CHAPTER XIX
Why Harley P. Hennage should elect to return to San Pasqual on the veryday that Borax O'Rourke issued formal written notice through old JudgeKenny for Donna to vacate the Hat Ranch, which stood upon the desertland whereon he had filed, is one of the mysteries of retributivejustice with which this story has nothing to do. Suffice the fact thatMr. Hennage had stayed away from San Pasqual six months, and six monthsis a sufficient lapse of time for any ordinary public excitement to wearoff, particularly in the desert. He had not intended returning so soon,but a letter from Dan Pennycook, to whom Mr. Hennage had communicatedhis whereabouts, charging the yardmaster to keep him in touch withaffairs at the Hat Ranch, had precipitated his descent upon San Pasqual.He had dropped off the Limited at daylight that very morning, and bynine o'clock was in possession of all the facts regarding the mistressof the Hat Ranch.
"It's a nasty mix-up, Harley" Dan Pennycook informed him, when Mr.Hennage sought the yardmaster out in his desire for explicit informationtouching the hint of trouble to Donna conveyed in the letter whichPennycook had sent him. "Her husband ain't never showed up, an' thereain't no record of her marriage license in the county clerk's office."
"How d'ye know there ain't?" the gambler demanded.
"Er--er--well, the fact is, Harley, Mrs. Pennycook--"
"She went an' looked, eh?"
"Well, she was concerned about the girl's reputation--"
"Huh-huh. I see. Dan, do _you_ believe this scandal?"
"Not a damned word of it" said honest Dan firmly. "There's some mistake.The girl's good. I've seen her grow up in this town since she was ababy, an' girls like Donna Corblay don't go wrong."
Mr. Hennage extended his freckled, hairy hand. "Dan" he said, "I thankyou for that. But your missus ain't playin' fair."
Pennycook threw up his hands deprecatingly. "I know it" he said, "an' Ican't help it."
Harley P. laid his hand on the yardmaster's shoulder. "Dan" he said, "mean' you've been good friends, man to man, an' there's just a chance thatafter to-day we ain't a-goin' to meet no more. You take my complimentsto Mrs. Pennycook, Dan, an' tell her that I've kept my word, even ifshe didn't keep hers. That worthless convict brother-in-law o' yours isdead, Dan. You can quit worryin'. He'll never blackmail you again. He'sas dead as a mackerel an' I seen him buried. Dan, old friend, _adios._"
He shook hands warmly with the yardmaster and walked over to the SilverDollar saloon, where, in order to smother his distress, he played gameafter game of solitaire. Here, shortly after his arrival, he had learnedof Borax O'Rourke's latest move, and when the latter entered the saloonan hour later, Harley P. had delivered his ultimatum.
For an hour after O'Rourke had left the Silver Dollar for the ostensiblepurpose of purchasing a gun, the gambler continued to play solitaire.At three o'clock he arose, kicked back his chair, sighed, and glanced atthe crowd which had been hanging around, watching him.
"Twenty games to-day an' never beat it once" he complained. "No usetalkin', boys, my luck's changed." He walked to the bar, laid a handfulof gold thereon and gave his order.
"Wine."
He turned to the crowd. "It happens that there ain't no officer o' thelaw in San Pasqual to-day to interfere in the forthcoming festivitiesbetween me an' O'Rourke. I do hope that none o' you boys'll feel calledon to interfere. I take it for granted you won't, out o' compliment tome, an' as a further compliment I'd be obliged if you-all'd honor me tothe extent o' havin' a little nip."
The crowd shuffled to the bar, and a lanky prospector in from the drydiggings at Coolgardie spoke up.
"I'm a stranger here, but I'll help pull a rope tight around thatmule-skinner's neck. It looks to me like a community job, an' if yousay the word, friend, I'll head a movement to relieve you o' the resk o'cancelin' that entry."
"Thank you, old-timer" replied Mr. Hennage kindly, "but this is apersonal matter, an' it's been the custom in this town to let every mankill his own skunks. All set, boys. Smoke up!"
Each of his guests half turned, facing the gambler. As one man theyspoke.
"How."
"How" replied Harley P., and tossed off his wine with evident relish.He pocketed his change and left the saloon; five minutes later he wasbending over a show-case in the hardware department of the generalstore, and when his purchase was completed he sat down on a keg ofnails, laid his watch on the counter before him, lit a cigar and smokeduntil four o 'clock; then he arose.
He handed his watch to the proprietor.
"I'd be obliged if you was to give that watch to Dan Pennycook" he said,and walked out.
On the threshold he paused. A train, brown with the dust of the hundredsof miles of desert across which it had traveled, was just pulling into the depot, and while Mr. Hennage realized that any delay in hisprogramme would be a distinct strain on the idlers who had gathered inthe porch of the Silver Dollar and adjacent deadfalls to watch the worstman in San Pasqual finally make good on his reputation, still he wasnot one of the presuming kind, and he declined to make a spectacle ofhimself for the edification of the travelers peering curiously from thewindows of the train.
So he waited until the train pulled out before stepping briskly intothe middle of the street, gun in hand. He crossed diagonally toward theeating-house, watching for O'Rourke.
Suddenly a man appeared around the corner of the eating-house, along-barreled Colt's in his hand. Mr. Hennage raised his gun, butlowered it again instantly, for the man was Sam Singer. The Indian ranto Mr. Hennage's side.
"_Vamose, amigo mio_" he said in mingled Spanish and English, "me fixumplenty good."
"Sam" said Mr. Hennage, "get out. You're interferin'. This is the whiteman's burden." With a sudden sweep of his arm he tore the gun from theIndian's hand, and waved him imperiously away, just as the crowd on theporch of the Silver Dollar parted and Borax O'Rourke leaped into thestreet.
"Git--you Injun" yelled Mr. Hennage. "If he beefs me first you take ahack at him."
Sam Singer, weaponless, sprang around the corner of the eating-house,just as O'Rourke, having gained the center of the street, turned, drewhis gun down on Harley P. and fired. A suppressed "A-a-h-h" went up fromthe crowd as the worst man in San Pasqual sprawled forward on his handsand knees.
O'Rourke brought his gun up, swiftly, dropped it again. Mr. Hennage'sleft arm buckled under him suddenly and he slid forward on his face,while two more bullets from the mule-skinner's gun threw the sand in hiseyes, blinding him, before ricochetting against the eating-house wall.
Sam Singer, peering around the corner of the eating-house, saw thegambler pick himself up slowly. There was a surprised look on his face.He was staggering in circles and as yet he had not fired a shot.
"No luck" he muttered thickly, "no luck," and reeled toward theeating-house. A fifth bullet scored his shoulder and crashed through thewall; the sixth--and last--was a clean miss, and in the middle of SanPasqual's single street Borax O'Rourke stood wonderingly, an emptysmoking gun in his hand, staring at the man reeling blindly along theeating-house wall.
Mr. Hennage paused with his broad back against the wall. "The sand" hemuttered, blinking, and brushed his eyes with the back of his good righthand, as Sam Singer made a quick scuttering rush around the corner andretrieved the loaded gun which the gambler had taken from him and whichHarley P. had dropped when O'Rourke's second bullet had shattered hisleft arm.
Mr. Hennage saw the Indian stooping, and flapped his broken arm infeeble protest. Then he raised his gun.
"Borax" he said aloud, "I've got a full house," and pulled away,O'Rourke pitched forward, and Harley P. advanced uncertainly toward him,firing as he came, and when the gun was empty and Borax O'Rourke asdead as Cheops, the gambler stood over his man and hurled the gun at thestill twitching body.
"Well, I've canceled that entry" he said. He stood there, swaying alittle, and a strong arm came around his fat waist. He half turned andgazed into the sun-scorched, red-bearded face of a tall young man cladin a ruin of weather-beaten rags.
br />
It was Bob McGraw. He had come back. Sam Singer, reaching Mr. Hennage'sside at that moment, recognized the stranger, and realizing that Mr.Hennage was in safe hands, the Indian dropped his gun (the one he hadtaken from O'Rourke at the Hat Ranch) and fled to Donna with the news.
Mr. Hennage fixed his fading glance upon the wanderer. He wanted tosay something severe, but for the life of him--even the little he hadleft--he could not; there was a puzzled look in his sand-clogged eyes ashe whispered.
"Bob, they've got the goods--on you. There's a warrant--out;you--know--that stage hold-up--at Garlock--"
He lurched forward into Bob McGraw's arms.
"Oh, Harley, Harley, old man" said Bob McGraw in a choking voice.
"Vamose" panted Mr. Hennage. "I'm dyin', son. You can't do no goodhere."
"My friend, my friend" whispered the wanderer, "don't die believing I'man outlaw. I didn't do it. On my word of honor, I didn't."
"I'm dyin', Bob. Give me the straight of it."
"I can't. I don't know what you're driving at, Harley. It's a mistake--"
"Everything's a mistake--I'm a mistake" muttered the gambler. "Son, takeme--to my--room--in the hotel. I'm a dog with a bad--name, but I--don'twant to--die in--the street."
Dan Pennycook, at his work among the strings of empty box-cars acrossthe track, had heard the shooting; had seen the crowd leave the porch ofthe Silver Dollar saloon and surge out into the street. He came runningnow, and upon hearing the details of the duel he pressed through thecircle of curious men who had gathered to see Harley P. Hennage die.He found Mr. Hennage seated in the sand with his head and shoulderssupported by a stranger.
Mr. Hennage smiled his rare, trustful, childish smile as the yardmasterapproached.
"Good old Dan!" he mumbled. "He can only--think of one--thing ata--time--like a horse--but--by God--he thinks--straight. Hello, Dan. I'mbeefed. Help Bob--carry me in--Dan. I'm so--damned--heavy an' I don'twant--any but real friends--to touch me--now."
They picked him up and carried him into the hotel, up the narrowheat-warped stairs and down the corridor to his room. On the way downthe corridor, Mr. Hennage sniffed curiously.
"They got--new mattin' in the rooms" he gasped. "Business--mustbe--lookin' up."
The crowd followed into the room, and watched Bob McGraw and DanPennycook lay Mr. Hennage on his old bed. Dan Pennycook hurried for DocTaylor, while Bob cleared the room of the curious and locked the door.Mr. Hennage beckoned him to his bedside.
"I ain't paid--for this bed yet" he said, "but there's money--in mypants pocket--an' you square up--for the damage--an' the annoyance--"
The tears came into Bob McGraw's eyes as he knelt beside the bed andtook the hand of the worst man in San Pasqual in his. He could notspeak. The simplicity, the honesty of this dying stray dog had filledhis heart to overflowing; for he was young and he could weep at thepassing of a man.
"Sho," said Mr. Hennage softly, "sho, Bob. It was low down--o' me tofigure you--a crook, but the evidence--man, it was awful--but you--whendid you--marry Donnie."
"Last October--in Bakersfield."
"I know--wisht you'd invited me--give the bride away, Bob.This wouldn't--have happened. Damn dogs! They--say--littleDonnie--belongs--east o' the tracks. I killed--O'Rourke for--thinkin'it."
A knock sounded on the door, and Bob opened it, to admit Dan Pennycook.
"Doc Taylor's in Bakersfield" he said.
Mr. Hennage grinned. "I knew it--no luck to-day" he said. "Just wipethe--sand out--o' my eyes, Bob--an' let me kick the bucket--withoutdisturbin' nobody. Dan'l, good-by. As the feller says--we shall meet--onthat beautiful--shore."
Pennycook wet a towel in the wash-bowl and wiped Mr. Hennage's eyes.Then he wiped his own, squeezed his friend's hand and departed. He hadtaken Mr. Hennage's gentle hint to leave him alone with Bob McGraw.
For nearly half an hour Bob and Mr. Hennage talked, and when the gamblerhad learned all he wished to know he closed his eyes and was silentuntil another knock came on the door. Again Bob opened it. Donna stoodon the threshold.
"Oh, sweetheart!" she cried, and her arms went around his neck, whileSam Singer softly closed the door and stood guard outside. At the soundof her voice Mr. Hennage opened his eyes, but since he was not oneof the presuming kind he quickly closed them again and feignedunconsciousness until he felt Donna's soft hand resting on his coldforehead.
"You oughtn't to a-come here, Donnie" he said, making a brave showto speak easily despite his terrible wounds. "There ain't--no fun inthis--visit--for nobody--but me--"
He turned wearily to hide his face from her, and looked thoughtfully outthe window, across the level reaches of the Mojave desert, to wherethe sun hung low over the Tehachapis. In the fading light the littledust-devils were beginning to caper and obscure the landscape, muchas the dark shadows were already trooping athwart the horizon of Mr.Hennage's wasted life. The night--the eternal night--was coming onapace, and it came to Mr. Hennage that he, too, would depart with thesunset, and he had no regrets.
"Don't cry" he said gently. "I ain't worth it. Just hold--my hand.I want you--near--when I can't see you--no more--an' it's gettin'dark--already. You're so much--like your mother--an' she--she trustedme. I was born with--a hard--face--an' nobody ever--trusted me--but youan'--your mother--an' I--wanted to be trusted--all my worthless life--Iwanted it--"
He sighed and held out his hands to them. Thereafter for an hour he didnot speak. He was thinking of many things now, and the time was short.Presently he opened his eyes and looked out the window again.
"It's--dark" he whispered. "The sun ain't set, has it?"
"It's just setting" Donna answered him. He nodded slightly, and a flushof embarrassment lit up his pale features. For the first and last timein life, Harley P. Hennage was going to appear presumptuous.
"If it's--a boy" he whispered, "would you--you wouldn't mind--wouldyou--callin' him--Harley? Just--his middle name, Donnie--an' hecould--sign it--Robert H.--McGraw."
Donna's hot tears fell fast on his face as she leaned over and kissedthe death-damp from his brow.
"Oh-thank you" he gasped. "Bob--take off my--shoes--Idon't--want--to--die--with--my boots--on. New--gaiters--too--give'em--to Sam--Singer. Good--Injun--that."
The sun had set behind the Tehachapis now, and twilight was stealingover San Pasqual. It was time for Mr. Hennage to be on his way. He clungto the hands of his friends convulsively, and whatever thoughts cameto him in that supreme moment were for the first time reflected in hisface. Indeed, one tiny hint of the desolation in his big heart--theagony of a lifetime of misunderstanding and repression, trickled acrosshis hard face; then something seemed to strike him very funny, for theinfrequent, trustful, childish smile flickered across his face, thethree gold teeth flashed for an instant ere the worst man in San Pasqualslipped off into the shadows.
And whatever the joke was, he took it with him.
In his unassuming way Harley P. Hennage had been sufficient of apersonage, and the manner of his death sufficiently spectacular, toentitle him to one hundred and fifty words of posthumous publicity.Within an hour after the street duel the local representative of theAssociated Press had his story on the wire, and at eight-thirty nextmorning T. Morgan Carey, in his club at Los Angeles, read the gladtidings. By nine o'clock a cipher telegram from Carey was being clickedoff to his tool in the General Land Office at Washington, instructinghim to expedite the listing of the applications of Bob McGraw's clientsfor lieu land in Owens Valley.
To T. Morgan Carey's way of thinking that inconspicuous paragraph in themorning paper meant as much to him as the receipt of a certified checkfor a million dollars. Under his instructions, the applications ofMcGraw's clients had, with the judicious aid of the deputy in the StateLand Office, been approved by the surveyor-general and forwarded toWashington for the approval of the Commissioner of the General LandOffice. Here, Carey's long arm, reaching out, had stayed their progressuntil now. Within a week after Mr. Hennage's death the lands would bepassed
to patent, under the interested attentions of Carey's man in theGeneral Land Office, the State Land Office would notify Bob McGraw athis address furnished them that the lands were ready for him, and tocall and pay the balance due. It would then be incumbent upon McGrawto visit the State Land Office, pay the balance of thirty-nine thousanddollars due on the lands and close the transaction.
The way had been nicely smoothed for Carey by the death of Mr. Hennage,who had warned him so earnestly to "keep off the grass." Of course,McGraw, being to Carey's way of thinking an outlaw from justice, wouldnot dare to appear to claim the lands, and if he did, T. Morgan Careyplanned to have a hale and hearty gentleman in a blue uniform with brassbuttons, waiting at the Land Office to receive him _before he paid forthe lands._ With the providential removal of McGraw's queer partner,Carey saw very clearly that, after waiting a reasonable period after duenotice of the approval of the applications had been mailed to McGraw,the filings would eventually lapse, the state would claim the forfeit ofthe preliminary payment of one thousand dollars and the lands would bereopened for entry--whereupon Carey would step in with his own dummyentrymen. He could then proceed with his own system of irrigation, inthe meanwhile keeping a watchful eye on McGraw's water right, ready tograb it when the title should lapse through McGraw's failure to developit.
Harley P. Hennage died on the fifth day of March. On the seventh therewere two funerals in San Pasqual. The coroner and two Mexican laborerstucked Borax O'Rourke away in the potter's field in the morning. In theafternoon every business establishment in San Pasqual closed, everymale citizen in San Pasqual arrayed himself in his "other" clothes andattended the funeral of Harley P. Hennage, testifying, by his presenceat least, his masculine appreciation of a dead-game sport.
That was a historic day in San Pasqual. Harley P. lay in state in thelong gambling hall of the Silver Dollar which, for so many years, he hadruled by the mystic power of his terrible eyes. Dan Pennycook had madeall of the funeral arrangements, and when the crowd had passed slowlyaround the casket, viewing Harley P.'s placid face for the last time, astrange young man, clad in the garb of a prospector, mounted the littledais, so long occupied by the lookout for Harley P.'s faro game, anddelivered a funeral oration. It was not a panegyric of hope, and itdwelt not with the promise of a haven for the gambler's soul in one ofhis Father's many mansions. He told them merely the story of one who haddwelt amongst them--the story of a man they had never known--and he toldit in such simple, eloquent words that the men of San Pasqual wonderedwhat dark tragedy underlay his own life, that he must needs descend tomingle with such as they. And wondering, they wept.
They asked each other who this red stranger might be, but none couldanswer. But when Harley P. Hennage was finally consigned to the desertthey watched the stranger and saw him walk down the tracks to the HatRanch. Then they understood, and the word was passed that the man wasBob McGraw, the father of Donna Corblay's unborn child.
Strange to relate, nobody considered it worth while to telephone thesheriff of Kern county. Even Miss Pickett, who since the shooting hadbeen strangely subdued, was not attracted by the recollection of theoffer of a reward of five hundred dollars for Bob McGraw, dead or alive;and ten days after the funeral, when a registered letter came to RobertMcGraw, she sent for Dan Pennycook, gave him the letter and the registryreceipt and asked him to take it down to the Hat Ranch.
Pennycook leaned his greasy elbows on the delivery window and gazed longand sternly at Miss Pickett.
"Miss Pickett" he said presently, "we found a 'nononymous letter onBorax O'Rourke after he was killed. There's folks in San Pasqual thatsays the letter's in your handwritin'."
"'Tain't so!" shrilled the spinster.
"Well, this man McGraw says it is so, an' he's goin' to get an expert toprove it. He says it's a felony to send a 'nonymous letter through theUnited States mails. I'm just a-tellin' you to give you fair warnin'."
Miss Pickett, although greatly agitated, pursed her mouth contemptuouslyand closed the delivery window. Mr. Pennycook left for the Hat Ranch.
"Donna," said Bob McGraw, when Dan Pennycook had departed, afterdelivering the letter from the State Land Office, "the applications ofmy clients are approved and ready to be passed to patent. I have beencalled upon to pay the balance of thirty-nine thousand dollars due onthe land, and if there are thirty-nine cents real money in this world, Ido act possess them. Will you loan me a hundred dollars, dear, from thatthousand Harley P. gave you? I must go to San Francisco on business."
He smiled his old bantering smile. "I'm always broke, sweetheart. I'm anunfortunate cuss, am I not? Those claims of mine didn't yield wages andI was forced to sell my outfit at Danby to get railroad fare back to SanPasqual. And if the train hadn't been ten minutes late--if I hadn't goneinto the eating-house looking for you--I would, have arrived in timeto have saved poor Hennage. It was my fight, after all, and poor Harleywasn't used to firearms."
They were sitting together in the patio. Donna leaned her head on hisbroad shoulder. She had suffered much of late. She had fought the goodfight for his sake, for the sake of his great dream of Donnaville, andshe had fought alone. She was weary of it all and she longed to leaveSan Pasqual as quickly as possible.
"Are you going to ask Mr. Dunstan for the thirty-nine thousand dollarshe promised to loan you, when the lands were ready for you?" she askeddully.
"No" he answered. "It's no use. I need more money, and Dunstan's checkwouldn't even get me started. If I'm whipped, there is no sensein dragging my friends down with me. I'm going to Los Angeles andcompromise with Carey."
She drew his rough cheek down to hers and patted his brown hands. Sheknew then the bitterness of his defeat, and she made no comment. She wastired of the fight. A compromise with Carey or a sale of the waterright was their only hope, and when Bob spoke of compromise she was toolistless to dissuade him. Since that eventful night when he had firstridden into San Pasqual she had been more or less of a stormy petrel;woe and death and suffering had followed his coming, and if Donnavillewas to be purchased at such a price, the land was dear, indeed.
She gave him gladly of her slender hoard and that night Bob McGrawwent up to San Francisco. Two days later he returned, stopping off atBakersfield, and the following morning he returned to San Pasqual.
He went at once to the post-office, and after receiving permissionfrom Miss Pickett, screwed into the wall of the post-office lobby whatappeared to Miss Pickett to be two pictures, framed. When he had left,she came out of her sanctum and discovered that one of the framescontained a certified copy of a marriage license issued to Robert McGrawand Donna Corblay on October 17th,----, together with a neat typewrittenstatement of the reasons why interested parties had not been able todiscover the record of the issuance of the license at the county seat.It appeared that the minister who had performed the ceremony, afterforwarding the license to the State Board of Health for registration,had neglected to return it thereafter to the two most interestedparties, which, coupled with Mrs. McGraw's ignorance of the procedureto be followed under the circumstances, had resulted in more or lessembarrassment.
The other frame contained a typewritten invitation to the public to earnfive hundred dollars by convicting the undersigned of stage robbery. The"undersigned" was Robert McGraw, who would remain in San Pasqual all daylong and would be delighted to answer questions.
From the post-office Bob went to the public telephone station and calledup T. Morgan Carey in Los Angeles. He requested an interview at teno'clock the following morning for the purpose of adjusting a compromisewith him.
Needless to state, Mr. T. Morgan Carey granted the request with cheerfulalacrity.
"I'm coming to do business" Bob warned him. "No third partiesaround--understand!"
"Certainly, certainly" responded Carey. "And in order to save time, Mr.McGraw, I'll have the assignment of your water right made out, ready foryour signature. I'll have a notary within hailing distance."
Bob could hear him chuckling as he hung up, for to
Carey the thought ofhis revenge on the man who had cuffed him in the State Land Office wasvery sweet, indeed. His amiable smile had not yet worn off when hisoffice boy ushered Bob McGraw into his private office at ten o'clocknext morning. He waved Bob to a chair and looked him over curiously.
"Been too busy lately to dress up, eh?" he queried, as he noted Bob'scorduroy trousers tucked into his miner's boots.
"Pretty busy" assented Bob, and smiled.
"Rather spectacular removal--that of our friend Hennage" Careycontinued. "From what I learn he was a little slow on the draw."
"O'Rourke beat him to it."
"If I may judge by the single exhibition of your proficiency with a gunwhich I was privileged to observe, Mr. McGraw, the issue would have beendifferent had you been in Hennage's boots."
"Possibly. But I didn't come here to gossip with you, Carey. I don'tlike you well enough for that. I want to finish my business and get backto San Pasqual to-night."
"Certainly, certainly. But you're such an extraordinary young man,McGraw, that in spite of our former differences I must own to a desireto know more about you. I could use a man with your brains and ability,McGraw. You're the kind of a fellow I've been looking for--for a greatmany years, in fact. If you think you could manage to divorce yourselffrom your ambitions to supersede me in the State Land Office, I couldafford to pay you a fat salary to attend to my land matters. I wouldhave to be the boss, however. It has been a rule of my life, McGraw, togather about me men with more brains than I possess myself. That is thesecret of my--er--rather modest success."
Bob smiled. "No use" he answered. "I couldn't wear your collar, Carey. IVe been a white man all my life and I'm too old to change."
"It's a pity" Carey replied with genuine sincerity. "I can seeremarkable possibilities in you, McGraw. I can, indeed. It's a shame tosee you waste your opportunities."
"Play ball" commanded Bob sharply.
"Very well, since you desire it. In the matter of those applications forfifty sections of Owens Valley: you have received a notification fromthe Registrar of the State Land Office, advising you to call and paythirty-nine thousand dollars. You cannot pay it; neither can yourclients. What are you going to do about it?"
Bob shrugged. "_Quien sabe?_" he said.
"Well, Mr. McGraw, I'll tell you. Your applications are going to lapsethrough non-payment, and I'm going to get the land. So enough of that.You own a valuable water right. I'm going to get that also. Do you wishme to explain why?"
"No, it is not necessary. I think I follow your line of reasoning."
"I am not disappointed in my estimate of your common sense" Careyretorted, and favored his visitor with a cold, quizzical smile. "Here isthe assignment of that water right to me. In return I will give you--letme see. I will give you just fifteen hundred dollars for that waterright, McGraw, and I am surprised at myself for exhibiting suchgenerosity. And inasmuch as you collected that sum in advance lastautumn at Garlock, your signature to the assignment, before a notary whois waiting in the next room, is all that we require to terminate thisinterview."
"But I told you I came here to compromise."
"I understand fully. Those are my terms. Your water right on Cottonwoodlake in return for your freedom. Stage-robbers cannot be choosers, Mr.McGraw. I recognized you that day at Garlock and I am prepared to sotestify."
The land-grabber rose from his swivel chair. His polished suave mannerhad disappeared now and his cold eyes flashed with anger and hatred.
"I haven't forgotten that day in the State Land Office, McGraw. A slightpressure on this button"--he placed his manicured finger on an ivorypush button--"and two plain-clothes men in my outer office will attendto your case, McGraw."
"So those are your final terms, Carey?"
"Absolutely."
Bob crossed his right leg over his left knee, pulled out a five-centcigar and thoughtfully bit off the end.
"Press the button, old man" he murmured presently. "Confound this cigar,I've busted the blamed wrapper. Got another cigar handy, Carey? Thanks.By George, that's a two-bitter, isn't it? Well, it's none too good forthe last of the McGraw family. I'll be in the two-bit class; myselfin half an hour. But proceed, Carey. Press the button and call in yourplain-clothes men."
He pulled back the lapel of his coat, and the land-grabber saw the buttof a gun nestling under his left arm. From his inner coat pocket Bobdrew a cylindrical roll of paper about eight inches long.
Carey eyed him scornfully. "This is the city of Los Angeles, my friend,not the open desert at Garlock. A gunplay would be most ill-advised, Iassure you."
"Oh, that's just part of my wardrobe" Bob retorted. "I wouldn't think ofusing that on a man unless he was real dangerous--and men like you arebeneath my notice. Come now, Carey. Which is it to be? Compromise or thepenitentiary?"
"Certainly not compromise--on any terms but mine."
"Well, press the button and call them in--_Boston!_"
Carey whirled in his chair, jerked open a drawer in his desk and reachedhis hand inside. Before he could withdraw it Bob McGraw's big automaticwas covering him.
"Take your hand out of that drawer--_Boston._ Out, you dog, or I'lldrill you!"
Carey's hand came out of the drawer slowly, very slowly, grasping asmall pearl-handled revolver.
"This is the city of Los Angeles, my friend, and not the open desert.A gun-play would be most ill-advised, I assure you" Bob mocked theland-grabber. "You'd better let me have that pop-gun."
He gently removed the little weapon from Carey's trembling hand.
"Now, go over in that corner and sit down--no, not on the floor. Takea chair with you. I'll occupy the arsenal. You might have all kinds ofpush buttons, burglar alarms and deadly weapons around this desk."
He ran his hands lightly over Carey's person in search of weapons,shoved him into the corner indicated, then turned and snapped the springlock on the door leading out to the general office; after which helaid his gun on Carey's desk, sat down in Carey's swivel chair, tiltedhimself back and lifted his hob-nailed miner's boots to the top ofCarey's rosewood table close by. And as he gazed, almost sorrowfully,at the land-grabber, he puffed enjoyably at Carey's cigar. Evidently heforesaw a lengthy argument and meant to make himself comfortable beforeproceeding.
"Well, now, Boston, since we have definitely located you as the murdererof Oliver Corblay in the Colorado desert on the night of May 17th, 188-,I'll give you five minutes to get your nerve back and then we'll getdown to business. You will recall that I came here to compromise."
He reached over and placed a brown calloused finger on the push button,and waited.
"Well" he said presently, "what's the answer!"
"Compromise" Carey managed to articulate. Bob removed his finger.
"The court will now listen to any new testimony that may be adduced inthe case of The People versus Carey. Fire away, Boston."
"What are you?" panted Carey. "A man or a devil?"
"Just a plain human being, so flat busted, Boston, that I rattle when Iwalk. What would you suggest to cure me of that horrible ailment?"
"Silence--on both sides--and a hundred thousand for your water right."
"Well, from your point of view, that offer is truly generous. It isnow my turn to be surprised at your generosity. But you're shy onimagination, Boston--and I'm--a greedy rascal. You'll have to raise theante."
"Two hundred thousand."
"Still too low. The power rights alone are worth a million."
"A million, then--you to leave the United States and not return duringmy lifetime."
Bob laughed. "You don't understand, Boston. Why should I sell you mywater right? You must have water on the brain."
"Then, why have you called to see me? Is it blackmail? Why, thisinterview is degenerating into a ease of the pot calling the kettleblack! I'm a fool, McGraw. I shall offer you nothing at all. You can beconvicted of stage robbery and you haven't a dollar in the world to makeyour defense--while I--it takes _evidence_ to conv
ict a man like me."
"Yes, I know your kind. You think you're above the law. I notice,however, that you fear it a little. I sprung a good one on you thattime, didn't I, Boston? Imagine the self-possessed T. Morgan Careypractically confessing to a murder on a mere accusation."
He wagged his head at Carey sorrowfully, and continued. "You said aminute ago, Carey, that I had brains. You did not underestimate me. Ihave. I would not have come to you this morning if I did not have thegoods on you. Not much. I don't hold you that cheap, Boston--"
"Don't call me that name" snarled Carey.
"All right, Boston, I won't, since you object. Sit quiet, now, and I'lltell you a very wonderful story--profusely illustrated, as the bookagents say. It's rather a long story, so please do not interrupt me."
He unrolled the paper which he had taken from his pocket and held it upbefore his cringing victim. It was an enlargement from a kodak pictureof a desert scene. In the foreground lay two human skeletons. Bob pickeda pencil off Carey's desk and lightly indicated one of these skeletons.
"That bundle of bones was once Oliver Corblay. Notice those footprintsover to the right! See how plainly they loom up in the picture? And overthere--see that little message, Bos--I mean, Mr. Carey. It says:
'Friend, look in my canteen and see that I get justice.'
"Behold the friend who looked in the canteen, and who is now here forjustice for that skeleton. He's waited twenty years for it, Carey, buthe's going to get it to-day. Don't squirm so. You distract my mind frommy story.
"Two months ago I was heading up from the Colorado river towardChuckwalla Tanks. Passing the mouth of a box canyon I observed thefootprints of a man in some old rotten lava formation. I could tell thatthe man who made those footprints was dying of thirst when he made them.He was traveling in circles, every twenty yards, and they always do thattoward the finish.
"Well, I hustled up that box canyon with my canteen, hoping I'd arrivein time. Judge of my surprise when I found this heap of bones. Iinvestigated and discovered that owing to the peculiar formation inthe box canyon the footprints were practically imperishable. Adetailed explanation of the reason why they loom up so white would beinteresting, but technical--so let it pass. Suffice the fact that OliverCorblay made the same discovery when he drifted into that box canyontwenty years ago, and it gave him an idea. He had a message to leave toposterity and he left it in his empty canteen. However, unless attentioncould be called to the canteen, the man who found the skeleton wouldmerely bury it and never think of looking in the canteen. So OliverCorblay wrote that message in the lava; really the most ingenious pieceof inlaid work I have ever seen.
"I was the first man to travel that way in twenty years. I read themessage in the lava and I looked in the canteen. Here is a copy ofthe story I found there. The original is in a safe deposit box in SanFrancisco. It is a diary of a trip which you made with Oliver Corblayand his _mozo_ when you first came out to this country from--well, nevermind the name. It seems to annoy you. This diary tells all about thediscovery of the Baby Mine, your attack upon him with a stone and yourflight with the gold--in fact, a condensed history of that trip rightdown to the very day he died in that box canyon.
"I was so tremendously interested in that remarkable story, Carey, thatas soon as I had refilled my water kegs at Chuckwalla Tanks, I headedsouth again for Ehrenburg. Here, after much inquiry, I learned from twoof the oldest inhabitants that a tenderfoot with a train of four burroshad arrived there twenty years ago. They remembered you quite well,because you were so new to the country and so frightened after yourexperience in the desert. You told a tale of a sandstorm and of havingbeen separated from two Indians you had employed. It seems you lay overin Ehrenburg for a week and put in your time working up a lot of richore. You gave a deputy United States marshal five hundred dollars to actas your bodyguard that week, and when your bullion was ready you shippedit by express to the mint in San Francisco. In the express office atEhrenburg I found a record of that shipment. You shipped it under thename 'T. C. Morgan,' a reversal of your real name.
"From Ehrenburg I made my way back up through Riverside county andacross San Bernardino county, to the box canyon. I had purchased alittle camera in Ehrenburg, and I fizzled a lot of my films owing to thestrong light and the fact that I had to stand on one of my jacks when Itook the picture, and the little rascal wouldn't stand still. However, Imanaged to get one good picture out of the lot, and as you will observe,it all shows up very well in the enlargement.
"I left everything in that box canyon just as I found it. It occurred tome that you might fight and ask to be shown; so might a coroner's jury.They could get out there in three days with an automobile now. Leavingthe box canyon I pushed north to Danby, where I sold my outfit andbought a ticket for San Pasqual, where I arrived just in time to seemy friend, Harley P. Hennage, lay down his life in defense of OliverCorblay's daughter, who, by the way, happens to be my wife.
"If you are not too frightened, Carey, you will readily diagnose myextreme interest in this case. Oliver Corblay left a will, which I shallnot bother to file for probate, for the reason that his entire estateconsisted of the gold that you stole from him, and it is my intention tosecure his estate for his heir without recourse to law. OliverCorblay's wife is dead, and his daughter, Donna, is my wife and next insuccession.
"By consulting the old records of the United States Mint at SanFrancisco, I discover that on June 2, 18--, a cashier's check was issuedto a man named T. C. Morgan, in the sum of $157,432.55, in payment ofbullion received. This check was endorsed by T. C. Morgan to Thomas M.Carey, and deposited by Thomas M. Carey in the Traders National Bank.
"Now, Carey, $157,432.55, at seven per cent per annum, compoundedannually for twenty annums, aggregates a heap of money. I wore myselfout trying to figure the exact sum, and finally concluded to call itsquare at half a million. That original sum that you stole from OliverCorblay gave you your start in the west, and as you are reputed to beworth five or six millions now, I am going to assess you half a milliondollars for my wife--money which justly belongs to her--and another halfmillion for my services as your attorney, wherein I agree to prevailupon my wife not to prosecute you for murder and highway robbery, but topermit you to live on and await the retributive justice that is bound toovertake you. I think this is perfectly fair and square. You have usedyour money and your power for evil. I am going to use mine for good.Have the kindness, my dear T. Morgan Carey, to dig me up a milliondollars, P. D. Q."
CHAPTER XX
Carey sat huddled dejectedly in his chair. Old age seemed to havedescended upon him within the hour; with sagging shoulders, mouth halfopen in terror, and the wrinkled skin around his thin jaws and thecorners of his eyes hanging in greenish-white folds, he looked verytired and very pitiful. Despite his terror, however, he was not yetdaunted; for with the picture of _two skeletons_ before him he saw agleam of hope and tried to fight back.
"Twenty years is a long time, McGraw," he quavered, "and it's hard totrace a man by a mere similarity of names."
"You can be traced through the Traders National, where you banked thatcheck, and your identity established beyond a doubt. I can trace yourcareer in this state, step by step, from the day you arrived in it."
Carey smiled--a very weak sickly smile, but bespeaking awakenedconfidence.
"In the face of which, McGraw, your knowledge of our United States' lawwill convince you that you cannot convict a man with money enough tofight indefinitely, on such flimsy twenty-year-old evidence found in anabandoned canteen. You cannot identify that skeleton, and you will haveto prove that--that--well, you'll have to produce oral testimony, orI'll be given the benefit of the doubt."
"I must prove that the man who killed and robbed Oliver Corblay is T.Morgan Carey, and not a stranger masquerading under your name, eh? Allright, T. Morgan. I told you I had this story profusely illustrated."
Bob stepped to the door of the private office which led into the hall.He opened it and Sam Singer stepped in
side. Bob turned to Carey.
"Permit me to present Oliver Corblay's Indian servant, Mr. Carey. He isa little older and more stolid since you saw him last, but his memory--"
Sam Singer moved forward a few feet and glanced sharply at Carey.
"I think he recognizes you in spite of your beard" said Bob sorrowfully,"and I see no reason--"
"Take him away" panted Carey, on the instant that Sam Singer, with apeculiar low guttural cry, sprang upon the land-grabber. Bob came behindthe Indian, grasped him by the chin, and with his knee in the small ofthe Cahuilla's back as a fulcrum, gently pried him away from his victimand held him fast. Carey lay quivering on the floor, and Bob looked downat him.
"Are you satisfied?" he asked.
Carey nodded feebly, and Bob marched Sam Singer to the door, openedit and gently propelled him out into the hall. He locked the door andreturned to the desk.
"I knew the sight of two skeletons would hearten you up, Carey, untilyou'd be as saucy as a badger. But you're as tame as a pet fox now, solet's get down to business. Don't argue with me. I've got you where thehair is short; I want a million dollars, and if I do not get it withinhalf an hour I won't take it at all and I will no longer protect youfrom that Indian."
Carey climbed back into his chair. "If I accept your terms" he saidhuskily, "how am I to know that you will keep your word?"
"You will not know it. You'll just have to guess. When you do what Iwant you to do I will surrender to you the original document found inthe canteen. Is that satisfactory?"
"I guess so. But I cannot give you a million dollars on five minutes'notice, McGraw."
"It's quite a chunk of cash to have on hand, I'll admit. How much canyou give me?"
"Five hundred thousand, and even then I'll have to overdraw my accountswith three banks."
"I wish my credit was as good as yours, Carey. Your banks will stand forthe overdraft, of course. You'll have to arrange it some other way ifthey will not."
"I can't give you a cent over half a million to-day, no matter what youdo" pleaded Carey piteously, and Bob realized that he was speaking thetruth.
"Do not worry, Carey," he replied, "we're going to do business withoutgetting nasty with each other. I'll take your promissory note, atseven per cent, and you can secure me with a little mortgage on yourSpring-street-business block. It's worth a million and a half. I am notso unreasonable as to imagine even a rich man like you can produce amillion dollars cash on such notice, so during the past week I took theliberty of having the title searched and an instrument of first mortgagedrawn up by myself. All we have to do is to insert the figures and thenyou can sign it. I understand you have a notary within hailing distance.Your own thoughtfulness in having this transfer of my water right readyfor my signature suggested this course to me. It occurred to me that Icould sell this mortgage to any Los Angeles bank."
Carey covered his face with his hands and quivered.
"What bank do you anticipate selling it to?" he mumbled presently.
"I didn't have any particular choice. If you have enemies I will notsell you into their hands, and you can make the mortgage for as long aperiod as you please, up to three years. Give me a list of banks to keepaway from. I don't want to hurt you unnecessarily, I assure you."
"Thank you, McGraw" quavered his victim. "If you'll let me sit at mydesk I'll draw those checks."
"Certainly. Only I want the checks certified, Carey. You understand, ofcourse, that I shall not surrender the evidence I have against you untilthose checks are paid. I will not risk your telephoning the banks, themoment I leave your office, telling them the checks were secured byforce and threats of bodily harm, and for them to decline payment."
Carey wrote the checks, called in a clerk and instructed him totake them to the various banks and arrange for the overdraft andcertification--a comparatively easy task, since Carey was a heavystockholder in all three banks. Within half an hour, while Bob and Careysat glaring at each other, the checks were returned, and Carey handedthem to Bob, who examined them and found them correct. The mortgage wasnext filled out, the notary called in, and Carey signed and swore to hissignature.
"Now, in order to be perfectly legal about this matter, Carey," beganBob, when the notary had departed, "we should show some considerationfor all this money. I have here the papers showing I have filed ontwenty acres of a mining claim. It's just twenty acres of the Mojavedesert, near San Pasqual, and I do not know that it contains a speck ofvaluable mineral, but that is neither here nor there. I staked it as amining claim and christened it the Baby Mine."
Here a slight smile flickered across the young Desert Rat's face, as ifsome very pleasant thought had preceded it. He continued:
"I have had my signature to this deed to the Baby Mine attested before anotary a few minutes prior to my arrival in your office." He handed thedocument to T. Morgan Carey. "Here's your mine, Carey. I've sold it toyou for a million dollars, and unless you spend one hundred dollars ayear in assessment work, the title to this million-dollar property willlapse. I wish you luck with your bargain. I shall expect you to recordthis deed within three days, and that will block any come-back you maystart figuring on. If you fail to record this deed I shall construeyour act as a breach of faith, return to you all but the five hundredthousand dollars which belongs to my wife, and then proceed to makethings disagreeable for you. Remember, Carey, I'm your attorney and youshould be guided by my advice."
Carey's face was livid with rage and hatred. "And in addition, I supposeI'm to forget that you're a stage robber, eh?" He reached for thetelephone. "By the gods, McGraw, I'll take a chance with you after all.I'm going to fight you."
Bob McGraw drew a large envelope from his pocket. "You may read whatthis envelope contains while waiting for central to answer your call"he said gently. "I snipped the wires while you were hiding your face inyour hands, wondering what you were going to do. These papers aremerely a few affidavits, proving an absolute alibi in the matter ofthat Garlock robbery. I was eating frijoles and flapjacks with threeprospectors about fifteen miles south of Olancho at the time this stagewas held up, and I was in Keeler the following morning. This documentcontains a statement of the most amazing case of circumstantial evidenceyou ever heard of. Its author is the chief of Wells Fargo and besides,I have queer ideas on the subject of punishment for crime. Crime,Mr. Carey, is a great deal like our other human ailments, such as thechicken-pox and tonsilitis. We must bear with it and try to cure it bygentle care and scientific treatment. Prison cells have never cured acriminal, and it would only pain me to see you behind the bars in yourold age. And I am certain that my wife would not rejoice at the news ofyour hanging."
"I suppose money has nothing to do with the celerity with which youhasten to compound a felony, eh?" sneered Carey.
"You unfortunate man! Carey, my late friend, Mr. Hennage, used to saythat it was good policy to overlook a losing bet once in a while, ratherthan copper everything in sight. Your crime was a terrible mistake,Carey. For twenty years you've realized that and you've suffered for it.I'm sorry for you--so sorry that I'm going to use your ill-gotten gainsfor a good purpose. Come up into Owens valley three years from now andI'll prove it to you. Good-day."
"One moment, McGraw. Don't go for a minute or two. I--I'd like tobelieve that what you say is true, but the trouble is--you see, McGraw,I have never encountered your point of view heretofore. Tell me,McGraw--don't lie to me--do you feel the slightest desire to see mesuffer, or is this--er--brotherly-love talk of yours plain buncombe?"
Bob McGraw advanced toward the man he had beaten. He held out his hand."I try to be a man" he said--"to be too big to hate and put myself on alevel with a brute. Won't you shake hands with me?"
Carey regarded him with frank curiosity.
"Say" he said, "are you religious?"
"No. Only human."
"Perhaps" said Carey dubiously, "but it doesn't seem possible that Ishould meet two white men in this nigger world. I think the speciesbecame extinct with the
death of my friend Hennage."
"_Your_ friend--"
"Why not? He liked me--I know he did. And I liked him. I'm glad he'sdead--no, I'm not--I was glad an hour ago, but I'm sorry now. Had helived I would have made of him my friend, for he was the only humanbeing I have ever met that I could trust implicitly. He was your partnerand he warned me to keep off. He meant it, and I knew he meant it--so Istayed off. Do you think, McGraw, that I would have let you beat me outof that land if it hadn't been for Hennage? I didn't dare rush thoseselections through for patent until he was dead--and then it was toolate. Had you left your affairs in any other hands I would have crushedyou, but Hennage could not be bought. I didn't even try. He was above aprice."
"Is that why you failed to act immediately after you became convincedthat I was an outlaw and would not dare claim the land when it should begranted to my clients?" demanded Bob.
Carey nodded. "I met Hennage in Bakersfield, and he told me to keep myhands off those applications."
"Then he bluffed you, Mr. Carey. Harley P. Hennage was my friend, butnot my partner. He did not have five cents invested in my scheme. Inever mentioned it to him, and neither did my wife. His threat was abluff, and where he got his information of my land deal is a mystery,the solution of which perished with Harley P."
Carey sat in his chair, with his head bowed. He was clasping andunclasping his fingers in a manner pathetically suggestive ofhelplessness.
"I don't understand" he mumbled. "He told me to keep off and I keptoff." He sighed. "I'd have given a million dollars for a friend likehim. I--I--never--had--one."
Bob McGraw drew T. Morgan Carey's mortgage from his pocket, scratched amatch on his trouser-leg and held it under the fluttering leaves. Slowlythe little flame mounted, and when it threatened to scorch hisfingers the promoter of Donnaville tossed the blazing fragments into aconvenient cuspidor. He looked up and saw Carey regarding him curiously.
"That was your mortgage" the land-grabber said wonderingly. "You haveburned half a million dollars."
"I was selling you my friendship--at cut rates, Mr. Carey. I was worthyof Hennage's trust and friendship until a few minutes ago. Harley P.Hennage never did a mean or a cowardly act, and to-day I used my powerover you to extort half a million dollars from you to further a schemeof mine. I figured that the end justified the means. It did not, and Iask you to forgive me."
Carey smiled wanly. "It's up-hill work, McGraw, but I'll forgive you.What great scheme is this of yours that caused you to appear unworthyof the friend who was so worthy of you? I have a great curiosity tounderstand you. Who knows? Perhaps I may end up by liking you?"
And then Bob McGraw sat down by his enemy and unfolded to him his dreamof Donnaville.
"Think of it, Mr. Carey" he pleaded. "Think what my scheme means to thepoor devils who haven't got our brains and power! Think of the women andlittle children toiling in sweat-shops; of the families without money,without hope, without food and without coal, facing the winter in suchcities as Chicago and New York, while a barren empire, which you andI can transform to an Eden, waits for them there in the north," and hewaved his arm toward Donnaville.
"There's glory enough for us all, Mr. Carey. Won't you come in withme and play the big game? Be my backer in this enterprise and let thefuture wipe out the mistakes of the past. You've got a chance, Carey.What need have you for money? It's only a game you're playing, man--agame that fascinates you. You've sold your manhood for money--and youhave never had a friend! Good God, what a tragedy! Come with me, Carey,into Owens valley, and be a builder of empire. Let your dead past buryitself and start fresh again. You are not a young man any longer, andin all your busy life you have accomplished nothing of benefit to theworld. You have subscribed to charities, and then robbed the objects ofyour charity of the land that would have made them independent of you.Think of the good you can do with the proceeds of the evil you havedone! Ah, Carey, Carey! There's so much fun in just living, and I'mafraid you've never been young. You've never dreamed! And you've neverhad a friend that loved you for what you were. Do you know why, Carey?Because you weren't worth loving. You have received from the world todate just what you put into it--envy and greed and hate and malice andselfishness, and at your passing the curses of your people will beyour portion. Come with me and be a Pagan, my friend, and when youhave finished the job I'll guarantee to plant you up on the slope ofKearsarge, where your soul, as it mounts to the God of a Square Deal,can look down on the valley that you have prepared for a happy people,and say: 'That is mine. I helped create it, and I did it for love. Ifinished what the Almighty commenced, and the job was worth while.'Will you play the game with me, T. Morgan Carey, and get some joy out oflife?"
The land-grabber--the parasite who had lived only to destroy--looked upat Bob McGraw.
"Would you trust me?" he queried huskily.
"I burned your mortgage" said Bob smiling.
"I'll think it over--friend" Carey replied. "I never do things in ahurry. It's a habit I have, and I don't quite understand you. I mustthink it over."
"Do, Mr. Carey. And now I must toddle along. _Adios._"
Carey shook his hand, and they parted.
Our story is told.
San Pasqual is still a frontier town--a little drearier, a littleshabbier and more down at the heel than when we saw it first. There havebeen few changes--the few that have occurred having arrived unheraldedand hence have remained undiscovered. For instance, it is not generallyknown that Mrs. Pennycook has lost control of her husband. Yet, such isthe fact. She is still a great stickler for principle, but shetrembles if her husband looks at her. It appears that Dan Pennycook'shalf-hearted accusation of Miss Pickett as the author of the anonymousnote found on the body of Boras O'Rourke preyed on the spinster's mind,and when Bob McGraw started an investigation she could stand the strainno longer. She fled in terror to the Pennycook home and made certaindemands upon Mrs. Pennycook; who took refuge in her well-knownreputation for probity and principle and informed Miss Pickett that shewas "actin' crazy like"; whereupon Miss Pickett sought Dan Pennycook andhysterically confessed to the authorship of that fatal anonymous note,alleging as extenuating circumstances that she had been aided andabetted therein by Mrs. Pennycook. To quote a commonplace saying, Mrs.Pennycook had made the ball and Miss Pickett fired it. She begged DanPennycook to use his influence with Donna to have the investigationquashed, else would Miss Pickett make a public confession and disgracethe name of Pennycook.
Hence, when Mr. Pennycook appeared at the Hat Ranch and asked Donna torequest her husband to forget about that anonymous letter, Donna guessedthe honest fellow's distress and accordingly the matter was forgottenby everybody--except Dan Pennycook. He has not forgotten. He remembersevery time he looks at Mr. Hennage's watch. He has never said anythingto Mrs. Pennycook--which makes it all the harder for her--but contentshimself with a queer look at the lady when she becomes "obstreperouslike"--and that suffices. After all, she is the mother of his children,and God has blessed him with more heart than head.
Miss Pickett is no longer the postmistress; also she is no longer MissPickett, although in this respect she is not unlike a politician who hasall the emoluments of office without the honors, or vice versa if youwill. In her forty-third year she married the only man who ever askedher--and he was a youth of twenty-five who suspected Miss Pickett of asavings account. She resigned from the post-office to marry him, and SanPasqual took a night off to give her a charivari. Two weeks after theceremony Miss Pickett's husband, despairing of the savings, jumpeda south-bound freight and was seen no more. Her triumph over theacquisition of the "Mrs." was so shortlived, and the San Pasqualiansfound it so difficult to rid themselves of the habit of calling her MissPickett, that Miss Pickett she remains to this very day.
The Hat Ranch still stands in the desert below San Pasqual. Bob McGrawhas secured title to it, and safe within the old adobe walls Sam Singerand Soft Wind are rounding out their placid lives. Sam Singer is nowone of the solid citizens of San Pasqua
l. He has succeeded to the hatbusiness, and moreover he has money on deposit with Bob McGraw. Itappears that Sam Singer, in accordance with Mr. Hennage's dying request,fell heir to the gambler's new gaiters. The first time he tried themon Sam detected a slight obstruction in the toe of the right gaiter.He removed this obstruction and discovered that it was a piece of papermoney. Like all Indians, Sam was suspicious of paper money, so he tookit to Bob McGraw, who gave him a thousand dollars for it. Sam Singer waswell pleased thereat. He considered he had driven an excellent bargain.
In the lonely sage-covered wind-swept cemetery at San Pasqual thererises a black granite monument, severely, plain, eminently befitting onewho was not of the presuming kind. There is an epitaph on that monumentwhich is worth recording here:
WHO SEEKS FOR HEAVEN ALONE TO SAVE HIS SOUL, MAY KEEP THE PATH BUT WILL NOT REACH THE GOAL; WHILE HE WHO WALKS IN LOVE MAY WANDER FAR YET GOD WILL BRING HIM WHERE THE BLESSED ARE. BENEATH THIS STONE HARLEY P. HENNAGE RESTS FROM HIS WANDERINGS.
One day T. Morgan Carey dropped off the north-bound train at SanPasqual, and learning that he had two hours to waste while waiting forthe stage to start up country, he was seized with a morbid desire towander through San Pasqual's queer cemetery. The only monument inthe cemetery attracted his attention, and presently he found himselfstanding at the foot of Mr. Hennage's grave, reading the epitaph.It impressed him so greatly that he copied the verse in a littlemorocco-covered memorandum book.
"I wonder who was the genius that evolved that verse?" he mutteredaloud, and to his great surprise a voice at his side answered him. Itwas a woman's voice.
"I do not know the author" she said, "but if you will read Henry VanDyke's book 'The Other Wise Man,' you will find that little verse on thefly-leaf. Perhaps Van Dyke wrote it. I do not know."
T. Morgan Carey turned and lifted his hat. "Thank you, madam" he said."I was particularly interested. I had a slight acquaintance withMr. Hennage, and it seemed to me that the lines were peculiarlyappropriate."
"My husband and I thought so. And if you will pardon me for suggestingit, Mr. Carey, it would be--better if you would please leave thecemetery. An old enemy of yours, a Cahuilla Indian, comes here threetimes a week by my orders, to bring water for the blue grass on thisgrave. He is coming now."
"Thank you. And you are--"
"I am Donna Corblay."
Carey bowed and continued.
"Your husband told me once that he had some great plans afoot, anddid me the honor to ask me to help him--" he paused, watching herwistfully--"and I want to know if you object to me as an associate ofyour husband in his work."
Donna looked at him gravely. "I have neither bitterness nor revengefulfeeling against you, Mr. Carey" she replied.
"I have suffered" he said, "but I haven't paid all of the price. Tellyour husband that I want to help him. I have thought it over and I wascoming to tell him myself. Tell him, please, that I would appreciate theprivilege of being a minority stockholder in his enterprise and I willhonor his sight drafts while I have a dollar left."
He lifted his hat and walked away, and Donna, gazing after him, realizedthat the past was dead and only the future remained. Carey's crime hadbeen a sordid one, but with her broader vision Donna saw that the livesof the few must ever be counted as paltry sacrifices in the advancementof the race. Her father, her mother, Harley P. Hennage, Borax O'Bourkeand the long, sad, barren years of her own girlhood had all beensacrifices to this man's insatiable greed and lust for power, and nowthat the finish was reached she realized the truth of Bob McGraw'sphilosophy--that out of all great evils great good must come.
Truly selfishness, greed, revenge and inhumanity are but the burdens ofa day; all that is small and weak and unworthy may not survive, whilethat which is great and good in a man must some day break its hobblesand sweep him on to the fulfillment of his destiny. She saw her husbandand his one-time enemy toiling side by side in the great, hot,hungry heart of Inyo, preparing homes for the helpless and theoppressed--working out the destinies of their people; and she cried outwith the happiness that was hers.
Ah, yes, they had all suffered, but now out of the dregs of theirsuffering the glad years would come bearing their precious burdenof love and service. How puerile did the sacrifices of the past seemnow--how terribly out of proportion to the great task that lay beforethem, with the sublime result already in sight! Surely there was onlyone quality in humankind that really mattered, softening suffering anddespair and turning away wrath, and as Donna knelt by the grave ofthe man who had possessed that quality to such an extent that he hadconsidered his life cheap as a means of expressing it, she prayed thather infant son might be endowed with the virtues and brains of hisfather and the wanderer who slept beneath the stone:
"Dear God, help me to raise a Man and teach him to be kind."
THE END
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