CHAPTER XII
Mr. Oscar Mitchell was a bachelor, though not precisely lorn. He maintained an elm-shaded residence on Front Street, presided over by an ancient housekeeper, of certain and gusty disposition, who had guided his first toddling steps and grieved with him for childhood's insupportable wrongs, and whose vinegarish disapprovals were still feared by Mitchell; it was for her praise or blame that his overt walk and conversation were austere and godly, his less laudable activities so mole-like.
After dinner Mr. Mitchell slipped into a smoking jacket with a violent velvet lining and sat in his den—a den bedecorated after the manner known to the muddle-minded as artistic, but more aptly described by Sir Anthony Gloster as "beastly." To this den came now the sprightly clerk, summoned by telephone.
"Sit down, Pelman. I sent for you because I desire your opinion and cooperation upon a matter of the first importance," said the lawyer, using his most gracious manner.
Mr. Joseph Pelman, pricking up his ears at the smooth conciliation of eye and voice, warily circled the room, holding Mitchell's eyes as he went, selected a corner chair for obvious strategic reasons, pushed it against the wall, tapped that wall apprehensively with a backward-reaching hand, seated himself stiffly upon the extreme edge of the chair, and faced his principal, bolt upright and bristling with deliberate insolence.
"If it is murder I want a third," he remarked.
The lawyer gloomed upon this frowardness.
"That is a poor way to greet an opportunity to make your fortune once and for all," he said. "I have something on hand now, which, if we can swing it—"
"One-third," said the clerk inflexibly.
Mitchell controlled himself with a visible effort. He swallowed hard and began again:
"If we can carry out my plan successfully—and it seems to be safe, and certain, and almost free from risk—there will be no necessity hereafter for any of us to engage in any crooked dealings whatever. Indeed, to take up cleanly ways would be the part of wisdom. Or, young as you are, you will be able to retire, if you prefer, sure of every gratification that money can buy."
"Necessity doesn't make me a crook. I'm crooked by nature. I like crookedness," said Pelman. "That's why I'm with you."
"Now, Joey, don't talk—"
"Don't you 'Joey' me!" exploded the demon clerk. "It was 'fool' this afternoon. I'm Pelman when there's any nerve needed for your schemes; but when you smile at me and call me Joey, what I say is—one-third!"
"You devil! I ought to wring your neck!"
"Try it! I'll stab your black heart with a corkscrew! I've studied it all out, and I've carried a corkscrew on purpose ever since I've known you. Thirty-three and one-third per cent. Three-ninths. Proceed!"
Mitchell paced the floor for a few furious seconds before he began again.
"You remember Mayer Zurich, whom we helped through that fake bankruptcy at Syracuse?"
"Three-ninths?"
"Yes, damn you!"
Joey settled back in his chair, crossed his knees comfortably, screwed his face to round-eyed innocence, and gave a dainty caress to the thin silky line of black on his upper lip.
"You may go on, Oscar," he drawled patronizingly.
After another angry turn, Mitchell resumed with forced composure:
"Zurich is now a fixture in Cobre, Arizona, where my Cousin Stanley lives. I had a letter from him a week ago and he tells me—this is in strict confidence, mind you—that poor Stanley is in jail."
Joey interrupted him by a gentle waving of a deprecatory hand.
"Save your breath, Oscar dear, and pass on to the main proposition. Now that we are partners, in manner of speaking, since your generous concession of a few minutes past—about the thirds—I must be very considerate of you."
As if to mark the new dignity, the junior partner dropped the crude and boisterous phrases that had hitherto marked his converse. Mitchell recognized the subtle significance of this change by an angry gesture.
"Since our interests are now one," continued the new member suavely, "propriety seems to demand that I should tell you the Mitchell-Zurich affair has no secrets from me. If young Stanley is in prison, it is because you put him there!"
"What!"
"Yes," said Joey with a complacent stroke at his upper lip. "I have duplicate keys to all your dispatch boxes and filing cabinets."
"You fiend!"
"I wished to protect you against any temptation toward ingratitude," explained Joey. "I have been, on the whole, much entertained by your correspondence. There was much chaff—that was to be expected. But there was also some precious grain which I have garnered with care. For instance, I have copies of all Zurich's letters to you. You have been endeavoring to ruin your cousin, fearing that McClintock might relent and remember Stanley in his will; you have succeeded at last. Whatever new villainy you have to propose, it now should be easier to name it, since you are relieved from the necessity of beating round the bush.—You were saying—?"
"Stanley has found a mine, a copper deposit of fabulous richness; so he writes, and so Zurich assures me. Zurich has had a sample of it assayed; he does not know where the deposit is located, but hopes to find it before Stanley or Stanley's partner can get secure possession. Zurich wants me to put up cash to finance the search and the early development."
"Well? Where do I come in? I am no miner, and I have no cash. I am eating husks."
"You listen. Singularly enough, Stanley has sent his partner up here to make me exactly the same proposition."
"That was Stan's partner to-day—that old gray goat?"
"Exactly. So, you see, I have two chances."
"I need not ask you," said Joey with a sage nod, "whether you intend to throw in your lot with the thieves or with the honest men. You will flock with the thieves."
"I will," said Mitchell grimly. "My cousin had quite supplanted me with my so-called Uncle McClintock. The old dotard would have left him every cent, except for that calf-love affair of Stan's with the Selden girl. Some reflections on the girl's character had come to McClintock's ears."
"Mitchell," said Joey, "before God, you make me sick!"
"What's the matter with you now, fool?" demanded Mitchell. "I never so much as mentioned the girl's name in McClintock's hearing."
"Trust you!" said the clerk. "You're a slimy toad, you are. You're nauseatin'. Pah! Ptth!"
"McClintock repeated these rumors to Stan," said the lawyer gloatingly. "Stan called him a liar. My uncle never liked me. It is very doubtful if he leaves me more than a moderate bequest, even now. But I have at least made sure that he leaves nothing to Stan. And now I shall strip his mine from him and leave him to rot in the penitentiary. For I always hated him, quite aside from any thought of my uncle's estate. I hate him for what he is. I always wanted to trample his girl-face in the mire."
"Leave your chicken-curses and come to the point," urged the junior member of the firm impatiently. "It is no news to me that your brain is diseased and your heart rotten. What is it you want me to do? Calm yourself, you white-livered maniac. I gather that I am in some way to meddle with this mine. If I but had your head for my very own along with the sand in my craw, I'd tell you to go to hell. Having only brains enough to know what I am, I'm cursed by having to depend upon you. Name your corpse! Come through!"
"You shut your foul mouth and listen. You throw me off."
"Give me a cigar, then. Thanks. I await your pleasure."
"Zurich warned me that Stanley's partner, this old man Johnson, had gone East and would in all probability come here to bring proposals from Stan. He came yesterday, bearing a letter of introduction from Stan. The fear that I would not close with his proposition had the poor old gentleman on needles and pins. But I fell in with his offer. I won his confidence and within the hour he had turned himself wrong side out. He made me a map, which shows me how to find the mine. He thinks I am to go to Arizona with him in a week—poor idiot! Instead, you are to get him into jail at once."
"How?"
"The simplest and most direct way possible. You have that Poole tribe under your thumb, have you not?"
"Bootlegging, chicken-stealing, sneak-thieving, arson, and perjury. And they are ripe for any deviltry, without compulsion. All I need to do is to show them a piece of money and give instructions."
"Get the two biggest ones, then—Amos and Seth. Have them pick a fight with the man Johnson and swear him into jail. They needn't hurt him much and they needn't bother about provocation. All they need to do is to contrive to get him in some quiet spot, beat him up decently, and swear that Johnson started the row without warning; that they never saw him before, and that they think he was drunk. Manage so that Johnson sees the inside of the jail by to-morrow at luncheon-time, or just after, at worst; then you and I will take the afternoon train for Arizona—with my map. I have just returned from informing my beloved uncle of Stanley's ignominious situation, and I told him I could go to the rescue at once, for the sake of the family honor. I thought the old fool would throw a fit, he was so enraged. So, good-bye to Nephew Stanley!"
"Look here, Mr. Oscar; that's no good, you know," remonstrated Pelman. "What's the good of throwing Johnson into jail for five or ten days—or perhaps only a fine? He may even have letters from Stan to some one else in Vesper, some one influential; he may beat the case. He'll be out there in no time, making you trouble. That old goat looks as if he might butt."
Mitchell smiled.
"That's only half my plan. The jailer is also one of your handy men. I'll furnish you plenty of money for the Pooles and for the jailer—enough to make it well worth their while. Contrive a faked rescue of Johnson. The jailer can be found trussed up and gagged, to-morrow about midnight. Best have only one of the Pooles in it; take Amos. He shall wear a mask and be the bold rescuer; he shall open the cell door, whisper 'Mitchell' to Johnson, and help him escape. Once out, without taking off his mask, Amos can hide Johnson somewhere. I leave you to perfect these details. Then, after discarding his mask, Poole can give the alarm. It is immaterial whether he rouses the undersheriff or finds a policeman; but he is to give information that he has just seen Johnson at liberty, skulking near such-and-such a place. Such information, from a man so recently the victim of a wanton assault at Johnson's hands, will seem a natural act."
"Mr. Mitchell, you're a wonder!" declared Joey in a fine heat of admiration. As the lawyer unfolded his plan the partner-clerk, as a devotee of cunning, found himself convicted of comparative unworth; with every sentence he deported himself less like Pelman the partner, shrank more and more to Joey the devil clerk. "The first part of your programme sounded like amateur stuff; but the second number is a scream. Any mistreated guy would fall for that. I would, myself. He'll be up against it for jail-breaking, conspiracy, assaulting an officer, using deadly weapons—and the best is, he will actually be guilty and have no kick coming! Look what a head that is of yours! Even if he should escape rearrest here, it will be a case for extradition. If he goes back to Arizona, he will be nabbed; our worthy sheriff will be furious at the insult to his authority and will make every effort to gather Mr. Johnson in. Either way you have Johnson off your shoulders."
"Stanley is off my shoulders, too, and good for a nice long term. And I have full directions for reaching Stanley's mine. You and I, in that wild Arizona country, would not know our little way about; we will be wholly dependent upon Zurich; and, therefore, we must share our map with him. But, on the whole, I think I have managed rather well than otherwise. It may be, after this bonanza is safely in our hands, that we may be able to discover some ultimate wizardry of finance which shall deal with Zurich's case. We shall see."
CHAPTER XIII
Mr. Francis Charles Boland, propped up on one elbow, sprawled upon a rug spread upon the grass under a giant willow tree at Mitchell House, deep in the Chronicles of Sir John Froissart. Mr. Ferdinand Sedgwick tip-toed unheard across the velvet sward. He prodded Frances Charles with his toe.
"Ouch!" said Francis Charles.
"You'll catch your death of cold. Get up! Your company is desired."
"Go 'way!"
"Miss Dexter wants you."
"Don't, either. She was coiled in the hammock ten minutes ago. Wearing a criminal négligé. Picturesque, but not posing. She slept; I heard her snore."
"She's awake now and wants you to make a fourth at bridge; you two against Elsie and me."
"Botheration! Tell her you couldn't find me."
"I would hush the voice of conscience and do your bidding gladly, old thing, if it lay within the sphere of practical politics. But, unfortunately, she saw you."
"Tell her to go to the devil!"
Ferdie considered this proposition and rejected it with regret.
"She wouldn't do it. But you go on with your reading. I'll tell her you're disgruntled. She'll understand. This will make the fourth day that you haven't taken your accustomed stroll by the schoolhouse. We're all interested, Frankie."
"You banshee!" Francis withdrew the finger that had been keeping his place in the book. "I suppose I'll have to go back with you." He sat up, rather red as to his face.
"I bet she turned you down hard, old boy," murmured Mr. Sedgwick sympathetically. "My own life has been very sad. It has been blighted forever, several times. Is she pretty? I haven't seen her, myself, and the reports of the men-folks and the young ladies don't tally. Funny thing, but scientific observation shows that when a girl says another girl is fine-looking—Hully Gee! And vice versa. Eh? What say?"
"Didn't say anything. You probably overheard me thinking. If so, I beg your pardon."
"I saw a fine old Western gentleman drive by here with old man Selden yesterday—looked like a Westerner, anyhow; big sombrero, leather face, and all that. I hope," said Ferdie anxiously, "that it was not this venerable gentleman who put you on the blink. He was a fine old relic; but he looked rather patriarchal for the rôle of Lochinvar. Unless, of course, he has the money."
"Yes, he's a Western man, all right. I met them on the Vesper Bridge," replied Boland absently, ignoring the banter. He got to his feet and spoke with dreamy animation. "Ferdie, that chap made me feel homesick with just one look at him. Best time I ever had was with that sort. Younger men I was running with, of course. Fine chaps; splendidly educated and perfect gentlemen when sober—I quote from an uncredited quotation from a copy of an imitation of a celebrated plagiarist. Would go back there and stay and stay, only for the lady mother. She's used to the city…. By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept."
"Hi!" said Ferdie. "Party yellin' at you from the road. Come out of your trance."
Francis Charles looked up. A farmer had stopped his team by the front gate.
"Mr. Boland!" he trumpeted through his hands.
Boland answered the hail and started for the gate, Ferdie following; the agriculturist flourished a letter, dropped it in the R.F.D. box, and drove on.
"Oh, la, la! The thick plottens!" observed Ferdie.
Francis Charles tore open the letter, read it hastily, and turned with sparkling eyes to his friend. His friend, for his part, sighed profoundly.
"Oh Francis, Francis!" he chided.
"Here, you howling idiot; read it!" said Francis.
The idiot took the letter and read:
DEAR MR. BOLAND: I need your help. Mr. Johnson, a friend of Stanley's—his best friend—is up here from Arizona upon business of the utmost importance, both to himself and Stanley.
I have only this moment had word that Mr. Johnson is in the most serious trouble. To be plain, he is in Vesper Jail. There has been foul play, part and parcel of a conspiracy directed against Stanley. Please come at once. I claim your promise.
Mary Selden
Ferdie handed it back.
"My friend's friend is my friend? And so on, ad infinitum, like fleas with little fleas to bite 'em—that sort of thing—what? Does that let me in? I seem to qualify in a small-flealike way."
"You bet you do, old chap! That's the spirit! Do you rush up and present my profound apologies to the ladies—important business matter. I'll be getting out the buzz wagon. You shall see Mary Selden. You shall also see how right well and featly our no-bél and intrepid young hero bore himself, just a-pitchin' and a-rarin', when inclination jibed with jooty!"
Two minutes later they took the curve by the big gate on two wheels. As they straightened into the river road, Mr. Sedgwick spread one hand over his heart, rolled his eyes heavenward and observed with fine dramatic effect:
"'I claim your pr-r-r-r-omise'!"
Mr. Johnson sat in a cell of Vesper Jail, charged with assault and battery in the _n_th degree; drunk and disorderly understood, but that charge unpreferred as yet. It is no part of legal method to bring one accused of intoxication before the magistrate at once, so that the judicial mind may see for itself. By this capital arrangement, the justly intoxicated may be acquitted for lack of convincing evidence, after they have had time to sober up; while the unjustly accused, who should go free on sight, are at the mercy of such evidence as the unjust accuser sees fit to bring or send.
The Messrs. Poole had executed their commission upon Vesper Bridge, pouncing upon Mr. Johnson as he passed between them, all unsuspecting. They might well have failed in their errand, however, had it not been that Mr. Johnson was, in a manner of speaking, in dishabille, having left his gun at the hotel. Even so, he improvised several new lines and some effective stage business before he was overpowered by numbers and weight.
The brothers Poole were regarded with much disfavor by Undersheriff
Barton, who made the arrest; but their appearance bore out their story.
It was plain that some one had battered them.
Mr. Johnson quite won the undersheriff's esteem by his seemly bearing after the arrest. He accepted the situation with extreme composure, exhibiting small rancor toward his accusers, refraining from counter-comment to their heated descriptive analysis of himself; he troubled himself to make no denials.
"I'll tell my yarn to the judge," he said, and walked to jail with his captors in friendliest fashion.
These circumstances, coupled with the deputy's experienced dislike for the complaining witnesses and a well-grounded unofficial joy at their battered state, won favor for the prisoner. The second floor of the jail was crowded with a noisy and noisome crew. Johnson was taken to the third floor, untenanted save for himself, and ushered into a quiet and pleasant corner cell, whence he might solace himself by a view of the street and the courthouse park. Further, the deputy ministered to Mr. Johnson's hurts with water and court-plaster, and a beefsteak applied to a bruised and swollen eye. He volunteered his good offices as a witness in the moot matter of intoxication and in all ways gave him treatment befitting an honored guest.
"Now, what else?" he said. "You can't get a hearing until to-morrow; the justice of the peace is out of town. Do you know anybody here? Can you give bail?"
"Ya-as, I reckon so. But I won't worry about that till to-morrow. Night in jail don't hurt any one."
"If I can do anything for you, don't hesitate to ask."
"Thank you kindly, I'll take you up on that. Just let me think up a little."
The upshot of his considerations was that the jailer carried to a tailor's shop Johnson's coat and vest, sadly mishandled during the brief affray on the bridge; the deputy dispatched a messenger to the Selden Farm with a note for Miss Mary Selden, and also made diligent inquiry as to Mr. Oscar Mitchell, reporting that Mr. Mitchell had taken the westbound flyer at four o'clock, together with Mr. Pelman, his clerk; both taking tickets to El Paso.
Later, a complaisant jailer brought to Pete a goodly supper from the Algonquin, clean bedding, cigars, magazines, and a lamp—the last item contrary to rule. He chatted with his prisoner during supper, cleared away the dishes, locked the cell door, with a cheerful wish for good night, and left Pete with his reflections.
Pete had hardly got to sleep when he was wakened by a queer, clinking noise. He sat up in the bed and listened.
The sound continued. It seemed to come from the window, from which the sash had been removed because of July heat. Pete went to investigate. He found, black and startling against the starlight beyond, a small rubber balloon, such as children love, bobbing up and down across the window; tied to it was a delicate silk fishline, which furnished the motive power. As this was pulled in or paid out the balloon scraped by the window, and a pocket-size cigar clipper, tied beneath at the end of a six-inch string, tinkled and scratched on the iron bars. Pete lit his lamp; the little balloon at once became stationary.
"This," said Pete, grinning hugely, "is the doings of that Selden kid.
She is certainly one fine small person!"
Pete turned the lamp low and placed it on the floor at his feet, so that it should not unduly shape him against the window; he pulled gently on the line. It gave; a guarded whistle came softly from the dark shadow of the jail. Pete detached the captive balloon, with a blessing, and pulled in the fishline. Knotted to it was a stout cord, and in the knot was a small piece of paper, rolled cigarette fashion. Pete untied the knot; he dropped his coil of fishline out of the window, first securing the stronger cord by a turn round his hand lest he should inadvertently drop that as well; he held the paper to the light, and read the message:
Waiting for you, with car, two blocks north. Destroy MS.
Pete pulled up the cord, hand over hand, and was presently rewarded by a small hacksaw, eminently suited for cutting bars; he drew in the slack again and this time came to the end of the cord, to which was fastened a strong rope. He drew this up noiselessly and laid the coils on the floor. Then he penciled a note, in turn:
Clear out. Will join you later.
He tied this missive on his cord, together with the cigar clipper, and lowered them from the window. There was a signaling tug at the cord; Pete dropped it.
Pete dressed himself; he placed a chair under the window; then he extinguished the lamp, took the saw, and prepared to saw out the bars. But it was destined to be otherwise. Even as he raised the saw, he stiffened in his tracks, listening; his blood tingled to his finger tips. He heard a footstep on the stair, faint, guarded, but unmistakable. It came on, slowly, stealthily.
Pete thrust saw and rope under his mattress and flung himself upon it, all dressed as he was, face to the wall, with one careless arm under his head, just as if he had dropped asleep unawares.
A few seconds later came a little click, startling to tense nerves, at the cell door; a slender shaft of light lanced the darkness, spreading to a mellow cone of radiance. It searched and probed; it rested upon the silent figure on the bed.
"Sh-h-h!" said a sibilant whisper.
Peter muttered, rolled over uneasily, opened his eyes and leaped up, springing aside from that golden circle of light in well-simulated alarm.
"Hush-h!" said the whisper. "I'm going to let you out. Be quiet!"
Keys jingled softly in the dark; the lock turned gently and the door opened. In that brief flash of time Pete Johnson noted that there had been no hesitation about which key to use. His thought flew to the kindly undersheriff. His hand swept swiftly over the table; a match crackled.
"Smoke?" said Pete, extending the box with graceful courtesy.
"Fool!" snarled the visitor, and struck out the match.
But Pete had seen. The undersheriff was a man of medium stature; this large masked person was about the size of the larger of his lately made acquaintances, the brothers Poole.
"Come on!" whispered the rescuer huskily. "Mitchell sent me. He'll take you away in his car."
"Wait a minute! We'd just as well take these cigars," answered Pete in the same slinking tone. "Here; take a handful. How'd you get in?"
"Held the jailer up with a gun. Got him tied and gagged. Shut up, will you? You can talk when you get safe out of this." He tip-toed away, Pete following. The quivering searchlight crept along the hall; it picked out the stairs. Halfway down, Pete touched his guide on the shoulder.
"Wait!" Standing on the higher stair, he whispered in the larger man's ear: "You got all the keys?"
"Yes."
"Give 'em to me. I'll let all the prisoners go. If there's an alarm, it'll make our chances for a get-away just so much better."
The Samaritan hesitated.
"Aw, I'd like to, all right! But I guess we'd better not."
He started on; the stair creaked horribly. In the hall below Pete overtook him and halted him again.
"Aw, come on—be a sport!" he urged. "Just open this one cell, here, and give that lad the keys. He can do the rest while we beat it. If you was in there, wouldn't you want to get out?"
This appeal had its effect on the Samaritan. He unlocked the cell door, after a cautious trying of half a dozen keys. Apparently his scruples returned again; he stood irresolute in the cell doorway, turning the searchlight on its yet unawakened occupant.
Peter swooped down from behind. His hands gripped the rescuer's ankles; he heaved swiftly, at the same time lunging forward with head and shoulders, with all the force of his small, seasoned body behind the effort. The Samaritan toppled over, sprawling on his face within the cell. With a heartfelt shriek the legal occupant leaped from his bunk and landed on the intruder's shoulder blades. Peter slammed shut the door; the spring lock clicked.
The searchlight rolled, luminous, along the floor; its glowworm light showed Poole's unmasked and twisted face. Pete snatched the bunch of keys and raced up the stairs, bending low to avoid a possible bullet; followed by disapproving words.
At the stairhead, beyond the range of a bullet's flight, Peter paused. Pandemonium reigned below. The roused prisoners shouted rage, alarm, or joy, and whistled shrilly through their fingers, wild with excitement; and from the violated cell arose a prodigious crash of thudding fists, the smashing of a splintered chair, the sickening impact of locked bodies falling against the stone walls or upon the complaining bunk, accompanied by verbiage, and also by rattling of iron doors, hoots, cheers and catcalls from the other cells. Authority made no sign.
Peter crouched in the darkness above, smiling happily. From the duration of the conflict the combatants seemed to be equally matched. But the roar of battle grew presently feebler; curiosity stilled the audience, at least in part; it became evident, by language and the sound of tortured and whistling breath, that Poole was choking his opponent into submission and offering profuse apologies for his disturbance of privacy. Mingled with this explanation were derogatory opinions of some one, delivered with extraordinary bitterness. From the context it would seem that those remarks were meant to apply to Peter Johnson. Listening intently, Peter seemed to hear from the first floor a feeble drumming, as of one beating the floor with bound feet. Then the tumult broke out afresh.
Peter went back to his cell and lit his lamp. Leaving the door wide open, he coiled the rope neatly and placed it upon his table, laid the hacksaw beside it, undressed himself, blew out the light; and so lay down to pleasant dreams.
CHAPTER XIV
Mr. Johnson was rudely wakened from his slumbers by a violent hand upon his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he smiled up into the scowling face of Undersheriff Barton.
"Good-morning, sheriff," he said, and sat up, yawning.
The sun was shining brightly. Mr. Johnson reached for his trousers and yawned again.
The scandalized sheriff was unable to reply. He had been summoned by passers-by, who, hearing the turbulent clamor for breakfast made by the neglected prisoners, had hastened to give the alarm. He had found the jailer tightly bound, almost choked by his gag, suffering so cruelly from cramps that he could not get up when released, and barely able to utter the word "Johnson."
Acting on that hint, Barton had rushed up-stairs, ignoring the shouts of his mutinous prisoners as he went through the second-floor corridor, to find on the third floor an opened cell, with a bunch of keys hanging in the door, the rope and saw upon the table, Mr. Johnson's neatly folded clothing on the chair, and Mr. Johnson peacefully asleep. The sheriff pointed to the rope and saw, and choked, spluttering inarticulate noises. Mr. Johnson suspended dressing operations and patted him on the back.
"There, there!" he crooned benevolently. "Take it easy. What's the trouble? I hate to see you all worked up like this, for you was sure mighty white to me yesterday. Nicest jail I ever was in. But there was a thundering racket downstairs last night. I ain't complainin' none—I wouldn't be that ungrateful, after all you done for me. But I didn't get a good night's rest. Wish you'd put me in another cell to-night. There was folks droppin' in here at all hours of the night, pesterin' me. I didn't sleep good at all."
"Dropping in? What in hell do you mean?" gurgled the sheriff, still pointing to rope and saw.
"Why, sheriff, what's the matter? Aren't you a little mite petulant this
A.M.? What have I done that you should be so short to me?"
"That's what I want to know. What have you been doing here?"
"I ain't been doing nothin', I tell you—except stayin' here, where I belong," said Pete virtuously.
His eye followed the sheriff's pointing finger, and rested, without a qualm, on the evidence. The sheriff laid a trembling hand on the coiled rope. "How'd you get this in, damn you?"
"That rope? Oh, a fellow shoved it through the bars. Wanted me to saw my way out and go with him, I reckon. I didn't want to argue with him, so I just took it and didn't let on I wasn't comin'. Wasn't that right? Why, I thought you'd be pleased! I couldn't have any way of knowin' that you'd take it like this."
"Shoved it in through a third-story window?"
Pete's ingenuous face took on an injured look. "I reckon maybe he stood on his tip-toes," he admitted.
"Who was it?"
"I don't know," said Pete truthfully. "He didn't speak and I didn't see him. Maybe he didn't want me to break jail; but I thought, seein' the saw and all, he had some such idea in mind."
"Did he bring the keys, too?"
"Oh, no—that was another man entirely. He came a little later. And he sure wanted me to quit jail; because he said so. But I wouldn't go, sheriff. I thought you wouldn't like it. Say, you ought to sit down, feller. You're going to have apoplexy one of these days, sure as you're a foot high!"
"You come downstairs with me," said the angry Barton. "I'll get at the bottom of this or I'll have your heart out of you."
"All right, sheriff. Just you wait till I get dressed." Peter laced his shoes, put on his hat, and laid tie, coat, and vest negligently across the hollow of his arm. "I can't do my tie good unless I got a looking-glass," he explained, and paused to light a cigar. "Have one, sheriff," he said with hospitable urgency.
"Get out of here!" shouted the enraged officer.
Pete tripped light-footed down the stairs. At the stairfoot the sheriff paused. In the cell directly opposite were two bruised and tattered inmates where there should have been but one, and that one undismantled. The sheriff surveyed the wreckage within. His jaw dropped; his face went red to the hair; his lip trembled as he pointed to the larger of the two roommates, who was, beyond doubting, Amos Poole—or some remainder of him.
"How did that man get here?" demanded the sheriff in a cracked and horrified voice.
"Him? Oh, I throwed him in there!" said Pete lightly. "That's the man who brought me the keys and pestered me to go away with him. Say, sheriff, better watch out! He told me he had a gun, and that he had the jailer tied and gagged."
"The damned skunk didn't have no gun! All he had was a flashlight, and I broke that over his head. But he tole me the same story about the jailer—all except the gun." This testimony was volunteered by Poole's cellmate.
Peter removed his cigar and looked at the "damned skunk" more closely.
"Why, if it ain't Mr. Poole!" he said.
"Sure, it's Poole. What in hell does he mean, then—swearin' you into jail and then breakin' you out?"
"Hadn't you better ask him?" said Peter, very reasonably. "You come on down to the office, sheriff. I want you to get at the bottom of this or have the heart out of some one." He rolled a dancing eye at Poole with the word, and Poole shrank before it.
"Breakfast! Bring us our breakfast!" bawled the prisoners. "Breakfast!"
The sheriff dealt leniently with the uproar, realizing that these were but weakling folk and, under the influence of excitement, hardly responsible.
"Brooks has been tied up all night, and is all but dead. I'll get you something as soon as I can," he said, "on condition that you stop that hullabaloo at once. Johnson, come down to the office."
He telephoned a hurry call to a restaurant, Brooks, the jailer, being plainly incapable of furnishing breakfast. Then he turned to Pete.
"What is this, Johnson? A plant?"
Pete's nose quivered.
"Sure! It was a plant from the first. The Pooles were hired to set upon me. This one was sent, masked, to tell me to break out. Then, as I figure it, I was to be betrayed back again, to get two or three years in the pen for breaking jail. Nice little scheme!"
"Who did it? For Poole, if you're not lying, was only a tool."
"Sheriff," said Pete, "pass your hand through my hair and feel there, and look at my face. See any scars? Quite a lot of 'em? And all in front? Men like me don't have to lie. They pay for what they break. You go back up there and get after Poole. He'll tell you. Any man that will do what he did to me, for money, will squeal on his employer. Sure!"
Overhead the hammering and shouting broke out afresh.
"There," said the sheriff regretfully; "now I'll have to make those fellows go without anything to eat till dinner-time."
"Sheriff," said Pete, "you've been mighty square with me. Now I want you should do me one more favor. It will be the last one; for I shan't be with you long. Give those boys their breakfast. I got 'em into this. I'll pay for it, and take it mighty kindly of you, besides."
"Oh, all right!" growled the sheriff, secretly relieved.
"One thing more, brother: I think your jailer was in this—but that's your business. Anyhow, Poole knew which key opened my door, and he didn't know the others. Of course, he may have forced your jailer to tell him that. But Poole didn't strike me as being up to any bold enterprise unless it was cut-and-dried."
The sheriff departed, leaving Johnson unguarded in the office. In ten minutes he was back.
"All right," he nodded. "He confessed—whimpering hard. Brooks was in it.
I've got him locked up. Nice doings, this is!"
"Mitchell?"
"Yes. I wouldn't have thought it of him. What was the reason?"
"There is never but one reason. Money.—Who's this?"
It was Mr. Boland, attended by Mr. Ferdie Sedgwick, both sadly disheveled and bearing marks of a sleepless night. Francis Charles spoke hurriedly to the sheriff.
"Oh, I say, Barton! McClintock will go bail for this man Johnson. Ferdie and I would, but we're not taxpayers in the county. Come over to the Iroquois, won't you?"
"Boland," said the sheriff solemnly, "take this scoundrel out of my jail! Don't you ever let him step foot in here again. There won't be any bail; but he must appear before His Honor later to-day for the formal dismissal of the case. Take him away! If you can possibly do so, ship him out of town at once."
Francis Charles winked at Peter as they went down the steps.
"So it was you last night?" said Peter. "Thanks to you. I'll do as much for you sometime."
"Thank us both. This is my friend Sedgwick, who was to have been our chauffeur." The two gentlemen bowed, grinning joyfully. "My name's Boland, and I'm to be your first stockholder. Miss Selden told me about you—which is my certificate of character. Come over to the hotel and see Old McClintock. Miss Selden is there too. She bawled him out about Nephew Stan last night. Regular old-fashioned wigging! And now she has the old gentleman eating from her hand. Say, how about this Stanley thing, anyway? Any good?"
"Son," said Pete, "Stanley is a regular person."
Boland's face clouded.
"Well, I'm going out with you and have a good look at him," he said gloomily. "If I'm not satisfied with him, I'll refuse my consent. And I'll look at your mine—if you've got any mine. They used to say that when a man drinks of the waters of the Hassayampa, he can never tell the truth again. And you're from Arizona."
Pete stole a shrewd look at the young man's face.
"There is another old saying about the Hassayampa, son," he said kindly, "with even more truth to it than in that old dicho. They say that whoever drinks of the waters of the Hassayampa must come to drink again."
He bent his brows at Francis Charles.
"Good guess," admitted Boland, answering the look. "I've never been to Arizona, but I've sampled the Pecos and the Rio Grande; and I must go back 'Where the flyin'-fishes play on the road to Mandalay, where the dawn comes up like thunder'—Oh, gee! That's my real reason. I suppose that silly girl and your picturesque pardner will marry, anyhow, even if I disapprove—precious pair they'll make! And if I take a squint at the copper proposition, it will be mostly in Ferdie's interest—Ferdie is the capitalist, comparatively speaking; but he can't tear himself away from little old N'Yawk. This is his first trip West—here in Vesper. Myself, I've got only two coppers to clink together—or maybe three. We're rather overlooking Ferdie, don't you think? Mustn't do that. Might withdraw his backin'. Ferdie, speak up pretty for the gennulmun!"
"Oh, don't mind me, Mr. Johnson," said Sedgwick cheerfully. "I'm used to hearin' Boland hog the conversation, and trottin' to keep up with him. Glad to be seen on the street with him. Gives one a standing, you know. But, I say, old chappie, why didn't you come last night? Deuced anxious, we were! Thought you missed the way, or slid down your rope and got nabbed again, maybe. No end of a funk I was in, not being used to lawbreakin', except by advice of counsel. And we felt a certain delicacy about inquiring about you this morning, you know—until we heard about the big ructions at the jail. Come over to McClintock's rooms—can't you?—where we'll be all together, and tell us about it—so you won't have to tell it but the one time."
"No, sir," said Pete decidedly. "I get my breakfast first, and a large shave. Got to do credit to Stan. Then I'll go with you. Big mistake, though. Story like this gets better after bein' told a few times. I could make quite a tale of this, with a little practice."
CHAPTER XV
"You've got Stan sized up all wrong, Mr. McClintock," said Pete. "That boy didn't want your money. He never so much as mentioned your name to me. If he had, I would have known why Old Man Trouble was haunting him so persistent. And he don't want anybody's money. He's got a-plenty of his own—in prospect. And he's got what's better than money: he has learned to do without what he hasn't got."
"You say he has proved himself a good man of his hands?" demanded
McClintock sharply.
"Yessir—Stanley is sure one double-fisted citizen," said Pete. "Here is what I heard spoken of him by highest authority the day before I left: 'He'll make a hand!' That was the word said of Stan to me. We don't get any higher than that in Arizona. When you say of a man, 'He'll do to take along,' you've said it all. And Stanley Mitchell will do to take along. I'm thinkin', sir, that you did him no such an ill turn when your quarrel sent him out there. He was maybe the least bit inclined to be butter-flighty when he first landed."
It was a queer gathering. McClintock sat in his great wheeled chair, leaning against the cushions; he held a silken skull-cap in his hand, revealing a shining poll with a few silvered locks at side and back; his little red ferret eyes, fiery still, for all the burden of his years, looked piercingly out under shaggy brows. His attendant, withered and brown and gaunt, stood silent behind him. Mary Selden, quiet and pale, was at the old man's left hand. Pete Johnson, with one puffed and discolored eye, a bruised cheek, and with skinned and bandaged knuckles, but cheerful and sunny of demeanor, sat facing McClintock. Boland and Sedgwick sat a little to one side. They had tried to withdraw, on the plea of intrusion; but McClintock had overruled them and bade them stay.
"For the few high words that passed atween us, I care not a boddle—though, for the cause of them I take shame to myself," said McClintock, glancing down affectionately at Mary Selden. "I was the more misled—at the contrivance of yon fleechin' scoundrel of an Oscar. 'I'm off to Arizona, to win the boy free,' says he—the leein' cur!… I will say this thing, too, that my heart warmed to the lad at the very time of it—that he had spunk to speak his mind. I have seen too much of the supple stock. Sirs, it is but an ill thing to be over-rich, in which estate mankind is seen at the worst. The fawning sort cringe underfoot for favors, and the true breed of kindly folk are all o'erapt to pass the rich man by, verra scornful-like." He looked hard at Peter Johnson. "I am naming no names," he added.
"As for my gear, it would be a queer thing if I could not do what I like with my own. Even a gay young birkie like yoursel' should understand that, Mr. Johnson. Besides, we talk of what is by. The lawyer has been; Van Lear has given him instructions, and the pack of you shall witness my hand to the bit paper that does Stan right, or ever you leave this room."
Pete shrugged his shoulders. "Stanley will always be feelin' that I softied it up to you. And he's a stiff-necked one—Stan!"
McClintock laughed with a relish.
"For all ye are sic a fine young man, Mr. Johnson, I'm doubtin' ye're no deeplomat. And Stan will be knowin' that same. Here is what ye shall do: you shall go to him and say that you saw an old man sitting by his leelane, handfast to the chimney neuk; and that you are thinking I will be needin' a friendly face, and that you think ill of him for that same stiff neck of his. Ye will be having him come to seek and not to gie; folk aye like better to be forgiven than to forgive; I do, mysel'. That is what you shall do for me."
"And I did not come to coax money from you to develop the mine with, either," said Pete. "If the play hadn't come just this way, with the jail and all, you would have seen neither hide nor hair of me."
"I am thinkin' that you are one who has had his own way of it overmuch," said McClintock. His little red eyes shot sparks beneath the beetling brows; he had long since discovered that he had the power to badger Mr. Johnson; and divined that, as a usual thing, Johnson was a man not easily ruffled. The old man enjoyed the situation mightily and made the most of it. "When ye are come to your growth, you will be more patient of sma' crossings. Here is no case for argle-bargle. You have taken yon twa brisk lads into composition with you"—he nodded toward the brisk lads—"the compact being that they were to provide fodder for yonder mine-beastie, so far as in them lies, and, when they should grow short of siller, to seek more for you. Weel, they need seek no farther, then. I have told them that I will be their backer at need; I made the deal wi' them direct and ye have nowt to do with it. You are ill to please, young man! You come here with a very singular story, and nowt to back it but a glib tongue and your smooth, innocent-like young face—and you go back hame with a heaped gowpen of gold, and mair in the kist ahint of that. I think ye do very weel for yoursel'."
"Don't mind him, Mr. Johnson," said Mary Selden. "He is only teasing you."
Old McClintock covered her hand with his own and continued: "Listen to her now! Was ne'er a lassie yet could bear to think ill of a bonny face!" He drew down his brows at Pete, who writhed visibly.
Ferdie Sedgwick rose and presented a slip of pasteboard to McClintock, with a bow.
"I have to-day heard with astonishment—ahem!—and with indignation, a great many unseemly and disrespectful remarks concerning money, and more particularly concerning money that runs to millions," he said, opposing a grave and wooden countenance to the battery of eyes. "Allow me to present you my card, Mr. McClintock, and to assure you that I harbor no such sentiments. I can always be reached at the address given; and I beg you to remember, sir, that I shall be most happy to serve you in the event that—"
A rising gale of laughter drowned his further remarks, but he continued in dumb show, with fervid gesticulations, and a mouth that moved rapidly but produced no sound, concluding with a humble bow; and stalked back to his chair with stately dignity, unmarred by even the semblance of a smile. Young Peter Johnson howled with the rest, his sulks forgotten; and even the withered serving-man relaxed to a smile—a portent hitherto unknown.
"Come; we grow giddy," chided McClintock at last, wiping his own eyes as he spoke. "We have done with talk of yonder ghost-bogle mine. But I must trouble you yet with a word of my own, which is partly to justify me before you. This it is—that, even at the time of Stanley's flitting, I set it down in black and white that he was to halve my gear wi' Oscar, share and share alike. I aye likit the boy weel. From this day all is changit; Oscar shall hae neither plack nor bawbee of mine; all goes to my wife's nephew, Stanley Mitchell, as is set down in due form in the bit testament that is waiting without; bating only some few sma' bequests for old kindness. It is but loath I am to poison our mirth with the name of the man Oscar; the deil will hae him to be brandered; he is fast grippit, except he be cast out as an orra-piece, like the smith in the Norroway tale. When ye are come to your own land, Mr. Johnson, ye will find that brockle-faced stot there afore you; and I trust ye will comb him weel. Heckle him finely, and spare not; but ere ye have done wi' him, for my sake drop a word in his lug to come nae mair to Vesper. When all's said, the man is of my wife's blood and bears her name; I would not have that name publicly disgracit. They were a kindly folk, the Mitchells. I thought puirly of theem for a wastrel crew when I was young. But now I am old, I doubt their way was as near right as mine. You will tell him for me, Mr. Johnson, to name one who shall put a value on his gear, and I shall name another; and what they agree upon I shall pay over to his doer, and then may I never hear of him more—unless it be of ony glisk of good yet in him, the which I shall be most blithe to hear. And so let that be my last word of Oscar. Cornelius, bring in the lawyer body, and let us be ower wi' it; for I think it verra needfu' that the two lads should even pack their mails and take train this day for the West. You'll have an eye on this young spark, Mr. Boland? And gie him a bit word of counsel from time to time, should ye see him temptit to whilly-whas and follies? I fear me he is prone to insubordination."
"I'll watch over him, sir," laughed Boland.
"I'll keep him in order. And if Miss Selden should have a message—or anything—to send, perhaps—"
Miss Selden blushed and laughed.
"No, thank you!" she said. "I'll—I'll send it by Mr. Johnson."
The will was brought in. McClintock affixed his signature in a firm round hand; the others signed as witnesses.
"Man Johnson, will ye bide behind for a word?" said McClintock as the farewells were said. When the others were gone, he made a sign to Van Lear, who left the room.
"I'm asking you to have Stanley back soon—though he'll be coming for the lassie's sake, ony gate. But I am wearyin' for a sight of the lad's face the once yet," said the old man. "And yoursel', Mr. Johnson; if you visit to York State again, I should be blithe to have a crack with you. But it must be early days, for I'll be flittin' soon. I'll tell you this, that I am real pleased to have met with you. Man, I'll tell ye a dead secret. Ye ken the auld man ahint my chair—him that the silly folk ca' Rameses Second in their sport? What think ye the auld body whispert to me but now? That he likit ye weel—no less! Man, that sets ye up! Cornelius has not said so much for ony man these twenty year—so my jest is true enough, for all 'twas said in fleerin'; ye bear your years well and the credentials of them in your face. Ye'll not be minding for an old man's daffin'?"
"Sure not! I'm a great hand at the joke-play myself," said Pete. "And it's good for me to do the squirmin' myself, for once."
"I thought so much. I likit ye mysel', and I'll be thinkin' of you, nights, and your wild life out beyont. I'll tell you somethin' now, and belike you'll laugh at me." He lowered his voice and spoke wistfully. "Man, I have ne'er fought wi' my hands in a' my life—not since I was a wean; nor yet felt the pinch of ony pressin' danger to be facit, that I might know how jeopardy sorts wi' my stomach. I became man-grown as a halflin' boy, or e'er you were born yet—a starvelin' boy, workin' for bare bread; and hard beset I was for't. So my thoughts turned all money-wise, till it became fixture and habit with me; and I took nae time for pleasures. But when I heard of your fight yestreen, and how you begawked him that we are to mention no more, and of your skirmishes and by-falls with these gentry of your own land, my silly auld blood leapit in my briskit. And when I was a limber lad like yourself, I do think truly that once I might hae likit weel to hae been lot and part of siclike stir and hazard, and to see the bale-fires burn.
"Bear with me a moment yet, and I'll have done. There is a hard question I would spier of you. I thought but ill of my kind in my younger days. Now, being old, I see, with a thankful heart, how many verra fine people inhabit here. 'Tis a rale bonny world. And, lookin' back, I see too often where I have made harsh judgings of my fellows. There are more excuses for ill-doings to my old eyes. Was't so with you?"
"Yes," said Pete. "We're not such a poor lot after all—not when we stop to think or when we're forced to see. In fire or flood, or sickness, we're all eager to bear a hand—for we see, then. Our purses and our hearts are open to any great disaster. Why, take two cases—the telephone girls and the elevator boys. Don't sound heroic much, do they? But, by God, when the floods come, the telephone girls die at their desks, still sendin' out warnings! And when a big fire comes, and there are lives to save, them triflin' cigarette-smoking, sassy, no-account boys run the elevators through hell and back as long as the cables hold! Every time!"
The old man's eye kindled. "Look ye there, now! Man, and have ye noticed that too?" he cried triumphantly. "Ye have e'en the secret of it. We're good in emairgencies, the now; when the time comes when we get a glimmer that all life is emairgency and tremblin' peril, that every turn may be the wrong turn—when we can see that our petty system of suns and all is nobbut a wee darkling cockle-boat, driftin' and tossed abune the waves in the outmost seas of an onrushing universe—hap-chance we'll no loom so grandlike in our own een; and we'll tak' hands for comfort in the dark. 'Tis good theology, yon wise saying of the silly street: 'We are all in the same boat. Don't rock the boat!'"
* * * * *
When Peter had gone, McClintock's feeble hands, on the wheel-rims, pushed his chair to the wall and took from a locked cabinet an old and faded daguerreotype of a woman with smiling eyes. He looked at it long and silently, and fell asleep there, the time-stained locket in his hands. When Van Lear returned, McClintock woke barely in time to hide the locket under a cunning hand—and spoke harshly to that aged servitor.
CHAPTER XVI
Before the two adventurers left Vesper, Johnson wired to José Benavides the date of his arrival at Tucson; and from El Paso he wired Jackson Carr to leave Mohawk the next day but one, with the last load of water. Johnson and Boland arrived in Tucson at seven-twenty-six in the morning. Benavides met them at the station—a slender, wiry, hawk-faced man, with a grizzled beard.
"So this is Francis Charles?" said Stanley.
"Frank by brevet, now. Pete has promoted me. He says that Francis Charles is too heavy for the mild climate, and unwieldy in emergencies."
"You ought to see Frankie in his new khaki suit! He's just too sweet for anything," said Pete. "You know Benavides, Stan?"
"Joe and I are lifelong friends of a week's standing. Compadres—eh, Joe? He came to console my captivity on your account, at first, and found me so charming that he came back on his own."
"Ah, que hombre! Do not beliefing heem, Don Hooaleece. He ees begging me efery day to come again back—that leetle one," cried Joe indignantly. "I come here not wis plessir—not so. He is ver' triste, thees boy—ver' dull. I am to take sorry for heem—sin vergüenza! Also, perhaps a leetle I am coming for that he ordaire always from the Posada the bes' dinners, lak now."
"Such a care-free life!" sighed Francis-Frank. "Decidedly I must reform my ways. One finds so much gayety and happiness among the criminal classes, as I observed when I first met Mr. Johnson—in Vesper Jail."
"Oh, has Pete been in jail? That's good. Tell us about it, Pete."
That was a morning which flashed by quickly. The gleeful history of events in Vesper was told once and again, with Pete's estimate and critical analysis of the Vesperian world. Stanley's new fortunes were announced, and Pete spoke privately with him concerning McClintock. The coming campaign was planned in detail, over another imported meal. Stanley was to be released that afternoon, Benavides becoming security for him; but, through the courtesy of the sheriff, he was to keep his cell until late bedtime. It was wished to make the start without courting observation. For the same reason, when the sheriff escorted Stanley and Benavides to the courthouse for the formalities attendant to the bail-giving, Pete did not go along. Instead, he took Frank-Francis for a sight-seeing stroll about the town.
It was past two when, in an unquiet street, Boland's eye fell upon a signboard which drew his eye:
THE PALMILLA
THE ONLY SECOND-CLASS SALOON IN THE CITY
Boland called attention to this surprising proclamation.
"Yes," said Pete; "that's Rhiny Archer's place. Little old
Irishman—sharp as a steel trap. You'll like him. Let's go in."
They marched in. The barroom was deserted; Tucson was hardly awakened from siesta as yet. From the open door of a side room came a murmur of voices.
"Where's Rhiny?" demanded Pete of the bartender.
"Rhiny don't own the place now. Sold out and gone."
"Shucks!" said Pete. "That's too bad. Where'd he go?"
"Don't know. You might ask the boss." He raised his voice: "Hey, Dewing!
Gentleman here to speak to you."
At the summons, Something Dewing appeared at the side door; he gave a little start when he saw Pete at the bar.
"Why, hello, Johnson! Well met! This is a surprise."
"Same here," said Pete. "Didn't know you were in town."
"Yes; I bought Rhiny out. Tired of Cobre. Want to take a hand at poker,
Pete? Here's two lumberjacks down from up-country, and honing to play.
Their money's burning holes in their pockets. I was just telling them
that it's too early to start a game yet."
He indicated the other two men, who were indeed disguised as lumberjacks, even to their hands; but their faces were not the faces of workingmen.
"Cappers," thought Pete. Aloud he said: "Not to-day, I guess. Where's
Rhiny? In town yet?"
"No; he left. Don't know where he went exactly—somewhere up Flagstaff-way, I think. But I can find out for you if you want to write to him."
"Oh, no—nothing particular. Just wanted a chin with him."
"Better try the cards a whirl, Pete," urged the gambler. "I don't want to start up for a three-handed game."
Pete considered. It was not good taste to give a second invitation; evidently Dewing had strong reasons for desiring his company.
"If this tinhorn thinks he can pump me, I'll let him try it a while," he reflected. He glanced at his watch.
"Three o'clock. I'll tell you what I'll do with you, Dewing," he said:
"I'll disport round till supper-time, if I last that long. But I can't go
very strong. Quit you at supper-time, win or lose. Say six o'clock, sharp.
The table will be filled up long before that."
"Come into the anteroom. We'll start in with ten-cent chips," said
Dewing. "Maybe your friend would like to join us?"
"Not at first. Later, maybe. Come on, Frankie!"
Boland followed into the side room. He was a little disappointed in Pete.
"You see, it's like this," said Pete, sinking into a chair after the door was closed: "Back where Boland lives the rules are different. They play a game something like Old Maid, and call it poker. He can sit behind me a spell and I'll explain how we play it. Then, if he wants to, he can sit in with us. Deal 'em up."
"Cut for deal—high deals," said Dewing.
After the first hand was played, Pete began his explanations:
"We play all jack pots here, Frankie; and we use five aces. That is in the Constitution of the State of Texas, and the Texas influence reaches clear to the Colorado River. The joker goes for aces, flushes, and straights. It always counts as an ace, except to fill a straight; but if you've got a four-card straight and the joker, then the joker fills your hand. Here; I'll show you." Between deals he sorted out a ten, nine, eight, and seven, and the joker with them.
"There," he said; "with a hand like this you can call the joker either a jack or a six, just as you please. It is usual to call it a jack. But in anything except straights and straight flushes—if there is any such thing as a straight flush—the cuter card counts as an ace. Got that?"
"Yes; I think I can remember that."
"All right! You watch us play a while, then, till you get on to our methods of betting—they're different from yours too. When you think you're wise, you can take a hand if you want to."
Boland watched for a few hands and then bought in. The game ran on for an hour, with the usual vicissitudes. Nothing very startling happened. The "lumbermen" bucked each other furiously, bluffing in a scandalous manner when they fought for a pot between themselves. Each was cleaned out several times and bought more chips. Pete won; lost; bought chips; won, lost, and won again; and repeated the process. Red and blue chips began to appear: the table took on a distinctly patriotic appearance. The lumbermen clamored to raise the ante; Johnson steadfastly declined. Boland, playing cautiously, neither won nor lost. Dewing won quietly, mostly from the alleged lumbermen.
The statement that nothing particular had occurred is hardly accurate. There had been one little circumstance of a rather peculiar nature. Once or twice, when it came Pete's turn to deal, he had fancied that he felt a stir of cold air at the back of his neck; cooler, at least, than the smoke-laden atmosphere of the card room.
On the third recurrence of this phenomenon Pete glanced carelessly at his watch before picking up his hand, and saw in the polished back a tiny reflection from the wall behind him—a small horizontal panel, tilted transomwise, and a peering face. Pete scanned his hand; when he picked up his watch to restore it to his pocket, the peering face was gone and the panel had closed again.
Boland, sitting beside Johnson, saw nothing of this. Neither did the lumbermen, though they were advantageously situated on the opposite side of the table. Pete played on, with every sense on the alert. He knocked over a pile of chips, spilling some on the floor; when he stooped over to get them, he slipped his gun from his waistband and laid it in his lap. His curiosity was aroused.
At length, on Dewing's deal, Johnson picked up three kings before the draw. He sat at Dewing's left; it was his first chance to open the pot; he passed. Dewing coughed; Johnson felt again that current of cold air on his neck. "This must be the big mitt," thought Pete. "In a square game there'd be nothing unusual in passing up three kings for a raise—that is good poker. But Dewing wants to be sure I've got 'em. Are they going to slide me four kings? I reckon not. It isn't considered good form to hold four aces against four kings. They'll slip me a king-full, likely, and some one will hold an ace-full."
Obligingly Pete spread his three kings fanwise, for the convenience of the onlooker behind the panel. So doing, he noted that he held the kings of hearts, spades, and diamonds, with the queen and jack of diamonds. He slid queen and jack together. "Two aces to go with this hand would give me a heap of confidence," he thought. "I'm going to take a long chance."
Boland passed; the first lumberman opened the pot; the second stayed; Dewing stayed; Pete stayed, and raised. Boland passed out; the first lumberman saw the raise.
"I ought to lift this again; but I won't," announced the lumberman. "I want to get Scotty's money in this pot, and I might scare him out."
Scotty, the second lumberman, hesitated for a moment, and then laid down his hand, using language. Dewing saw the raise.
"Here's where I get a cheap draw for the Dead Man's Hand—aces and eights." He discarded two and laid before him, face up on the table, a pair of eights and an ace of hearts. "I'm going to trim you fellows this time. Aces and eights have never been beaten yet."
"Damn you! Here's one eight you won't get," said Scotty; he turned over his hand, exposing the eight of clubs.
"Mustn't expose your cards unnecessarily," said Dewing reprovingly. "It spoils the game." He picked up the deck. "Cards?"
Pete pinched his cards to the smallest compass and cautiously discarded two of them, holding their faces close to the table.
"Give me two right off the top."
Dewing complied.
"Cards to you?" he said. "Next gentleman?"
The next gentleman scowled. "I orter have raised," he said. "Only I wanted Scotty's money. Now, like as not, somebody'll draw out on me. I'll play these."
Dewing dealt himself two. Reversing his exposed cards, he shoved between them the two cards he had drawn and laid these five before him, backs up, without looking at them.
"It's your stab, Mr. Johnson," said Dewing sweetly.
Johnson skinned his hand slowly and cautiously, covering his cards with his hands, clipping one edge lightly so that the opposite edges were slightly separated, and peering between them. He had drawn the joker and the ace of diamonds. He closed the hand tightly and shoved in a stack.
"Here's where you see aces and eights beaten," he said, addressing
Dewing. "You can't have four eights, 'cause Mr. Scotty done showed one."
The lumberman raised.
"What are you horning in for?" demanded Pete. "I've got you beat. It's
Dewing's hide I'm after."
Dewing looked at his cards and stayed. Pete saw the raise and re-raised.
The lumberman sized up to Pete's raise tentatively, but kept his hand on his stack of chips; he questioned Pete with his eyes, muttered, hesitated, and finally withdrew the stack of chips in his hands and threw up his cards with a curse, exposing a jack-high spade flush.
Dewing's eyes were cold and hard. He saw Pete's raise and raised again, pushing in two stacks of reds.