Chet sank back into the chair, and Barry seated himself opposite him.
“Chet, you gave Horace Moley a note, didn’t you?”
“Why—why, yes; I reckon I did.”
“Do you know what use he made of it? He presented it to my mother for payment, and she, not having the money, deeded the Flying W over to him. That is how she stood by you, Chet, after the dirty way you treated her.”
Chet was sputtering. “But—but, Barry, she hadn’t oughta done that! The note wasn’t for much.”
Barry smiled mirthlessly. “No, not much; just a mere ten thousand dollars.”
“Ten thousand dollars! Barry, that ain’t so! That note was for one thousand dollars. I swear it was!”
Barry’s eyes kindled. “One thousand! Chet, are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I signed it, didn’t I? And I sure can read. Maley paid me one thousand dollars; I got most of it yet.”
“Why did he pay you that amount? Tell the truth now!”
Chet did. “I thought they were goin’ to take you away and warn you not to come back,” he whined. “Honest I did, Barry.”
“Forget it.” Again Barry had failed to uncover any evidence of fraud on Moley’s part, so far as acquiring the Basin land was concerned; but he had something to hold over the lawyer if Lewis were speaking the truth: forgery.
“Chet, if you’re lyin’ to me I’ll forget you’re my mother’s husband!”
“I ain’t lyin’. He gave me one thousand dollars, and I signed a note for that amount. I’ll face him if you say so.”
Barry got up. “Get your horse and we’ll ride.”
They reached Mescal early in the morning and continued on to the Flying W. Barry’s mother produced the canceled note, and Chet scanned it briefly.
“That looks like my signature, but it ain’t. I never signed this note.”
“Then it’s forgery.” Barry’s eyes were glinting. “I believe we have the wolf by the nape of the neck at last. Lola, where are Nip and Tuck?”
“They are gone long tam, Bar-ree. The day you lef’ they come ’ere and get the shovel and the peek. Nex’ day they come back, mak me feex them mach food, an’ go away weeth the wagon. I’m not see them seence.”
“If they show up send them to Mescal. Come on, Chet.”
Back to town they rode and stopped at the sheriff’s office. Here they repeated the story of the forged note. Matt’s face lighted up.
“Barry, you got him hooked. He’ll be a long time explainin’ this away. I’ll go with you.”
Horace Maley opened the door to his office. The faintest perceptible start was the only sign to betray any apprehension he might have felt at sight of Chet Lewis.
“I’m quite busy today,” he said. “Can’t you return later?”
“This business won’t wait,” Barry told him, and pushed by him into the room. The others followed, and Maley reluctantly seated himself at his desk.
“It’s about this note for ten thousand dollars,” said Barry, and spread the paper on the desk before Moley. “Chet Lewis declares the signature has been forged.”
“Chet Lewis lies,” said Moley calmly. “I paid him ten thousand dollars for improvements on the Flyin’ W.”
“Chet didn’t own the Flyin’ W.”
“His wife did. I took a chance on her honoring the note. You must admit my judgment was good.” Maley had entirely recovered his confidence.
“Your judgment was excellent, Maley. The whole plan was a good one. Tom Slater found oil in the Basin—”
“Oil!” exclaimed both Matt and Lewis.
“Yes, oil. You, Maley, paid him five thousand for the secret and then had Tug Groody rub him out so he wouldn’t talk. You started a bank with Frothingham the apparent owner. He lent money recklessly on demand notes. When the money was spent, he disappeared and you turn up the real owner. You pose as a man greatly wronged, and call the notes to save you from ruin. They are not honored, and the collateral is forfeited. You now own the whole Basin, you and your son, and the oil which lies under it. Well worked out, Maley; and absolutely foolproof.”
Maley answered tightly. “You’ll pay for those wild statements, Weston! I’ll sue you for everything you own or hope to own.”
Barry laughed bitterly. “Go ahead and sue; you’ve already taken everything. All that is left to me is the satisfaction of branding you the dirty crook you are. Wallow in your oil if you want to; but make up your mind to spend some of your life behind the bars for forgery. Where’s that other note? The one Chet really signed?”
“This is the only note. Now get out of my office, all of you. Here! What are you doing?” For Barry, ignoring the command, had stepped past the desk and was drawing open the heavy iron door to the safe.
Moley sprang up, but Matt Billings gave him a shove which sent him back into his chair. “Set quiet, Horace. It’s your turn to squirm.”
“You too, eh? A fine sheriff you are! Here is a man thrusting himself unbidden into my office and going through my private papers. I’ll have you removed from office for this.”
Matt only glared at him, and Horace was forced to sit idly and fume while Barry systematically went through his papers.
“Here it is,” Weston said at last. “A note for one thousand dollars.”
Chet Lewis examined it and nodded. “That’s the one I signed.”
“I reckon, Horace,” said Barry quietly, “that you’d better deed the Flyin’ W back to my mother.”
Moley sprang to his feet, his face blazing. “I’ll do nothing of the sort! This is a frame-up, and I’ll fight it to the last court. The Flying W is mine, legally mine, and so is the rest of the Basin. Yes, there is oil there, and I intend to have it. Every barrel—every pint! And when I get it, I’ll hound you and every miserable cur in your pack until I put them where they belong!”
The office door opened, and two men entered.
“Did I hear somethin’ about oil?” asked Nip.
Barry looked at them. Their eyes were very bright and they seemed to be laboring under some excitement.
Nip spoke to Tuck. “Did you hear what I heard? He’s gonna git every barrel—every pint! Oh, my gosh! What a joke.”
Moley spoke sharply. “Joke? What do you mean?”
Nip answered pityingly. “Horace, in some ways you’re a smart man; but in others you’re a plain clanged fool. Do you think a fella like Slater would part with a secret like that for five thousand dollars? He sure rooked you good! And you countin’ on all that oil, all them untold millions locked in the bosom of Mother Earth! Oh, my gosh!”
Moley leaped forward and seized him. “What are you saying?” he demanded harshly. “Talk, damn you! What are you hinting at?”
Nip brushed him aside. “Hands off, sucker, you’ll git me dirty. I ain’t hintin’ at nothin’; I’m talkin’ right out in meetin’. There’s more oil in that lamp over there than in the whole clanged Basin. Slater just rooked you for five thousand bucks.”
Moley gasped, staggered back against the desk. “You’re lying! The seepage—I saw it with my own eyes; not once, but many times. He couldn’t have put it there and kept it there for a year.”
“Hold your damned tongue!” came a harsh command from the doorway. Steve Moley had entered the room. “What’s this you’re talkin’ about, Nip?”
Horace was pale and shaken. “They say there is no oil, Stevie. I can’t believe it.”
“They’re lyin’. They’re makin’ a fool of you. Can’t you see it’s a put-up job to make you admit—” He broke off suddenly.
“Admit what?” snapped Barry.
“Nothin’.”
“Steve,” said Nip, “if it wasn’t such a good joke on you I’d call your hand. Better look for yourself before you call any more names.”
“Look where?”
“Where do you think? In that little pond near the Cinchbuckle south line cabin. Come on; let’s all take a look.”
Horace Maley’s face was pinched a
nd drawn. “See? They know about the pool, Stevie. I must see; I must see for myself!”
They passed out of the office together, Barry and Matt bright-eyed, Nip and Tuck chuckling over their joke, the lawyer and his son harsh-faced and anxious. Maley’s buggy was prepared and a pick and shovel tossed into the box. Horace driving the rig and the other six riding, they started on their trip.
It was noon when they reached the cabin. Here they got down and pushed their way through the brush to the edge of the stagnant pool. It’s green-scummed surface was placid; the tell-tale film of oil still spread itself across the little corner Slater had first pointed out.
The two cowboys led the way to a point some ten feet above the surface of the water and silently indicated the freshly turned earth.
“We opened her up once,” said Nip, “but it was such a good joke that we covered it again. Start diggin’, Horace.”
It was Horace who seized the pick and started to work. Steve shoveled. They did not have far to dig. Presently the pick struck wood, and a little later the head of a barrel was uncovered.
“Keep diggin’,” said Tuck grinning. “Might as well git the whole of the bad news in a lump.”
Shoveling feverishly, Steve uncovered the front of the barrel; then stood staring down at his feet. He swore harshly and climbed from the hole. Without a word he strode away, crashing through the brush, and a moment later they heard the thud of his horse’s hoofs.
Horace Maley looked into the hole, and as he gazed he seemed to grow infinitely older. The lines in his lean face became deeper, the mouth drew down at the corners, the whole lank frame seemed to shrink.
“See how it’s worked?” asked Nip cheerfully. “Right here is a nice big barrel of crude oil, buried above the water line. From the bunghole in the bottom runs a rubber hose. If you dig it up you’ll see that it ends below the surface of the pond. The oil from the barrel runs through the hose and slowly seeps through the ground into the pool. There, bein’ lighter than water, it rises to the top and spreads itself in that purty film which led our friend Horace to commit all kinds of meanness. Nice, ain’t it?”
The life seemed to return to Horace Maley. Eyes blazing, jaws tight, he cursed the man he blamed for the tragedy. “The damned double-crosser! The cursed rattlesnake! The poisonous skunk! He fooled me—tricked me—bled me! Blast his lying heart!”
Matt Billings was grinning. “Go on, Horace; git it outa your system. It’s so illuminatin’ to hear a pious soul like you talk about foolin’ and trickin’ and bleedin’. And when you run plumb outa steam, you can drive back to Mescal and see if the judge will turn you loose on bail. I reckon you can gather from that that I’m arrestin’ you for forgery.”
CHAPTER XIX
RETRIBUTION
WHEN Horace Moley left the court house after posting bond, folks noticed the change which had come over him. He no longer walked erect, stepping briskly along the street; his shoulders sagged, his lean face was haggard, and he shuffled his feet as though too weary to raise them.
“Jest like a wolf slinkin’,” someone remarked.
At the Palace he turned mechanically towards the doorway for his customary Scotch and soda. As the doors parted, he halted. Steve was seated at a table, a bottle before him, hand clutched tightly about a glass, eyes fixed on the blank wall of the saloon.
Horace backed away, his eyes pain-stricken. For a moment he stood outside the Palace, hesitant, a bit bewildered. So crushing had been his disappointment, so staggering the wreck of his dreams, that he was no longer complete master of himself. Somewhere a thread had snapped. At last he stepped into the road and shuffled through the dust to his office. The wolf, mortally wounded, had slunk to his lair.
Inside the room, he seated himself at his desk and began mechanically to sort the contents of the drawers. He uncovered a double-barrelled Derringer and for a moment examined it curiously. For years it had lain there loaded and untouched. He placed it on the top of the desk and covered it with a paper.
A step sounded in the outer room and somebody tried the door. The thought that this was Barry Weston come to taunt him struck the lawyer, and his eyes flamed with their old fire. He placed his hand on the revolver, removed it, saw that the weapon was entirely covered, then arose and went to the door.
It was Steve who entered, and Steve was very drunk. For a moment he stood leering at his father, swaying a bit on his feet, his bloodshot eyes wild.
“Stevie!” faltered Horace, and backed away from him.
Steve swept off his hat and made a bow which nearly proved his undoing.
“Hail to king!” he sneered. “Oil king; mighty Mogul of universe! Hell of a mess you’ve made of things, ain’t you?”
Horace had backed against the desk. “Stevie!” he cried again. “It wasn’t my fault. I meant for the best. I wanted you to be rich, to have things, to—to—”
Steve laughed raspingly. “Yeah, you did! You were out to feather your own nest, you clanged ol’ lobo you! Used ever’body you could get your han’s on, me included. Oil! Oil! You clanged fool, you oughta knowed Slater ’d never sell a whole Basin of oil for five thousand bucks.”
“But that wasn’t all he was to have,” protested Moley desperately. “I promised him a share—fifty-fifty! You remember, Stevie?”
“Sure; I remem’er. Promised him half, and then had him killed so’s you wouldn’t have to keep your promise. Great li’l promiser, you are. Been us in’ me like the res’ of ’em. Puppets; tha’s what you called ’em. Jump when you pull string. Took care to be covered up, didn’t you? With your phoney bank and your rustlin’ and your killin’. All covered up; nobody can prove a thing. But where do puppets come in, huh? Sam and Tug and Frothin’ham dead. Ace in jail. Bascomb lyin’ head off to save hisself. And how about me? Know what you’ve let me in for? I’ll tell you. They’ll work on Ace and make him tell about that Clement Dawn frame-up. I’ll be blamed. Right now they got Hop Finch and Pug Parsons down at sheriff’s office puttin’ screws to ’em. They’ll squeal about Clay Dawn. I’m blamed again. Wes’ on seen me rustlin’ them Cinch buckle breeders. Me! Me! I’m one to get it in the neck, not you. Dang your measly soul, I oughta choke life outa you!”
He lurched forward again, and Horace, desperately afraid, unable to retreat farther, grappled with him. His frantic grip infuriated the drunken man. Like one become suddenly insane, Steve twisted and tore and struck, not heeding the feeble cries of his father. Cursing in drunken frenzy, he pressed the frail lawyer back on the desk. Horace Maley’s hand fell on the paper which covered the Derringer; he felt its hard shape beneath his fingers, brushed the paper aside and seized the weapon.
Steve uttered a bellow of rage. “Pull a gun on me, will you!” he cried, and, jerking Horace from the desk, hugged him to him. Neither heeded the man who had come in the front door and now stood at the entrance to the office watching. Back and forth across the floor they struggled, shuffling, panting, upsetting chairs. Steve had gone berserk; Horace fought for life itself. And suddenly there came the muffled sound of a shot, and Steve released his hold with a throaty gasp. For a moment he stood breast to breast with his father while a little wisp of smoked eddied ceilingward; then he collapsed like a wet rag, leaving the lawyer with the gun in his hand looking down at him with horror-stricken eyes.
“Stevie!” cried Horace, and there was that in the cry which tore at Barry Weston’s heart strings. “Stevie! My boy! Oh, what have I done?”
He dropped to his knees and gathered his son in his arms. “Stevie!” he cried brokenly, the tears streaming down his face. “Stevie, answer me! I didn’t meant to do it! I swear I didn’t!”
Through the outer doorway came several men, Matt Billings in the lead. He ran past Barry, stopped at the sight which greeted his eyes. Horace was still supporting Steve, his tears falling on the dead face.
Slowly Matt stopped and picked up the gun. He felt the warm barrel, sniffed the fumes which issued from the weapon.
“So it’s mu
rder this time,” he said quietly. “And your own son.”
The lawyer raised his grief-stricken face and looked dumbly about him. For an instant he appeared on the verge of speaking, then he lowered his head and sobbed. He had not seen Barry; perhaps it occurred to him then that he, who had always been careful to eliminate witnesses to his acts, had at last jeopardized his life for the need of one.
Certainly the thought struck Barry with all its ironical force. If he remained silent, Maley must hang. Certainly the man deserved hanging; but that heartbroken cry, the agony in Maley’s eyes, had touched him to the quick.
He stepped forward. “An accident, Matt. I saw it all. Steve came in drunk and started to quarrel. He tried to choke his father, and Horace grabbed the gun from the desk. It was fired while they were strugglin’. He didn’t mean to do it.”
Somebody called a doctor, and Horace was persuaded to leave the body. He seemed to know that there was no hope, and sat with his head bowed in his hands while the brief examination was made.
“Dead,” pronounced the doctor quietly. “I’ll gather a jury and hold the inquest right here.”
Horace Maley refused to testify; but when Barry uttered the words which exonerated him, he looked at West on long and hard. When it was over he called Barry to him.
“I can’t honestly thank you for saving a worthless life,” he said dully. “I don’t want to live. Everything I strove and worked for is gone; there is nothing now but emptiness. You know why I wanted the Basin. I suppose you have guessed that Frothingham and his bank were established to wreck the ranchers and put the property in my hands.”
“Yes. Frothingham told me when he was dying. But I had no witnesses and he was too far gone to sign a confession. Tug murdered him for his money, and we chased Tug into the quicksand. He went down, and the money with him. Had we recovered it we intended to use it to save the Basin ranches.”
Moley nodded listlessly. “You’re smart, Weston. I feared you from the start. And you’re a man. Now leave me, please; I have some things to attend to.”
Wolves of the Chaparral Page 18