“They live at 423 Fourth Street, or did when this was got out,” he said. “Fortunate you didn’t ask for the address of her brother. I’d have had to tell you, somewhere in Mexico.”
“Much obliged,” Ranger scrawled. “I’ll be pleased if you’ll forget I asked you.”
“Sure. If there’s a story in it, let me know when it can be published.”
“There isn’t, Phil.” Ranger crumpled up the sheet of paper he had used and put it in his pocket.
They talked of other things for a few minutes. When a printer in his shirt sleeves brought in a galley of proof John departed.
He was a little troubled in mind by a feeling that his daughter was emotionally involved in the fate of Bob Webb. If so, she was bound to be unhappy until the fancy had spent itself. He thought of taking this up with her but decided it was better not to do so. Her good sense would tell her that there could be no possible future for her with this man, and he did not want to embarrass either himself or her.
The heat of the day still hung over the town as they walked to the address given in the directory. The man who came to the door was a blond good-looking young fellow with a frank open countenance. He identified himself as Henry Mitchell and said that his wife was at home. As he ushered them into the parlor he was plainly a bit puzzled. He had never seen these strangers before. The girl was one of the loveliest he had ever met, and her father—if the man was her father—was evidently a solid cattleman of importance.
Joan Mitchell was a very pretty dark-eyed young woman not very long out of her teens. When Ranger mentioned her brother’s name she showed instant signals of alarm. He reassured her at once. They were friends, he explained, and told her the whole story, as far as he knew it, of Bob Webb’s adventures since their first meeting.
“So you see we are very much in his debt,” Ranger concluded. “We want to put ourselves at your service to help in any way we can.”
“But I don’t know where he is,” Joan said. “I wish I did. Since he escaped I have had one letter from him. He did not tell me his plans. I want so much to see him.”
Her husband added an explanation. “Joan understands that Bob could not come here. The place is watched. I think the letter that reached her had been opened and sealed again. Fortunately there was nothing but the postmark to give away Bob’s whereabouts, and of course he had left there long before word could be wired to find and arrest him.”
“Bob did not kill Giles Lemmon, though if he had it would have been self-defense,” Joan cried. “He told me so before he was tried and again after he was convicted. It was a crazy idea for him to try to talk Mr. Packard into doing justice to mother. I expect Bob got excited. Lemmon and another man named Uhlmann started shooting at him and by accident Uhlmann killed Lemmon. So they got rid of Bob by lying him into the penitentiary.” Her voice broke to a sob. “And now they are hunting him like a wild beast. I suppose they will kill him.”
Sandra moved to Joan’s side and put an arm around her. “I don’t think so. He isn’t a boy now, but a strong and clever man.”
“Why doesn’t he get out of the country?” Joan asked piteously. “He can’t dodge around Arizona forever.”
John Ranger and his daughter were of that opinion too, but they did not voice it. Some day Webb would ride into a town to buy provisions and he would be arrested or shot down while trying to escape.
“He is hoping to get evidence that Packard got the Johnny B crookedly,” Ranger told her. “I don’t think he can do it. Jug must have covered his tracks long ago.”
“I haven’t seen Bob for over a year,” his sister said. “I suppose he is still very hard and bitter.”
“He lives in a shell,” Sandra answered. “Beneath that he is as kind and gentle as any of us, though he doesn’t want anybody to know it.”
As the Rangers walked back to their hotel, Sandra said hopelessly, “There’s nothing we can do for him—nothing at all.”
“Not just now,” her father agreed. “There may come a day when we can help him.”
They passed the dark entrance of a store in which a man was lurking. Neither of them glanced at him, though they were near enough to have reached out and touched him. He was the man who called himself Cape Sloan.
16. Chandler Newman Talks
AN HOUR AFTER THE RANGERS GOT BACK TO THEIR HOTEL the son of the proprietor came up to announce that a man in the lobby was inquiring for them.
“Says his name is Fraser. I was to mention Guaymas to you.”
The eyes of the cattleman warmed. “Must be Stan Fraser,” he told his daughter. “Before you were born I got in a jam at a fandango at Guaymas. It looked like kingdom come for me when a young fellow I had never seen before threw in with me. We went outa that hall side by side with our guns smoking, and quick as we could fork our broncs pulled our freight to hide out in the brush. For several days soldiers hunted us, but we made it back across the line finally.”
Sandra’s eyes were wide. “Did you kill anybody?”
“No. We winged a couple. I didn’t start the trouble. A big Mexican crowded me.” John turned to the boy. “Tell Mr. Fraser to come up.”
After the greetings were over Fraser explained his presence. “Henry Mitchell told me you were in town and staying here. He said you hadn’t been gone ten minutes when I dropped in.”
“You know Mr. Mitchell?” Ranger asked.
“Never met him before. I took a message from Bob Webb to his sister.”
“He isn’t here—in Tucson?” Sandra questioned.
Stan smiled at her. “Maybe you’d better not ask where he is. It’s supposed to be a secret. Bob does not want to implicate his friends.”
“Then he’s here,” she cried quickly.
“I didn’t say so. But I know how friendly you feel toward him. Mitchell said you would do anything for Bob you could. There’s a way you could help, if it wouldn’t embarrass you.”
“Of course we’ll do whatever it is,” Sandra promised.
“A man named Chandler Newman lives here—works in the Southern Pacific offices. He used to be bookkeeper for Jug Packard at the Johnny B mine. I’m pretty sure he knows something about the dirty work Packard pulled off in getting control of the mine and freezing out the Webbs. If he does, he has kept his mouth padlocked. Afraid of Jug, my guess is. The point is, could you get him to talk, John?”
“My opinion is that Webb—we’d better call him Sloan even among ourselves—must give up this idea of getting even with Packard if he hopes to escape,” the cattleman said.
“That would be any sane man’s opinion,” Fraser agreed. “But Sloan won’t have it that way. He’s got his neck bowed and means to go through. He figures not only that Packard has ruined his life but is responsible for the death of his mother. I think if he could pull Packard down he would be content to pay with his life.”
“We’d better see this Newman,” Sandra decided. “Maybe if he has nothing to tell us Mr. Sloan will give up this crazy idea.”
“I’d go see Newman myself, but if I was seen talking with him they might track me back to Bob,” Fraser told them. “We don’t want Packard to get the idea that anything is stirring.”
“If you have his address we’ll call on Newman tonight,” Sandra cried.
John Ranger did not want to take his daughter with him, but she insisted so strongly on it that he gave way. The ranchman could see that she wished to have a part in anything that might help Sloan.
Chandler Newman was a thin colorless individual, pale and narrow-chested. He was not mentally equipped to stand up to as ruthless a villain as Jug Packard. But he had in him a clean core of honesty. He had broken with Packard because he would not have anything to do with so flagrant a steal as his employer was putting across on the widow of the man who had befriended him. But farther than that he did not intend to go. Knowing Packard, he was going to do nothing that would invite his anger. He had the obstinacy of a weak man, and Ranger faced that barrier at once when he mentioned
why he had come.
“Nothing to say,” the bookkeeper insisted, and repeated the words when Ranger refused to accept that as final.
Not until Sandra saw that her father was going to fail did she have any part in the talk. They were sitting in a small parlor with their host and his wife. Mrs. Newman was younger than her husband, plump, with bright beady eyes and quick birdlike motions. As they talked, her gaze shifted from one to another quickly.
“I want to tell you something, Mr. Newman,” Sandra began. “You’ve heard about the raid of the Lopez gang not long ago. Maybe you don’t know that four of the ruffians captured me and my young brother. One of them wounded him and another dragged me from a buggy to his horse. I knew something dreadful was in store for me. Just then a man topped a rise in the road and saw us. He came at a gallop, slammed one of the bandits down with the barrel of his rifle, shot another dead, and drove the others away. I never saw anything so daring. It’s a wonder he escaped alive.”
“We read something about it,” Mrs. Newman said, her shining eyes fixed on this eager lovely girl.
“That man was Bob Webb,” Sandra explained. “So you see we have got to save him.”
Mary Newman saw more than that. This golden girl was in love with the escaped convict. Nothing less could account for the rapt look in her blue eyes. “Yes,” she agreed. “If you can.”
“Bob Webb did not kill Giles Lemmon. He says so, and we are sure he is telling the truth. It suited Jug Packard to have him sent to prison, and he fixed the testimony so that the boy was convicted.”
Mrs. Newman looked at her husband. “You’ve always thought that, Chan.”
“You keep out of this, Mary,” Newman snapped.
“But why?” Sandra cried. “If he isn’t guilty we ought to find out and try to get him freed. You wouldn’t want an innocent man to spend half his life in prison to satisfy a scoundrel’s grudge?”
“What I think doesn’t matter,” Newman replied doggedly. “All I’ve heard is rumors. Why come to me?”
“We came to you to find out something you do know,” the girl said, her husky voice tremulous with emotion. “You kept the books for the Johnny B. All the time Packard was engineering his steal of the mine from Mrs. Webb you were right there. You must know how he did it. Was he robbing her of the ore? He closed down for two years to make the stock worth nothing. Had he struck a rich vein before he did that?”
Mrs. Newman did not speak, but she looked steadily at her husband, compulsion in her eyes.
“All that is a closed book,” the man blurted out. He was unhappy at the position in which he was placed. He knew that his wife had never been wholly satisfied at his silence, but she had persuaded herself that to speak would do no good and would surely endanger Chandler. “No use trying to reopen it. Jug has the mine now, and nobody can do a thing about it.”
“Bob Webb doesn’t think so,” Ranger answered. “It is the one chance he has of saving what is left of his life. For Heaven’s sake, speak out if you have any proof of Packard’s chicanery.”
“There was a fire at the mine,” Newman said. “The books were burned.”
“Go on, Chan,” his wife insisted in a low voice.
“It wouldn’t do Webb any good for me to speak, but one of Jug’s gunmen would get me sure.” The words seemed to be dragged out of Newman’s mouth.
“It isn’t for us to say whether it would do Mr. Webb any good,” Mary differed. “Perhaps it might. Anyhow, now the question has come up again I think you ought to tell what you know.”
“You know what will happen to me if I do,” Newman protested. “I wouldn’t live long enough to tell the story in court.”
“You’re overestimating Packard’s power,” Ranger told him. “I’ve been threatened several times in my life, once by a notorious killer and another time by a bad outlaw gang. I’m here. They have gone. The dangers we foresee rarely harm us. If we walk up to them, they usually aren’t there.”
“This is different. I’m no gunfighter. You are an outdoor man, used to weapons, and known to be game. And you are a prominent citizen, with a bunch of cowboys back of you, whereas I am nobody. There wouldn’t be much of a fuss made if I was shot down.”
“Couldn’t we get protection for Mr. Newman?” Sandra asked her father.
“If he tells his story to the district attorney and swears to it before a notary it would not do Packard any good to hurt him,” the cattleman said. “In fact, it would greatly prejudice his chances in court.”
“That would do me a lot of good if I was dead,” Newman retorted, with a bitter laugh.
Sandra realized that the man would have to be given some assurance of safety. It was all very well for her father to talk about walking through danger and seeing it vanish like mist before the sun. But John Ranger had always trod the way of the strong, whereas Chandler Newman was a bookish timid man with too much imagination, one who had never taken a risk that could be avoided. A plan sprang to her mind that might be feasible. Ranger did a lot of shipping over the Southern Pacific and was on friendly terms with the manager of the western division.
“You have been talking about getting a bookkeeper to bring your books down to date and to clean up a lot of back correspondence,” the girl suggested. “Maybe Mr. Compton would give Mr. Newman a leave of absence for three or four months to come to the ranch. He and Mrs. Newman could live in our old adobe house. It’s very comfortable. They would be quite safe there.”
“I could certainly use you to advantage,” Ranger admitted, speaking to the clerk. “You could stay with us until this whole thing is settled one way or another. If Packard wins out I’m sure Compton would place you in Los Angeles or San Diego.”
A flush of pleasure came into the face of Mary Newman. “We’ve talked so often of moving to California,” she reminded her husband.
Before yielding he felt it necessary to defend his past inaction. “When I saw what Packard was doing I wrote an unsigned letter to Mrs. Webb,” he said. “As soon as I could do it I gave up my job at the Johnny B.”
“Right,” commented the cattleman. “You felt you could not work for a scoundrel.”
“Packard did not want me to leave. He made it plain that if I did any talking he would settle with me. Twice since I left him he has sent for me to come to his house here. Each time he gave me a quarter of beef, but I felt the threat back of his interest in me.”
“His threats can’t harm you if you are at the Circle J R,” Ranger promised.
Newman was nervous as a caged wildcat, but he made a start in his story at last. “I discovered he had struck a rich vein when I saw by chance two sets of smelter returns from the same shipment. One was very rich; the other didn’t pay the expenses of smelting. Packard must have given the manager of the smelter a percentage to help him in his crookedness. My idea is that before he shut down he made enough to buy up the stock when it went off to a low price. I kept copies of the duplicate returns and have them yet.” In answer to questions Newman gave the name of the smelter. The manager had been discharged a year later for robbing the company. Newman had heard he was now living in Phoenix.
“Someone else must have known what was going on,” Ranger hazarded. “There must have been at least one bookkeeper in with the superintendent to falsify the returns.”
Newman agreed that must have been the case.
“If we can find out who it was we may be able to bring pressure on him to talk,” the ranchman said. “At any rate we can try.”
He arranged with the Newmans to see Compton at once to get a leave of absence. As soon as it was granted the bookkeeper and his wife had better move to the ranch. On that last point Newman was heartily in accord with him. He wanted to be in a safe shelter when Packard discovered what was afoot.
17. In a Lady’s Bedroom
HENRY MITCHELL CAME BACK INTO THE DARK HALL AND reported that all was clear. Joan clung to her brother with clenched fingers, as though her physical grip on him could hold him from the d
anger pressing close.
“If you would only forget what has happened and ride out of the country,” she cried. “Leave us to clear all this mess up. You have good friends now who will help.”
Bob Webb, alias Cape Sloan, gently opened her fists and freed himself from her. “Everything will be all right now,” he promised. “I’ll not throw down on myself. Adios, muchacha.”
As he kissed her good-by he tasted the salt tears on her cheek. To his mind there jumped a picture of a small girl with pigtails sitting on their father’s lap listening to a good-night story of a mired calf rescued from a quicksand. Memories of the old days flooded him. He was moved and took care not to show it. She belonged to that vanished chapter of his life when he had thought the future was his to shape as he wished.
Stan Fraser came out of the darkness to meet him.
“Everything dandy out here,” the little old-timer said. “Long as nobody knows you are in Tucson and you keep under cover you’d ought to be all right. What I’m worried about is Uhlmann and his crowd. McNulty talked like they might drift over this way. My idea is for us to get out now and camp on the mesa, then soon as it is day be on our way.”
Webb agreed that might be a good idea.
They walked back through the business sesction along empty streets. Except for the gambling houses and their patrons the town seemed sunk in sleep. Inside the Legal Tender and the Silver Dollar they could hear the rattle of chips and the voices of the players. Fraser tilted his head toward the former.
“Many’s the time I’ve bucked the wheel in there with yore dad. He was sure a wild colt when he was young.”
“I’ve watched the little ball spin there myself some,” Webb admitted.
Out of the Legal Tender poured a jet of men.
“Told you I’d take the bank to a cleaning,” one of them boasted.
The huge graceless figure beside him let out a yelp of triumph. His gaze had fallen on the escaped convict. He opened his mouth to shout recognition. Instead, he gave a groan and sagged against the wall. The long barrel of Stan Fraser’s pistol had crashed down on his cranium. Uhlmann for the moment had lost interest.
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