CHAPTER VIIAND A MOUNTAIN UPREARED
Onthe night after the raid Draco’s gambling house was running in full panoply as usual; and thither Brant directed his steps upon leaving the Plainsman building. Arguing from experience, he made sure that young Langford would be found in the kennel of the dog that had bitten him; and carrying the deduction a step farther, he was prepared to find the lad playing the part of led captain to some older villain.
It was not likely that the boy had developed a passion for play of his own motion. Brant knew that trade well. It had its master workmen, its slipshod journeymen, its tramps, and its apprentices. He doubted not that young Langford was still of the undergraduate guild; in which case a heroic remedy might yet effect a cure.
This train of reasoning led to certain conclusions. If he should find the boy serving as a stool pigeon for some older man, his task would be comparatively easy. The professional gambler is sufficiently wise in his own generation; and a word to the wise—such a word as Brant knew how to speak—would quickly release the apprentice.
So much for the boy and the first step in his rescue. After that it would be the father’s part to keep him from forming a new alliance—if he could.
For himself, however, Brant foresaw price payingsof the dearest. The lower world was thickly peopled in the Denver of that day, and he could scarcely hope to win in and out unrecognised. As a citizen of that world his light had not been hidden under a bushel. He was known to the men of his tribe, and the tribe is nomadic, albeit it keeps well within its own marches.
What then? Merely this: It would be passed from lip to ear that Plucky George of the mining camps was in town; that, for reasons best known to himself, he was living for the time in retirement. And thereafter he would better cut off his right hand than be seen in public with any woman whose reputation he valued.
This was the barb of the arrow, and it rankled sorely while he was measuring the distance between the Plainsman building and the kennel of the dog. Nevertheless, he went on steadily enough until he stood before the baize doors screening the interior of the Draconian kennel. But here he hung reluctant for a moment, knowing that he had reached the turning point. Once beyond the swinging doors it would be too late to go back.
So he stopped, and put out his hand and withdrew it, and for the first time in many years the square jaw of him lacked something of its resolute outline. Within he could heard the shuffling of feet, the clinking of glasses, theb-r-r-rof the roulette balls—all the familiar sounds of the life he had put behind him. He was far enough away from it now to begin to loathe it; and yet it drew him irresistibly. What if he should be dragged back into the old paths again? Stranger things had happened; and the fascination of the serpent is not less potent because it is loathsome.
While he hesitated, it came to him like the thrilling of an electric shock that this was one of the penalties he would always have to pay—this calling to him of the underworld to which he had belonged. In a flash of the inner self-sight, one of those glimpses into heartpossibilities that not even a good man may prolong to a scrutiny, he saw that he had lied in telling Hobart that his yearnings were altogether for better things. They were not. The woundings of the evil years were not healed, and they might never be. He turned and took a step away from the doors of peril.
There and then he saw a picture of a grief-stricken young woman leaning against a vine-covered veranda pillar and sobbing softly as one who mourns without hope. Then and there the thought of his promise to Dorothy Langford nerved him afresh, and the swing doors fell apart under his hand.
The baize screens were yet winging to rest behind him, and he had no more than taken the measure of the place, when the bartender threw up his hand by way of welcome. Here was recognition on the very threshold of the undertaking; and since it had come, Brant set his teeth and determined to make such use of it as his errand would warrant. So he went around to the end of the bar and waited until the man was at liberty. That was not long.
“Well, say, old pardner—shake! I thought you’d turn up all right. How are they coming, anyhow? Fellow came in here a while back and said you’d killed a man up on the range and lit out. I told him he lied; told him you wasn’t the runaway kind; see? What’ll you take?”
Notwithstanding Brant was but a short Sabbath-day’s journey away from the associations of which the bartender’s greeting was a part, he winced at the familiarity of it, at the oaths with which it was plentifully garnished, and even at the underworldargotin which it was couched. Then he humbled himself and put his newly found dignity under foot.
“Thank you, I am not drinking anything to-night, Tom. I merely dropped in to ask a question or two.”
“Fire away.”
“Have you seen a young fellow hanging around here lately—smooth-faced boy, dark eyes and dark hair—dresses pretty well?”
“Why, yes; that’s the kid. He’s here now.”
“Alone?”
“Well, hardly; the Professor has sort of adopted him, I reckon; anyhow, they run together most of the time.”
Brant’s face flushed as if the man had smitten him, and with the narrowing of his eyes the past laid fast hold upon him and once more the man-quelling demon was in possession.
“There is only one ‘Professor,’ I take it.” He spoke softly, as one speaks to a little child. “You mean Jim Harding?”
“Sure;herbrother. You ought to know him, if anybody does.”
“Yes, I know him.” The recusant sinner turned his back to the bar and let his gaze go adrift down the long room. It was comfortably filled. There were pairs and trios and quartettes at the card tables; little groups around the marble games and roulette boards; a front rank of sitters about the faro table, with a standing reserve playing over the shoulders of those in the chairs; and in the midst an uneasy throng revolving about the various centres of attraction, like the slow-moving figures in a timeless minuet.
Somewhere in this devil’s dragnet was the boy—the boy who was Dorothy’s brother. To keep that in mind asked for an effort, because with the boy he should find his enemy, the man who had traded upon a sister’s shame. At the thought the gray eyes grew hard and cruel, and his hand went back toward the bartender.
“Give me your pistol a minute, Tom; I may need it,” he said, without looking around.
“It won’t do down here, George. They’d hang you too quick for any use.”
“Never mind about that; give me the gun.”
The weapon was passed across the bar and Brant dropped it into his coat pocket. Then he dipped into the uneasy throng and began a search which ended beside one of the roulette boards. Young Langford was watching the game dry-lipped and hot-eyed, and at his side stood a man who might have passed otherwhere for a schoolmaster. He was tall and slightly stooping, his garments were of the clerical cut, and his lean face was clean shaven. Only in the ferrety eyes was there a hint of the unfathomable wickedness of the man. The nickname of “the Professor” fitted him aptly, and he dressed the part, playing it with all the skill of a trained actor.
To outward appearances no more harmless person than James Harding could have been met in a day’s journey; but Brant knew his man. Coming softly up behind, he seized Harding’s right wrist and held it helpless while he spoke.
“Excuse yourself to the boy and come out with me,” he whispered at Harding’s ear; and the vicelike grip turned the soft-spoken words into a command.
Harding’s answer was a stealthy movement of his free hand toward his breast pocket, but Brant checked it with a word.
“Don’t be a fool, or take me for one, unless you are ready to quit. Do as I tell you, and be quick about it.”
There was murder in Harding’s eyes what time he was measuring his chance against the weapon in Brant’s pocket. Then fear took its place, and he obeyed the command.
“All right,” said the boy, without taking his eyes from the spinning roulette ball. “I’ll wait here for you.”
Brant marched his man to the swing doors and out into the deserted street. Just beyond the circle illuminated by the arc light in front of Draco’s he backed Harding to the wall.
“Hands up!” he said briefly.
Harding’s thin lip quivered like that of a snarling dog, but again he obeyed.
“Turned hold-up, have you, George?” he sneered.
Brant ignored the taunt and deftly disarmed his captive. Then he spoke tersely and to the point, as one who may enforce his commands.
“You know me, and there is no need to measure words. I brought you out here to tell you what you are to do. You are going to take that boy home and turn him loose; and then you are going to keep out of his way.”
“Oh, I am, am I?”
“Yes; and this is the way you are going to do it: You will go back in there and bring him out; then you will walk him up the street and put him into the first carriage you come to. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Sure thing! You’ve got it all down to a fine point, haven’t you?”
“Then you will get in with him and go wherever the driver takes you. By the time the carriage stops you will have explained matters in any way you see fit; only young Langford must be given to understand that it is all off between you.”
“And after that?”
“After that I think it will be best for you to leave Denver. It is a fair-sized town, but I am afraid it isn’t big enough to hold you and me at the same time.”
“And what if I refuse? What if I tell you to go to——”
Brant took out the borrowed pistol and balanced it on the palm of his hand.
“In that case I shall be obliged to make sure of you here and now; and remembering what you are, I’d about as soon do it as not.”
The man at bay fought the fear back out of the telltale eyes and tried to laugh hardily.
“You are a pretty smooth talker, George, but you can’t bluff me. I don’t know just what you are driving at, but I do happen to know that you don’t care to get your name in the papers just now. All the same, I’m willing to oblige you—for a consideration.”
“How much?” asked Brant, still balancing the weapon.
“A hundred, say, in money, and that little package of papers you took the trouble to have sworn out against me up in Taggett’s Gulch.”
Brant considered it for a moment, and the man at bay began to have a dim premonition that he had gone too far; that his life hung in the balance while he waited. The terror of it grew with the lagging seconds, and he had opened his mouth to withdraw the condition when Brant spoke again:
“You know very well that I don’t have to make terms with you, but you shall have the money. The papers I keep. Now go and get the boy, and don’t make any bad breaks. If you do, I shall shoot first and talk afterward.”
Harding drew breath of relief and re-entered the kennel with Brant at his heels. Inside the swing doors the latter gave another order.
“Go on and get your man; I’ll wait here while you are doing it.”
When Harding was about it Brant turned to thebartender. “Here is your gun, Tom; much obliged. And, while I think of it, I’ll turn over the Professor’s arsenal. You can give it back to him when he calls for it.”
A murderous-looking knife, a life preserver, and a set of brass knuckles changed hands, and Deverney swept them into a drawer with an exclamation of surprise.
“Holy Smut! And he let you catch him without his gun!” he said.
“Not much,” rejoined Brant pleasantly. “But I shall keep that for a little while. I am not through with him yet. And say, Tom, that reminds me: if that youngster ever comes back here, just pull that ‘No Minors Allowed’ sign on him and run him out. You won’t lose anything, because he will have no money to blow in.”
“I’ll do it—for you, George. But the Professor will run him in again.”
“I shall make it my business to see that he doesn’t,” Brant asserted; and just then Harding came up with young Langford.
“Hello, Brant,” said the cub, with a free-and-easy swagger born of the place rather than of his temperament. “By gad, I didn’t know you were a sporting man! Shake hands with my friend Mr. Harding.”
Brant scowled, but the boy saw nothing and rattled on: “Going home early to-night. What will you take, gentlemen? It’s on me.”
“Nothing,” said Brant shortly; and Harding drew the boy away.
The pair left the place and went up the street, with Brant a few steps in the rear. At the corner a night-owl carriage was waiting for a chance fare, and Harding opened the door and got in with his companion. Atthe click of the door latch Brant climbed to a seat beside the driver and gave the order.
“No. 16 Altamont Terrace,” he said; and when the horses were fairly headed for North Denver he lighted a cigar and ventured to anticipate success.
But the triumph was short-lived. While the carriage was yet rumbling over the viaduct the little upflash of triumph flickered and went out. For, however worthy the cause in which he had fought and won, it was Brant the man of violence, and no repentant sinner of them all, who had done the fighting. For the time being he had lapsed as thoroughly as if the new leaf had never been turned, and the dregs of that cup were bitter.