Though outwardly the world’s face was as calm as ever, though peace seemed to bask on San Mateo and the broad mesa and lofty mountain range, events were rapidly shaping themselves to bring a thunder crash of contending forces. Not Weir, not even the little evil cabal plotting so desperately against him, guessed the scope and power of the passions to be released.
As a vital impulse towards the climax, though an unconscious one on her part so far as the general play of circumstance was concerned, Janet Hosmer informed Ed Sorenson of her determination to break their engagement. This was the same evening she returned from the Johnson ranch, when he called at her telephoned request. He went to her home under the impression that his box of candy and bundle of new magazines had restored him to favor. He was very jaunty, in fact, and bent on persuading her to name an early day for their nuptials.
Imagine his wrath when she explained that she wished to say that she could not marry him, at the same time handing him his ring and the other trinkets he had bestowed upon her.
“Is it because of our little spat last night about the engineer?” he demanded. “I apologized, Janet. I’m sorry still, and I love you above everything else.”
“I think not,” said she.
“But I do, Janet. Above everything.”
“No, not above yourself and your vices. You deceived me for a long time, but now I know the truth. You aroused my suspicions when you mentioned a Johnson girl; there’s only one Johnson girl hereabouts, as I learned; and this noon I visited her and her father. They informed me fully about your conduct towards Mary at Bowenville and your promises to marry her––that, when you were engaged to me. There are other things I heard to-day. Of affairs with Mexican girls that are shameful.”
“Lies, lies!” was the passionate disclaimer. “Or if I have been flirting a little, and never since my engagement, it’s no more than any fellow does.”
“You can neither excuse nor justify your words and actions towards Mary Johnson not a month ago.”
“They’re liars, I tell you.”
“Will you confront them and say that?”
Taken by surprise Sorenson hesitated, flushed, and then made a gesture of disdain.
“I’ll not, because I’ll not condescend to answer such baseless charges,” he stated. “I thought you had sense enough not to believe every little thing you hear. Certainly I expect you not to believe this, and I know you won’t on consideration. Then we’ll be married. I came here to-night to urge you to marry me soon.”
“I’ll never marry you, and we’re no longer engaged. You’ve acted faithlessly and dishonorably. You’re not the decent man I thought you were.”
“Don’t you still love me, Janet?”
“No. I don’t think I ever loved you; I was loving a man who didn’t exist, an illusion I imagined to be Ed Sorenson, not your real self. If I loved at all, which I now doubt! And you never loved me, though you 123 may think you did and still do. But it’s not so; for no man who really loved a respectable girl could at the same time do what you did. Think of it! While pretending to love me, you were secretly trying to inveigle that poor ignorant girl away from home. You’re not a man; you’re a beast. The shame and disgust and humiliation I suffer at the thought of my position during that time, your effort to hoodwink both Mary Johnson and me, so fills me with anger I can’t talk to you. Go, go! And please don’t even speak to me hereafter, on the street or anywhere else.”
Instead of departing the man grasped her wrist and gave her a venomous look.
“It was this sneak of an engineer, after all, who told you this lie and turned you against me,” he snarled.
“Let me go. Mr. Weir said nothing. It was you yourself who betrayed yourself, or I should not have known as I do, thank heavens. Stop holding my wrist!”
For an instant Sorenson wavered between whether he should obey her command or strike her as his rage prompted. A very devil of passion beating in his breast urged him to show her her place, deal with her as he would like to do and as she deserved––throw her down and drag her by the hair until she crawled forward and clasped his knees in subjection. But the look in her eyes cooled this half-insane, whiskey-inspired desire.
He took his hand off her wrist, picked up his hat.
“You can’t throw me down this way,” he sneered. “You’re going to marry me just the same, whether you think so or not. I have a voice in this engagement, and you can’t break your word and promise to me 124 because it happens to strike your fancy. Not for a single minute!”
“If you were a gentleman and a decent man you wouldn’t say that.”
“I’m not either, by your judgment, so I do say it. I say it again: you’re going to marry me, willingly or unwillingly. Now if after thinking it over, you want to forget all this and go on as before, all right. If not, our engagement still holds just the same. You may release me, but I haven’t released you. Remember that. And keep away from that engineer if you know what’s best for you!”
With a scowl he stalked out of the house, leaving a very angry, very tremulous and very heart-sick girl. The fellow was in truth not a man, she perceived, but a creature so conscienceless and loathsome that she seemed contaminated through and through by his touch, his words, and their previous relations. How grossly he had deceived her as to his real character! What a horrible future as his wife she had escaped! Nor was she yet free, for he promised to make an infinity of trouble.
That day she could do nothing. Her father noting her face asked what was the trouble, and she told him the whole affair.
“I’ve heard rumors of late about him and was worried,” he said. “You did the only thing, of course. Pay no attention to his words; I’ll see he doesn’t annoy you.”
It was three or four days afterwards that she called Weir up at the dam in a desire to hear the voice of a man she knew to be straight and upright.
“I’ve wondered if a girl is allowed to look at your dam,” she said on impulse, when they had chatted for 125 a moment. “Father, who was at your camp to attend an injured man, says you’re making famous progress.”
“I’d be more than delighted to show you the work. But––I wonder–––”
“Don’t let what people say disturb you,” she replied quickly, divining his thought. “I’ve arranged all that.” A somewhat obscure remark to Weir.
“Then come any time––and often. I hope to be able to conduct you around, the first visit at least. Next week I may not be able to do so as a committee of directors arrive who’ll take my time.”
“Oh, indeed,” Janet answered, politely.
“A manager has to be directed occasionally, or he may run wild,” she heard, with his laugh.
“I’ll come before they do,” she said.
Quite as she had announced she did run up to the canyon and go with Weir over the hillsides and dam, asking questions and displaying a great interest in the men and the operation of the machinery. The concrete work was nearing an end. Already tracks were laid for the dump trams that were to carry dirt from steam-shovels to the dam to form its main body.
She perceived the immense labor of the project and the coördinated effort required. The necessity in itself of dragging hither from Bowenville all of the supplies, the material, the huge machines, was overwhelming. The responsibility of combining scientific knowledge and raw industry to an exact result struck her as prodigious. The handling of hundreds of subordinate workmen and assistants of various grades and skill demanded exceptional ability, understanding, will and generalship. Yet these things the man at her side, Steele Weir, accomplished and supplied; and appeared 126 quite calm and unmoved about it, as if it was all a matter of course.
She glanced at the ground, flushing. The thought of Ed Sorenson, making only a pretense of doing anything useful and because his father was rich doing nothing in reality but waste himself in vicious practices, was in her mind. What must have the engineer believed of her all this while when he knew Sorenson’s true nature and infamous record? Did he suppose her a light-headed feather, indifferent to everything except that her husband should be rich? Very likely. There were plenty of girls of that type. He naturally would suppose her one.
And she could say nothing to put herself in a better light and to gain his respect––for that she now desired greatly. She saw him as he was, a big man, a strong man, a man whose respect was to be prized. Beside him she felt herself small and ordinary. That was all right, but she was determined he should not believe her insignificant, shallow, unworthy, mercenary.
While she could not explain matters openly without shaming herself and still lowering herself in his estimation, he being only an acquaintance, yet there were ways of getting at the end. Janet could act adroitly, like most women, when it best served the purpose.
“Do you know, I just learned from friends of yours on Terry Creek that you’re a public benefactor as well as an engineer,” she stated, when they paused on the hillside for a last look at the dam.
“I?” he exclaimed.
His eyes came around and found hers fixed on him.
“I happened to stop at the Johnson ranch. They didn’t say so, but I know they would be pleased to 127 death if you would go to dinner there some day. They have some fine fat chickens, if you like chicken fried or baked, and they hesitate to ask you only because they’re afraid you’ll refuse.”
“Fried chicken is my weakness. Of course I’ll go; at the first spare chance.”
But all the while Steele Weir’s mind was eddying with wonderment. He had colored at mention of the Johnson ranch, as if he had been caught with a hand in a jam pot. And it meant only one thing: she knew of the Bowenville episode. Involuntarily his eyes flashed to her left hand with which she was brushing back the hair under her hat brim. There was no diamond solitaire on its third finger. Surely, something had happened.
“Well, I must be returning home. I just thought I’d give you a tiny hint,” said she. An odd smile rested on her lips as she spoke, for hints may carry multiple suggestions.
“By Jove!” Weir said suddenly.
Man of action though she knew him to be, she never anticipated he would or could act so directly. He reached out and seized her left hand and scanned it significantly. Then he raised his eyes.
“What does this mean?” he asked, tapping the finger with one of his own. “Does this mean–––”
It was Janet’s turn to become scarlet. She tried to smile again, but it was a wavering smile that appeared.
“What does what mean?” she fenced.
“That––well, that the ring is off permanently?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And that there’s now a chance for me?”
Janet’s eyes at that popped open very wide indeed. 128 Meanwhile Weir still held to the palm resting in his own.
“You?” she breathed, faintly.
“Me, yes.”
Presently with a gentle movement she drew her hand free. She had been quite dumbfounded, but not so dumbfounded that she did not realize that this new situation had requirements of its own. He appeared absolutely sincere and resolute.
“But I never dreamed of such a thing!” she stammered.
“Nor I––because until now I hadn’t the right. All I ask is that you give me your friendship––and a chance––and––well, we’ll see.”
“There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be friends,” said she. “We are already, aren’t we?”
“Yes––now. I never actually thought so before.”
“Things have changed,” she stated. And her lips closed with a firm pressure as she spoke. “Or I shouldn’t have been here inspecting the dam, should I?” Again the smile flashed upon her face. “You may consider this a preliminary inspection to that of your high and mighty directors, and I assure you my verdict––is that the word?––is favorable. Now I must be going to the car. Father likes his meals on time.”
“And when shall I see you again?”
The note of eagerness in his voice set her heart moving a bit faster. If he carried on his engineering work as he did his friendship, no wonder he got things done.
“Why, when you wish to call, Mr. Weir. Both father and I shall be pleased to have you come any time.”
“I’ll certainly avail myself of the privilege,” said he. “You must really go now?”
With a feeling of exaltation at this new turn of affairs he watched her drive away from camp, a feeling that persisted during the succeeding days.
The three directors arrived. That was Thursday evening; and Friday and Saturday were devoted to a discussion of construction plans, inspection of the works, analysis of costs and so on. Weir found the men what he expected: quick to comprehend facts, incisive of mind, and though of course not engineers yet able to measure results; while they on their part were appreciative of the exceptional progress made and of his thorough command of the project. They knew the first hour that the right manager was in charge at last.
Saturday afternoon Sorenson and Judge Gordon called at headquarters, by appointment, to discuss the grievance held locally against the company. Weir was present at the meeting.
“As to whether the Mexican workmen who were discharged were actually giving a full return in work for the wages, as you maintain, gentlemen,” said Mr. Pollock, one of the directors and a corporation lawyer from New York, in reply to the visitors’ statement, “that is a question not of opinion but of fact.”
“Fact, yes,” Judge Gordon argued. “Fact supported by the evidence of the three hundred workmen against that of a single man, your manager, who had just come.”
“Are not your three hundred men prejudiced witnesses?” the New Yorker inquired, a slight smile upon his thin face.
“No more than is Mr. Weir.”
“But Mr. Weir is the manager and consequently has the power of decision in such matters.”
“Not to the extent of revoking unfairly your promise, given orally, to be sure, but still given, to employ local labor.” Sorenson was the speaker and his heavy face wore an expression of ill-disguised contempt.
“Agreed. Local labor was to be hired,” said Pollock. “But our company isn’t a philanthropic institution; it’s run on strictly business principles. Any agreement we made implied that local workmen should give exactly what other workmen would give in work.”
“They did so,” Judge Gordon affirmed.
“There was no trouble until this man came,” Sorenson remarked. “I suppose he felt that he had to show his authority.”
“Ah, but there was if not trouble at any rate dissatisfaction on our part,” Pollock stated, tapping a finger on the table. “Construction wasn’t progressing as we knew it should, which was the very reason for getting a new manager, one who could speed it up. But as I said, it all comes down to a question of fact. You gentlemen offer your workmen’s avowals of industry to support your claim; Mr. Weir, on the other hand, gives us some definite records to back up his side. Here they are for the last week the workmen from San Mateo and neighborhood worked––his first week here; and for the succeeding weeks under the men shipped in; in material used, in cubic yards of concrete construction, and in percentage of work finished. Examine them if you please. They show daily and weekly results to be just a trifle less than double for the corresponding time the imported workmen have been here. In other words, the new men have, while shortening the time of completion, given twice as much work for exactly 131 the same wage paid your Mexicans. In other words, too, your local laborers cancelled our agreement by their own incompetence.”
“Your manager could easily have doctored those records,” Sorenson stated, coldly.
“You scarcely mean that, sir,” Pollock instantly replied icily, his amiability vanishing.
“Come, Judge, we may as well go, I think. We’re appealing to a prejudiced court.” And Sorenson arose.
“Our decision to view the matter like Mr. Weir is because his position is sustained by these facts, not because we’re prejudiced, as you insinuate. But I may add that it would not be strange if we were prejudiced, as we’ve become convinced that you gentlemen haven’t been sincere in your attitude towards our company and if anything are strongly hostile. Any one may be deceived for a time, and we were, but not permanently. You would have done much better to have recognized that we have a perfect right to build this project on land that we bought and with water that we acquired. For it will be built in any case and in spite of such local opposition as may be made.” Pollock flicked the ash from his cigar with a careful finger. “That is a mere piece of information or a declaration of war, whichever way you wish to take it.”
“I told you we were wasting our time coming here,” the cattleman said to his companion.
“Good day, gentlemen,” said Judge Gordon, politely.
And the pair went out to Sorenson’s machine.
Shortly after, the two other directors left to catch a train at Bowenville, Pollock planning to stay with Weir to formulate a report during the next day or two for presentation to the entire directorate at its next 132 meeting. Sorenson caught a glimpse of the car whirling through town, with Weir at the wheel, who with Pollock accompanied the departing men that certain unsettled points might be discussed up to the last moment.
As Weir and Pollock were returning, the latter eyed the engineer and laughed.
“You’ve evidently brushed these fellows’, Sorenson’s and Gordon’s, fur the wrong way to please them. But they’ll probably leave us alone from now on.”
“They’ll not leave me alone.”
“Eh? How’s that?”
“Well, I have, as it happens, a little trouble with them on my own hook. A private matter antedating the building of the dam. They’re after me. I had to put a piece of lead into a fellow who tried to kill me from the dark one night. I speak of it in case you should be told and wonder; otherwise I should not have mentioned the thing. I’m not popular in San Mateo, in consequence.”
“Ah, I had heard nothing of that. It interests me. You were not touched.”
“My hat, that was all.”
“Very interesting, very interesting, indeed,” was Pollock’s only comment. But if his tone was casual, his eyes were busy in sidelong study of the engineer, making a new appraisal and drawing fresh conclusions.
Meanwhile several knots were being tied in the web of circumstance. Sorenson took his telephone and conversed briefly with Vorse, passing the information that he had just seen the three directors leaving for the east. So they were out of the way. In reply the saloon-keeper stated that he would start the whisky end of the 133 game that evening. By the morrow, Sunday, when the camp was at rest, the workmen would all be “celebrating.” Burkhardt had reported the last load of “southern cattle” shipped in and driven on the range the previous evening––a seemingly innocent statement that Sorenson understood perfectly. Up in the hills, safely hidden in the timber, lay the fifty men brought from Mexico to make the assault on the dam the next night, men whose instruments of destruction would be fire and dynamite. Twenty-four hours more would bring the moment of action.
Ignorant of all this Ed Sorenson had been forming a little individual scheme that would promote his own affairs, chief of which was to win Janet Hosmer. Drinking heavily ever since his rebuff, he had sunk into a condition of evil determination and recklessness that made him fit for any desperate act. After much meditation fed by whisky, he had evolved a plan that would bring him success. Thereupon he had loaded his car with a quantity of selected stuff and made a mysterious journey at night.
“She’ll learn I meant business,” was his frequent soliloquy.
And while these strands were being knit into the skein Martinez was producing another. Quietly, carefully, persuasively, he had been pursuing his own particular course of eliciting history for use in his “Chronicle,” as he named it,––and for another use concerning which he was as still as death.
That he was successful in obtaining what he had been after was made known to Weir about dusk that evening while he was talking with Pollock in his office. But that he had not been so lucky in covering his tracks was likewise apparent.
The telephone rang. Steele took down the receiver.
“See Janet Hosmer at once,” Felipe Martinez’ terrified voice came over the wire. “She’ll have it, the paper––the one you want. They’ve learned I got it; they’re after me now. Hammering on the door. If you don’t hurry–––”
His words ceased abruptly in an anguished quaver. At the same time Weir heard carried to him the sound of a crash as of a door smashed. Excusing himself hurriedly, Steele Weir seized his holster from a nail and buckled on the belt. Then snatching his hat, he ran outside the building to his car.
“Now, who is he gunning for?” Pollock asked himself aloud, “I rather wish he had invited me along.”
But neither he nor Weir himself, nor any soul in San Mateo, knew that at last the furious torrent of events had burst upon the community. Weir sensed something. But Sorenson brooding on the morrow thought the moment had not yet come. His son was occupied with his own treacherous scheme. Even Vorse and Burkhardt smashing their way into Martinez’ office saw nothing beyond the immediate necessity. Yet the flood was bearing down on all.
In order to understand why Vorse and Burkhardt were attacking Martinez’ office it is necessary to trace the lawyer’s movements and the incidents which precipitated that act. Martinez had, as stated, not been idle. Following the clue obtained from the woman who had worked in the elder Weir’s household, he visited the old Mexican named as having been used as roustabout by Vorse in early days. This was old Saurez, whom he knew. The wrinkled old fellow seldom came to town now, spending most of the time sitting against the sunny side of his son’s house on Pina Creek, twenty miles south, where he lived.
Martinez in the ten days that had elapsed since informing Weir he had learned of Saurez’ possible knowledge of the past had proceeded to make himself agreeable to the gray-headed old man. He had explained his “history.” He exercised all the arts of graciousness and flattery. Beginning at the present he worked back through the past to the killing of Jim Dent and the flight of Joseph Weir, extracting tales of early fights, raids, accidents, big storms, violent deaths and killings, making elaborate notes, winning the narrator’s confidence and gradually drawing forth the facts he really sought.
Out of all the rambling talk and vague accounts of the Dent and Weir affair Martinez was able to piece together 136 the fragments in a clear statement. This was that Saurez had seen Weir and Dent in Vorse’s saloon. The pair had gambled for a time with Vorse, Burkhardt (at that time sheriff), Sorenson and Judge Gordon. After losing for a time Weir refused to continue in the poker game, although he was drunk. Dent played on notwithstanding Weir’s urgence to desist; he had already lost all his money and began staking his cattle and finally his ranch. At this stage Weir had gone to sleep at another table, with his head on his arms. Vorse had locked the front door to keep out visitors during the big game. But the back door remained open for air.
Saurez had busied himself cleaning the bar. All at once he saw the players spring up in their game, Dent talking angrily about cheating, marked cards and so on. Then the guns came out when he pointed at a card that was marked––for it had been marked with pinpricks as Saurez saw later on examining the deck, which Dent had perceived in spite of the whisky in him. And Sorenson and Vorse had both shot him where he stood. Yes, shootings were not uncommon. Every one but he, Saurez, had likely forgotten all about the matter. That was long ago.
Afterwards Vorse had sent the Mexican away for something or other, with an injunction to keep his mouth closed. As said, speaking of it now made no difference, though he expected Martinez to keep his promise to publish none of the stories while he was still alive; that was agreed. When the Mexican had left the saloon Weir was yet sleeping, having only raised his head at the pistol shots to stare drunkenly and then relapse. What occurred afterwards Saurez did not know. Weir left the country. Dent was buried, the story being told 137 that he had committed suicide. Every one believed it: had he not lost his ranch at poker? That was the end of the business. Other affairs happened and it was forgotten.
On this Saturday Martinez had persuaded Saurez to accompany him to San Mateo. It would be necessary to sign the stories, he explained lightly, to give them proper weight and in order that when the book was published after Saurez’ death they would be seen to be true accounts, with Saurez’ picture that a photographer would make appearing in the middle. He, Saurez, would be famous, and his sons and grandsons would have copies of the book in their houses to show visitors and the priest. Ah, it would be well to have the priest witness Saurez’ signature, then sceptical people would know indeed that the stories were Saurez’ own accounts. So on and so on.
The matter required infinite precautions, patience, skill on the lawyer’s part. He had prepared two or three dozen depositions of events, as a husk for the real kernel. With Saurez in his office at last he telephoned the priest to call at once and unostentatiously caught on the street four other Mexicans of the better class, bringing them in. When the priest arrived he closed the door and explained his desire they should act as witnesses to Saurez’ statements. He had already solicited the padre’s advice as to the history; the others all had heard of it; he gave them a number of the most harmless depositions to read; and set Saurez to work making his mark on the rest of the papers. During the reading and the accompanying lively discussion of the witnesses, he had them pause to witness Saurez’ mark with their own names in the places provided. About the tenth deposition when their attention was confused and flagging 138 he slipped the account concerning Weir and Dent, a many-paged attestation, upon the table, so folded that nothing but the signing space was visible. It was the critical instant for Martinez; his thin body was more nervous than ever, his eyes brighter and more restless. But at last the ordeal was over.
Saurez’ heavy black cross was at the bottom of the important deposition, the priest and the other four men had appended their names, and all that remained to do was for Martinez to fill out the acknowledgment and affix his seal. He whisked the document behind his back and called attention to a humorous episode in a paper one of the men still held, starting a laugh. Then he suggested they rest and opened a bottle of wine, over which the others congratulated Saurez and Martinez and predicted a wonderful fame for the “Chronicle.” Finally the lawyer perceived, as he said, that Saurez was weary. Anyway, it was supper-time. The remaining papers could be signed another day.
The witnesses departed, much pleased with the affair.
“Walk up and down outside for a little time while I straighten the sheets, then we’ll go eat and afterwards I’ll drive you home to bed,” the attorney said. “The fresh air will give you an appetite. Behold, you’re already becoming a famous man! I shall preserve these documents safely as they are tremendously important to our town, our state, our country!” And a grandiloquent gesture accompanied the words. “Come back in a little while, my friend, then we’ll see how much food you can hide away.”
Saurez much gratified at these words and at everything went out slowly, for he was troubled by rheumatism. The instant his back disappeared Martinez sprang to the table, swiftly filled out the acknowledgment of the 139 old man’s signature to the Weir document, clapped the page under the seal and pressed home the stamp. Then pushing the folded statement into an envelope and that into his pocket, he leaned back with a sigh of exhaustion. The thing was accomplished at last, but the strain had been great. Weir’s command to secure evidence had been obeyed. Only the promise to await Saurez’ death, troubled Martinez, and with a convenient sophistry he decided that an agreement not to print the narrative in a book did not extend to using it in court. Weir would be delighted––it was a famous coup.
How long Martinez sat reveling in this well-earned satisfaction he was unaware, until with a start he glanced at his watch. Three-quarters of an hour had passed. He went out to look for Saurez. But he was not in sight and though several persons had seen him they could not say where he had gone. Martinez went again into his office. When another half-hour had drifted by he decided the old man had encountered friends and either caught a ride home or gone with one to supper. So Martinez proceeded to his own meal.
Yet he was pervaded by an unaccountable uneasiness. The sun had set in a bank of clouds and night was not far off. He made another search for the old Mexican, inquiring here and there, until he was informed by one that he had seen Saurez in Vorse’s saloon talking with Vorse and sipping a glass of brandy. That was half an hour before. A chill of fear spread over the lawyer’s skin.
Determined, however, to learn the worst, he stole to the saloon and peered over the slatted door. The Mexican bar-keeper was wiping a glass; Vorse was not in sight; and––ha! there was Saurez himself drowsing by a 140 table. Martinez slipped in and made his way to the rear.
“Come; time to go home,” he said softly, giving the old Mexican’s shoulder a shake. This did not arouse the sleeper, so he added force to his hand, at which the other sagged forward limply.
Martinez jumped back. Next he stood quite still, staring. Then he approached and lifting the drooping head, gazed at the wrinkled face and glazed eyes.
“Miguel, come here!” he exclaimed, anxiously. “Saurez is dead.”
“Dead!” The bar-keeper ran to the spot, eyes large with alarm and excitement. “Dios, I thought him asleep! See, there is the glass in which I gave him brandy at Señor Vorse’s order. The old one said he had come in to pay a little visit to his old employer and have a chat. They talked for some time.”
“Was Vorse asking him questions?”
“Yes. I think Saurez was telling him how he happened to be in town. I paid little attention to them, however. After a while I glanced up and saw Vorse standing by him. They were not talking. Then Vorse came away and said the old man had fallen asleep, and he went out to supper.”
Martinez again lifted the head and darted glances over the dead man’s breast. There were no wounds, but on the shriveled brown throat he saw what might have been a thumb-mark. He could not be sure, yet that was his guess.
“He was an old man,” Miguel remarked.
“Yes. You should notify his son and also the undertaker, so the body can be taken care of. I’ll telephone the latter too when I reach my office.”
This Martinez did, informing Saurez’s family that 141 the old man had died while apparently asleep at Vorse’s, and expressed his sympathy and sorrow.
One feature of the case he instantly perceived; he was released from any obligation to keep silent regarding the old man’s declaration. Fortunate was he to have obtained it before Vorse had got wind of his purpose. At the thought of Vorse he arose and locked both front and back doors of the building, pulled down the window shades and turned out the light.
It was almost dark by now. In the darkness he felt safer. Any one passing would suppose him away. Perhaps he should spend the night elsewhere––at the dam, for instance. Again the same shudder shook his frame that he had experienced on seeing the mark on Saurez’ throat. Vorse had killed the old Mexican, of that he was convinced. With his tongue made garrulous by brandy and by the presence of his old employer the old man had doubtless related everything that occurred between him and Martinez; and the vulture-like, bald-headed saloon-keeper, recognizing that he had been unconsciously betrayed had immediately acted to close this witness’ lips forever against a second utterance.
Martinez himself was in danger. The perspiration dampened his face as he realized that as far as he was concerned the die was cast. He must fling in his fortunes with Weir to the utmost. He would first stand in defense on his right as a lawyer to secure evidence for a client, but if this failed––and what rights would Vorse halt for?––he must depend upon the paper. Once they had that, they would speedily put him out of the way as they had done Saurez. But if they had it not, they would at least hesitate to wreak their vengeance until they could get it into their possession. He must place it in Weir’s hands at once, then if questioned refuse to 142 inform them of its whereabouts. Perhaps they would try to seize it some time this night. He stood up, lighted the lamp, saw that all was well in the office and took his hat.
A peremptory knock sounded on the door of the rear room.
“Open up there, Martinez,” a voice commanded.
He stole thither, listened.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Never mind. Open this door or I’ll pull it down,” came in hoarse tones he recognized as Burkhardt’s. The man, or men, outside had chosen the rear to force an entrance if necessary, where there would be no spectators. “Jerk it open quick,” Burkhardt continued savagely. “We want you.” Then again, “We knew you were there, though you kept the place dark. Move lively before I use this ax.”
Never did Martinez’ mind work more rapidly. Likewise his eyes darted everywhere in search of the object he needed. Then he glided to a decrepit arm-chair and turning it over stuffed the document in a rent in its padded seat, out of sight underneath. Next he filled his pockets with other papers signed by Saurez. Last, he hastily tore open the little telephone book and ran a forefinger down the H’s.
“Doctor Hosmer’s, hurry,” he exclaimed. “Number F28.”
Blows were already sounding on the rear door, but the lock was strong and resisted. Of all the persons he knew Janet Hosmer was the only one he could trust to keep her word. And he dare not wait until Weir could come.
“Is this you, Janet? Martinez talking,” he said, when he heard her answer. “Listen. I’m at my office; men 143 are trying to break in to get a paper valuable for Mr. Weir’s defense. They must not get it. He’s to be arrested and tried for murder of the man he killed. You and I know he’s innocent. This is a life and death matter. The paper is hidden in the old chair. The men are breaking down the door. I’ll get them away long enough for you to come and obtain it. Give it to Weir––at once, to-night, immediately. Promise me you will, promise! My own life probably hangs on it. Return to your house and stay for half an hour and if he hasn’t arrived by that time, go to the dam. Thank you, thank you––from my heart! Start now.”
The words had tumbled out in an agitated stream, occupying but a few seconds. The panels were splintering in the door now, as the ax smashed a way through. Martinez had no need to look up Weir’s number; and it was in a strain of terror and excitement that he waited for the connection.
“See Janet Hosmer at once,” he shot at the engineer, followed by the rest of the warning already quoted which had so electrifying an effect upon Steele Weir.
But the words had broken off abruptly. For as the door crashed off its hinges Martinez dropped the telephone receiver and darted for the front entrance, shooting back the bolt and flinging it open. He almost plunged into Vorse who was on guard there.
“Stand still,” the man ordered. And Martinez kept the spot as if congealed, for in the saloon-keeper’s hand was a revolver with an exceedingly large muzzle.
Burkhardt burst in, ax still in hand, eyes bloodshot with rage. Vorse turned and closed the front door. Then he glanced over the lawyer’s table and ran a hand into his inside coat pocket bulging with documents. He glanced through one or two.
“Here’s what we’re after,” said he. “We’ll take him to my place where we can quietly settle the matter.” His eyes rested on the Mexican with ominous meaning.
“Come along, you snake,” Burkhardt growled, seizing their prisoner’s arm. “Out the back way––and keep your mouth shut. Don’t try to make a break of any kind, if you know what’s best for you.”
Martinez’ yellow skin was almost white.
“But, gentlemen, what does this all mean?” he began, endeavoring to pull back.
“You’ll learn soon enough.”
“Step right along,” Vorse added. “Take him away, Burkhardt, then I’ll blow out this light.”
With no further word Martinez accompanied his captors into the gloom of the night. They moved in silence through the dark space behind the row of store buildings. The lawyer felt that at least the way was clear for Janet Hosmer.
When Janet Hosmer, startled by Felipe Martinez’ agitated appeal, turned from the telephone, her single thought was to carry out on the instant his fervid injunction. Something aimed at the engineer and the lawyer was in movement, a plot for the former’s arrest and the destruction of evidence necessary to his defense, according to Martinez’ quick hurried words; and the Mexican now sought her aid, as she was the only one within reach whom he could trust. That he must call to her showed the desperate nature of the exigency––and he had said lives were at stake!
Haste was the imperative need. As her father was absent, she summoned the Mexican girl from the kitchen, for instinct advised the wisdom of having a companion on this errand; and the two of them, bare-headed and walking fast, set out for the house. Dusk was just thickening to night. No stars were visible. A warm moistness in the air forewarned of rain from the blanket of clouds that had spread at sunset along the peaks. Indeed, a few fine globules of water touched their faces as they came into the main street and hurried along.
Neither girl had observed the automobile, unlighted and moving slowly, that approached the Hosmer house as they emerged. Apparently the driver perceiving them against the lamplight of the doorway and noting their departure thought better of bringing the car to a halt, 146 for he kept the machine in motion and as quietly as possible trailed the pair by glimpses of their figures flitting before an occasional illuminated window. When Janet and her companion turned into the main street where the stores were lighted his task became easier.
The street was peaceful. Janet saw no evidence of the violence or danger indicated by the Mexican lawyer’s declaration, but she was too sensible to imagine on that account that peril did not exist. The town was not aware of what had occurred, that was all,––not yet. The chief actors in the conspiracy were still moving stealthily against their intended victims; they had pounced on Martinez and once they had seized the evidence they sought they would arrest Weir. Afterwards the people, as she guessed the matter, would be aroused to create a strong sentiment against the helpless men. It was an atrocious business.
But as yet things were in a lull––and it was during this pause, brief, critical, that Martinez expected her to act. That much she had grasped from his hurried words. She reached his office and halted to listen. No gleam came from the building, nor from the low structure on either side, and across the way all was dark––dark as it had been that night when the assassin’s shot had been fired at Steele Weir. Repressing a shudder, she bade the Mexican girl follow her, groped for the door knob, found it and pushed the door open.
Martinez had spoken of men forcing an entrance, so it must have been at the rear. Inside all was pitchy black.
“Juanita, you have a match in your pocket, haven’t you?” she demanded, anxiously.
“Yes, Miss Janet.”
“Strike it, then.”
In the pent stillness of the dark office Janet could hear the Mexican girl fumbling in the pocket of her gingham dress. There came a scratching sound and a tiny flame.
“Be careful of it,” she warned. “Now give it to me. And close the door.”
Janet lighted the smoky lamp resting on the table, next took it up in her hand. A few papers had fallen upon the floor. The room was still strong with fresh cigarette smoke. Martinez could not have been gone more than five minutes.
And in another five minutes’ time too Martinez’ captors might be back again!
Holding the lamp aloft she peered about for an old chair, her heart beating rapidly, her lips compressed. But all the chairs, the three or four in the room, were old. Her eyes encountered the Mexican girl staring open-mouthed and scared.
“Take the lamp and keep by me,” Janet ordered. “Don’t upset it. What are you shaking for, you ninny?”
“I can’t help it––and you’re so white,” the other whimpered.
“Never you mind me; do as I say.”
Janet swiftly went from one chair to another, turning them about, upside down, all ways. No paper was hidden in or under any one of them, or indeed was there space capable of holding a document. At last she gave up, gazing about in dismay, dread, tears of vexation and anxiety almost rising to her lids. Only one conclusion was to be drawn: the men who had seized the lawyer had found the paper in spite of his precaution.
She examined the chairs a second time feverishly, for time was flying.