CHAPTER XIII: THE SHOT OF DEATH
Westcott's purpose in visiting the La Rosita mine was a rather vagueone. His thought had naturally associated Bill Lacy with whatever formof deviltry had brought Beaton to the neighbourhood of Haskell, and hefelt convinced firmly that this special brand of deviltry had somedirect connection with the disappearance of Frederick Cavendish. Justwhat the connection between these people might prove to be was still amatter of doubt, but as Miss Donovan was seeking this information atthe hotel, all that remained for him to do at present was aninvestigation of Lacy.
Yet it was not in the nature of the big miner to go at anythingrecklessly. He possessed a logical mind and needed to think outclearly a course of action before putting it into execution. Thisrevelation had come to him suddenly, and the conclusion which he hadarrived at, and expressed to the girl, was more of an inspiration thanthe result of calm mental judgment. After she had disappeared on herwalk back to Haskell, Westcott lit his pipe and resumed his seat on thebig rock again, to think it all out in detail, and decide on a courseof action. He was surprised how swiftly and surely the facts of thecase as already understood marshalled themselves into line in supportof the theory he had advanced. The careful review of all Miss Donovanhad told him only served to increase his confidence that his oldpartner still lived. No other conception seemed possible, or wouldaccount for the presence of Ned Beaton in Haskell, or the hurried callfor Miss La Rue. Yet it was equally evident this was not caused by anymiscarriage of their original plans. It was not fear that had led tothis meeting--no escape of their prisoner, no suspicion that theirconspiracy had been discovered, no alarm of exposure--but merely thecareful completion of plans long before perfected. Apparently everydetail of the crime, which meant the winning of Frederick Cavendish'sfortune, had been thus far successfully carried out. The money wasalready practically in their possession, and not the slightestsuspicion had been aroused. It had been a masterpiece of criminalingenuity, so boldly carried out as to avoid danger of discovery.
Westcott believed he saw the purpose which had actuated the rulingspirit--a desire to attain these millions without bloodshed; withoutrisking any charge of murder. This whole affair had been no vulgar,clumsy crime; it was more nearly a business proposition, cold-blooded,deliberately planned, cautiously executed. Every step had been takenexactly in accord with the original outlines, except possibly that theyhad been hurried by Cavendish's sudden determination to return West,and his will disinheriting John. These had compelled earlier action,yet no radical change in plans, as the machinery was already preparedand in position. Luck had been with the conspirators when Frederickcalled in Enright to draw up the will. What followed was merely thepressure of his finger on the button.
Enright! Beyond doubt his were the brains dominating the affair. Itwas impossible to believe that either Celeste La Rue or NedBeaton--chorus girl or gunman--could have ever figured out such ascheme. They were nothing but pawns, moved by the hand of the chiefplayer. Aye! and John Cavendish was another!
The whole foul thing lay before Westcott's imagination in itsdiabolical ingenuity--Enright's legal mind had left no loophole. Heintended to play the game absolutely safe, so far, at least, as he waspersonally concerned.
The money was to go legally to John without the shadow of a suspicionresting upon it; and then--well, he knew how to do the rest; already hehad a firm grip on a large portion. Yes, all this was reasonablyclear; what remained obscure was the fate of Frederick Cavendish.
Had they originally intended to take his life, and been compelled tochange the plan? Had his sudden, unexpected departure from New York,on the very eve possibly of their contemplated action, driven them tothe substitution of another body? It hardly seemed probable--for a manbearing so close a resemblance could not have been discovered in soshort a time. The knowledge of the existence of such a person,however, might have been part of the original conspiracy--perhaps wasthe very basis of it; may have first put the conception into Enright'sready brain. Aye, that was doubtless the way of it. Frederick was tobe spirited out of the city, accompanied, taken care of by Beaton orsome other murderous crook, and this fellow, a corpse, substituted. Ifhe resembled Frederick at all closely, there was scarcely a chance thathis identity would be questioned. Why should it be--found in hisapartments? There was nothing to arouse suspicion; while, if anythingdid occur, the conspirators were in no danger of discovery. Theyrisked a possible failure of their plan, but that was all. But if thiswas true what had since become of Frederick?
Westcott came back from his musings to this one important question.The answer puzzled him. If the man was dead why should Beaton remainat Haskell and insist on Miss La Rue's joining him? And if the man wasalive and concealed somewhere in the neighbourhood, what was theirpresent object? Had they decided they were risking too much inpermitting him to live? Had something occurred to make them feel itsafer to have him out of the way permanently? What connection did BillLacy have with the gang?
Westcott rose to his feet and began following the trail up the canon.He was not serving Cavendish nor Miss Donovan by sitting there. Hewould, at least, discover where Lacy was and learn what the fellow wasengaged at. He walked rapidly, but the sun was nearly down by the timehe reached the mouth of his own drift.
While waiting word from the East which would enable him to develop theclaim, Westcott had thought it best to discontinue work, and hide, asbest he could, from others the fact that he had again discovered thelost lead of rich ore. To that end, after taking out enough for hisimmediate requirements in the form of nuggets gathered from a singlepocket, which he had later negotiated quietly at a town down therailroad, he had blocked up the new tunnel and discontinued operations.He had fondly believed his secret secure, until Lacy's careless wordshad aroused suspicion that the latter might have seen his telegrams toCavendish. His only assistant, a Mexican, who had been with him forsome time, remained on guard at the bunk-house, and, so far as he knew,no serious effort had been made to explore the drift by any of Lacy'ssatellites. Now, as he came up the darkening gulch, and crunched hisway across the rock-pile before the tunnel entrance, he saw thecheerful blaze of a fire in the Mexican's quarters and stopped toquestion him.
"_Senor_--you!"
"Yes, Jose," and Westcott dropped on to a bench. "Anything wrong? Youseem nervous."
"No, _senor_. I expected you not to-night; there was a man there bythe big tree at sunset."
"You saw him?"
"Yes, but not his face, _senor_. He think me gone at first, but when Iwalk out on the edge of the cliff then he go--quick, like that. Whenthe door creak I say maybe he come back."
"One of the La Rosita gang likely. Don't fight them, Jose. Let thempoke around inside if they want to; they won't find anything but rock.There is no better way to fool that bunch than let them investigate totheir heart's content. Got a bite there for me?"
"_Si, senor_, aplenty."
"All right then; I'm hungry and have a bit of work ahead. Put it onthe table here, and sit down yourself, Jose."
The Mexican did as ordered, glancing across at the other between eachmouthful of food, as though not exactly at ease. Westcott ateheartily, without pausing to talk.
"You hear yet Senor Cavendish?" Jose asked at last.
"No." Westcott hesitated an instant, but decided not to explainfurther. "He must be away, I think."
"What you do if you no hear at all?"
"We'll go on with the digging ourselves, Jose. It'll pay wages until Ican interest capital somewhere to come in on shares."
"You no sell Lacy then?"
"Sell Lacy! Not in a thousand years. What put that in your head?"
The Mexican rubbed the back of his pate.
"You know Senor Moore--no hair so?" an expressive gesture.
"Sure; what about him?"
"He meet me at the spring; he come up the trail from Haskell onhorseback with another man not belong 'round here."
"Wha
t did he look like--big, red-faced fellow, with checked suit andround hat?"
"_Si, senor_; he say to Moore, 'Why the hell you talk that damngreaser,' an' Moore laugh, an' say because I work for Senor Westcott."
"But what was it Moore said to you, Jose?"
"He cussed me first, an' when I wouldn't move, he swore that Lacy wouldown this whole hill before thirty days."
"Was that all? Didn't the other fellow say anything?"
"No, _senor_; but he swung his horse against me as they went by--hemighty poor rider."
"No doubt; that is not one of the amusements of the Bowery. Where didthey go? Up to La Rosita?"
"_Si, senor_; I watched, they were there two hour."
Westcott stared into the fireplace; then the gravity of his facerelaxed into a smile.
"Things are growing interesting, Jose," he said cheerfully. "If I onlyknew just which way the cat was about to jump I'd be somewhat happier.There seemed to be more light than usual across the gulch as I cameup--what's going on?"
"They have put on more men, _senor_--a night shift. Last night I wentin our drift clear to the end, and put my ear to the rock. It was faraway, but I hear."
"No, no, Jose; that's impossible. Why, their tunnel as over a hundredyards away; not even the sound of dynamite would penetrate thatdistance through solid rock. You heard your heart beat."
"No, _senor_," and Jose was upon his feet gesticulating. "It was thepick--strike, strike, strike; then stop an' begin, strike, strike,strike again. I hear, I know."
"Then they must be running a lateral, hoping to cut across our veinsomewhere within their lines."
"And will that give them the right, _senor_?"
Westcott sat, his head resting on one hand, staring thoughtfully intothe dying fire; the yellow flame of the oil lamp between them on thetable flickered in the draft from the open window. Here was athreatening combination of forces.
"I am not sure, Jose," he answered slowly. "The mining law is full ofquirks, although, of course, the first discoverer of a lead is entitledto follow it--it's his. The trouble here is, that instead of givingnotice of discovery, I have kept it a secret, and even blocked up thetunnel. If the La Rosita gang push their drift in, and strike thatsame vein, they will claim original discovery, and I reckon they'd makeit stick. I didn't suppose Lacy had the slightest idea we had struckcolour. Nobody knew it, but you and I, Jose."
"Never I say a word, _senor_."
"I am sure of that, for I know exactly where the news came from. Lacyspilled the beans in a bit of misunderstanding we had last night downin Haskell. My letters and telegrams East to Cavendish went wrong, andthe news has come back here to those fellows. They know just whatwe've struck, and how our tunnel runs; I was fool enough to describe itall to Cavendish and send him a map of the vein. Now they are drivingtheir tunnel to get in ahead of us."
He got to his feet, bringing his fist down with such a crash on thetable as to set the lamp dancing.
"But, by God, it's not too late! We've got them yet. The very factthat Lacy is working a night shift is evidence he hasn't uncovered thevein. We'll tear open that tunnel the first thing in the morning,Jose, and I'll make proof of discovery before noon. Then we'll put abunch of good men in here, and fight it out, if those lads get ugly.Come on, let's take a look in there to-night."
He picked up the lamp, and turned. At the same instant a sudden redglare flamed in the black of the open window, accompanied by a sharpreport. The bullet whizzed past Westcott's head so closely as to searthe flesh, crashed into the lamp in his hand, extinguishing it, thenstruck something beyond. There was no cry, no sound except a slightmovement in the dark. Westcott dropped to the floor, below the radiusof dim light thrown by the few embers left in the fireplace, andrevolver in hand, sought to distinguish the outlines of the windowframe. Failing in this, he crept noiselessly across the floor,unlatched the closed door, and emerged into the open air.
It was a dark night, with scarcely a star visible, the only gleam ofradiance coming from a light across the gulch, which he knew burned inthe shaft-house of the La Rosita.
Everything about was still, with the intense silence of mountainsolitude. Not a breath of air stirred the motionless cedars.Cautiously he circled the black cabin, every nerve taut for struggle,every sense alert. He found nothing to reward his search--whoever thecoward had been, he had disappeared among the rocks, vanishingcompletely in the black night. The fellow had not even waited to learnthe effect of his shot. He had fired pointblank into the lighted room,sighting at Westcott's head, and then ran, assured no doubt thespeeding bullet had gone straight to the mark. It was not until hecame back to the open door that the miner thought of his companion.What had become of Jose? Could it be that the Mexican was hit? Heentered, shrinking from the task, yet resolute to learn the truth; felthis way along the wall as far as the fireplace, and stirred the embersinto flame. They leaped up, casting a flickering glow over theinterior. A black, shapeless figure, scarcely discernible as a man,lay huddled beneath the table. Westcott bent over it, feeling for theheart and turning the face upward. There was no visible mark of thebullet wound, but the body was limp, the face ghastly in the grotesquedance of the flames. The assassin had not wasted his shot--JoseSalvari would never see Mexico again.