Chapter IV
Royal Beaudry Hears a Call
A bow-legged little man with the spurs still jingling on his heelssauntered down one side of the old plaza. He passed a train offagot-laden burros in charge of two Mexican boys from Tesuque, thesides and back of each diminished mule so packed with firewood that itwas a comical caricature of a beruffed Elizabethan dame. Into theplaza narrow, twisted streets of adobe rambled carelessly. One ofthese led to the San Miguel Mission, said to be the oldest church inthe United States.
An entire side of the square was occupied by a long, one-story adobestructure. This was the Governor's Palace. For three hundred years ithad been the seat of turbulent and tragic history. Its solid walls hadwithstood many a siege and had stifled the cries of dozens of torturedprisoners. The mail-clad Spanish explorers Penelosa and De Salivar hadfrom here set out across the desert on their search for gold and glory.In one of its rooms the last Mexican governor had dictated his defianceto General Kearny just before the Stars and Stripes fluttered from itsflagpole. The Spaniard, the Indian, the Mexican, and the American inturn had written here in action the romance of the Southwest.
The little man was of the outdoors. His soft gray creased hat, thesun-tan on his face and neck, the direct steadiness of the blue eyeswith the fine lines at the corners, were evidence enough even if he hadnot carried in the wrinkles of his corduroy suit about seven pounds ofwhite powdered New Mexico.
He strolled down the sidewalk in front of the Palace, the while hechewed tobacco absent-mindedly. There was something very much on hismind, so that it was by chance alone that his eye lit on a new tin signtacked to the wall. He squinted at it incredulously. His minddigested the information it contained while his jaws worked steadily.
The sign read:--
DESPACHO
DE
ROYAL BEAUDRY, LICENDIADO.
For those who preferred another language, a second announcementappeared below the first:--
ROYAL BEAUDRY.
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
"Sure, and it must be the boy himself," said the little man aloud.
He opened the door and walked in.
A young man sat reading with his heels crossed on the top of a desk. Alarge calf-bound volume was open before him, but the book in the handsof the youth looked less formidable. It bore the title, "Adventures ofSherlock Holmes." The budding lawyer flashed a startled glance at hiscaller and slid Dr. Watson's hero into an open drawer.
The visitor grinned and remarked with a just perceptible Irish accent:"'Tis a good book. I've read it myself."
The embryo Blackstone blushed. "Say, are you a client?" he asked.
"No-o."
"Gee! I was afraid you were my first. I like your looks. I'd hatefor you to have the bad luck to get me for your lawyer." He laughed,boyishly. There was a very engaging quality about his candor.
The Irishman shot an abrupt question at him. "Are you John Beaudry'sson--him that was fighting sheriff of Washington County twenty yearsago?"
A hint of apprehension flickered into the eyes of the young man."Yes," he said.
"Your father was a gr-reat man, the gamest officer that ever the BigCreek country saw. Me name is Patrick Ryan."
"Glad to meet any friend of my father, Mr. Ryan." Roy Beaudry offeredhis hand. His fine eyes glowed.
"Wait," warned the little cowpuncher grimly. "I'm no liar, whativerelse I've been. Mebbe you'll be glad you've met me--an' mebbe youwon't. First off, I was no friend of your father. I trailed with theRutherford outfit them days. It's all long past and I'll tell yousestraight that he just missed me in the round-up that sent two of ourbunch to the pen."
In the heart of young Beaudry a dull premonition of evil stirred. Hishand fell limply. Why had this man come out of the dead past to seekhim? His panic-stricken eyes clung as though fascinated to those ofRyan.
"Do you mean . . . that you were a rustler?"
Ryan looked full at him. "You've said it. I was a wild young coltthim days, full of the divil and all. But remimber this. I held nogrudge at Jack Beaudry. That's what he was elected for--to put me andmy sort out of business. Why should I hate him because he was manenough to do it?"
"That's not what some of your friends thought."
"You're right, worse luck. I was out on the range when it happened.I'll say this for Hal Rutherford. He was full of bad whiskey when yourfather was murdered. . . . But that ended it for me. I broke with theHuerfano gang outfit and I've run straight iver since."
"Why have you come to me? What do you want?" asked the young lawyer,his throat dry.
"I need your help."
"What for? Why should I give it? I don't know you."
"It's not for mysilf that I want it. There's a friend of your fatherin trouble. When I saw the sign with your name on it I came in to tellyou."
"What sort of trouble?"
"That's a long story. Did you iver hear of Dave Dingwell?"
"Yes. I've never met him, but he put me through law school."
"How come that?"
"I was living in Denver with my aunt. A letter came from Mr. Dingwelloffering to pay the expenses of my education. He said he owed thatmuch to my father."
"Well, then, Dave Dingwell has disappeared off the earth."
"What do you mean--disappeared?" asked Roy.
"He walked out of the Legal Tender Saloon one night and no friend ofhis has seen him since. That was last Tuesday."
"Is that all? He may have gone hunting--or to Denver--or Los Angeles."
"No, he didn't do any one of the three. He was either murdered or elsehid out in the hills by them that had a reason for it."
"Do you suspect some one?"
"I do," answered Ryan promptly. "If he was killed, two tinhorngamblers did it. If he's under guard in the hills, the Rutherford ganghave got him."
"The Rutherfords, the same ones that--?"
"The ver-ry same--Hal and Buck and a brood of young hellions they haveraised."
"But why should they kidnap Mr. Dingwell? If they had anything againsthim, why wouldn't they kill him?"
"If the Rutherfords have got him it is because he knows something theywant to know. Listen, and I'll tell you what I think."
The Irishman drew up a chair and told Beaudry the story of that nightin the Legal Tender as far as he could piece it together. He hadtalked with one of the poker-players, the man that owned the curiostore, and from him had gathered all he could remember of the talkbetween Dingwell and Rutherford.
"Get these points, lad," Ryan went on. "Dave comes to town from a longday's ride. He tells Rutherford that he has been prospecting and hasfound gold in Lonesome Park. Nothing to that. Dave is a cattleman,not a prospector. Rutherford knows that as well as I do. But he fallsright in with Dingwell's story. He offers to go partners with Dave onhis gold mine--keeps talking about it--insists on going in with him."
"I don't see anything in that," said Roy.
"You will presently. Keep it in mind that there wasn't any gold mineand couldn't have been. That talk was a blind to cover something else.Good enough. Now chew on this awhile. Dave sent a Mexican to bringthe sheriff, but Sweeney didn't come. He explained that he wanted togo partners with Sweeney about this gold-mine proposition. If he wastalking about a real gold mine, that is teetotally unreasonable.Nobody would pick Sweeney for a partner. He's a fathead and Daveworked against him before election. But Sweeney _is sheriff ofWashington County_. Get that?"
"I suppose you mean that Dingwell had something on the Rutherfords andwas going to turn them over to the law."
"You're getting warm, boy. Does the hold-up of the Pacific Flyer helpyou any?"
Roy drew a long breath of surprise. "You mean the Western Expressrobbery two weeks ago?"
"Sure I mean that. Say the Rutherford outfit did that job."
"And that Dingwell got evidence of it. But then they would kill him."The heart of the youn
g man sank. He had a warm place in it for thisunknown friend who had paid his law-school expenses.
"You're forgetting about the gold mine Dave claimed to have found inLonesome Park. Suppose he was hunting strays and saw them cache theirloot somewhere. Suppose he dug it up. Say they knew he had it, butdidn't know where he had taken it. They couldn't kill him. They wouldhave to hold him prisoner till they could make him tell where it was."
The young lawyer shook his head. "Too many _ifs_. Each one makes aweak joint in your argument. Put them all together and it is full ofholes. Possible, but extremely improbable."
An eager excitement flashed in the blue eyes of the Irishman.
"You're looking at the thing wrong end to. Get a grip on your factsfirst. The Western Express Company was robbed of twenty thousanddollars and the robbers were run into the hills. The Rutherford outfitis the very gang to pull off that hold-up. Dave tells Hal Rutherford,the leader of the tribe, that he has sent for the sheriff. Hal triesto get him to call it off. Dave talks about a gold mine he has foundand Rutherford tries to fix up a deal with him. There's no _if_ aboutany of that, me young Sherlock Holmes."
"No, you've built up a case. But there's a stronger case already builtfor us, isn't there? Dingwell exposed the gamblers Blair and Smith,knocked one of them cold, made them dig up a lot of money, and drovethem out of town. They left, swearing vengeance. He rides away, andhe is never seen again. The natural assumption is that they lay inwait for him and killed him."
"Then where is the body?"
"Lying out in the cactus somewhere--or buried in the sand."
"That wouldn't be a bad guess--if it wasn't for another bit oftestimony that came in to show that Dave was alive five hours after heleft the Legal Tender. A sheepherder on the Creosote Flats heard thesound of horses' hoofs early next morning. He looked out of his tentand saw three horses. Two of the riders carried rifles. The thirdrode between them. He didn't carry any gun. They were a couple ofhundred yards away and the herder didn't recognize any of the men. Butit looked to him like the man without the gun was a prisoner."
"Well, what does that prove?"
"If the man in the middle was Dave--and that's the hunch I'm betting onto the limit--it lets out the tinhorns. Their play would be to killand make a quick getaway. There wouldn't be any object in their takinga prisoner away off to the Flats. If this man was Dave, Blair andSmith are eliminated from the list of suspects. That leaves theRutherfords."
"But you don't know that this was Dingwell."
"That's where you come in, me brave Sherlock. Dave's friends can'tmove to help him. You see, they're all known men. It might be the endof Dave if they lifted a finger. But you're not known to theRutherfords. You slip in over Wagon Wheel Gap to Huerfano Park, pickup what you can, and come out to Battle Butte with your news."
"You mean--spy on them?"
"Of coorse."
"But what if they suspected me?"
"Then your heirs at law would collect the insurance," Ryan told himcomposedly.
Excuses poured out of young Beaudry one on top of another. "No, Ican't go. I won't mix up in it. It's not my affair. Besides, I can'tget away from my business."
"I see your business keeps you jumping," dryly commented the Irishman."And you know best whether it's your affair."
Beaudry could have stood it better if the man had railed at him, if hehad put up an argument to show why he must come to the aid of thefriend who had helped him. This cool, contemptuous dismissal of himstung. He began to pace the room in rising excitement.
"I hate that country up there. I've got no use for it. It killed mymother just as surely as it did my father. I left there when I was achild, but I'll never forget that dreadful day seventeen years ago.Sometimes I wake in bed out of some devil's nightmare and live it over.Why should I go back to that bloody battleground? Hasn't it cost meenough already? It's easy for you to come and tell me to go toHuerfano Park--"
"Hold your horses, Mr. Beaudry. I'm not tellin' you to go. I've laidthe facts before ye. Go or stay as you please."
"That's all very well," snapped back the young man. "But I know whatyou'll think of me if I don't go."
"What you'll think of yourself matters more. I haven't got to livewith ye for forty years."
Roy Beaudry writhed. He was sensitive and high-strung.Temperamentally he coveted the good opinion of those about him.Moreover, he wanted to deserve it. No man had ever spoken to him injust the tone of this little Irish cowpuncher, who had come out ofnowhere into his life and brought to him his first big problem fordecision. Even though the man had confessed himself a rustler, theyoung lawyer could not escape his judgment. Pat Ryan might have riddenon many lawless trails in his youth, but the dynamic spark ofself-respect still burned in his soul. He was a man, every inch of hisfive-foot three.
"I want to live at peace," the boy went on hotly. "Huerfano Park isstill in the dark ages. I'm no gunman. I stand for law and order.This is the day of civilization. Why should I embroil myself with alot of murderous outlaws when what I want is to sit here and makefriends--?"
The Irishman hammered his fist on the table and exploded. "Then sithere, damn ye! But why the hell should any one want to make friendswith a white-livered pup like you? I thought you was Jack Beaudry'sson, but I'll niver believe it. Jack didn't sit on a padded chair andtalk about law and order. By God, no! He went out with a six-gun andmade them. No gamer, whiter man ever strapped a forty-four to his hip._He_ niver talked about what it would cost him to go through for hisfriends. He just went the limit without any guff."
Ryan jingled out of the room in hot scorn and left one young peaceadvocate in a turmoil of emotion.
Young Beaudry did not need to discuss with himself the ethics of thesituation. A clear call had come to him on behalf of the man who hadbeen his best friend, even though he had never met him. He must answerthat call, or he must turn his back on it. Sophistry would not help atall. There were no excuses his own mind would accept.
But Royal Beaudry had been timid from his childhood. He had inheritedfear. The shadow of it had always stretched toward him. His cheeksburned with shame to recall that it had not been a week since he hadlooked under the bed at night before getting in to make sure nobody washidden there. What was the use of blinking the truth? He was a borncoward. It was the skeleton in the closet of his soul. His schooldayshad been haunted by the ghost of dread. Never in his life had heplayed truant, though he had admired beyond measure the reckless littledare-devils who took their fun and paid for it. He had contrived toavoid fights with his mates and thrashings from the teachers. On theone occasion when public opinion had driven him to put up his fists, hehad been saved from disgrace only because the bully against whom he hadturned proved to be an arrant craven.
He remembered how he had been induced to go out and try for thefootball team at the university. His fellows knew him as a fairgymnast and a crack tennis player. He was muscular, well-built, andfast on his feet, almost perfectly put together for a halfback. On thesecond day of practice he had shirked a hard tackle, though it happenedthat nobody suspected the truth but himself. Next morning he turned inhis suit with the plea that he had promised his aunt not to play.
Now trepidation was at his throat again, and there was no escape from achoice that would put a label on him. It had been his right to playfootball or not as he pleased. But this was different. A summons hadcome to his loyalty, to the fundamental manhood of him. If he leftDavid Dingwell to his fate, he could never look at himself again in theglass without knowing that he was facing a dastard.
The trouble was that he had too much imagination. As a child he hadconjured dragons out of the darkness that had no existence except inhis hectic fancy. So it was now. He had only to give his mind play tosee himself helpless in the hands of the Rutherfords.
But he was essentially stanch and generous. Fate had played him ascurvy trick in making him a trembler, but he kn
ew it was not in him toturn his back on Dingwell. No matter how much he might rebel andsquirm he would have to come to time in the end.
After a wretched afternoon he hunted up Ryan at his hotel.
"When do you want me to start?" he asked sharply.
The little cowpuncher was sitting in the lobby reading a newspaper. Hetook one look at the harassed youth and jumped up.
"Say, you're all right. Put her there."
Royal's cold hand met the rough one of Ryan. The shrewd eyes of theIrishman judged the other.
"I knew youse couldn't be a quitter and John Beaudry's son," hecontinued. "Why, come to that, the sooner you start the quicker."
"I'll have to change my name."
"Sure you will. And you'd better peddle something--insurance, orlightning rods, or 'The Royal Gall'ry of Po'try 'n Art' or--"
"'Life of the James and Younger Brothers.' That ought to sell wellwith the Rutherfords," suggested Roy satirically, trying to rise to theoccasion.
"Jess Tighe and Dan Meldrum don't need any pointers from the JamesBoys."
"Tighe and Meldrum-- Who are they?"
"Meldrum is a coyote your father trapped and sent to the pen. He's abad actor for fair. And Tighe--well, if you put a hole in his headyou'd blow out the brains of the Rutherford gang. For hiven's sakedon't let Jess know who you are. All of sivinteen years he's been acripple on crutches, and 't was your father that laid him up the day ofhis death. He's a rivingeful divil is Jess."
Beaudry made no comment. It seemed to him that his heart was ofchilled lead.