him, "ninety
thousand. No less. You can ask that God you call on so reckless to
have ninety thousand in the vault when you go to look for it, right
away.
"Get up an' dress!" he commanded.
He stood silently watching the banker as the latter got into his
clothing. Then, with a wave of his gun in the direction of the stairs
he ordered Maison to precede him. He kept close to the banker in the
darkness of the rooms through which they passed, and finally when they
reached the little room into which opened the big doors of the
vault--embedded in solid masonry--Sanderson again spoke:
"I want it in bills of large denomination." The banker was on his
knees before the doors, working at the combination, and he looked
around in silent objection at Sanderson's voice.
"Big ones, I said," repeated the latter. "You've got them. I was in
Silverthorn's rooms some hours ago, lookin' over his books an' things.
I saw a note there, showin' that he'd deposited fifty thousand here the
day before yesterday. The note said it was cash. You'll have forty
thousand more. If you ain't got it you'll wish you had."
Maison had it. He drew it out in packages--saffron-hued notes that he
passed back to Sanderson reluctantly. When he had passed back the
exact amount he looked around.
Sanderson ordered him to close the doors, and with the banker preceding
him they returned to the upper room, where Sanderson distributed the
money over his person securely, the banker watching him.
When Sanderson had finished, he again spoke. There was elation in his
eyes, but they still were aflame with the threat of death and violence.
"Who's the biggest an' most honest man in town?" he said, "the one man
that the folks here always think of when they're in trouble an' want a
square deal? Every town always has such a man. Who is he?"
"Judge Graney," said Maison.
"All right," declared Sanderson. "We'll go see Judge Graney. You're
goin' to lead me to the place where he lives. We're goin' to have him
witness that you've paid me ninety thousand dollars for the stock you
destroyed--my cattle. He's goin' to be all the law I'm goin' to depend
on--in this case. After a while--if you sneaks go too strong--I'll let
loose a little of my own law--the kind I've showed you tonight.
"You're goin' to Judge Graney's place, an' you're goin' to sign a paper
showin' you paid me the money for my cattle. You ain't goin' to make
any noise on the way, or to Judge Graney. You're goin' to do the
talkin' an' tell Graney that you want him to witness the deal. An'
you're goin' to do it without him gettin' wise that I'm forcin' you.
You'll have to do some actin', an' if you fall down on this job you'll
never have to act again! Get goin'!"
Maison was careful not to make any noise as he went down the stairs; he
was equally careful when he reached the street.
In a short time, Sanderson walking close behind him, he halted at a
door of a private dwelling. He knocked on the door, and a short, squat
man appeared in the opening, holding a kerosene lamp in one hand and a
six-shooter in the other.
He recognized Maison instantly and politely asked him and his visitor
inside. There Maison stated his business, and the judge, though
revealing some surprise that so big a transaction should be concluded
at so uncommon an hour, attested the paper made out by Maison, and
signed the receipt for ninety thousand dollars written by Sanderson and
given to the banker. Then, still followed by Sanderson, the banker
went out.
There was no word spoken by either of the men until they again reached
the bank building. Then it was Sanderson who spoke.
"That's all, Maison," he said. "Talk, if you must--mebbe it'll keep
you from explodin'. But if there's any more meddlin' with my
affairs--by you--I'm comin' for you again. An' the next time it'll be
to make you pay for my men!"
He slipped behind the bank building and was gone. A little later,
still standing where Sanderson had left him, he saw the Double A man
riding swiftly across country toward the neck of the basin.
Maison went slowly upstairs, lighted a lamp, and looked at his
reflection in a glass. He sighed, blew out the light, got into bed and
stretched out in relief, feeling that he had got out of the affair
cheaply enough, considering all things.
And remembering what Sanderson had told him about returning, he
determined that if Judge Graney said nothing of the occurrence he would
never mention it. For he did not want Sanderson to pay him another
visit.