The Long Chance

by Peter B. Kyne

  CHAPTER XV

  The once prosperous mining camp of Garlock is a name and a memory now.Were it not that the railroad has been built in from San Pasqual ahundred and fifty miles up country through the Mojave, Garlock would bea memory only. But some official of the road, imbued, perhaps, witha remnant of sentimental regret for the fast-vanishing glories of thepast, has caused to be erected beside the track a white sign carryingthe word Garlock in black letters; otherwise one would scarcely realizethat once a thriving camp stood in the sands back of this sign-boardof the past. Even in the days when the stage line operated between SanPasqual and Keeler, Garlock had run its race and the Argonauts had movedon, leaving the rusty wreck of an old stamp-mill, the decayed fragmentsof half a dozen pine shanties and a few adobe _casas_ with the sod roofsfallen in.

  There are a few deep uncovered wells in this deserted camp, filthy withthe rotting carcasses of desert animals which have crawled down thesewells for life--and remained for death. But no human being resides inGarlock. It is a sad and lonely place. The hills that rise back of theruins are scarlet with oxide of iron; in the sheen of the westering sunthey loom harsh and repellent, provocative of the thought that fromthe very inception of Garlock their crests have been the arena ofmurder--spattered with the blood of the hardy men who made the camp andthen deserted it.

  Therefore, one would not be surprised at anything happening inGarlock--where it would seem a wanton waste of imagination to lookforward to anything happening--yet at about noon of the day that HarleyP. Hennage looked over the rail fence into the feed corral at SanPasqual and discovered that Bob McGraw's horse was gone, a man on atired horse rode up from the south, turned in through the ruined doorwayof one of the roofless tumble-down adobe houses, and concealed himselfand his horse in the area formed by the four crumbling walls.

  He dismounted, unsaddled and rubbed down his dripping horse withhandfuls of the withered grasses that grew within the ruins. Next, theman hunted through Garlock until he found an old rusty kerosene canwith a wire handle fitted through it, and to this he fastened a longhorsehair hitching rope and drew water from one of the filthy wells. Thehorse drank greedily and nickered reproachfully when the man informedhim that he must cool off before being allowed to drink his fill.

  For an hour the man sat on his saddle and smoked; then, after drawingseveral cans of water for the horse, he spread the saddle-blanket on theground and poured thereon a feed of oats from a meager supply cached onthe saddle. From the saddle-bags he produced a small can of roast beefand some dry bread, which he "washed down" with water from his canteenwhile the horse munched at the oats.

  Late in the afternoon the man stepped to the ruined doorway and lookedsouth. Three miles away a splotch of dust hung high in the stillatmosphere; beneath it a black object was crawling steadily towardGarlock. It was the up stage from San Pasqual for Keeler, and thestranger in Garlock had evidently been awaiting its arrival, for hedodged back into the enclosure, saddled his horse, gathered up his fewbelongings and seemed prepared to evacuate at a moment's notice. Hepeered out, as the old Concord coach lurched through the sand past thebones of Garlock, and observed the express messenger nodding a littlewearily, his eyes half closed in protest against the glare of earth andsky.

  Suddenly the express messenger started, and looked up. He had a hauntingimpression that somebody was watching him--and he was not mistaken. Overthe crest of an adobe wall he saw the head and shoulders of a man.Also he saw one of the man's hands. It contained a long blue-barreledautomatic pistol, which was pointed at him. From behind a mask fashionedfrom a blue bandanna handkerchief came the expected summons:

  "Hands up!"

  The driver pulled up his horses and jammed down the brake. The expressmessenger, surprised, hesitated a moment between an impulse to obeythe stern command and a desire to argue the matter with his sawed-offshotgun. The man behind the wall, instantly realizing that he must beimpressive at all cost, promptly fired and lifted the pipe out of themessenger's mouth. The latter swore, and his arms went over his head ina twinkling.

  "Don't do that again" he growled. "I know when a man's got the drop onme."

  "I was afraid your education had been neglected" the hold-up manretorted pleasantly. "Throw out the box! No, not you. The driver willthrow it out. You keep your hands up."

  The express box dropped into the greasewood beside the trail with aheavy metallic thud that augured a neat profit for the man behind thewall.

  "The passengers will please alight on this side of the stage, turn theirpockets inside out and deposit their coin on top of the box"continued the road agent. "My friend with the spike beard and the goldeye-glasses! You dropped something on the bed of the stage. Pick it up,if you're anxious to retain a whole hide. Thank you! That pocketbooklooks fat. Now, one at a time and no crowding. Omit the jewelry. I wantcash."

  The highwayman continued to discourse affably with his victims while thelittle pile of coin and bills on top of the box grew steadily. When itwas evident that the job was complete he ordered the passengers backinto the stage and addressed the driver.

  "Drive right along now and remember that it's a sure sign of bad luck tolook back. I have a rifle with me and I'm considered a very fair shot upto five hundred yards. Remember that--you with the sawed-off shotgun!"

  "Good-by" replied the messenger. "See you later, I hope."

  The horses sprang to the crack of the driver's whip, and the stagerolled north on its journey. When it was a quarter of a mile away theman behind the wall came out into the road and shot the padlock off theexpress box, transferred the fruits of his industry to his saddle-bags,mounted and rode out of Garlock across the desert valley, headednortheast for Johannesburg.

  As he rode out into the open a rifle cracked and a bullet whined overhim. He glanced in the direction whence the sound of the shot came andobserved a man on a white horse riding rapidly toward him. The banditsuddenly remembered that the off leader on the stage team was white.

  "Old man, you're as clever as you are brave" muttered the banditadmiringly. "You unhook the off leader while I'm monkeying with the box,dig up a rifle and come for me riding bareback. Well, I'm not out tokill anybody if I can help it, and my horse has had a nice rest. I'llrun for it."

  He did. The rifle cracked again and the bandit's wide-brimmed hat rosefrom his head and sailed away into the sage. He looked back at it atrifle dubiously, but he knew better than to stop to recover that hat,in the face of such close snap-shooting. That express messenger was toodeadly--and too game; so the bandit merely spurred his horse, lay lowon his neck and swept across the desert. When he came to a little swalebetween some sandhills he dipped into it, pulled up, dismounted andwaited. The sun was setting behind the gory hills now, and glinted on arifle which the bandit drew from a gun-boot which a broad sweat leatherhalf concealed. It was better shooting-light now; distances were notquite so deceptive.

  Suddenly the man on the white horse appeared on the crest of a distantsand-hill. The outlaw, leaning his rifle across his horse's back,sighted carefully and fired; the white horse went to his knees and hisrider leaped clear. Instantly the pursued man vaulted into his saddleand rode furiously away. A dozen shots whipped the sage around him;one of them notched the ear of his straining mount, but in the end thebullets dropped short, the sun set, and through the gathering gloom theoutlaw jogged easily up the long sandy slope toward Johannesburg. It wasquite dark when he rode around the town to the north, circled throughthe range back of Fremont's Peak and headed out across Miller's DryLake, bound for Barstow.

  As for the express messenger, he removed the bridle from his dead horseand trudged back to the waiting coach. On the way he back-tracked theoutlaw's trail until he came to the man's hat, which he appropriated.

  Donna Corblay was at the eating-house when the first down stage fromKeeler came into San Pasqual with the news of the hold-up at Garlockthe day before. The town was abuzz with excitement for an hour, when thenews became stale. After all, stage hold-ups were not infrequent i
n thatcountry, and Donna paid no particular heed to the commonplace occurrenceuntil the return to San Pasqual two days later of the stage which hadbeen robbed.

  The express messenger told her the story when he came to the counterto pay for his rib steak and coffee. He had with him at the time abroad-brimmed gray sombrero, pinched to a peak, with a ragged hole closeto the apex of the peak.

  "I wanted to show you this, Miss Corblay" he said, as he exhibited thisbattered relic of the fray. "You do a pretty good trade in hats, andit's just possible you might have handled this sombrero in the line o'business. Ever recollect sellin' a hat to this fellow--his name's--lemmesee--his name's Robert McGraw? It's written inside the sweat-band."

  He drew the band back and displayed the name in indelible pencil.

  "I lifted it off'n his head with my second shot" the messengerexplained. "He was goin' like a streak an' it was snap-shootin', or he'dnever 'a got away from me. As it was, I sent him on his way bareheaded,and a bareheaded man is easily traced in the desert. We sent word overto Johannesburg and Randsburg, an' somebody reported seein' a bareheadedman ridin' around the town after dark. We have him headed off atBarstow, and if he can't get through there, he'll have to head up intothe Virginia Dale district--and he'll last about a day up there, unlesshe knows the waterholes. We'll get him, sooner or later, dead or alive.Remember sellin' anybody by that name a hat? It might help if you hadan' could describe him. All I could see was his eyes. He was behind awall when he stuck us up." "No" said Donna quietly, "I--" She paused.She could not articulate another word. Had the express messenger beenwatching her instead of the hat, he might have noticed her agitation.Her eyes were closed in sudden, violent pain, and she leaned forwardheavily against the counter.

  "Don't remember him, eh? Well, perhaps he wasn't from San Pasqual. ButI thought I'd ask you, anyhow, because if he was from this town it wasa good chance he bought this hat from you. Much obliged, just the same,"and gathering up his change the express messenger departed to makeroom for Harley P. Hennage, who was standing next in line to pay hismeal-check.

  Donna opened her eyes and sighed--a little gasping sob, and turned herquivering face to the gambler. He smiled at her, striving patheticallyto do it naturally. Instead, it was a grimace, and there was the lookof a thousand devils In his baleful eyes. For an instant their glancesmet--and there were no secrets between them now. Donna moaned in herwretchedness; she placed her arm on the cash register and bowed her headon it, while the other little trembling hand stole across the counter,seeking for his and the comfort which the strong seem able to impart itothe weak by the mere sense of touch.

  "Oh, Harley, Harley" she whispered brokenly, "the light's--gone out--ofthe world--and I can't--cry. I--I--I can't. I can--only--suffer."

  Harley P.'s great freckled hand closed over hers and held it fast,while with his other hand he touched her beautiful head with paternaltenderness.

  "Donnie" he said hoarsely. She did not look up. "I'm sorry you're notfeelin' well, Donnie. You're all upset about somethin', an' you ought togo home an' take a good rest. You don't--you don't look well. I noticedit last night. You looked a mite peaked."

  "Yes, yes" she whispered, clutching at this straw which he held outto her, "I'm ill. I want to go home--oh, Mr. Hennage, please--takeme--home."

  Mr. Hennage turned and beckoned to one of the waitresses whose duty itwas, on Donna's days off, to take her place at the cash counter. As thewaitress started to obey his summons, the gambler turned and spoke toDonna.

  "Buck up and beat it. I can't take you home, an' neither can anybodyelse. You've got to make it alone. When you get to the Hat Ranch, sendSam Singer up to me. Remember, Donnie. Send Sam Singer up."

  He turned again to the waitress. "You'd better take charge here" hesaid. "Miss Corblay's been took sick an' the pain's somethin' terrible.I've been a-tellin' her she ought to have Doc Taylor in to look ather. If I had the pain that girl's a-sufferin' right now I'd be inbed, that's what I would. I'll bet a stack o' blues she got this herepotomaine poisonin'. Better run right along, Miss Donnie, before thepain gets worse, an' I'll see Doc Taylor an' tell him to bring you downsome medicine or somethin'."

  Donna replied in monosyllables to the excited queries of the waitress,pinned on her hat and left the eating-house as quickly as she could. Shewas dry-eyed, white-lipped, sunk in an abyss of misery; for there areagonies of grief and terror so profound that their very intensity damsthe fount of tears, and it was thus with Donna. Harley P. accompaniedher to the door of the eating-house, but he would go no further. Herealized that Donna wanted to talk with him; in a vague way he gatheredthat she looked to him for some words of comfort in her terriblepredicament. Not for worlds, however, would he be seen walking withher in public, thereby laying the foundation for "talk"; and under thecircumstances he realized the danger to her, should he even be seenconversing with her from now on. She pleaded with him with her eyes, buthe shook his head resolutely. He had heard the news. Inadvertently hehad stumbled upon her secret, and she knew this. But she knew also thatnever by word or sign or deed would Harley P. Hennage indicate that hehad heard it. It was like him to ascribe her agitation to illness, andas she turned her heavy footsteps toward the Hat Ranch the memory ofthat loving lie brought the laggard tears at last, and she wept aloud.In her agony she was conscious of a feeling of gratitude to the Almightyfor His perfect workmanship in fashioning a man who was not one of thepresuming kind.

  It seemed to Donna that she must have wandered long in the border-landsof hell before eventually she reached the shelter of the adobe wallsof the Hat Ranch. Soft Wind heard her sobbing and fumbling with therecalcitrant lock on the iron gate, and hurried toward her.

  "My little one! My nestling!" she said in the Cahuilla tongue, andforthwith Donna collapsed in the old squaw's arms. It was the first timeshe had ever fainted.

  When she recovered consciousness she found that she was lying fullydressed, on her bed, at the foot of which Soft Wind and Sam Singer werestanding, gazing at her owlishly. She commenced to sob immediately,and Sam Singer pussy-footed out of the room and fled up town to lay thematter before Harley P. Hennage. For the second time there was a crisisat the Hat Ranch, and Sam yielded to his first impulse, which was toseek help where something told him help would never be withheld.

  In the meantime, Harley P. Hennage had fled to the seclusion of hisroom in the eating-house hotel. The disclosure of the identity of thestage-robber had overwhelmed the gambler with anguish, and he wanted tobe alone to think the terrible affair over calmly. In the language ofhis profession, the buck was clearly up to Mr. Hennage.

  Twice during his eventful career the gambler had sat in poker gameswhere an opponent had held the dead man's hand and paid the penalty. Herecalled now the quick look of terror that had flitted across the faceof each of these men when it came to the show-down and the pot was lostin the smoke; he endeavored to compare it with the sudden despair andsuffering that came into Donna's eyes when the express messenger drewback the sweat-band of the outlaw's hat and showed her Bob McGraw'sprivate brand of ownership.

  "No," moaned Mr. Hennage, "there ain't no comparison. Them two tin-hornswas frightened o' death, but poor little Donnie is plumb fearful o'life, an' there ain't a soul in the world can help her but me. She's gothers, just like her mother did, an' there ain't never goin' to be no joyin them eyes no more, unless I act, an' act lively."

  He sat down on his bed and bowed his bald head in his trembling hands,for once more Harley P. Hennage was face to face with a great issue. He,too, was experiencing some of the agony of a grief that could find nooutlet in tears--a three-year-old grief that could have no ending untilthe end should come for Harley P.

  Presently he roused and looked at his watch. He was horrified todiscover that he had just forty minutes left in which to arrange hisaffairs and leave San Pasqual.

  He went to the window, parted the curtains cautiously and looked out.At the door of the post-office, a half a block down on the other side ofthe street, the expres
s messenger, with the hat still in his hand, stoodconversing with Miss Molly Pickett.

  "You--miserable--old--mischief-maker" he muttered slowly, and withhate and emphasis in every word. "You're tellin' him to see me forinformation concernin' Bob McGraw, ain't you? You're tellin' him thisroad agent's a friend o' mine, because I called for a registered letterfor him once, ain't you? An' now you're takin' him inside to show himthe written order Bob McGraw give me for that registered letter, ain'tyou? You're quite a nice little old maid detective, ain't you, MissMolly? You're tellin' him that I knew the man that saved Donnie Corblay,an' that _he_ was a friend o' mine, too, because I led his roan horse upinto the feed corral an' guaranteed the feed bill. An' everybody knows,or if they don't they soon will, that the initials 'R. McG.' was on thatfool boy's saddle. All right, Miss Pickett! Let 'er flicker. Only themWells Fargo detectives don't get to ask me no questions regardin' thatgirl's husband. Not a dog-gone question! If I stay in this town they'llsubpeeny me an' make me testify under oath, an' then I'll perjure myselfan' get caught at it, an' I'm too old a gambler to get caught bluffin'on no pair. No, indeed, folks, I can't afford it, so I'm just a-goin' tofold my tent like the Arab an' silently fade away."

  Thus reasoned Mr. Hennage. Both by nature and professional training hewas more adept in the science of deduction than most men, and while hehad never seen Donna's marriage license he firmly believed that she hadbeen married. He had looked for the publication of the license in theBakersfield papers. Not having seen it, Mr. Hennage was not disturbed.He understood that Donna, planning to keep on at the eating-house,desired her marriage to remain a secret for the present, and Bob haddoubtless arranged to have the record of the issuance of the license"buried." The fact that Friar Tuck had disappeared from the feed corralon the very night of Donna's return to San Pasqual was to Mr. Hennageprima facie evidence that Bob McGraw had returned with her. Donna hadgone to the Hat Ranch while Bob had saddled and ridden north. At least,since he had come from the north, Mr. Hennage deduced that to the northhe would return. Garlock lay a hard thirty-five miles from San Pasqual,and it seemed reasonable to presume that Bob had stopped there forwater, rested until the stage came along and then robbed it.

  However, there was one weak link in this apparently powerful chain ofevidence. The stage driver and the express messenger both reported thebandit to be mounted on a bay mustang. At close quarters the horse hadbeen, concealed behind the wall with the upper half of his face showing.Well, Bob McGraw's horse was a light roan--a very light roan, withalmost bay ears and head, and at a distance, and in certain lightsand in the excitement of the hold-up, he might very easily have beenmistaken for a bay. Many a bay horse, when covered with alkali dust anddried sweat, has been mistaken for a roan.

  In addition there was the evidence of the automatic pistol! Few men inthat country carried automatics, for an automatic was a weapon too newin those days to be popular, and the residents of the Mojave still clungto tradition and a Colt's.45. The bandit had shown himself peculiarlyexpert in the use of his weapon, having shot the pipe out of themessenger's mouth, merely to impress that unimpressionable functionary.It would have been like Bob McGraw, who carried an automatic and was adead shot, to show off a little!

  However, an alibi might very easily discount all this circumstantialevidence, were it not for the fact that there could be no alibi forBob McGraw, for beyond doubt he must have been in the neighborhood ofGarlock that very day. Then there was the hat, with his name in it; alsothe report that one of the passengers who knew him had recognized thebandit as Bob McGraw.

  "Alibi or no alibi, he'll get twenty years in San Quentin on thatevidence" mourned Harley P. "Oh, Bob, you infernal young rip, if you wasas hard up as all that, why didn't you come to me? Why didn't you trustold Harley P. Hennage with your worries! I'd 'a seen you through. Butyou wouldn't trust me--just went to work an' married that good girl,an' then pulled off a job o' road work to support her. Oh, Bob, you dog,you've broke her heart an' she'll go like her mother went."

  He clenched his big fists and punched the air viciously, in unconsciousexemplification of the chastisement he would mete to Bob McGraw when hemet him again.

  "It ain't often I make a mistake judgin' a man" he muttered piteously,"but I've sure been taken in on this feller. I thought he'd stand theacid--by God! I thought he'd stand it. An' at that there's heaps o' goodin the boy! He must 'a been just desperate for money, an' the notion torob the stage come on him all in a heap an' downed him before he knew.Great Grief! That misfortunate girl! He'll never come back, an' ifthey trace him to her she'll die o' shame. Whiskered bob-cats, I neverthought o' that. She'll have to get out too!"

  The gambler had a sudden thought. Donna could do two things. She couldleave San Pasqual, or she could stand pat! If she said nothing, not asoul could befoul her by linking her name to that of a stage-robber, She_must_ stand pat! There was but one channel through which the news thatBob McGraw had been harbored at the Hat Ranch could possibly filter.People might _think_ what they pleased, but they could never _prove,_provided Doc Taylor remained discreet. Therefore it behooved Mr. Hennageto see Doc Taylor immediately. That possible leak must be plugged atonce.

  Three minutes later the gambler strolled into the drugstore.

  "How" he saluted.

  "Hello, Hennage."

  "What's new?"

  "Nothing much. What do you think about that hold-up at Garlock?"

  "Pretty bold piece o' work, Doc. Do they know who did it?"

  "Fellow named McGraw. And as near as I can make out, Hennage, it's thesame fellow I attended that time down at the Hat Ranch."

  "It is" Mr. Hennage agreed quietly. "At least, I believe it is. That'swhat I called to see you about, Doc. Have you said anything to anybody?"

  "No--not yet. I wasn't quite certain, and I figured on talking it overwith you before I gave Wells Fargo & Company the quiet tip to watch theHat Ranch for their man."

  "Good enough! But they'll be around asking you questions, Doc. Don'tworry about that. They won't wait for you to come to them. Ah' when theycome to you, Doc, you don't know nothin'. _Comprende?_"

  "But McGraw robbed the stage--"

  "He didn't kill nobody, Doc. He wasn't blood-thirsty. He shot the horsewhen he might have shot the messenger. Now, let's be sensible, Doc.Sometimes a feller can accomplish more in this world by keepin' hismouth shut than he can by tellin' every durned thing he knows. Now,as near as I can learn, this outlaw gets away with about four thousanddollars. If the passengers an' the express company get their money back,they'll be glad to let it go at that, an' I'll buy 'em a new padlock forthe express box. This is the young feller's first job, Doc--I'm certaino' that. He ain't _bad_--an' besides, I've got a special interest inhim. Now, listen here, Doc; I've got a pretty good idea where he's goneto hole up until the noise dies down, an' I'm goin' after him myself.I'll make him give up the swag an' send it back; then I'll get him outof the country an' let him start life all over again somewhere else.He's a young feller, Doc, an' it ain't right to kick him when he's down.He oughter be lifted up an' given a chance to make good."

  Doc Taylor shook his head dubiously. He realized that Harley P.'splan was best, and in his innermost soul he commended it as a properChristian course. But he also remembered to have heard somewhere thatgodless men like Harley P. Hennage and the outlaw McGraw had a habit ofbeing friendly and faithful to each other in just such emergencies--asort of "honor among thieves" arrangement, and despite Mr. Hennage'skindly words, Doc Taylor doubted their sincerity. In fact, the wholething was irregular, for even after the return of the stolen moneythe bandit would still owe a debt to society--and moreover, the worthydoctor was the joint possessor, with Harley P. Hennage, of an astoundingsecret, the disclosure of which would make him the hero of San Pasqualfor a day at least.

  "I can't agree to that, Hennage" he began soberly.

  "It doesn't look right to me to let a stage-robber go scot-free--"

  "Well, I tell you, Doc," drawled Mr. Hennage serenely,
"it'd betterlook right to you, an' damned quick at that. You seem to think I'm herea-askin' a favor o' you. Not much. I never ask favors o' no man. I'mjust as independent as a hog on ice; if I don't stand up I can setdown. I run a square game myself an' I want a square game from the otherfellow. Now, Doc, you just so much as say 'Boo' about this thing, an' bythe Nine Gods o' War I'll kill you. D'ye understand, Doc? I'll kill youlike I would a tarantula. An' when they come to ask you the name o' theman you 'tended at the Hat Ranch you tell 'em his name is--lemmesee, now--yes, his name is Roland McGuire. That's a nice name, an' itcorresponds to the initials on the saddle."

  Doc Taylor looked into the gambler's hard face, which was thrust closeto his. The mouth of the worst man in San Pasqual was drawn back in ahalf snarl that was almost coyote-like; his small deep-set eyes bespokeonly too truly the firmness of purpose that lay behind their blazingmenace. For fully thirty seconds those terrible eyes flamed, unblinking,on Doc Taylor; then Mr. Hennage spoke.

  "Now, what is his name goin' to be, Doc?"

  "Roland McGuire" said Doc Taylor, and swallowed his Adam's apple twice.

  "Bright boy. Go to the head o' the class an' don't forget to remember tostick there."