Garstone whirled on him. “Lost your memory too, eh?” he sneered. “That document was dictated to me by you a few days before we started for the hills, and the signature was witnessed by two of your men, Flint and Rattray.”
“Who are conveniently dead,” the rancher retorted.
“I shall hold you to it, and claim one-third the value of the ranch, and the same proportion of this,” Garstone replied, striking the bag beside him on the table.
“That is mine,” Dover put in quietly. “We were camped on the spot where it lay when the Wagon-wheel took us by surprise. Moreover, it was put there by my father’s brother, an’ therefore—”
“It belongs to me,” another voice broke in.
All eyes went to this new actor in the drama, a man who had been sitting unnoticed at the side of the room, chin on chest, had slouched over his brow, and apparently taking little count of the proceedings. Now he rose, leant forward, and pushed his hat back.
“Do you know me, Zeb Trenton?” he asked vibrantly.
The rancher might have been looking at an apparition. Others, too, stared in speechless amazement, for despite the absence of the unkempt white beard and long hair, they recognized the gaunt, stooping frame of Hunch, the silent woodsman of the Circle Dot. But this fierce-eyed old man was very different to the one they had known as a semi-witless vagrant.
It was a full minute before the answer came. “Rufus Dover, by God!”
“Yes, Rufus Dover, the man you drove out o’ Rainbow.”
“You killed my father.”
“True, but not as he killed mine—by shootin’ him from ambush,” was the stern reply. “I met Tom Trenton the night he died; boastin’ of his deed, he dared me to draw; I beat him to it—he was dead before he could pull trigger. There was no witness. You called it murder, raised the town against me, an’ I had to fade. In California I was knowed as Red Rufe, made my pile, an’ runnin’ with a rough gang, cached it, an’ sent two messages to my brother. Then a tree fell on me, an’ when I recovered my mind was a blank. Years later, I drifted in to the Circle Dot, blind instinct, I reckon, for I didn’t even recognize Dave. But he knew an’ took care o’ me. He showed me the first message I’d sent, but it recalled nothin’; the second did not reach him.” He bent his piercing gaze on the sheriff, who was sitting near Maitland. “An’ you know why, Foxwell.”
The officer seemed to shrink into his clothes; he read danger in those accusing eyes. “He was dead when I found him,” he quavered. “I on’y—”
“Stole the letter an’ sold it to Trenton for that badge you disgrace,” the old man finished.
“Who murdered my brother Dave?”
The sheriff shivered. “I—I dunno,” he said hoarsely. Sudden stepped forward. “Trenton, where did yu get that thirty-eight we found on yore saddle?”
The rancher’s reply came promptly. “Bundy gave it me, just before we left for the hills; my forty-four was out of order.” The puncher looked at Foxwell. “An’ Bundy had it from yu; don’t trouble to lie. Scratched on the stock are the letters, L.P., the initials of Lafe Potter, the Circle Dot rider whose belongings yu sold, mebbe. Dave Dover was drilled by a thirty-eight, an’ the empty shell was left in plain sight, with a dottle o’ baccy beside it. yu smoke a pipe, don’t yu, Trenton? An’ then he plants the gun on yu—the on’y one o’ that calibre in the district, so far as I could learn. That was why yu wasn’t keen on weighin’ the bullet at the enquiry; yu knew the guilty man.”
“I didn’t,” the sheriff protested. “I never thought o’ Bundy. I figured it was—” He stopped, his frightened eyes on the owner of the Wagon-wheel.
Trenton stiffened in his chair, and his fingers closed convulsively. “you suspected me, you whelp?” he rasped. “By Heaven, if I had my strength— The cowering wretch was not to escape. In two strides, Dan had him by the throat, his badge was torn off, and after being shaken until his teeth clashed in his jaws, he was flung on the floor.
“Get out before I tear you apart,” the young man panted. “If yo’re in town one hour from now, you hang.”
Foxwell did not doubt it. Scrambling to his feet, he stumbled towards the door, amid the jeers and curses of the onlookers, many of whom struck at him as he passed.
“That lets you out, Trenton,” Red Rufe said. “I’ve one thing to thank yore people for: when they clubbed me up on Ol’ Cloudy, they brought back my memory, though I didn’t let on—for reasons. Sorry I had to make a fool o’ you, Doc.”
“You didn’t—I’ve always been one,” Malachi smiled. “But I’m wiser now.” His gaze was on Kate Maitland.
Rufe addressed the banker. “I’ll trouble you to hand over my money.”
Maitland, conscious that he was wading in deep waters, did not know what to do. He appealed to Trenton, and got a snapped, “Give it to him, of course.”
It took both arms and an effort on the banker’s part, but Red Rufe held it easily with one hand. “Now I’ll tell you somethin’ else, Mister,” he said. “The Circle Dot is also mine—Dave was on’y my manager, an’ he had no power to raise cash on it. Yore mortgage ain’t worth a cent.”
Maitland’s face grew white. “But, though I don’t like yore methods, the Dovers pay debts—of any sort. You’ll get yores, on one condition.” He bent over and whispered.
“Certainly, Mister Dover, anything you say,” the banker promised eagerly, colour returning a little to his cheeks. Garstone, slumped in his chair, brow furrowed in a heavy frown, was silent. He had failed; just when all seemed secure, his edifice of fraud and treachery had toppled about his ears. But something might still be saved from the wreck. He drew himself up and looked at Trenton.
“I want my third share of the Wagon-wheel.”
The rancher’s clamped lips ‘writhed in a bitter smile. “Better apply to Maitland,” he replied. “Mebbe he’ll accept yore lyin’ paper. The Wagon-wheel is no longer mine.”
The enormous strain to which he had subjected it was telling upon his enfeebled body.
Beth, now sitting beside him, put a protecting arm about the bent shoulders.
“Don’t fret, Uncle Zeb, everything will come right,” she whispered.
Maitland, who appeared to have recovered his poise, spoke plainly: “I shall certainly require definite proof that the will is genuine.”
One of the two strangers who had been chatting with Yorky pushed forward. He was a keen-eyed, poker-faced fellow, dressed in the fashion of the big cities.
“If it’s a question of handwriting, gents, perhaps I can help,” he said. “I’m a bit of an expert.”
Garstone believed he had found a friend. “I shall be indebted,” he replied, with a marked emphasis on the last word. On receiving the document, the unknown turned to Maitland. “You got a known specimen of the signature on this?” he enquired.
The banker fumbled among his papers. “Here is a draft which Mister Trenton signed in my presence.”
The expert compared the two signatures, discussing them with his companion, who had joined him. “I guess that settles it,” he said, handed back the draft, and put the will in his pocket.
“Here, I want that,” Garstone cried.
“So do the New York police,-and they want you with it,” the man returned dryly. “So bad, too, that they’ve sent me to fetch you.”
The blood drained from Garstone’s face, but he made an attempt to fight the fear which possessed him. “You are making a mistake,” he said. “I am Chesney Garstone—”
“Yep, that’s a swell monicker,” the man replied, and beckoned to yorky. “Now, son, this is the guy you wrote us about, ain’t it? Tell him who he is—he ‘pears to have forgotten.”
“Look at that kid’s face,” one of the crowd whispered to his neighbour. “Nothin’ you could offer him would buy this moment.”
He was right; Yorky would not have sold it for the contents of Red Rufe’s Cache.
Pointing to Garstone, he cried shrilly, “That’s the Penman—Big Fritz, forger
an bank-buster. He done the Burley Bank job an’ killed the night-watchman. I’ve seed him scores o’ times in O’Toole’s joint on th’ Waterfront.”
To the breathless spectators of the scene the man seemed to become older before their eyes; instead of a confident, bumptious bully they saw a haggard craven. Even his voice had changed.
“He lies, I don’t know the Waterfront. I never heard of Mike O’Toole—”
The stranger’s laugh stopped him. “Maybe, but who told you it was Mike?” he asked.
“Well, we all make slips, and we had you fixed anyway.”
“You can’t arrest me here for an offence committed in another State,” Garstone said desperately.
“That’s my part,” the second man said. He flicked aside his coat, showing the badge of a deputy-sheriff. “You’ll be taken to Tucson, and sent on to New york.”
Garstone shuddered. There was no escape; these cold-featured men would take him away to—death. He cursed the luck which had sent him to Rainbow; cursed that other fugitive from the underworld who had brought about his undoing. He visioned again the cave in the mountains, and heard a voice, “Rats has teeth, an’ can bite.” The rat had bitten, even then, and the wound would be fatal. The thought that this puny brat had bested him bred a madness in his brain. If he must die, it should not be alone; that grinning little beast… Livid with fury, he snatched a pistol from beneath his open coat and levelled it at yorky’s breast.
“You first—vermin,” he hissed.
The words were his last mistake. Ere he could press the trigger, a gun cracked, and he staggered, pitched sideways, and rolled off the platform, the weapon dropping from his twitching fingers. Sudden shoved his smoking six-shooter back into his belt.
“I had to do it,” he said to the officers. “Yo’re journey has been wasted.”
“Oh, I guess not,” the New Yorker replied callously. “Dead or alive was my instructions; he’ll be less trouble in a box.” And, as the puncher turned away, added, to his companion, “Did you see it? Hell! I’m glad they didn’t ask me to collect him.”
In the midst of the excitement, as the jostling crowd surged forward to get a sight of the corpse, someone touched his elbow—a very pale and trembling Yorky.
“Say, Mister, d’yer think Clancy’ll git promotion fer this?” he questioned.
“Sure, he won’t be a common flat-foot no more,” the man replied. “There’s a reward too; you both ought to come in on that.”
“I don’t want none of it—tell ‘em Clancy can have my share,” Yorky said quickly. “He’s got a wife an’ little ‘uns. He was kind ter me. I’d like fer him to know I’m well an’ doin’ fine.”
“I’ll tell him my own self, son,” the detective promised, and when the boy had gone,
“Clancy said he was a lunger, but hell, he don’t look it. Pity more of our slum lads can’t git out here and have a chance of becomin’ real men.”
Chapter XXVI
Two weeks later, Dan, following the course of the Rainbow on his way to the Wagon-wheel, came upon two saddled ponies contentedly cropping the rich grass of the river bank. Rounding a clump of willow, he discovered the owners, Malachi and Kate Maitland, sitting very close together, and so completely oblivious to the rest of the world that they failed to notice his approach.
“Space on this range bein’ limited, folks naturally has to crowd one another,” he mused aloud.
The girl started, flushed, and tried to draw away, but her companion clasped her waist more firmly, looked up, and grinned.
“Dan, I’ve the greatest news for you,” he said. “We are to be married.”
The rancher laughed. “You call that news? Why, Rainbow has knowed it ever since we got back from Ol’ Cloudy. I’ve on’y one thing to say, Phil—yo’re a lucky fella.”
“And that is no news to me,” the doctor returned gravely. “Riding far, Dan?”
“I have business at the Wagon-wheel.”
Malachi’s eyes twinkled. “He has business at the Wagon-wheel,” he told the girl beside him. “And maybe that range is larger and folks don’t have to crowd one another.”
They both smiled broadly, and it was Dover’s turn to get red. “Aw, go to—Paradise,” he said, and rode away.
To his mingled relief and disappointment, Zeb’s old housekeeper answered his knock, conducted him to the sick rancher’s room, and left them together. Trenton, sitting up in bed, welcomed his visitor grimly.
“Well, come to give me notice to quit?”
“No, just wanted to see if you’re feelin’ strong enough to tear this up,” Dan replied, and threw a paper on the counterpane; it was the mortgage on the Wagon-wheel.
“What’s the idea? Didn’t you buy the ranch?”
“The Circle Dot took over the debt, an’ you can pay in yore own time—I figure the cattle business is on the upgrade,” Dover replied. “I’ve told our outfit that yore cows can graze to the river. That’s all I gotta say.” He turned to go.
“Wait a minute,” Trenton said. “A week back I was called a stiff-necked, stubborn of fool; o’course, she didn’t put it in those words—”
“She?” Dan wanted to know.
“Shore, my niece, Beth.” The harsh, bony features had softened, and there was a shadow of a smile on the bloodless lips. “She’s got pluck—nobody ever dared bawl me out, sick or well. It made me think, an’ this clinches it. On top of savin’ her life an’ mine, you hand back my property.
It shames me, boy. I’ve allus sworn I’d never thank a Dover, but I’m doin’ it.”
The young man gripped the proffered thin hand willingly enough, and the Trenton-Dover war was at an end.
“I owe a hell of a lot to you an’ yore men—‘specially Green,” the invalid said presently. “If you agree, I’d like to offer him his own terms to come here.”
“I wish you could persuade him, for we’ve failed,” Dan replied sadly. “Claims he has a promise to keep, which means puffin’ out soon. You’ll never budge him, he’s as obstinate as a—Dover,” he finished, with a grin.
The old man smiled too. “I’ve treated him middlin’ shabby,” he said. “I reckon I’ll have to eat crow.”
“Jim ain’t that sort,” Dan assured him. “He’s the best friend I ever had, an’ he won’t let me do a thing—just says `Shucks’ an’ changes the subject. I’m damned sorry he’s goin’.”
“Ask him to come an’ see me,” the rancher said.
Dover promised, and was about to leave when he remembered something—the locket. He laid it on the bed.
“Guess this belongs to yore niece; I found it in the tent,” he explained, and came away.
As he stepped into the open, he met the girl herself. She had no smile of welcome for him, and her greeting told why. “When do we move out?”
“I’ve been seein’ yore uncle about that,” he replied.
“You might have waited until he is stronger,” she said heatedly. “I must go to him at once.”
She left him standing there, and did not see the whimsical look which followed her. Dan hoisted himself into the saddle and set off, but he had gone less than fifty yards when he heard her call.
“Mister Dover.”
He grinned wickedly, but took no notice, until the cry was repeated, breathlessly. He stopped and dismounted; the girl was hurrying towards him; her face was flushed, eyes moist.
“You are the meanest man I ever met,” she began. “You save my life, restore my uncle’s property after he has used you badly, and even bring back something the loss of which grieved me deeply—my mother’s portrait, and you refuse to accept a word of thanks. Why have you always disliked me? I couldn’t help being the daughter of a Trenton.”
The curious mixture of indignation and gratitude made her so provokingly pretty that he had hard work to refrain from putting his arms about her and telling the truth—that he didn’t care if she was the daughter of the Devil himself.
“I was afraid.” He saw she did not
comprehend, and went on. “Afraid I’d get too fond o’ you, so I tried to build a barrier between us.”
“And it had to be barbed wire?” she said.
“Yeah, but I found out that barbed wire won’t keep thoughts from strayin’, an’ is liable to hurt those who handle it.
The soft dark eyes faced his bravely for an instant and then dropped. “I learned that too—Dan,” she murmured.
It was quite a time before she had an opportunity to speak again, and, as she strove to rearrange her hair, it was a truly feminine remark:
“I expect I look a sight; I don’t know what you must think of me.”
“I think yo’re the most beautiful girl in Arizona,” he told her.
“Only in Arizona, Dan?” she teased.
“Arizona is my world,” he replied.
“Mine too,” she whispered, and brought about another interlude.
**
Sudden and Yorky were paying a final visit to the Pool of the Pines, for—as Dan had predicted—Trenton’s inducements and pleas had proved vain as his own. They had enjoyed their swim, and Nigger was waiting. The boy’s expression was woebegone.
“I’ll be missin’ yer, Jim. Wish I c’d come too,” he said, for about the twentieth time.
“So do I, but it’s too chancy,” the puncher replied. `Best yu should stay here, learn yore job, an’ get them bellows o’ yourn sound again. Then, mebbe, when I’m free, yu an’ me’ll go take a look at the country somewheres.”
Yorky’s eyes shone at the prospect. “Gee! Jim, that’d be swell,” he breathed.
“So long, son,” Sudden said, as he swung into the saddle. “Keep outa trouble, but if that ain’t possible, see it through.”
The boy watched the black horse and its rider until they were blotted out by a mist which was not of Nature’s making; there was an unaccustomed lump in his throat.
“Just th’ greatest guy—ever,” he told the silence.
The End
Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Sudden: Makes War Page 25