Conrad stood still and stared at the Mexican’s lessening figure, galloping down the road. Presently he walked across to his mare, stroked her nose, and said softly, “By God! Betty B.!” For some minutes he gazed at her abstractedly, swearing under his breath, and now and then muttering, “Aleck! Aleck Bancroft!” Coherent thought was not yet possible. He felt that José had told him the truth, and yet he could not believe it; between the opposing convictions his mind lay dazed and inactive. He mounted and turned Brown Betty’s nose toward home, riding at a foot-pace with his head down and his attention all indrawn. For a mile or two the mare plodded on quietly. At last, resenting the lack of the companionable attentions her master was accustomed to bestow upon her when they rode alone, she snorted several times and switched her tail vigorously, flicking his legs. There was noresponse. She whinnied softly, waited a little, and tried it again. Still her rider was silent. So she stopped, lifted her head, and neighed loudly. Conrad aroused himself. “What is it, Betty?” he said, looking searchingly around the plain. Nothing was in sight save its usual silent habitants. He dismounted, and examined her anxiously. She nipped him playfully, nickered gently, and poked her nose into his coat pocket.
“Betty B., you’re a rogue!” he exclaimed, pulling her ear. “You’re just lonesome and want me to talk to you! My, but you’re spoiled!” He stroked her neck affectionately, then suddenly leaned against her, buried his face in her mane, and a single deep breath that was half a sob shook his body. “Betty!” he muttered, “to find that your best friend is the damnedest villain that ever went unhung!”
The little episode with the mare broke up the paralysis that staggering surprise had set upon both thought and feeling. As he mounted again his heart was hot and his mind working rapidly. “The damned villain!” he exclaimed savagely, “to be pretending such friendship with me when he knew what he had done!”
He spurred Brown Betty to a gallop. Thetyrannous habit of mind engendered by long-wonted thought and desire urged him on to face at once the man who had despoiled his father and deprived him of his birthright. The old anger and hate surged over him, and his pulses beat swift and hard. For a while he forgot the personality of the enemy he had run to earth at last. Through his set teeth came whispered curses of hatred and contempt, and his tongue clung to the shameful epithets he longed to throw in the fellow’s face. Not fast enough could he ride to keep pace with his desire. Revenge, so long fed with hope and promise, was calling to be sated. “Faster, Betty, faster!” he called to the mare, spurring her on.
But the very violence of his mood presently induced the beginning of reaction. He remembered who it was that he was riding so fast to expose and strike down. “Aleck! Aleck Bancroft!” he murmured, and slowed the mare’s racing feet. The tenderness and loyalty of friendship raised still, small voices in his heart. Once again the thing staggered him. It seemed incredible. In the depths of his heart was conviction that José Gonzalez had told him the truth. But could he go to his best friend with such a charge, to taunt,insult, and challenge to death, on the word of a Mexican assassin? The idea repelled him. And he was glad of the misgiving, unwilling to believe that the quest he had followed with such eager determination was leading him to the door of Alexander Bancroft. “I ought—I ought to have confirmation, I suppose,” he said to himself, uncertainly. And so, still undecided, feeling that it was truth and yet unwilling to believe, he came to the gate of his own corral. After he had unsaddled and stabled Brown Betty, he went through the kitchen for a drink of water from the bigolla, wrapped in a wet coffee sack, that stood always in the drying wind and the shade of a tree beside the door.
Mrs. Peters came in from the store-room with a panful of potatoes. “Hank had to go to White Rock this morning,” she said, “and he brought some mail for you. It’s on your desk.”
Conrad passed through the series of rooms, opening one out of another, to the front. On his desk lay some papers and a single letter. “Littleton!” he exclaimed as he hastily tore it open. He read:
“My dear Curt:—I have at last got for you the information we’ve been searching for so long.”
“My dear Curt:—I have at last got for you the information we’ve been searching for so long.”
His eyes eagerly rushed over the next few lines.
“I have satisfied myself that the man we’ve been trailing all these years is Alexander Bancroft, a banker and prominent man in New Mexico, who lives at Golden,—is that place anywhere near you?—and for a number of years has been considered one of the most solid, upright, and influential citizens of your Territory.”
“I have satisfied myself that the man we’ve been trailing all these years is Alexander Bancroft, a banker and prominent man in New Mexico, who lives at Golden,—is that place anywhere near you?—and for a number of years has been considered one of the most solid, upright, and influential citizens of your Territory.”
The letter dropped from Curtis’s fingers and his heart gave a great thump that sent the blood in a crimson wave over his face. “My God, then, it’s true!” he said aloud, and sat for a moment gazing at the letter in the same stupefied way he had looked after Gonzalez’s retreating figure. A grim smile twisted the corners of his mouth as he read on.
“You may know him. Delafield’s history as we’ve got it now makes his case one of those curious romances of detective work whose equal could hardly be found in fiction. We missed long ago the clew that would have led us to success, in those gaps in his trail we never tried to fill, because we came upon his tracks again so easily a little later. While working on another case recently I had occasion to look through an omnibus bill passed years ago by an Arizona legislature.It contained an astonishing ruck of things, and among them was a section authorizing William J. Brown to change his name to Alexander Bancroft. I knew that William J. Brown was one of the names under which Delafield had once traded in mines down there, and that, when we next found him after he had dropped that name, it was as John Smith, when he went down into old Mexico with John Mason Hardy. This name of Bancroft, sandwiched in there, and with such pains to legalize it, when we had found no track of it elsewhere, made me prick up my ears. I looked deeper into the matter and found that he had used this name of Bancroft only when he went to visit his wife and daughter, who lived most of the time in San Francisco or Denver, and were known by that name. When last we had track of the man, before I ran across Rutherford Jenkins, it was, you will remember, as Henry C. Williams, and then we lost all trace of him. That was because he went then on a visit to his wife and daughter in Denver and stayed there for some months. He had made a good clean-up about that time and increased it by some lucky trading on the Denver stock exchange. Then he went to New Mexico, kept the name of Bancroft, engaged in other business as well as mining, and settled down to be a permanent citizen.“I congratulate you upon the successful termination of our long chase. I understand Bancroftis a man of considerable property and I hope you will be able to make him disgorge some of the goods he stole so long ago. I have written this much hurriedly, just to give you an outline of my discoveries at once. But I have all the necessary proofs, and whenever you want to bring the case to trial they are at your service.”
“You may know him. Delafield’s history as we’ve got it now makes his case one of those curious romances of detective work whose equal could hardly be found in fiction. We missed long ago the clew that would have led us to success, in those gaps in his trail we never tried to fill, because we came upon his tracks again so easily a little later. While working on another case recently I had occasion to look through an omnibus bill passed years ago by an Arizona legislature.It contained an astonishing ruck of things, and among them was a section authorizing William J. Brown to change his name to Alexander Bancroft. I knew that William J. Brown was one of the names under which Delafield had once traded in mines down there, and that, when we next found him after he had dropped that name, it was as John Smith, when he went down into old Mexico with John Mason Hardy. This name of Bancroft, sandwiched in there, and with such pains to legalize it, when we had found no track of it elsewhere, made me prick up my ears. I looked deeper into the matter and found that he had used this name of Bancroft only when he went to visit his wife and daughter, who lived most of the time in San Francisco or Denver, and were known by that name. When last we had track of the man, before I ran across Rutherford Jenkins, it was, you will remember, as Henry C. Williams, and then we lost all trace of him. That was because he went then on a visit to his wife and daughter in Denver and stayed there for some months. He had made a good clean-up about that time and increased it by some lucky trading on the Denver stock exchange. Then he went to New Mexico, kept the name of Bancroft, engaged in other business as well as mining, and settled down to be a permanent citizen.
“I congratulate you upon the successful termination of our long chase. I understand Bancroftis a man of considerable property and I hope you will be able to make him disgorge some of the goods he stole so long ago. I have written this much hurriedly, just to give you an outline of my discoveries at once. But I have all the necessary proofs, and whenever you want to bring the case to trial they are at your service.”
Conrad folded the letter carefully, and put it in his pocket. He sat quite still, whispering “Aleck! Aleck Bancroft!” Presently his face went red again and starting up he hurried into the corral and threw the saddle again upon Brown Betty. Outside the gate, scarcely looking which way he went, he headed the mare toward Golden and galloped away, across the hills, and into the distance. He never knew just where or how far he rode that day. Afterward he remembered that sometimes he had galloped along a road and sometimes across the trackless plain, that sometimes he had found himself urging Betty to her utmost speed and again had traversed miles at a walk or had stood for a long time stock-still.
When he left the house the old idea that had enthralled him so long was clamoring in his heart. That may have been why, unconsciously, he rode at first down the roadtoward Golden. “It was not enough for him to take all my father had, life as well as money, and to make me drudge through my youth, but now he must set a hired killer upon me to stick me in the back!” So galloped his angry thought as Brown Betty’s hoofs sped over the ground toward Bancroft’s home. “Why didn’t he come out in the open like a man and tell me who he was, and let us fight it out on the square? To send a man to live under my roof, and hire him to rope me, or stick me, or shoot me from ambush! And to pretend to be my good friend all the time! Coward! Thief! Murderer!”
Then, somehow, through his seething mind, for the first time came the remembrance of Lucy, and quickly followed the idea that perhaps Bancroft had gone about it in this secret way to save her from all knowledge of his disgraceful past. He checked Brown Betty’s gallop to a walk. “He knew I was after him, hot-foot,” now ran Curtis’s thought, “and he sure had the right to head me off if he could. But he ought to have done it on the square!” He remembered the warnings Bancroft had given him about Gonzalez and about the danger of pursuing Delafield, and chuckled unmirthfully. “I reckon he was squaringhimself to his own conscience,” he said aloud.
Conrad looked about him and saw that he was on the road to Golden. Then came the flashing idea that he was on his way to kill Lucy’s father. Instantly his feeling revolted. Whirling the mare’s head he struck off across the plain to the eastward and after some miles struck the road to Randall. By that time he was pondering painfully the matter of Lucy and Homer. That evening, without doubt, Homer would come home, proud and happy, and tell him that he and Lucy were engaged. And this would be his wedding present to the girl he loved and the brother he had cared for almost since babyhood—the dead body of her father!
Then came pelting back the memory of his own wrongs, and Brown Betty was sent scudding down the road as remembrance and habit again lashed his heart. He turned about and raced back along the road toward Golden, hot with the old memories and sore with the newly discovered duplicity of his friend. “Even if I don’t kill him,” he thought, “I’ll tell him what he is! I’ll throw his villainy and his cowardice in his face! I’ll tell him he’s a sneak and a coward, and to draw ifhe dares!” His imagination rushed on through the scene and showed him, at the end, Bancroft’s bleeding body at his feet.
With a shudder he wheeled the mare abruptly, turned from the road, and went galloping across the plain to the south. He began to understand that he could not kill Lucy’s father. A sudden bright recollection came to him of how she looked that Spring afternoon when she and Bancroft had stopped at the ranch; how she turned to him in the wind, holding her wide hat down beside her face, and said gayly, “I assure you, Mr. Conrad, the most superior quality of father to be found anywhere in the United States!” And Bancroft seemed as fond of her as she was of him. Yes; there was unusual love and devotion between them. Brown Betty was walking more slowly now; and after a while Curtis realized that she was standing still in the middle of the plain with the road nowhere in sight. And at the same time it was borne in upon him that he did not wish to kill Lucy’s father, that the idea had become repugnant to him.
He turned to seek the road, saying to himself, “What, then, shall I do?” The wish was still strong within him to make Delafieldsuffer punishment for his misdeeds, to make him atone by his own suffering for all that Conrad himself had suffered. There was still the law. “Homer said he would help me if I wanted to go at it that way,” thought Curtis. That recollection helped his self-justification for a moment, then his thoughts went on: “But of course he wouldn’t do anything of the sort now; and he wouldn’t want me to, either.” It occurred to him that such a course as that would bring to Lucy as much pain as would her father’s death. She was so proud of him and believed in him so thoroughly. “It would break her heart if she knew all this about his past,” he decided. Homer, too, how deeply hurt he would be to have Lucy’s father disgraced and Lucy herself made utterly wretched! “The lad would never forgive me,” he muttered. Presently he was telling himself that Lucy must never be made to suffer the shame and unhappiness of such a disclosure. Nor should Homer ever know the truth about Delafield’s identity. He must be able to love and respect his wife’s father.
With a loving smile Conrad recalled some of Lucy’s indignant remarks about Baxter’s dealings with the Mexicans of the Rio Grandevalley, and saw again her winsome look as she tossed her curly head and her brown eyes sparkled. Then quickly came the self-questioning: What would she think of him if she knew the purpose that had been animating him all his life? Whether it was her father he had tracked or another, how horrified she would be if she knew she had made such a man her friend! He blushed crimson, and pricked the mare to a faster pace. The old longing for revenge, the old belief in the rightfulness of his course, the old sense of satisfaction in his purpose—it was all dying hard, but he had come to where he could see it as it looked to others. He began to feel ashamed.
Still, it was difficult to give up the feeling that Delafield should be made to suffer some sort of retaliation for the wrongs he had inflicted upon others. Conrad pondered it as he rode aimlessly about, still smarting under the thought of Bancroft’s deception during the last few months. He might go to the banker and have it all out by word of mouth. But as he considered that course with cool mind he reached a pretty firm conviction that shots from one or the other, or both, would end the interview. Bancroft was not likelyto submit tamely to insult from him. And much shame and sorrow for Lucy and Homer would result. He did not want them to suffer. His head lifted and his lips tightened. “I’ll give up the whole thing before I’ll let it cloud their happiness,” he said aloud. Then he fell to thinking why Bancroft had tried to strike him down secretly.
“I reckon he was doing his best to head me off in a way that would save him from disclosure and prevent Lucy from knowing anything about it,” he thought. “Well, I can’t blame him for wanting to keep it dark, at this stage of the game. But—why didn’t he come and tell me, like a man!” Suddenly he began to recall the sort of things about Delafield and his own expectations that he had been accustomed to say to Bancroft, and smiled grimly.
“Lord! I think likely I’ve given him some pretty bad minutes! And I reckon what I said didn’t invite his confidence. Good God, what a life the man must have lived all these years! It must have been plain hell since he’s known I was on his track and has had to listen to the things I’ve said!”
Compassion for the man he had hounded and, all unknowingly, had so often reviled tohis face, began to soften Curtis’s heart. He thought of all the years of wandering, the frequent change of name, the ups and downs of fortune, the devious and sometimes crooked ways through which he had traced Delafield, and again he exclaimed aloud: “Good God, what a life! He must all the time have been wanting to get back where he could be settled and respectable! But he didn’t dare try it while he was afraid of detection and punishment. And finally he believed he’d got there, I reckon, and was preparing to be happy with his daughter—and then I came along!” Again he mused, for a long time, while the mare took her own pace. At last he lifted his head and said aloud:
“I guess he’s had his share of punishment after all; and I’ve been responsible for a lot of it. Sumner L. Delafield, we’ll call it quits!”
Brown Betty was standing still in the middle of the road. The sun was dropping down the west, toward masses of sparkling, fleecy white clouds that piled the horizon high. Ten miles away he could see the green groves of Socorro Springs and the white glimmer of the buildings. He drew a long breath and looked alertly about. The load he had carried so many years had slipped from his back. Nolonger had he any desire for revenge, and in his heart glowed compassion rather than hatred for the man he had tracked with such determination. He felt a curious exhilaration as he sat there looking about him, while the mare shifted her weight from one foot to another.
“Well, Betty B.,” he said, patting her neck, “you and I have had a devil of a time to-day, haven’t we, old girl? But we’ve come through all right, thank God! And nobody is ever going to know a word about it, Betty; so don’t you give it away. We’re going home now, and you shall have the best supper we can find.”
At the ranch his first inquiry was for Homer. The young man had returned an hour before. Surprised that he was not in beaming evidence, Curtis went in search of him and found him in his own room, bending over his trunk, his belongings scattered about as if a cyclone had been swirling within the four walls.
“Why, Homer,” exclaimed Curtis, stopping in astonishment at the door, “what are you doing?”
Homer lifted a dismal face. “I’m packing up. I’m going away.”
“Why, lad, what’s the matter? I thought—” Curtis stopped, hesitating and embarrassed.
Homer energetically jammed some books into a corner of the trunk, and from its depths took up the unfinished sentence. “Yes; so did I. That is—I hoped. But it wasn’t so. She—she says she’s never going to leave her father—that he needs her—that she’s always going to stay with him.”
“Yes,” said Curtis, lamely; “I know she’s very devoted to him.” He stopped; Homer went on with his packing. “I—I suppose, lad,” the elder brother stumbled on, in kindly tone, “it hurts now, but—you’ll get over it after a while.” There was silence again while Homer threw a litter of neckties, collars, and handkerchiefs into his trunk. “I’d like you to stay here all Summer with me,” Conrad went on presently, “but if you think you’d be more comfortable somewhere else, it’s all right. I understand.”
Homer looked up. “I’m going to Denver. I’ve got a classmate up there whose father I know will give me a job till college opens next Fall.”
Curtis walked out into the corral and leanedupon the gate. Would there be a chance for him, then? Likely not, for she had surely shown more favor to his brother than to him. But he would try. His heart rose at the possibility. Yes, he would try. He looked at his brown, sinewy hands and thought of Lucy’s little white ones lying in them. “Thank God, they’re free from blood!” he said to himself with solemn gladness. Then the crimson dyed his face. Even if Lucy cared for him, which he hardly dared to hope, would she marry a man who had so long guided his life by such purposes as he had cherished? “But I’ll tell her,” he thought with grim determination, “just how bloody-minded I’ve been. It will likely spoil my chance—if I have any—but she must first know just what I am. I’ll tell her all about it, without giving a hint of who the man is that I’ve followed. And after that—well, I’ll feel that I’ve been square about it, anyway.”
The sun was setting, and the whole sky was ablaze with its glory. The fleecy white clouds of two hours before, which had mounted higher and multiplied themselves many times, had become mountains of glowing color, masses of sea-shell tints, wideexpanses of pink and pearly gray, hearts and beckoning hands of flame. Curtis gazed at the glowing kaleidoscope of the heavens, feeling its gorgeous beauty mingle with the thankfulness that filled his heart. It was good to be done with all those old ideas and feelings and to have come out of it without ruining anybody else’s life.
Through the crimson and purple lights and shadows that enveloped the plain he saw Gonzalez galloping up the road, a fine, graceful, centaur-like figure.
“José,” said Conrad as Gonzalez entered the corral, and his tone struck the Mexican as being unusually gentle, “I know that you spoke the truth to me this morning. But what you told me shall go no further. Mr. Bancroft shall never know that you told me, and neither he nor anybody else shall suffer harm because of it. There is no longer any need of a feud between you and me, and I wish you would stay and work for me. It isn’t every day that I can get hold of a cowboy that knows enough to hit the ground with his hat in three throws.”
José smiled, and shook his head. “No, Don Curtis. I like you much, and you are a very brave man. You are a braver manthan I am. But to-morrow I am going back to Santa Fe.”
“Well, then, if you won’t stay I’ll give you your time whenever you want it. But, I say, José, why don’t you give up this rattlesnake business? You’re on the level every other way; and you’re too good a fellow to discredit all your race with this sort of work when you could be a first-class cowboy if you wanted to.”
The Mexican looked at him with a wondering smile, shook his head, and went on into the corral. Conrad strolled to the little porch at his front door, stood there a moment watching the sunset colors; then, with his head in the air, went inside and sat down at his desk. He began a letter to Rutherford Jenkins:
“I have found that you told me the truth in that interview we had in your room in the hotel at Albuquerque some months ago. I do not know by what mysterious dispensation of Providence this strange thing happened, but I acknowledge now that it was the truth. I still maintain, however, that my final remark to you on that occasion was absolutely correct.“I suppose you have been using this information about Mr. Bancroft’s previous life to blackmail him. I advise you to stop it and to let himalone hereafter. If you don’t, I tell you right now that you will surely wish you had. I shall take pains to find out whether or not you heed my warning, and if you don’t I promise you that you will soon be able to sympathize with a skunk after a cowboy has thrown at it a can of oil and a blazing stick.“Yours truly,“Curtis Conrad.”
“I have found that you told me the truth in that interview we had in your room in the hotel at Albuquerque some months ago. I do not know by what mysterious dispensation of Providence this strange thing happened, but I acknowledge now that it was the truth. I still maintain, however, that my final remark to you on that occasion was absolutely correct.
“I suppose you have been using this information about Mr. Bancroft’s previous life to blackmail him. I advise you to stop it and to let himalone hereafter. If you don’t, I tell you right now that you will surely wish you had. I shall take pains to find out whether or not you heed my warning, and if you don’t I promise you that you will soon be able to sympathize with a skunk after a cowboy has thrown at it a can of oil and a blazing stick.
“Yours truly,“Curtis Conrad.”
Aclerk brought the morning mail, and as Alexander Bancroft took the handful of letters, his eye caught the handwriting of Rutherford Jenkins. Apprehension seized him. Had that creature found some new screw he could turn? His hand trembled as he tore open the envelope. For a moment he felt distinct relief when he found nothing more than a demand for additional money. Jenkins reminded him that the first of August was approaching, and added that he was obliged to ask for double the amount he had previously received on the first of the month. The feeling of thankfulness that the letter contained nothing worse passed quickly, as he realized that he would be afraid to refuse the demand, that he would not dare to refuse anything Jenkins might ask. The full weight of his chains was upon him, and he swore between set teeth as he tore the letter angrily into bits and dashedthem into the waste-basket. Impotent rebellion was still smouldering in his eyes when a knock came at his door and Dellmey Baxter entered. The Congressman’s round, smooth face was beaming and his fat hand grasped Bancroft’s with hearty greeting. But the droop of his left eyelid was marked and his gray eyes were cold and hard. They had a prolonged conference about the various enterprises in which they were jointly interested, and about the progress and prospects of Baxter’s campaign in the southern part of the Territory, where Bancroft was his chief lieutenant.
“I tell you, Aleck, you’re handling it fine,” said Baxter finally, with friendly enthusiasm. “You’re bringing Silverside and the whole south right into line in great shape! I’m free to say, Aleck, that you’re doing better for me than I could do for myself. You have a remarkable knack for handling people, and everybody has confidence in you. We’ve got the party in this Territory where we want it now, and if I decide to quit Congress after another term or two, as it’s likely I shall, I’ll see to it, Aleck, that you step into my shoes if you want to.” He went on to ask what certain of his supportersand his opponents were doing, and presently inquired:
“And your young friend Conrad—does he still think I have horns and hoofs? He came to see me in Santa Fe recently, and apologized for having accused me of being at the bottom of that Mexican’s attack on him. From what he said to me,” the Congressman went on, regarding Bancroft attentively, “I think it’s likely the greaser will get the worst of it if he keeps up that racket.”
The banker moved uneasily, then took cigars from the box on top of his desk. “By the way, Aleck,” said Baxter carelessly between whiffs of smoke, “you’ve been around this Territory considerably and mixed with mining men a good deal.” His cold eyes were watching his companion from under their shaggy brows. “Do you remember ever running across a chap named Delafield?”
The time had been when Bancroft could hear that name without the quiver of a lash or the tremble of a nerve. But those days of cool self-control and impassive seeming had gone by. For many weeks he had been on the rack of constant apprehension, the nervous strain of conflicting emotionsconcerning Conrad had been great, and recently the fear of sudden exposure had grown into a secret, abiding terror. He started, dropped his cigar, and his face paled.
“Delafield?” he repeated in a low voice. “I do not remember the name—and I have a pretty good memory for names, too.” The desire seized him to know whether Baxter was speaking out of knowledge or ignorance. “What about him?” he went on. “Is he supposed to be living here?”
“I don’t know much about it,” Baxter rejoined, “but I believe the people who are trying to locate him make the guess that he is. A party asked me about him not long ago, but I wasn’t able to place the name, although it has a familiar sound. I told him it wasn’t any use looking for his man under that name—it’s too easy to pick up a new one out here for anybody to keep an old one that’s got dirty.”
When the door closed upon the portly figure and cherubic smile of the Congressman, Bancroft sat still and stared dully at the wall. “Dell knows,” was the conviction that had gone straight to his wretched heart. “Dell knows. He knows the whole story. And now I’ve got to do whatever he says.”Apprehension leaped quickly forward. If Baxter knew, was the story out? Was it already going from mouth to mouth? Second thought brought reassurance. No; for in that case Baxter would not have so discreetly veiled his hint. But how had he found out? Could Jenkins—no, not likely, for Jenkins was making too good a thing out of it as a secret. Baxter said Conrad had been to see him—then did Curtis know by this time? His heart took quick alarm, and he had a moment of desperation. Then he recalled the young man’s repeated declaration that he meant to lose no time in facing Delafield after learning the man’s identity. He soon decided that a little time was still left to him before that encounter could take place and—Gonzalez was yet at the ranch. Doubtless Conrad had talked with Baxter about the case, perhaps told him of his own search and asked for information about the men he suspected. Finally, knowing well the Congressman’s mental habits, he came to the conclusion that Baxter had put things together and made a shrewd guess.
“But he knows, all right,” Bancroft owned to himself in impotent anger, “and that means another chain on me.” Another obstacle hadrisen in his path that would have to be overcome, one way or another, before he could reach that longed-for security. A little before, safety had seemed so near, and now it was further away than ever! He should have to fight for it, that was plain—and fight he would, to the last inch, Conrad and Jenkins and Baxter. They had pushed him to the wall, but that should not be the end. He would not let them wreck everything if—no matter now what he might have to do to protect himself.
He spent an anxious forenoon, unable to keep his mind off his own troubles and impending dangers, thinking and scheming, trying to work out effective means of defence and counter-attack. When he left the bank for luncheon at home, it was with a lively sense of how restful and pleasing he should find its atmosphere of love, respect, and confidence. He bought a box of candy for Lucy and a magazine for Louise, and hastened up the hill.
Never before had home seemed to him so delightful. Lucy was gay of spirit, piquant, rosy of cheek and bright of eye, lovingly solicitous for his comfort. Louise was paler than usual, with a touch of wistfulness inher manner. Lucy explained that she had a bad headache, and they agreed that it was probably due to the day’s peculiar atmospheric conditions. It was hot and still; a thin, gray, luminous haze veiled the sky and made the sunshine, usually clear and white, look palely yellow; the air was charged with electricity, whose jangling effect upon the nerves only the soundest could withstand. Louise said she felt it acutely. As always, she was gentle and sympathetic, and Bancroft felt her influence at once. Her presence never failed to soothe, tranquillize, and encourage him.
She saw the anxiety in his eyes, and at once divined a new cause for trouble. With renewed alarm and indignation in her heart her thoughts turned to Conrad. Had there been some new development? The fires of love and solicitude for her friend and of hatred for his enemy were burning brightly in her secret thoughts and shone now and then in her eyes. Bancroft caught their glow, and his heart rose to be warmed in it. What a sweet woman she was, how adorable! His arms ached with the longing to enfold her and press her dearness to his breast. But no!—with such dangers thickening abouthim, he must not think of it. It angered him the more that he must thus repress the feeling which was struggling to make itself understood, which he felt certain she would welcome. For half an hour after luncheon they lingered on the veranda. As if drawn irresistibly by secret cords of feeling, Bancroft and Miss Dent kept constantly near each other; once, when she accidentally touched his hand, his fingers closed quickly upon hers in a moment’s warm grasp.
After he had gone, Louise walked restlessly up and down, her nerves strung to the highest tension by her love and anxiety for Bancroft and her hatred of Conrad. Her headache grew rapidly worse, and her heart was beating like a trip-hammer. She and Lucy agreed that the electrical condition of the atmosphere had become more trying. The sunshine, too, was more dingily yellowish. They noticed that heavy, dark clouds, like huge, sleeping beasts, were lying behind the summits of the Mogollon Mountains.
“My head is throbbing so I can hardly see,” said Louise finally, “and I think I’ll go to my room, pull down the shades, and lie down for a while. No; thank you, dear, you can’t do anything. Just leave me alonefor an hour or two in the quiet and the dark.”
Lucy sat on the veranda with the magazine and the box of candy her father had brought; but one lay unopened in her lap and the other untouched on the table beside her, while her eyes wandered across the tree-embowered streets of the town and far over the plain, where, beyond the horizon, were the green groves of the Socorro Springs ranch.
“I’ve got to do it,” she whispered to herself, decision in her wrinkling brow. “There’s no other way, and I must. Daddy is looking wretched—I’ve never seen him look so anxious and disturbed as he does to-day. I’ve got to do it, right away.”
She had not seen Curtis Conrad since the barbecue. Daily had she watched for him, hoping always to see him climbing the hill, longing greatly to look upon his face, and feeling that she must reveal her secret and so put an end, as she firmly believed she could, to her father’s trouble. But he came not; instead, Homer’s visits increased in length and frequency, and she, still hurt and angered by the memory of Curtis’s attentions to Mrs. Ned Castleton at the barbecue,recklessly continued her flirtation with Homer, plunging him more and more deeply in love. She did all this without thought of what was going on in Homer’s breast, wishing only to dull the pain in her own aching heart. Finally, when she realized what was happening, she changed her demeanor in sudden girl-panic, only to precipitate the young man’s proposal, by which she had been both surprised and vexed.
She was quite sure, by this time, that Curtis Conrad did not care for her at all, and she had ceased expecting him to come to their house. Yet she never went out upon the veranda without letting her eyes wander wishfully down the street. They were there now, scanning the long, steep hill. But they saw only a little, bare-legged Mexican boy toiling slowly up the grade. No, she decided, only one thing was left for her to do: she would have to write and ask him to come and see her. Her heart rebelled at first, and she unconsciously tossed her head and her eyes flashed. “But it’s for daddy,” she presently told herself, “and there’s no other way. I’ve got to do it.” Of course, it would be a humiliation; but so was the whole hateful business, and what was one little thing more or less?
Looking toward the street again she saw that the little Mexican lad was coming to her gate. His baggy, ragged overalls were held by a single strap over his shoulder, and his small, brown face, under his miniature, torn sombrero, was hot and dirty. He peered at her through the palings, and she exclaimed, “Why, it’s little Pablo Melgares!” She went down to the gate, saying in Spanish, “Do you want anything, Pablo?”
Gravely and silently he gave her a letter he had been carrying in his hat. Although she had seen the handwriting but once before, her heart leaped and a delicious thrill ran through her veins as she read the address.
“Is there an answer?” she asked, tremulously.
“Si, señorita,” said the boy.
“Then you sit down here on the steps and eat candy until I come back,” she said as she poured the contents of her box into the child’s sombrero.
She ran lightly up the stairs to her room and closed the door before opening the note. It said only:
“Will you go to ride with me this afternoon up the canyon? I have something particular I want tosay. Please send me word by the boy if I may come up at once.”
“Will you go to ride with me this afternoon up the canyon? I have something particular I want tosay. Please send me word by the boy if I may come up at once.”
She devoured it with shining eyes, and pressed it to her face, her lips, her heart. Her woman’s instinct divined what the “something particular” must be, and she laughed softly and joyously, while the color mounted to her brow. But presently, as she donned her riding habit, her look grew serious and grave. For a few minutes she had forgotten what it was she had to do.
“I must tell him,” she thought, “and then that will be the end of everything.” The brown eyes filled with tears, and she choked back a little sob. “But I’ve got to do it,” she repeated with determination. “He won’t love me then, but poor daddy will be safe. And I wouldn’t marry him anyway, because I’m not going to marry anybody. I won’t let him say anything to me about—about anything; I’ll tell him about daddy before he has a chance. But I won’t have to tell him right away—when we are coming back, maybe.” Her fingers were busy with her collar in front of the mirror. “Dear me, I’m dreadfully tanned! But he told me once he liked the healthy brown skins the girls allget down here. No; I shall not let him have the least idea that I care anything about him; but—” and the smiles and dimples were chasing each other across her face as she started down the stairs. On her way she slipped softly into Miss Dent’s darkened room. Louise was awake, and Lucy stood beside her bed, stroking her forehead with affectionate fingers.
“Poor Dearie! Can’t I do something for you before I go out? Do you think you can sleep? Then you won’t mind my going, will you? Mr. Conrad has come to take me to ride. We are going up the canyon. Wasn’t it jolly of him to think of it this stupid, yellow afternoon?”
“Yes; certainly, dear, I’m glad you’re going, and I hope you’ll have a delightful ride. Don Homer is always so thoughtful.”
Lucy was settling her hat in front of the mirror. “Oh, it isn’t Don Homer! It’s his brother.”
Miss Dent started up. “Curtis Conrad! You’re not going with him!”
Lucy looked at her with surprise. “Why, yes, Dearie. Why not?”
“Lucy, darling! You must not go!”
Louise was sitting up now, her hands ather temples. Lucy bent over her with an arm about her neck. “You surprise me very much, Dearie. I thought you liked him.”
“Yes; of course. But you must not go with him this afternoon. It will not do.”
The girl sat down on the bed beside her. “But I’ve said I would, Dearie, and he’s already here, waiting for me with the horses. And I must go, Dearie. It would be awfully rude and horrid to try to get out of it now.”
Sudden apprehension filled Miss Dent’s mind. It was not like Lucy to hold so persistently to anything that was against her wish. Her intense feeling against Curtis Conrad swept over her excited, tingling nerves and filled her mind with the conviction that she must keep Lucy away from him. Things jigged and swam before her eyes, as her thoughts whirled dizzily through her brain. “Lucy, dear child!” she exclaimed, “I wish you would not go. Indeed, you must not go!”
Lucy arose, clad in a new womanly dignity that sent a half-realized dismay through the turmoil of Miss Dent’s mind. Vaguely, with an aching sense of loss, she felt that Lucy had become a woman who would henceforthdirect her life for herself. With her hands holding her throbbing head, through which excruciating pains were darting, Louise strove to steady her thoughts.
“I don’t understand,” said Lucy, gently, “why you speak in this way, or why you wish me to be rude to Mr. Conrad. If there is any good reason why I should not go to ride with him this afternoon, and you will tell me what it is, so that I can judge for myself, I can beg him to excuse me, because you are not well—and—ask him to stay to dinner instead.”
New alarm seized Miss Dent. In her excitement she tried to rise, only to drop back trembling upon the bed. For the moment her one thought was that this man must be kept out of the house. “Lucy,” she pleaded, despair in her voice, “you do not understand. He is not our friend now. He is your father’s enemy—and is trying to kill him.”
She stopped in sudden panic at having said so much, and Lucy started back amazed.
“Oh, Dearie—you don’t know, do you—and daddy—you don’t know about daddy?”
Louise looked up, her face white and drawn, astonishment veiling the pain in her eyes.
“Lucy, Lucy! Do you know—about your father—and this man—and yet you will go with him?”
Lucy’s curly head was high as she answered deliberately: “Yes, Dearie! I am going so that I can save daddy from any further trouble. I shall tell Mr. Conrad who daddy is.”
Miss Dent gasped and her mouth worked for a moment before she could speak. “Oh, child, you don’t know what you are doing! I beg of you, Lucy, don’t go—don’t do it! If you love me, if you love your father, don’t tell him! He will kill—”
The girl drew herself up proudly. “Indeed, Dearie, you don’t know Curtis Conrad as well as I do, if you think he will do the least thing to hurt daddy, after he knows. That’s why I’m going to tell him—to save daddy. I love him, Dearie, but I shall not let him know that I do. And I want to hear him say, just once, that he loves me—and then I shall tell him—who I am and who daddy is.” She turned half away, then rushed back to throw her arms around her friend’s neck. “Darling Dearie, I know I am hurting you! But won’t you trust me about this, and love me just the same? I know I amdoing the best thing for daddy—and—after to-day, I’m never going to see Curtis Conrad again!”
Louise fell back, exhausted, as Lucy kissed her forehead and ran from the room.
Conrad and Lucy rode along a street skirting the brow of themesauntil the houses of the town in the valley below became few and straggling. Down the last roadway cut across the sides of the canyon they descended to the bottom of the ravine. Thence upward it was so narrow that the bed of the creek and the road left only scant margins of rocky soil. In these grew cottonwoods, willows, and a few other trees, whose overarching branches made a green and pleasant vista. The creek wound crookedly down the valley, frequently crossing the road, while here and there the walls of the gulch drew so close together that the track was forced into the bed of the stream. Notwithstanding the recent rains, the water was too shallow to reach above their horses’ knees.
The way was quite deserted, and after leaving the town they saw no other travellers. Acool, damp wind came down the ravine and Lucy took off her hat and let it toss back her brown curls. They had grown longer since the early Spring, and now clustered in soft rings around her ears and neck. A touch of sadness lingered upon her spirits, because of the distressing scene with Miss Dent. It was the first difference that had ever arisen between them. A poignant longing filled her heart, also, because this was to be her final interview with the man she loved. The painful duty she had set herself filled the background of her consciousness and laid upon her manner an unusual reserve.
But these more sombre emotions mingled with the gladness of the knowledge that she was beloved, and all combined to invest her with a new maturity of womanliness, a sweet dignity that sent filtering through Conrad’s eager love a sensation of wonder and reverence. It could not be possible that this lovely, this adorable being would receive his homage, would consent to love him! But he would try. She was willing to ride with him, and there was hope in that. And, yes, he would not forget that he must tell her about his unworthy life—he must tell her even before he asked her to marry him. But oh, howbeautiful she was, how sweet! Every movement of her head, her arm, her body, every twinkling smile, every fleeting dimple, poured fresh wine into his blood. A torrent of love and admiration was sweeping through him, and from it were constantly breaking off and flowing over their friendly talk little cascades of compliment, of admiring speech, of sentences glowing with hints of his feeling.
But Lucy quickly caught the trend of every one and turned it back with laughing retort and merry speech. He could not get within her guard, and every deft turn of her jesting, foiling replies made him only the more eager. He forgot that he was going to make confession, forgot to watch the dark clouds that were rising above the mountain tops, forgot everything but this alluring creature, who grew more alluring every moment, and yet would not let him loose the torrents of loving speech. And Lucy, in the sweet excitement of letting him say a little, and again a little, and then a little more, yet keeping up her guard and never letting him reach the danger point, Lucy also forgot what she had meant to keep constantly in mind. Now and then duty put out a warning hand. But—the exhilaration of the present moment, the preciousconsciousness of his love, the thrilling pleasure of this Cupid’s dance—she could not give it up so quickly. Presently she would tell him.
Thus has it been Love’s habit, ever since Love came to live in this world, to dance with happy and forgetful foot over volcanoes ready to engulf him in their fires, beneath clouds ready to drown him with their pouring sorrows. No matter what the dangers, when the maid lures and the man pursues, Love knows only his own delight. So went Lucy and Curtis up the beautiful canyon road, thrilling with the happiness that can be but once,—before the first kiss has brushed away the exquisite bloom of love,—forgetting alike the bonds they had put upon themselves and the dangers that lurked in the threatening storm.
At last the darkening atmosphere caused Conrad to notice how high the clouds had risen. “I’m afraid there’s going to be a bad storm, Miss Bancroft,” he said, “and perhaps we’d better turn back. When we started I didn’t think it would rain before night, but those clouds are piling up fast and they look as if they meant business. I’m sorry, for a little ways above here there’s a beautiful place, where the walls of the canyon spread out andyou get a splendid view. I wanted to take you there, and tell you—” It was not so easy after all, to loose the torrents of speech, and for a bare instant he hesitated. It was enough to give Lucy her chance.
She shot at him a single sparkling glance, and broke in with, “Oh, I’ll race you there!” As she spoke she touched her horse and darted ahead, leaving him alone in the middle of the road at the very beginning of his declaration. The wind blew her curls into a tangled frame for her laughing face as she looked back over her shoulder. He quickly spurred Brown Betty forward, but she had got so much the start that it was some moments before he was again at her side.
“You took me by surprise,” he said as they slowed their horses at the foot of a steeper incline, “and handicapped me, or you wouldn’t have got so far away. When we go back I’ll race you all the way down the canyon, if you like.”
“Agreed!” she laughed. “Wouldn’t it be jolly to go at a gallop all the way down the canyon, from the mountains to Golden? But the poor horses!”
“I think we’d better turn back, Miss Bancroft. I don’t like the look of those clouds.It’s going to be a regular deluge, I’m afraid. But first, I want to tell you—”
“Oh, my hat! I’ve dropped it!” she exclaimed. Curtis leaned over easily, picked it up, and hung it on his own pommel. Her eyes were twinkling and the dimples were playing hide-and-seek with a wilful little smile that hovered around her mouth. “So awkward of me,” she said apologetically, “and how readily you picked it up! I wish I could do that! Do you know, Mr. Conrad, you’ve never given me those lessons in the cowboy’s art, roping and riding and all that, you promised ever so long ago.”
“We’ll begin them whenever you say the word. After I tell you—”
“About that beautiful place? Oh, yes! Can’t we go that far? I’d love to see it!” She was bounding ahead again, but he was quickly beside her. A quizzical look was on his face and a touch of mastery in his manner as he leaned toward her and rested his hand upon her horse’s neck.
“Now, if you try to run away again,” he said banteringly, “it’s you who will have the handicap!” She gathered up her bridle and with a touch of her quirt wheeled her horse half way around and away from his detaininghand. The whim had seized her to start flying back down the road, “just a little way,” she thought, “just to tease him.” But as she turned she met a glowing look that checked her impulse.
“Lucy!” he was saying, and his voice lingered over her name like a soft and warm caress, “Lucy! I love you. Will you be my wife?”
It had come, the question she had meant not to let him ask, and at once it sobered her spirits and brought back the remembrance of what she must tell him. Her head drooped until her brown curls half hid her crimsoning face, and her voice was low and troubled. “Indeed, Mr. Conrad, I can never be any man’s wife. My father needs me. I shall never marry, and I shall stay with him as long as he lives.”
“I know how devoted you are to your father, Lucy—” he stopped, and repeated her name as if he loved the sound of it it—“Lucy, and it is so sweet and beautiful that it makes me love you even more. Tell me, Lucy, do you love me?”
The question took her unawares, and he saw her hand tremble. She hesitated for a moment before replying, with dignity: “I havetold you I could not marry you. Isn’t that enough?” Unconsciously they had again headed their horses toward the mountains and were walking slowly up the canyon.
“No, Lucy; it isn’t enough!” he exclaimed eagerly. “Something tells me that perhaps you do care a little for me, and if you do I want to know it—I must know it!”
“I shall never see you again after to-day. You must be satisfied with that,” she replied, tossing her head and turning her face away from his shining and pleading eyes.
“How can I be satisfied—” he began, and the wind blew her hair as she turned her head away and showed one little pink-tinted ear nestling among the curls. His gaze devoured it. “How can I,” he went on, “when you—when you have such a beautiful ear!”
“What difference does it make when we can never see each other again?” Her manner was evasive and her speech hesitating, for she was trying hard to bring herself to the point of telling him the fateful secret.
“All the difference in the world! Lucy, sweetheart! Tell me if you care!” He leaned toward her and took her wrist in his hand.