CHAPTER XVII
It is one of the compensating laws of existence that the crisis ofhuman despair and grief is reached on the instant that the reason forit becomes apparent; thereafter it occupies itself for a season in thegradual process of wearing itself out. Time is the great healer of humanwoe, and if in the darkness of despair one tiny ray of hope can filterthrough, an automatic rebound to the normal conditions of life quicklyfollows. The death of a loved one would not be endurable, were it notthat Hope dares to reach beyond the grave.
For three days following her discovery of Bob McGraw's name writtenbeneath the sweat-band of the outlaw's hat, Donna Corblay lay on herbed at the Hat Ranch, battling with herself in an effort to refrain fromthinking the terrible thoughts that persisted in obtruding themselvesupon her tortured brain. For three days, and the greater portion of twonights, she had cried aloud to the four dumb walls of the Hat Ranch:
"He didn't do it. He couldn't do it. My Bob couldn't do such a thing.It's some terrible mistake. Oh, my husband! My dear, thoughtless,impulsive husband! Oh, Bob! Bob! Come back and face them and tell themyou didn't do it. Only tell me, and I'll believe you and stick by youthrough everything."
And then the horrible thought that he was guilty; that even now he wasbeing hunted, hatless, hungry, weary and thirsty--a pariah with everyhonest man's hand raised against him--reminded her that the limit ofher wretchedness lay, not in the fact that her faith in him had beenshattered, but in the more appalling consciousness that he would notcome back to her! Wild herald of woe and death, he had flitted into herlife--as carelessly as he came he had departed, and she knew he wouldnot come back.
Yes, Bob was too shrewd a man not to realize that in abandoning hishat he had left behind him the evidence that must send him to thepenitentiary should he ever return to his old haunts in Inyo and Monocounties. He loved his liberty too well to sacrifice it, and he knew hercode. It did not seem possible to Donna that he would have the audacityto face her again; so, man-like, he would not try.
And then she would think of him as she had seen him that first night,leaning on Friar Tuck's neck and gazing at her in the dim ghostly lightof a green switch-lantern--telling her with his eyes that he loved her.She recalled his little mocking inscrutable smile, the manhood that hadwon her to him when first they met, and against all this she rememberedthat she had presented him with the hat which the express messenger hadshowed her--she had seen him write his name in indelible pencil underthe leathern sweat-band!
She knew he had ridden north from San Pasqual the night before thehold-up--and thirty-five miles was as much as one small tough horsecould do in the desert between the hour at which Bob had left her andhis presumable arrival at Garlock, where he lay in wait for the stage.The automatic gun, the hat, the khaki clothing, the blue bandannahandkerchief which the bandit had used for a mask, the fact that hewas mounted--all had pointed to her husband as the bandit. Butthe description of the horse was at variance with the facts, andmoreover--Donna thought of this on the third day--where had Bob gottenthat rifle with which he killed the express messenger's horse?
He had no rifle when he entered San Pasqual that first night, and hehad had none when he left. The hardware store always closed at eighto'clock, and it had been ten o'clock when Bob left the Hat Ranch--sohe could not have purchased a rifle in San Pasqual. He could not havegotten it in the desert between San Pasqual and Garlock, for in thedesert men do not sell their guns, and if Bob had taken the gun by forcefrom some lone prospector, news of his act would have drifted into SanPasqual next day.
It was then that Donna ceased sobbing and commenced to think, for evenif her head inclined her to weigh the evidence and render a verdict, herheart was too loyal to accept it. The memory of Bob McGraw was alwayswith her--his humorous brown eyes, the swing to his big body as hewalked beside her, big gentleness, his unfailing courtesy, his almostbombastic belief in himself--no, it was not possible that he could bea hypocrite. That perverse streak in him, the heritage of his Irishforebears, would not have permitted him to run from the messenger.The man with courage enough to turn outlaw and rob a stage had courageenough to kill his man, and Bob McGraw would have fought it out in theopen, He would never have taken to the shelter of a sand-dune and firedfrom ambush. _Bob McGraw, having brains, would have killed the messengerand gone back for his hat!_ He was too cunning a frontiersman to leavea trail like that behind him and it was no part of his nature to doa half-way job. Still, the man who had robbed that stage had had nohobbles on his courage. Why, if he--he must have had a reason for notcaring to recover that hat--When the desert-bred think, they thinkquickly; their conclusions are logical. They always search forthe reason. The man whose desperate courage had been equal to thatrobbery--who had accomplished his task with the calm ease and urbanitywhich proclaimed him a finished product of his profession, should haveargued the question with the messenger at greater length! _He shouldhave disputed with him possession of the hat,_ for in the desert ahat is more than a hat. It is a matter of life and death, and when theoutlaw had abandoned his hat it must have been because he knew where hecould secure another before day should dawn and find him bareheaded inthe open. Had Bob been the robber he would have remembered that hisname was in the hat, and rescued it, even at the price of the expressmessenger's life, for self-preservation is ever the first law of nature.On the other hand, if the bandit had known that the name was in thehat--
The mistress of the Hat Ranch rose from her bed, while a wild hope beatin her breast and beamed in her tear-dimmed eyes. She went into the roomwhere she kept her stock of hats and began a careful examination of eachhat. Nearly all bore some insignia of ownership. Derby hats invariablycarried the owner's initials in fancy gilt letters pasted inside thecrown, while others had the initials neatly punched in the sweat-bandby a perforating machine. Half a dozen hats, apparently unbranded,had initials or names in full written in indelible pencil inside theirsweat-bands.
Donna, considered an authority on male headgear, was for the first timelearning something of the habits of men--the too frequent necessityfor quickly identifying one's hat from a row of similar hats from thehat-hooks in crowded restaurants. Outwardly the hats of all mankindresemble each other, and for the first time Donna realized that it wasthe habit of men to mark them. She pondered.
"Now, here is a hat bearing the name of James Purdy. Suppose I shouldsell this hat to Dan Pennycook (unconsciously she mentioned Mr.Pennycook, who dared not buy a hat from her) and he should hold up thestage and have the hat shot off his head. The express messenger whopicked it up would go looking for a man named James Purdy. Perhaps--"
Donna sat down and commenced to laugh hysterically. She had justremembered that Bob McGraw had lost a hat the night he came to SanPasqual!
Donna ceased laughing presently and commenced to cry again--withbitterness and shame at the thought of her disloyalty to her husband.Why, she hadn't sold a hat like Bob's for a year. He had lost his hatthe night he saved her from the attack of the hoboes, and somebody hadpicked it up. She remembered Bob's complaint at the loss of his hat,because it was new and had cost him twenty dollars! Some one in SanPasqual had found it, realized its value and decided to keep it. Itfollowed, then, that the man who had found that hat the night Bob lostit had held up the stage at Garlock. And knowing of the name under thesweat-band (for evidently it was Bob's habit to brand all of his hatsthus) and realizing that the finding of the hat would divert suspicionfrom him, the outlaw had abandoned the hat without a fight!
As Harley P. Hennage would have put it, the entire situation was now asclear as mud!
"And to think that I even suspected him for a moment!" Donna wailed."Oh, Bob, what will you think of me! I'm a bad, worthless, disloyalwife. Oh, Bob, I'm so sorry and ashamed!"
She was, indeed. But sorrow and shame under such circumstances mayexist, at the outset, for about ten minutes. The resurgent wave ofjoy which her discovery induced quickly routed the last vestige ofher distress, and womanlike her first impulse, as a wife
, was to wreaksummary vengeance on the man who had asserted that her husband hadrobbed the stage! The idea! She would ascertain the name of thispassenger who declared that he had recognized the bandit as Bob McGraw,and force him to make a public apology--
No, she would not do that. To do so would be to presume that her Bob wasnot, like Caesar's wife, above suspicion, and besides, it would spoilHarley P.'s little joke on San Pasqual. And there was really no dangerof Bob's arrest. The sheriff's posse was trailing the other man outacross the San Bernardino desert, while Bob, serenely unconscious of thefuror created by the finding of his lost hat, was trudging through therange, miles to the north, headed east from Coso Springs with his twoburros, circling across country to the Colorado desert and prospectingas he went. Her defense of him when he needed none would merely serve toinvite the query: "Why are you so interested in him!" and until the dayof Bob's return, she did not wish to answer "Because he is my husband."
No, it would be far better to sit calmly by and enjoy the industry ofthe man-hunters; then, when Bob returned, he would defend himself inhis own vigorous fashion, much to the chagrin of his accusers and theconsequent delight of Harley P. Hennage.
Thinking of Mr. Hennage reminded her that he had sent a note by SamSinger. In her distress she had forgotten about it until now; so, afterbathing her eyes, she opened the envelope and acquainted herself withits remarkable contents.
Poor old Harley P.! She read the distress between the lines of thatkindly lie that he was in trouble and had to get out of San Pasqual--andas she fingered the little roll of bills she discovered no paradox inHarley P.'s hard face and still harder reputation and the oft-repeatedbiblical quotation that God makes man to His own image and likeness.
A thousand dollars! How well she knew why he had sent it! He fearedthat she, like him, would have to leave San Pasqual to avoid answeringquestions, and fearing that she was but indifferently equipped toface the world, he had refrained from asking questions. Instead he hadequipped her, and in his unassuming way had departed without waiting forher thanks or leaving an address--infallible evidence that he desiredneither her gratitude nor the return of the money.
"Poor fellow!" she murmured. "How terrible he'll feel when he discoversit's all a mistake. He'll be ashamed to speak to me. Still, why shouldhe feel chagrined at all? He hasn't said a word."
Foxy Mr. Hennage! It was quite true. He hadn't said a word! Ah, moneytalks; despite his precautions, Harley P.'s thousand dollars were veryeloquent.
The next day Donna took up her life where it had left off. She hadscarcely cached Harley P.'s thousand dollars in her private compartmentin the eating-house safe when the irrepressible Miss Molly Pickettdropped in to express her sympathy at Donna's three-day illness,casually mentioned the stage robbery, the name in the hat and the suddenexit from San Pasqual of Harley P. Hennage. Incidentally she mentionedthe fact that Mr. Hennage had once presented her with an order for aregistered letter for a man by the name of Robert McGraw, and takinginto consideration this fact and the further fact that birds of afeather always flock together, Miss Pickett opined that the hold-up manwas doubtless a bosom friend of Mr. Hennage.
A hearty dinner the evening before, and twelve hours of uninterruptedslumber, had driven from Donna's face every trace of her three days ofpurgatory. She was alert, smiling and happy; and able to cross swordswith Miss Pickett with something more than a gossamer hope of foilingher. She discussed the affair so calmly and with such apparent interestthat Miss Pickett was completely mystified, and in a last desperateeffort to satiate her curiosity she cast aside all pretense and cameboldly into the open.
"Folks do say, Donna, that the man who was shot saving you from thosetramps and was nursed at the Hat Ranch is the same man that held up thestage."
"Indeed! Miss Pickett, folks don't know what they are talking about.Have you asked Doctor Taylor?"
Miss Pickett commenced to spar. As a matter of fact she _had_ asked DocTaylor, and been informed that his late patient responded to the name ofRoland McGuire. But there was a hang-dog look in the doctor's eyes whichhad not escaped Miss Pickett, and intuitively she knew that the worthy_medico_ had lied. Donna's question convinced her that she was notmistaken. Her bright little eyes gleamed archly.
"Why, we never did learn who it was that saved you, Donna. Is it asecret?"
"Why, no."
Miss Pickett waited in agony for ten seconds, but Donna, having repliedfully to her query, volunteered no further information. In desperationthe post-mistress demanded:
"Well, then, why do you keep it to yourself?"
"Is that any of your business, Miss Pickett?"
"No, of course not. But then--"
"Well?"
Miss Pickett was non-plussed, but only for an instant. Like all oldmaids when bested in a battle of wits by an opponent of their own sex,younger, more attractive and known to be popular with the males oftheir acquaintance, Miss Pickett was quick to take the high ground ofa tactful consideration of circumstances which Donna apparently hadoverlooked; circumstances which, while savoring slightly of girlishindiscretion, might, nevertheless, be construed as a distinct slipfrom virtue. An attack, whether by innuendo or direct assertion, ona sister's virtue is ever the first weapon of a mean and disappointedwoman, and having no other charms to speak of, Miss Pickett choseto assume that of superior virtue; so, with the subtle sting of herspecies, she sunk her poison home.
"Well, Donna, if you won't protect your own good name, I'm sure youshouldn't be surprised if your friends endeavor to protect it for you.Everybody in town knows you kept that man at your home for a month--"
"I haven't denied it, or attempted to conceal the fact. In what mannerdoes that reflect on my good name, Miss Pickett?"
"Well, folks _will_ talk--you know that."
"Of course I know they will. That's their privilege, Miss Pickett, andI'm not at all interested, I assure you." She smiled patronizingly atthe postmistress. "When I want somebody to protect my good name, MissPickett, I'll send for a man. Until then you may consider yourselfrelieved of the task."
"Well, when people know you've kept a desperate character--"
"Who knows it, Miss Pickett? Do you?"
Miss Pickett was forced to acknowledge that she did not, and under a hotvolley of questions from Donna admitted further that not a soul inSan Pasqual had even hinted to her of such a contingency. Too late thespinster realized that she had, figuratively speaking, placed all of hereggs in one bucket and scrambled them.
Donna realized it too. For the first time in her life she was angry,although not for worlds would she permit Miss Pickett to realize it.She had the postmistress on the defensive now, and she was determinedto keep her there; so, in calm gentle commiserating tones Donna read theriot act to the embarrassed gossip. Mentally, morally, physically andsocially, she was Miss Pickett's superior and Miss Pickett knew this;her instinctive knowledge of it placed her at a disadvantage and forcedher to listen to a few elegantly worded remarks on charity, the follyof playing the part of guardian of a sister's morals and the innatenastiness of throwing mud. It was a rare grueling that Donna gave MissPickett; the pity of it was that Mr. Hennage could not have been thereto listen to it.
The postmistress was confounded. She could think of nothing to sayin reply until the right moment for saying it had fled; and her prideforbade her acknowledging defeat by tossing her head and walking outwith a grand air of injured innocence. In the end she lost her composureentirely, for while Donna's remarks had seemed designed for the "folks"whom Miss Pickett seemed to fear might "talk," the latter knew that inreality they were directed at her.
To be forced to listen to an almost motherly castigation from DonnaCorblay was too great a tax upon Miss Pickett's limited powers ofendurance. She flew into a rage, all the more pitiful because it wasimpotent, murmured something about the ingratitude of some people--"notmentionin' any names, but not exceptin' present company," and swept outof the eating-house; not, however, until she had commenced to cry, thusac
knowledging her defeat and humiliation and presenting to San Pasqualthat meanest of all mean sights, a mean old maid, in a rage, weepinguntil her eyes and nose are red.
In the afternoon Donna had a visit from a Wells Fargo & Companydetective. He was a large fatherly person, who might have had girls ofhis own as old as Donna, and he stated his mission without embarrassmentof preliminary verbal skirmishing. "From various sources around town,Miss Corblay, I gather that it is quite possible you are acquainted withthe man McGraw who is suspected of the recent stage robbery at Garlock."
Donna admitted, smiling, that it was quite possible.
"Have you any objection to telling me all you know about him?"
"Not the slightest. It is your business to investigate this matter, andI have refrained from telling others whose business it is not. If I haveyour word of honor that what I tell you is for the company you representand not for the gossips of San Pasqual, I can save you time and troubleand expense."
"Thank you. It is a rare pleasure, I assure you, Miss Corblay, for a manin my line of work to receive such a prompt, courteous and businesslikeanswer from a woman. You have my word that anything you tell me is inconfidence."
"Did Miss Pickett send you here?"
"Indirectly. She gave some information to our express messenger whoin turn gave it to me. I might add that the interest of our messengerceased when I took up this case."
"Very well" replied Donna, and proceeded to tell him with infinitedetail, everything she knew concerning Bob McGraw, excepting the factthat he was her husband. In five minutes she had tightened the web ofcircumstantial evidence around him, and then unloosened it, and at thefinish of her recital the detective had no questions to ask. He held outhis hand and shook hers warmly.
"I think you have solved this case for me, Miss Corblay. However,there is one matter that will be hard to overcome, and that is theidentification of McGraw by the passenger, Carey."
"Who?"
"A passenger. His name is T. Morgan Carey, of Los Angeles. He is ratherprominent in business circles--a pretty sane, careful man, and histestimony would have considerable evidence with a jury."
"Find out from the messenger if Carey identified Bob--I mean Mr. McGraw(the detective smiled slightly) before the messenger gave chase to thehold-up man, or after he returned with the hat. If the latter, I canexplode his testimony. I happen to know that Mr. Carey is a businessrival of Mr. McGraw's and very unfriendly to him. It would be to Carey'sgreat financial advantage to see Bob (again the detective smiled) injail. Then ask your agent at Keeler to make inquiry and learn if a tallyoung man with auburn hair didn't ride into town the day followingthe hold-up, mounted on a roan horse. If he sold the horse, saddle andspurs, purchased two burros and outfitted in Keeler for a prospectingtrip, that man was Mr. Robert McGraw and he didn't arrive bareheaded. Ithink you'll discover that you're following a false lead."
The detective could guess a thing or two; otherwise he would not havebeen a detective. He guessed something of Donna's more than friendlyinterest in the man he was after; an interest which he felt to begreater than a mere feeling of gratitude for what McGraw had saved herfrom, and his sympathies wore with her. She had been "open and aboveboard with him" and he appreciated the embarrassment that might attendshould the matter be given publicity.
"Whatever I discover will not be made public, Miss Corblay. Thank you."
He lifted his hat and walked out, while Donna, selecting one of the latemagazines from the news-stand, sat down and read for the rest of theafternoon.
Eight days passed before the detective appeared again at the counter.
"Miss Corblay," he reported smiling, "you're a better detective than I.McGraw didn't do the job--that is, your--Bob. But some other McGraw did.The fact is, he's sent back the money he lifted from the company and thepassengers. At least, a number of them have reported the return of theircash. Here's a note the agent here received a little while ago."
He passed a type-written sheet across the counter to her. Donna read itcarefully.
"The plot thickens. However, this is only added proof that my line ofreasoning is correct. This line, 'I didn't have no business to do itin the first place,' clinches the testimony. The Robert McGraw of myacquaintance never uses double negatives."
"And he couldn't have arrived in Goldfield with a burro train in lessthan six weeks. You say this man uses double negatives. There's a clew.Who, among your acquaintances, Miss Corblay, uses double negatives?"
"Every soul with the exception of Mr. McGraw" replied Donna. "Followinga clew like that in San Pasqual would be like looking for a needle in ahaystack. But I think I could name the man who wrote that note."
"Who is he?"
Donna favored the detective with a mocking little smile.
"He's a friend of mine" she said, "and I never go back on a friend."
"Well," he replied jokingly, "I can't imagine a friend going back onyou. However, I'll not be curious about this chap. He appears contrite,and the incident is closed. But all the same, this is one of thequeerest cases I've had in all my experience," and he went out, stillpuzzled.
The Long Chance Page 17