He smiled as he realized for the first time that no one would suspect him of anything when they learned he had put money into the bank himself. As Lawson had craftily pointed out, he was in the clear and under cover.
“Good!” exclaimed Reed in satisfaction, patting him on the shoulder as they rose from the table. “And if you ever need, well . . . you know.”
Again that queer feeling assailed Farlin, and he bit his lip. “I’ve got to go to the bank, George,” he said hurriedly. “So long.”
* * * * *
President John Duggan, of the Rocky Point State Bank, looked up with genuine pleasure; in fact, his large, genial face and blue eyes glowed as the immaculate gambler was shown into his private office—a new office, as was the cage before it. The interior of the old, trusted bank had been remodeled during the preceding winter.
“Dan, I’m glad to see you,” he said, giving Farlin’s hand a squeeze that made the latter wince. “Sit down in one of our new chairs.” He indicated a chair opposite his big, flat-topped desk.
“I was just about to say that the place looks pretty high-toned,” drawled Farlin. “New cage and floor and plate-glass windows, and then this office . . . and having to be led in. Guess you must have raised the limit on your interest rates, eh?”
“Nope,” said Duggan, not without a note of pride. “We’ve always made money, and I, that is, the directors . . . ahem! . . . decided the building needed freshening up a bit. Country’s booming around here and we have to put up a front.”
“New vault, too?” said Farlin casually.
“Not at all. The one we’ve had right along is still large enough to hold all the money, but I’m hoping we have to enlarge it soon. You’re looking good, Dan.”
“Fishing for me to say you look the same,” Farlin complained. “That’s the trouble with you bankers. You always hem and haw and beat around the bush and make small medicine until you’ve got an idea what a man has come for. Then, if he’s come to borrow money, your jaw drops a foot, and times are not good, and the outlook is doubtful, and there’s signs of drought, and there isn’t any too much water, and the grass is bad, and you shake your head and sigh and growl . . . ‘How much yah want and what’s the security?’ But if he’s come to put money into the bank, instead of take it out, why, then it’s a case of . . . ‘Ain’t the weather good? Looks like one of the best years we’ve ever had. This is an excellent time to invest . . . right in this here country!’ And you slap the desk and beam until one would think there were three suns shining instead of one. Now, how have you got me pegged? What do you think I’ve come for, John Duggan?”
The banker eased his huge bulk—he was a very big man—in his chair, leaned back, and laughed heartily. He wiped his eyes before he spoke.
“Doesn’t make a particle of difference, Dan. If you’ve come to borrow money, you can have it. Not from the bank, understand. I have to account to my directors and . . .”
He was interrupted by Farlin’s guffaw. “You and your directors!” said the gambler scornfully. “Say, John, if one of those directors . . . if you have any . . . came in here and said anything, you’d throw him out, and you know it.”
“Tut-tut.” Duggan frowned. “I’d be able to manage a loan, perhaps, but I’d have to guarantee it, that is . . . I’d have to be responsible for it.”
“Now you’re talking,” said Farlin, waving aside the proffered cigar and taking out his tobacco and cigarette papers. “Well, John, I haven’t come to borrow anything, except, maybe, a match. I’ve come to stick twenty thousand in that old vault of yours and just dropped in to say hello for the sake of politeness.”
“By golly, things must have started off with a bang in your . . . your . . . ah . . . business.” The banker smiled.
“Why don’t you say what’s in your head?” suggested Farlin. “Mine isn’t a business, it’s a game, and a rocky one at that.”
“I wish you’d get out of it,” said Duggan thoughtfully. “But right this minute, I don’t know just what you’d do to . . . to . . .” He pursed his lips.
“To make as much money,” Farlin supplied, smiling wryly.
“I don’t believe you have any balance with us, Dan, but I’m glad to reopen the account. I’m mighty glad to reopen the account. And with no thought of the bank, I wish you’d keep a respectable balance for your own sake. Maybe you’ll come out all right on your ranch deal down there, but cash is a nice thing to be able to lay your hands on when you need it quick.”
“Have you told anybody about that deal?” asked Farlin quickly.
“Of course not!” Duggan exclaimed in indignation. “What I know . . .”
“Yes, yes,” said Farlin with a wave of his hand. “You’re just like a lawyer . . . and I wouldn’t trust a lawyer so far.”
“Say, Dan”—the banker leaned forward—“what does Big Tom Lester do with all his money?”
“I don’t know,” Farlin replied, surprised. “Hasn’t he got any in here?”
“He . . . I couldn’t tell you that,” said Duggan. “It wouldn’t be ethical.”
Dan Farlin laughed. He was looking curiously about. There was a window at the rear of the office, and none too securely barred, he thought. The vault was the same and could be easily cracked. He felt that he was looking guilty when he again gazed at the banker.
But John Duggan was not looking at him. He was drumming on the top of his desk and staring through the open door into the cage. He turned his head suddenly.
“You know, it’s too bad about that town of Sunrise,” he said seriously. “It’s in such a good location. And they’re going to open up a big bunch of land north and west of there. This fall, maybe, next spring, sure. The government, I mean.”
“Homesteaders!” snorted Farlin, unable to suppress a sneer.
The banker nodded. “They’ve got to come, Dan. There’s no stopping ’em. It means farming country, and big ranchers will find that their land is too valuable to run stock on. When the time arrives, there’ll be no kick from that quarter. Now, I’ll make out your deposit slip myself and give you a book and a . . .”
“Don’t need a book or receipt or anything,” Farlin interrupted. He tossed the roll Lawson had given him on the desk. “There’s twenty thousand there to start.” He rose to avoid Duggan’s eyes. “By the way, my daughter has an account here, hasn’t she?”
“Yes.” Duggan smiled. “I can tell you that because you’re her father, but I can’t tell you her balance.”
Farlin frowned. Gladys would have to withdraw her balance before . . .
“Well, I don’t want to know,” he said. “So long, John.”
John Duggan rose, stepped with him to the door. “I don’t do this for everybody, Dan.” He chuckled. “And everybody doesn’t get in to see the president, either.” His broad face beamed.
“John, we’re both gamesters.” Farlin laughed as he went out.
He looked about the rear out of the corners of his eyes as he left, and again the uncomfortable feeling swept over him. He was glad to gain the open air.
Chapter Thirteen
After the race to Crazy Butte, which he won handily, Jim Bond moved to the south, watered his horse, refreshed himself, and then climbed a ridge that afforded him an excellent view of the country to the east, south, and west. To his surprise, the lone rider who had challenged him had disappeared. Bond decided he had struck directly south into the screen of timber.
It was now broad daylight, with the sun climbing out of a sea of crimson in the east. The plain trail to Rocky Point was a gray ribbon leading southeast. There was no telltale streamer of dust spiraling upon it. For Farlin had passed out of sight in that direction and the lone horseman had not had time to reach it. Bond loosened his saddle cinch and permitted his horse to graze, while he sat down with his back to a friendly rock covered with moss and proceeded leisurely to roll and light a cigarette. The town that was his goal was off somewhere in the southeast, and, though he never had been there, it could n
ot be such a great distance away. If it served the purpose of his pursuer to permit him to take the lead in the ride to Rocky Point, he was prepared to do so shortly. And, after the swift ride from Sunrise and the final, mad spurt, he entertained no fear of being overtaken.
Bond smoked contentedly. He now felt reasonably sure that Farlin had gone on into town, or that he was well on his way there. He had seen him start in this direction, and there was no other town within a great radius of miles to go to. And the gambler had made no preparations for a longer ride. Lester had as much as said he was headed for Rocky Point.
While he was smoking and resting, Bond kept a sharp look-out in all directions, as well as about the ridge where he maintained his vigil, and his ears were alert to the slightest sound. The sun emerged from the crimson banners on the horizon’s rim and began its climb in the clear eastern sky. Black dots were visible on the flowing plain of green where cattle grazed. It was a quiet scene of solitary splendor and more than once the youth’s thoughts flew back to Gladys Farlin in the wicked town in its setting of beauty, where the benchlands marched up to the foothills of the Rockies in the west. Youth and dawn and a universe of green, with a cool breeze playing, and a subtle, faint perfume as evasive as the movement of the atmosphere—boundless life, and joyous.
Bond stamped out the light in the end of his second smoke and rose quickly. He stretched his six feet of height luxuriously. Then he caught up his horse and tightened the cinch.
“If that hombre is waiting for us to start, horse, we’re on our way,” he said softly. Before he mounted, he drew his gun and examined it carefully, sliding it back and forth on his right palm, balancing it, and then whipping it back into its sheath with a move so fast that it might have been the lightning work of a machine.
He rode down the ridge on its east side where the small trees were far apart, and, in no time at all, so to speak, was on the trail that led straight across the rolling plain into the hazy southeast. He looked behind constantly and held his pace to a sharp lope. But there were no signs of pursuit. He decided that his follower was content to let him go on ahead, and he turned his whole attention to the business of getting into town as quickly as possible without calling upon his mount’s reserve of speed.
The dust raised by Farlin’s horse was hardly laid when Bond rode into Rocky Point.
By the simple expedient of massaging the liveryman’s palm with a silver dollar, Bond learned that “his friend,” Dan Farlin, had preceded him by a matter, almost, of minutes. He put up his own horse, carried his pack into the barn office, and made a few changes in his attire—after having used plenty of water and soap—and then avoided the gambler by going to a café to eat instead of to the hotel.
So Lester did not believe him to be the notorious Bovert, eh? At least, he had told Lawson that. Bond thought he had been lying. It did not require any great amount of sleuthing to hang around and witness Farlin’s visit to the bank. His next move, for the bad man he was reputed to be, was a queer one. He secured his directions and proceeded straight to the county jail, which was a squat, square, stone building on a side street, graciously shaded from the hot rays of the sun by several big cottonwoods.
Sheriff Mills glanced casually from his newspaper to his visitor and took his feet from his desk as a token of respect and nodded in greeting.
“You the sheriff?” drawled Bond.
The official put down his paper with another nod. “Yes, I’m Sheriff Mills,” he confessed, as if unwilling to make the concession as to his identity. “You want to see me?”
“Well . . . yes,” Bond admitted. “Do you want to see me?”
“I always want to see anybody that has business here,” was the sheriff’s reply as his bushy brows drew together.
“That’s it.” Bond nodded. “I don’t know if I have any business here or not, to spill the juicy truth.”
“Then what did you come for?” Mills demanded.
“They as much as told me up in Sunrise that you’re looking for a man named Bovert,” said Bond calmly.
“Well, what of it?” growled the sheriff, biting off the end of a black cigar and staring hard at his visitor.
“They seem to think I’m Bovert.”
“Well, are you? And whether you are or not, you can sit down.”
Bond accepted the invitation. “If I’m Bovert, you ought to know,” he evaded. “And if I am this gent, what do you want me for?”
“Who thinks you’re Bovert?” the sheriff parried.
Bond tipped back his hat and sighed. “I guess you remember when I rode in on my way to Sunrise the other morning. Dan Farlin and you came prancing along when I was asking directions of Gladys . . . of Farlin’s daughter who I happened to meet up with out there east of town. He seemed peeved, and you rode on back here.”
“Oh, yes.” Mills displayed more interest. “Yes, I remember now. You said your name was . . . was . . . ?”
“Bond. Jim Bond,” the youth put in impatiently. “You’ll remember I told him my word was as good as my name, but it didn’t seem to make much of a hit with him.”
“That’s right.” Mills nodded. “Dan’s queer sometimes.”
“This whole business seems queer to me!” Bond exploded. “I drift into Sunrise quiet as a kitten and find you’ve got ’em all het up by telling ’em a bad one called Bovert is on his way there, and to lay off. That big bag of wind, Tom Lester, gets it into his head I’m this man-eater, and sicks one of Lawson’s crowd on me to feel me out. He’s got Farlin to thinking the same thing. For all I know, that cut-throat Lawson’s got it in his head, too . . . and he’s nothing to meet on a dark night.”
“I see.” The sheriff yawned. “You seem to be having a hard time of it.” His look and tone changed. “Suppose I said you are Bovert, and slammed you into jail?” he exclaimed curtly.
“You’d have a lot to prove afterward,” Bond said coolly.
“You seem mighty sure of yourself, almost too sure, I’d say,” was the sheriff’s rejoinder. “Maybe you’re wondering if I’ve got any authority around these parts. Now you’ve busted in here and shot a lot of questions, so I’m going to shoot a few back. Get me?” There was no mistaking the official’s seriousness, for the way he put it showed that he meant every word he said.
“It’s all right with me,” Bond retorted defiantly.
“What did you mean by saying that Lester sicked one of Lawson’s men on you? Who was it, and what happened? That’s number one.”
“I’ll have to pass your number one, Sheriff,” Bond answered complacently. “Lester wanted to try me out to see if I was the man he thought, that’s all. I’m not here to give out information. If I’m the man you think, and you’ve got anything on me and want to jug me, why, I guess I’ve got everything with me I need to go to jail. Here’s my gun.” The weapon was on the desk before his last word was out.
The sheriff looked at him steadily, chewing on his cigar. “Maybe you’ll answer number two,” he said less sternly. “Did you follow anybody into town?”
Bond hesitated, puckering his brows. “Yes,” he replied finally.
Sheriff Mills looked vaguely about the office, and then again centered his eyes on Bond.
“That’s fair enough,” he decided aloud. “I saw Dan come in, and you showed up next, so I could have guessed it all by myself. Number three makes it harder. Did anybody follow you in?” His gaze was now keen.
“I . . . don’t know.” Bond was puzzled by the sheriff’s manner. And he really did not know if the lone rider had followed him, or had preceded him, for that matter. He had a feeling that the man across the desk from him was getting more information than Bond was.
“Humph,” grunted the sheriff.
A long silence ensued. The sheriff relit his cigar, puffed upon it violently until it was burning well, looked critically at the end, and stared out the window where the leaves of the trees stirred and whispered in the breath of wind. Jim Bond turned his hat about in his hands by the brim, looked
at the sheriff with a frown, and then at the gun on the desk.
“You want that gun?” he demanded.
Mills looked at the gun as if he were seeing it for the first time. “Nope. I’ve got one of my own that suits me, and I can use it when I have to. Nice gun, though.”
Bond cleared his throat, and, without taking his eyes from the official, retrieved the weapon and slipped it into its holster. It was as if he expected the sheriff to come to life with a quick move the instant he reached for the six-shooter.
Another silence.
“Suppose I said I am Bovert?” said Bond suddenly, his eyes narrowing ever so little.
“That’s your business,” was the exasperating reply.
Bond swore softly under his breath. “It begins to look as if I didn’t have any business here in the first place . . . or now,” he said, slamming on his hat.
“I take it your memory is average,” said Mills. “If you’ll stir it up a little, you’ll remember I didn’t send for you.” He looked at his visitor coldly.
Bond rose and leaned one hand on the official’s desk, looking down at him with a quizzical light in his eyes and a queer smile on his lips.
“Sheriff,” he said slowly, “we’ve either told each other a lot, or nothing, but we’ve each learned something. I’m not exactly sure what you’ve learned, and I’m not going to ask you, because you wouldn’t tell me if I did.” He paused, and Mills nodded brightly. “But I’m going to tell you what I’ve learned,” Bond went on, “and that is that you’re a mighty slick article.” He drew out his last words and emphasized each of them with a solemn nod.
“There was only one other man who told me that.” The sheriff sighed. “And he’s dead.”
“Died a natural death, I suppose,” said Bond sarcastically.
“All men die naturally,” the sheriff observed dryly, picking up his paper. “Something inside ’em stops working and they die.”
“Yes,” snorted Bond in disgust. “They die. So long.” He turned to go.
Bullets in the Sun Page 10