7. _The Liberation of Wyoming Ed_
A man should present the whole truth to his doctor, his lawyer, or hisdetective. If a doctor is to cure, he must be given the fullconfidence of the patient; if a lawyer is to win a case he needs toknow what tells against his client as well as the points in hisfavour; if a secret agent is to solve a mystery all the cards shouldbe put on the table. Those who half trust a professional man need notbe disappointed when results prove unsatisfactory.
A partial confidence reposed in me led to the liberation of adangerous criminal, caused me to associate with a robber much againstmy own inclination, and brought me within danger of the law. Ofcourse, I never pretend to possess that absolute confidence in the lawwhich seems to be the birthright of every Englishman. I have lived toointimately among the machinery of the law, and have seen too many ofits ghastly mistakes, to hold it in that blind esteem which appears tobe prevalent in the British Isles.
There is a doggerel couplet which typifies this spirit better thananything I can write, and it runs:--
No rogue e'er felt the halter draw, With a good opinion of the law.
Those lines exemplify the trend of British thought in this direction.If you question a verdict of their courts you are a rogue, and thatends the matter. And yet when an Englishman undertakes to circumventthe law, there is no other man on earth who will go to greaterlengths. An amazing people! Never understandable by the sane of othercountries.
It was entirely my own fault that I became involved in affairs whichwere almost indefensible and wholly illegal.
My client first tried to bribe me into compliance with his wishes,which bribe I sternly refused. Then he partially broke down and, quiteunconsciously as I take it, made an appeal to the heart--a strangething for an Englishman to do. My kind heart has ever been my mostvulnerable point. We French are sentimentalists. France has before nowstaked its very existence for an ideal, while other countries fightfor continents, cash, or commerce. You cannot pierce me with a lanceof gold, but wave a wand of sympathy, and I am yours.
There waited upon me in my flat a man who gave his name as DouglasSanderson, which may or may not have been his legitimate title. Thiswas a question into which I never probed, and at the moment of writingam as ignorant of his true cognomen, if that was not it, as on themorning he first met me. He was an elderly man of natural dignity andsobriety, slow in speech, almost sombre in dress. His costume was notquite that of a professional man, and not quite that of a gentleman. Iat once recognised the order to which he belonged, and a mostdifficult class it is to deal with. He was the confidential servant orsteward of some ancient and probably noble family, embodying inhimself all the faults and virtues, each a trifle accentuated, of theline he served, and to which, in order to produce him and his like,his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had doubtless beenattached. It is frequently the case that the honour of the house heserves is more dear to him than it is to the representative of thathouse. Such a man is almost always the repository of family secrets; arepository whose inviolability gold cannot affect, threats sway, orcajolery influence.
I knew, when I looked at him, that practically I was looking at hismaster, for I have known many cases where even the personal appearanceof the two was almost identical, which may have given rise to theEnglish phrase, 'Like master, like man.' The servant was a little morehaughty, a little less kind, a little more exclusive, a little lessconfidential, a little more condescending, a little less human, alittle more Tory, and altogether a little less pleasant and easyperson to deal with.
'Sir,' he began, when I had waved him to a seat, 'I am a very richman, and can afford to pay well for the commission I request you toundertake. To ask you to name your own terms may seem unbusinesslike,so I may say at the outset I am not a business man. The service Ishall ask will involve the utmost secrecy, and for that I am willingto pay. It may expose you to risk of limb or liberty, and for that Iam willing to pay. It will probably necessitate the expenditure of alarge sum of money; that sum is at your disposal.'
Here he paused; he had spoken slowly and impressively, with a touch ofarrogance in his tone which aroused to his prejudice, thecombativeness latent in my nature. However, at this juncture I merelybowed my head, and replied in accents almost as supercilious as hisown:--
'The task must either be unworthy or unwelcome. In mentioning firstthe compensation, you are inverting the natural order of things. Youshould state at the outset what you expect me to do, then, if I acceptthe commission, it is time to discuss the details of expenditure.'
Either he had not looked for such a reply, or was loath to open hisbudget, for he remained a few moments with eyes bent upon the floor,and lips compressed in silence. At last he went on, without change ofinflection, without any diminution of that air of condescension, whichhad so exasperated me in the beginning, and which was preparing adownfall for himself that would rudely shake the cold dignity whichencompassed him like a cloak:--
'It is difficult for a father to confide in a complete stranger thevagaries of a beloved son, and before doing so you must pledge yourword that my communication will be regarded as strictly confidential.'
'_Cela va sans dire_.'
'I do not understand French,' said Mr. Sanderson severely, as if theuse of the phrase were an insult to him.
I replied nonchalantly,--
'It means, as a matter of course; that goes without saying. Whateveryou care to tell me about your son will be mentioned to no one. Prayproceed, without further circumlocution, for my time is valuable.'
'My son was always a little wild and impatient of control. Althougheverything he could wish was at his disposal here at home, he chose tovisit America, where he fell into bad company. I assure you there isno real harm in the boy, but he became implicated with others, and hassuffered severely for his recklessness. For five years he has been aninmate of a prison in the West. He was known and convicted under thename of Wyoming Ed.'
'What was his crime?'
'His alleged crime was the stopping, and robbing, of a railway train.'
'For how long was he sentenced?'
'He was sentenced for life.'
'What do you wish me to do?'
'Every appeal has been made to the governor of the State in anendeavour to obtain a pardon. These appeals have failed. I am informedthat if money enough is expended it may be possible to arrange myson's escape.'
'In other words, you wish me to bribe the officials of the jail?'
'I assure you the lad is innocent.'
For the first time a quiver of human emotion came into the old man'svoice.
'Then, if you can prove that, why not apply for a new trial?'
'Unfortunately, the circumstances of the case, of his arrest on thetrain itself, the number of witnesses against him, give me no hopethat a new trial would end in a different verdict, even if a new trialcould be obtained, which I am informed is not possible. Every legalmeans tending to his liberation has already been tried.'
'I see. And now you are determined to adopt illegal means? I refuse tohave anything to do with the malpractice you propose. You objected toa phrase in French, Mr. Sanderson, perhaps one in Latin will please youbetter. It is "_Veritas praevalebit_," which means, "Truth willprevail." I shall set your mind entirely at rest regarding your son.Your son at this moment occupies a humble, if honourable, position inthe great house from which you came, and he hopes in time worthily tofill his father's shoes, as you have filled the shoes of your father.You are not a rich man, but a servant. Your son never was in America,and never will go there. It is your master's son, the heir to greatEnglish estates, who became the Wyoming Ed of the Western prison. Evenfrom what you say, I do not in the least doubt he was justlyconvicted, and you may go back to your master and tell him so. Youcame here to conceal the shameful secret of a wealthy and noble house;you may return knowing that secret has been revealed, and that thecircumstances in which you so solemnly bound me to secrecy neverexisted. Sir, that is the penalty of lying.
'
The old man's contempt for me had been something to be felt, sopalpable was it. The armour of icy reserve had been so complete thatactually I had expected to see him rise with undiminished hauteur, andleave the room, disdaining further parley with one who had insultedhim. Doubtless that is the way in which his master would have acted,but even in the underling I was unprepared for the instantaneouscrumbling of this monument of pomp and pride. A few moments after Ibegan to speak in terms as severe as his own, his trembling handsgrasped the arms of the chair in which he sat, and his ever-wideningeyes, which came to regard me with something like superstitious dreadas I went on, showed me I had launched my random arrow straight at thebull's-eye of fact. His face grew mottled and green rather than pale.When at last I accused him of lying, he arose slowly, shaking like aman with a palsy, but, unable to support himself erect, sankhelplessly back into his chair again. His head fell forward to thetable before him, and he sobbed aloud.
'God help me!' he cried, 'it is not my own secret I am trying toguard.'
I sprang to the door, and turned the key in the lock so that by nochance might we be interrupted; then, going to the sideboard, I pouredhim out a liqueur glass full of the finest Cognac ever imported fromsouth of the Loire, and tapping him on the shoulder, said brusquely:--
'Here, drink this. The case is no worse than it was half an hour ago.I shall not betray the secret.'
He tossed off the brandy, and with some effort regained hisself-control.
'I have done my errand badly,' he wailed. 'I don't know what I havesaid that has led you to so accurate a statement of the realsituation, but I have been a blundering fool. God forgive me, when somuch depended on my making no mistake.'
'Don't let that trouble you,' I replied; 'nothing you said gave me theslightest clue.'
'You called me a liar,' he continued, 'and that is a hard word fromone man to another, but I would not lie for myself, and when I do itfor one I revere and respect, my only regret is that I have done itwithout avail.'
'My dear sir,' I assured him, 'the fault is not with yourself at all.You were simply attempting the impossible. Stripped and bare, yourproposal amounts to this. I am to betake myself to the United States,and there commit a crime, or a series of crimes, in bribing swornofficials to turn traitor to their duty and permit a convict toescape.'
'You put it very harshly, sir. You must admit that, especially in newcountries, there is lawlessness within the law as well as outside ofit. The real criminals in the robbery of the railway train escaped; myyoung master, poor fellow, was caught. His father, one of the proudestmen in England, has grown prematurely old under the burden of thisterrible dishonour. He is broken-hearted, and a dying man, yet hepresents an impassive front to the world, with all the ancient courageof his race. My young master is an only son, and failing hisappearance, should his father die, title and estate will pass tostrangers. Our helplessness in this situation adds to its horror. Wedare not make any public move. My old master is one with suchinfluence among the governing class of this country, of which he haslong been a member, that the average Englishman, if his name werementioned, would think his power limitless. Yet that power he dare notexert to save his own son from a felon's life and death. However muchhe or another may suffer, publicity must be avoided, and this is asecret which cannot safely be shared with more than those who know itnow.'
'How many know it?'
'In this country, three persons. In an American prison, one.'
'Have you kept up communication with the young man?'
'Oh, yes.'
'Direct?'
'No; through a third person. My young master has implored his fathernot to write to him direct.'
'This go-between, as we may call him, is the third person in thesecret? Who is he?'
'That I dare not tell you!'
'Mr. Sanderson, it would be much better for your master and his sonthat you should be more open with me. These half-confidences aremisleading. Has the son made any suggestion regarding his release?'
'Oh yes, but not the suggestion I have put before you. His latestletter was to the effect that within six months or so there is to bean election for governor. He proposes that a large sum of money shallbe used to influence this election so that a man pledged to pardon himmay sit in the governor's chair.'
'I see. And this sum of money is to be paid to the third person youreferred to?'
'Yes.'
'May I take it that this third person is the one to whom various sumshave been paid during the last five years in order to bribe thegovernor to pardon the young man?'
Sanderson hesitated a moment before answering; in fact, he appeared sotorn between inclination and duty; anxious to give me whateverinformation I deemed necessary, yet hemmed in by the instructionswith which his master had limited him, that at last I waved my handand said:--
'You need not reply, Mr. Sanderson. That third party is the crux of thesituation. I strongly suspect him of blackmail. If you would but namehim, and allow me to lure him to these rooms, I possess a littleprivate prison of my own into which I could thrust him, and I ventureto say that before he had passed a week in darkness, on bread andwater, we should have the truth about this business.'
Look you now the illogical nature of an Englishman! Poor oldSanderson, who had come to me with a proposal to break the law ofAmerica, seemed horror-stricken when I airily suggested the immuringof a man in a dungeon here in England. He gazed at me in amazement,then cast his eyes furtively about him, as if afraid a trap door woulddrop beneath him, and land him in my private _oubliette_.
'Do not be alarmed, Mr. Sanderson, you are perfectly safe. You arebeginning at the wrong end of this business, and it seems to me fiveyears of contributions to this third party without any result mighthave opened the eyes of even the most influential nobleman in England,not to mention those of his faithful servant.'
'Indeed, sir,' said Sanderson, 'I must confess to you that I have longhad a suspicion of this third person, but my master has clung to himas his only hope, and if this third person were interfered with, I maytell you that he has deposited in London at some place unknown to us,a full history of the case, and if it should happen that he disappearsfor more than a week at a time, this record will be brought to light.'
'My dear Mr. Sanderson, that device is as old as Noah and his ark. Ishould chance that. Let me lay this fellow by the heels, and I willguarantee that no publicity follows.'
Sanderson sadly shook his head.
'Everything might happen as you say, sir, but all that would put us nofurther forward. The only point is the liberation of my young master.It is possible that the person unmentioned, whom we may call NumberThree, has been cheating us throughout, but that is a matter of noconsequence.'
'Pardon me, but I think it is. Suppose your young master here, and atliberty. This Number Three would continue to maintain the power overhim which he seems to have held over his father for the last fiveyears.'
'I think we can prevent that, sir, if my plan is carried out.'
'The scheme for bribing the American officials is yours, then?'
'Yes, sir, and I may say I am taking a great deal upon myself incoming to you. I am, in fact, disobeying the implied commands of mymaster, but I have seen him pay money, and very large sums of money,to this Number Three for the last five years and nothing has come ofit. My master is an unsuspicious man, who has seen little of the realworld, and thinks everyone as honest as himself.'
'Well, that may be, Mr. Sanderson, but permit me to suggest that theone who proposes a scheme of bribery, and, to put it mildly, anevasion of the law, shows some knowledge of the lower levels of thisworld, and is not quite in a position to plume himself on his ownhonesty.'
'I am coming to that, Mr. Valmont. My master knows nothing whatever ofmy plan. He has given me the huge sum of money demanded by NumberThree, and he supposes that amount has been already paid over. As amatter of fact, it has not been paid over, and will not be until mysuggestion has been carried out,
and failed. In fact, I am about touse this money, all of it if necessary, if you will undertake thecommission. I have paid Number Three his usual monthly allowance, andwill continue to do so. I have told him my master has his proposalunder consideration; that there are still six months to come and goupon, and that my master is not one who decides in a hurry.'
'Number Three says there is an election in six months for governor.What is the name of the state?'
Sanderson informed me. I walked to my book-case, and took down acurrent American Year Book, consulted it, and returned to the table.
'There is no election in that State, Mr. Sanderson, for eighteenmonths. Number Three is simply a blackmailer, as I have suspected.'
'Quite so, sir,' replied Sanderson, taking a newspaper from hispocket. 'I read in this paper an account of a man immured in a Spanishdungeon. His friends arranged it with the officials in this way: Theprisoner was certified to have died, and his body was turned over tohis relatives. Now, if that could be done in America, it would servetwo purposes. It would be the easiest way to get my young master outof the jail. It would remain a matter of record that he had died,therefore there could be no search for him, as would be the case if hesimply escaped. If you were so good as to undertake this task youmight perhaps see my young master in his cell, and ask him to write tothis Number Three with whom he is in constant communication, tellinghim he was very ill. Then you could arrange with the prison doctorthat this person was informed of my young master's death.'
'Very well, we can try that, but a blackmailer is not so easily thrownoff the scent. Once he has tasted blood he is a human man-eatingtiger. But still, there is always my private dungeon in thebackground, and if your plan for silencing him fails, I guarantee thatmy more drastic and equally illegal method will be a success.'
* * * * *
It will be seen that my scruples concerning the acceptance of thiscommission, and my first dislike for the old man had both faded awayduring the conversation which I have set down in the precedingchapter. I saw him under the stress of deep emotion, and latterlybegan to realise the tremendous chances he was taking in contraveningthe will of his imperious master. If the large sum of money was longwithheld from the blackmailer, Douglas Sanderson ran the risk ofNumber Three opening up communication direct with his master.Investigation would show that the old servant had come perilously nearlaying himself open to a charge of breach of trust, and even ofdefalcation with regard to the money, and all this danger he washeroically incurring for the unselfish purpose of serving theinterests of his employer. During our long interview old Sandersongradually became a hero in my eyes, and entirely in opposition to theresolution I had made at the beginning, I accepted his commission atthe end of it.
Nevertheless, my American experiences are those of which I am leastproud, and all I care to say upon the subject is that my expeditionproved completely successful. The late convict was my companion on the_Arontic_, the first steamship sailing for England after we reachedNew York from the west. Of course I knew that two or three yearsroughing it in mining camps and on ranches, followed by five years inprison, must have produced a radical effect not only on the character,but also in the personal appearance of a man who had undergone theseprivations. Nevertheless, making due allowance for all this, I couldnot but fear that the ancient English family, of which this young manwas the hope and pride, would be exceedingly disappointed with him. Inspite of the change which grooming and the wearing of a civilisedcostume made, Wyoming Ed still looked much more the criminal than thegentleman. I considered myself in honour bound not to make anyinquiries of the young man regarding his parentage. Of course, if Ihad wished to possess myself of the secret, I had but to touch abutton under the table when Sanderson left my rooms in the ImperialFlats, which would have caused him to be shadowed and run to earth. Imay also add that the ex-prisoner volunteered no particulars abouthimself or his family. Only once on board ship did he attempt toobtain some information from me as we walked up and down the decktogether.
'You are acting for someone else, I suppose?' he said.
'Yes.'
'For someone in England?'
'Yes.'
'He put up the money, did he?'
'Yes.'
There was a pause, during which we took two or three turns in silence.
'Of course, there's no secret about it,' he said at last. 'I expectedhelp from the other side, but Colonel Jim has been so mighty longabout it, I was afraid he'd forgotten me.'
'Who is Colonel Jim?'
'Colonel Jim Baxter. Wasn't it him gave you the money?'
'I never heard of the man before.'
'Then who put up the coin?'
'Douglas Sanderson,' I replied, looking at him sidewise as I mentionedthe name. It had apparently no effect upon him. He wrinkled his browfor a moment, then said:--
'Well, if you never heard of Baxter, I never heard of Sanderson.'
This led me to suspect that Douglas Sanderson did not give me his ownname, and doubtless the address with which he had furnished me wasmerely temporary. I did not cable to him from America regarding thesuccess of the expedition, because I could not be certain it was asuccess until I was safely on English ground, and not even then, totell the truth. Anyhow, I wished to leave no trail behind me, but themoment the _Arontic_ reached Liverpool, I telegraphed Sanderson tomeet us that evening at my flat.
He was waiting for me when Wyoming Ed and I entered together. The oldman was quite evidently in a state of nervous tension. He had beenwalking up and down the room with hands clenched behind his back, andnow stood at the end farthest from the door as he heard us approach,with his hands still clasped behind his back, and an expression ofdeep anxiety upon his rugged face. All the electric lamps were turnedon, and the room was bright as day.
'Have you not brought him with you?' he cried.
'Brought him with me?' I echoed. 'Here is Wyoming Ed!'
The old man glared at him for a moment or two stupefied, thenmoaned:--
'Oh, my God, my God, that is not the man!'
I turned to my short-haired fellow traveller.
'You told me you were Wyoming Ed!'
He laughed uneasily.
'Well, in a manner of speaking, so I have been for the last fiveyears, but I wasn't Wyoming Ed before that. Say, old man, are youacting for Colonel Jim Baxter?'
Sanderson, on whom a dozen years seemed to have fallen since weentered the room, appeared unable to speak, and merely shook his headin a hopeless sort of way.
'I say, boys,' ejaculated the ex-convict, with an uneasy laugh,half-comic, half-bewildered, 'this is a sort of mix-up, isn't it? Iwish Colonel Jim was here to explain. I say, Boss,' he cried suddenly,turning sharp on me, 'this here misfit's not my fault. I didn't changethe children in the cradle. You don't intend to send me back to thathell-hole, do you?'
'No,' I said, 'not if you tell the truth. Sit down.'
The late prisoner seated himself in a chair as close to the door aspossible, hitching a little nearer as he sat down. His face had takenon a sharp, crafty aspect like that of a trapped rat.
'You are perfectly safe,' I assured him. 'Sit over here by the table.Even if you bolted through that door, you couldn't get out of thisflat. Mr. Sanderson, take a chair.'
The old man sank despondently into the one nearest at hand. I presseda button, and when my servant entered, I said to him:--
'Bring some Cognac and Scotch whisky, glasses, and two syphons ofsoda.'
'You haven't got any Kentucky or Canadian?' asked the prisoner,moistening his lips. The jail whiteness in his face was nowaccentuated by the pallor of fear, and the haunted look of the escapedconvict glimmered from his eyes. In spite of the comfort I hadattempted to bestow upon him, he knew that he had been rescued inmistake for another, and for the first time since he left prisonrealised he was among strangers, and not among friends. In his troublehe turned to the beverage of his native continent.
'Bring a bottle of Canadian whisky
,' I said to the servant, whodisappeared, and shortly returned with what I had ordered. I lockedthe door after him, and put the key in my pocket.
'What am I to call you?' I asked the ex-convict.
With a forced laugh he said; 'You can call me Jack for short.'
'Very well, Jack, help yourself,' and he poured out a very liberalglass of the Dominion liquor, refusing to dilute it with soda.Sanderson took Scotch, and I helped myself to a _petit verre_ ofbrandy.
'Now, Jack,' I began, 'I may tell you plainly that if I wished to sendyou back to prison, I could not do so without incriminating myself.You are legally dead, and you have now a chance to begin life anew, anopportunity of which I hope you will take advantage. If you were toapply three weeks from today at the prison doors, they would not dareadmit you. You are dead. Does that console you?'
'Well, squire, you can bet your bottom dollar I never thought I'd bepleased to hear I was dead, but I'm glad if it's all fixed as you say,and you can bet your last pair of boots I'm going to keep out of thejug in future if I can.'
'That's right. Now, I can promise that if you answer all my questionstruthfully, you shall be given money enough to afford you a newbeginning in life.'
'Good enough,' said Jack briefly.
'You were known in prison as Wyoming Ed?'
'Yes, sir.'
'If that was not your name, why did you use it?'
'Because Colonel Jim, on the train, asked me to do that. He said itwould give him a pull in England to get me free.'
'Did you know Wyoming Ed?'
'Yes, sir, he was one of us three that held up the train.'
'What became of him?'
'He was shot dead.'
'By one of the passengers?'
There was silence, during which the old man groaned, and bowed hishead. Jack was studying the floor. Then he looked up at me and said:--
'You don't expect me to give a pal away, do you?'
'As that pal has given you away for the last five years, it seems tome you need not show very much consideration for him.'
'I'm not so sure he did.'
'I am; but never mind that point. Colonel Jim Baxter shot Wyoming Edand killed him. Why?'
'See here, my friend, you're going a little too fast. I didn't saythat.'
He reached somewhat defiantly for the bottle from Canada.
'Pardon me,' I said, rising quietly, and taking possession of thebottle myself, 'it grieves me more than I can say to restrict myhospitality. I have never done such a thing in my life before, butthis is not a drinking bout; it is a very serious conference. Thewhisky you have already taken has given you a bogus courage, and afalse view of things. Are you going to tell me the truth, or are younot?'
Jack pondered on this for a while, then he said:--
'Well, sir, I'm perfectly willing to tell you the truth as far as itconcerns myself, but I don't want to rat on a friend.'
'As I have said, he isn't your friend. He told you to take the name ofWyoming Ed, so that he might blackmail the father of Wyoming Ed. Hehas done so for the last five years, living in luxury here in London,and not moving a finger to help you. In fact, nothing would appal himmore than to learn that you are now in this country. By this time hehas probably received the news from the prison doctor that you aredead, and so thinks himself safe for ever.'
'If you can prove that to me--' said Jack.
'I can and will,' I interrupted; then, turning to Sanderson, Idemanded:--
'When are you to meet this man next?'
'Tonight, at nine o'clock,' he answered. 'His monthly payment is due,and he is clamouring for the large sum I told you of.'
'Where do you meet him? In London?'
'Yes.'
'At your master's town house?'
'Yes.'
'Will you take us there, and place us where we can see him and hecan't see us?'
'Yes. I trust to your honour, Mr. Valmont. A closed carriage will callfor me at eight, and you can accompany me. Still, after all, MrValmont, we have no assurance that he is the same person this youngman refers to.'
'I am certain he is. He does not go under the name of Colonel JimBaxter, I suppose?'
'No.'
The convict had been looking from one to the other of us during thiscolloquy. Suddenly he drew his chair up closer to the table.
'Look here,' he said, 'you fellows are square, I can see that, andafter all's said and done, you're the man that got me out of clink.Now, I half suspicion you're right about Colonel Jim, but, anyhow,I'll tell you exactly what happened. Colonel Jim was a Britisher, andI suppose that's why he and Wyoming Ed chummed together a good deal.We called Jim Baxter Colonel, but he never said he was a colonel oranything else. I was told he belonged to the British army, and thatsomething happened in India so that he had to light out He nevertalked about himself, but he was a mighty taking fellow when he laidout to please anybody. We called him Colonel because he was sostraight in the back, and walked as if he were on parade. When thisyoung English tenderfoot came out, he and the Colonel got to be asthick as thieves, and the Colonel won a good deal of money from him atcards, but that didn't make any difference in their friendship. TheColonel most always won when he played cards, and perhaps that's whatstarted the talk about why he left the British army. He was theluckiest beggar I ever knew in that line of business. We all met inthe rush to the new goldfields, which didn't pan out worth a cent, andone after another of the fellows quit and went somewhere else. ButWyoming Ed, he held on, even after Colonel Jim wanted to quit. As longas there were plenty of fellows there, Colonel Jim never lacked money,although he didn't dig it out of the ground, but when the populationthinned down to only a few of us, then we all struck hard times. Now,I knew Colonel Jim was going to hold up a train. He asked me if Iwould join him, and I said I would if there wasn't too many in thegang. I'd been into that business afore, and I knew there was nogreater danger than to have a whole mob of fellows. Three men can holdup a train better than three dozen. Everybody's scared except theexpress messenger, and it's generally easy to settle him, for hestands where the light is, and we shoot from the dark. Well, Ithought at first Wyoming Ed was on to the scheme, because when we werewaiting in the cut to signal the train he talked about us going onwith her to San Francisco, but I thought he was only joking. I guessthat Colonel Jim imagined that when it came to the pinch, Ed wouldn'tback out and leave us in the lurch: he knew Ed was as brave as a lion.In the cut, where the train would be on the up grade, the Colonel gothis lantern ready, lit it, and wrapped a thin red silk handkerchiefround it. The express was timed to pass up there about midnight, butit was near one o'clock when her headlight came in sight. We knew allthe passengers would be in bed in the sleepers, and asleep in thesmoking car and the day coach. We didn't intend to meddle with them.The Colonel had brought a stick or two of dynamite from the mines, andwas going to blow open the safe in the express car, and climb out withwhatever was inside.
'The train stopped to the signal all right, and the Colonel fired acouple of shots just to let the engineer know we meant business. Theengineer and fireman at once threw up their hands, then the Colonelturns to Ed, who was standing there like a man pole-axed, and says tohim mighty sharp, just like if he was speaking to a regiment ofsoldiers:--
'"You keep these two men covered. Come on, Jack!" he says to me, andthen we steps up to the door of the express car, which the fellowinside had got locked and bolted. The Colonel fires his revolver inthrough the lock, then flung his shoulder agin the door, and it wentin with a crash, which was followed instantly by another crash, forthe little expressman was game right through. He had put out thelights and was blazing away at the open door. The Colonel sprang forcover inside the car, and wasn't touched, but one of the shots took mejust above the knee, and broke my leg, so I went down in a heap. Theminute the Colonel counted seven shots he was on to that expressmessenger like a tiger, and had him tied up in a hard knot before youcould shake a stick. Then, quick as a wink he struck a match, and litthe lamp. Pluck
y as the express messenger was, he looked scared todeath, and now, when Colonel Jim held a pistol to his head, he gave upthe keys and told him how to open the safe. I had fallen back againstthe corner of the car, inside, and was groaning with Pain. Colonel Jimwas scooping out the money from the shelves of the safe, and stuffingit into a sack.
'"Are you hurt, Jack?" he cried.
'"Yes, my leg's broke."
'"Don't let that trouble you; we'll get you clear all right. Do youthink you can ride your horse?"
'"I don't believe it," said I. "I guess I'm done for," and I thought Iwas.
'Colonel Jim never looked round, but he went through that safe in away that'd make your hair curl, throwing aside the bulky packagesafter tearing them open, taking only cash, which he thrust into a baghe had with him, till he was loaded like a millionaire. Then suddenlyhe swore, for the train began to move.
'"What is that fool Ed doing?" he shouted, rising to his feet.
'At that minute Ed came in, pistol in each hand, and his face ablaze.
'"Here, you cursed thief!" he cried, "I didn't come with you to rob atrain!"
'"Get outside, you fool!" roared Colonel Jim, "get outside and stopthis train. Jack has got his leg broke. Don't come another steptowards me, or I'll kill you!"
'But Ed, he walked right on, Colonel Jim backing, then there was ashot that rang like cannon fire in the closed car, and Ed fell forwardon his face. Colonel Jim turned him over, and I saw he had been hitsquare in the middle of the forehead. The train was now going at goodspeed, and we were already miles away from where our horses were tied.I never heard a man swear like Colonel Jim. He went through thepockets of Ed, and took a bundle of papers that was inside his coat,and this he stuffed away in his own clothes. Then he turned to me, andhis voice was like a lamb.
'"Jack, old man," he said, "I can't help you. They're going to nabyou, but not for murder. The expressman there will be your witness. Itisn't murder anyhow on my part, but self-defence. You saw he wascoming at me when I warned him to keep away."
'All this he said in a loud voice, for the expressman to hear, then hebent over to me and whispered:--
'"I'll get the best lawyer I can for you, but I'm afraid they're boundto convict you, and if they do, I will spend every penny of this moneyto get you free. You call yourself Wyoming Ed at the trial. I've takenall this man's papers so that he can't be identified. And don't youworry if you're sentenced, for remember I'll be working night and dayfor you, and if money can get you out, you'll be got out, becausethese papers will help me to get the cash required. Ed's folks arerich in England, so they'll fork over to get you out if you pretend tobe him." With that he bade me good-bye and jumped off the train.There, gentlemen, that's the whole story just as it happened, andthat's why I thought it was Colonel Jim had sent you to get me free.'
There was not the slightest doubt in my mind that the convict had toldthe exact truth, and that night, at nine o'clock, he identified MajorRenn as the former Colonel Jim Baxter. Sanderson placed us in agallery where we could see, but could not hear. The old man seemeddetermined that we should not know where we were, and took everyprecaution to keep us in the dark. I suppose he put us out of earshot,so that if the Major mentioned the name of the nobleman we should notbe any the wiser. We remained in the gallery for some time after themajor had left before Sanderson came to us again, carrying with him apacket.
'The carriage is waiting at the door,' he said, 'and with yourpermission, Monsieur Valmont, I will accompany you to your flat.'
I smiled at the old man's extreme caution, but he continued verygravely:--
'It is not that, Monsieur Valmont. I wish to consult with you, and ifyou will accept it, I have another commission to offer.'
'Well,' said I, 'I hope it is not so unsavoury as the last.' But tothis the old man made no response.
There was silence in the carriage as we drove back to my flat.Sanderson had taken the precaution of pulling down the blinds of thecarriage, which he need not have troubled to do, for, as I have said,it would have been the simplest matter in the world for me to havediscovered who his employer was, if I had desired to know. As a matterof fact, I do not know to this day whom he represented.
Once more in my room with the electric light turned on, I was shockedand astonished to see the expression on Sanderson's face. It was theface of a man who would grimly commit murder and hang for it. If everthe thirst for vengeance was portrayed on a human countenance, it wason his that night. He spoke very quietly, laying down the packetbefore him on the table.
'I think you will agree with me,' he said, 'that no punishment onearth is too severe for that creature calling himself Major Renn.'
'I'm willing to shoot him dead in the streets of London tomorrow,'said the convict, 'if you give the word.'
Sanderson went on implacably: 'He not only murdered the son, but forfive years has kept the father in an agony of sorrow and apprehension,bleeding him of money all the time, which was the least of his crimes.Tomorrow I shall tell my master that his son has been dead these fiveyears, and heavy as that blow must prove, it will be mitigated by thefact that his son died an honest and honourable man. I thank you foroffering to kill this vile criminal. I intend that he shall die, butnot so quickly or so mercifully.'
Here he untied the packet, and took from it a photograph, which hehanded to the convict.
'Do you recognise that?'
'Oh yes; that's Wyoming Ed as he appeared at the mine; as, indeed, heappeared when he was shot.'
The photograph Sanderson then handed to me.
'An article that I read about you in the paper, Monsieur Valmont, saidyou could impersonate anybody. Can you impersonate this young man?'
'There's no difficulty in that,' I replied.
'Then will you do this? I wish you two to dress in that fashion. Ishall give you particulars of the haunts of Major Renn. I want you tomeet him together and separately, as often as you can, until you drivehim mad or to suicide. He believes you to be dead,' said Sanderson,addressing Jack. 'I am certain he has the news, by his manner tonight.He is extremely anxious to get the lump sum of money which I have beenholding back from him. You may address him, for he will recognise yourvoice as well as your person, but Monsieur Valmont had better notspeak, as then he might know it was not the voice of my poor youngmaster. I suggest that you meet him first together, always at night.The rest I leave in your hands, Monsieur Valmont.'
With that the old man rose and left us.
Perhaps I should stop this narration here, for I have often wonderedif practically I am guilty of manslaughter.
We did not meet Major Renn together, but arranged that he shouldencounter Jack under one lamp-post, and me under the next. It was justafter midnight, and the streets were practically deserted. The theatrecrowds had gone, and the traffic was represented by the last 'buses,and a belated cab now and then. Major Renn came down the steps of hisclub, and under the first lamp-post, with the light shining full uponhim, Jack the convict stepped forth.
'Colonel Jim,' he said, 'Ed and I are waiting for you. There werethree in that robbery, and one was a traitor. His dead comrades askthe traitor to join them.'
The Major staggered back against the lamp-post, drew his hand acrosshis brow, and muttered, Jack told me afterwards:--
'I must stop drinking! I must stop drinking!'
Then he pulled himself together, and walked rapidly towards the nextlamp-post. I stood out square in front of him, but made no sound. Helooked at me with distended eyes, while Jack shouted out in hisboisterous voice, that had no doubt often echoed over the plain:--
'Come on, Wyoming Ed, and never mind him. He must follow.'
Then he gave a war whoop. The Major did not turn round, but continuedto stare at me, breathing stertorously like a person with apoplexy. Islowly pushed back my hat, and on my brow he saw the red mark of abullet hole. He threw up his hands and fell with a crash to thepavement.
'Heart failure' was the verdict of the coroner's jury.