REDDY took his mother West. It was a journey that he ===conducted with much ostentatious display, but the opportunities in this respect were far less extended than he could have wished. It was only when they were West of Chicago, however, that he felt perfectly at home; for out of Chicago the sleeper was crowded with men who talked tirelessly of cattle and mines, and who told how much they were worth, or any other little personal matter that might be accounted of general public interest, with simple candour and without shame. In their presence Reddy parted with the last vestige of suspicion that the conservative East had bred in him.
“These are the people!” he thought.
Mrs. Crittendon, a mild little woman who had not yet recovered from the shock of Reddy's reformation, and who regarded that redeemed young man with wordless awe, since it was all really too good to be true, bore him company with much inward trepidation. She was small and placid, with smooth grey hair neatly parted and plainly drawn back of her ears; she was not only small and slight, she was trim and graceful as well, with a youthful walk and sprightly carriage. The top of the small tight-fitting black bonnet that framed her face came just on a level with Reddy's broad shoulders. All her life had been spent in Benson, she had never been fifty miles away from there before; and she was the victim of a depressing fear that Reddy had made some fatal mistake in the train, and that they were speeding recklessly in the wrong direction; a circumstance it was impossible for her to conceive could end otherwise than tragically. Indeed the flippancy with which her son bought tickets and changed cars impressed her as bordering on a suicidal folly. Afterward she always said it was a mercy they reached the ranch; but Reddy never understood what she meant by this, and she never enlightened him. But reach the ranch they did—a trifling matter of forty miles from Carson, the nearest point on the railway—and in a cloud of dust, and behind a span of half-broken colts that were the apple of Reddy's eye. Here she began to adjust herself to the wide horizon, to the barrenness of the grey rolling plains, the distant fringe of mountain peaks.
Strangely enough she was not lonely; she hardly missed the gossiping friends she had parted from at Benson; she had Reddy, and there was the ranch foreman and the ranch foreman's wife who cooked for the boys, and the boys themselves, who spent their days either in idleness or on horseback. They had neighbours, too, whose ranches dotted a strip of territory that stretched away to the south a hundred miles, and to the north another hundred. With these, she discovered, Reddy maintained a sparse but cordial intimacy; many of them he saw as often as two or three times a year, but this was not true of all; there was Colonel Rogers, whose comfortable ranch house was distant a hard day's ride, and whose powerful patronage gave Reddy a position in that region he could not otherwise have had.
In due time the colonel and his wife drove over in a light buck-board for a stay of several days with Reddy and his mother, and while the ladies sat in the ranch parlour, which Reddy had furnished in hot and stuffy red plush, and exchanged confidences or gossiped; the two men, in their shirt-sleeves, sat on the top rail of the corral fence for the most part, smoked pipes, and talked cattle.
The colonel was a tall grizzled man, with a gentle kindly manner; no one would have supposed him a millionaire and a man of determined but quiet force of character, while Mrs. Rogers was a motherly woman, whose faith in the colonel—she always gave him this military title—had never experienced any shocks; and her reminiscences of the early days when as a young bride he had brought her into the country, impressed Mrs. Crittendon with a profound sense of that mild-mannered gentleman's capabilities. She was glad Reddy had such a friend.
But what impressed her most was that while they were on such intimate terms with her son, and though he was going to marry their daughter, they yet apparently knew nothing of him beyond such limited confidences as he had chosen to indulge in; indeed Reddy's standing in the community seemed to be a strictly personal matter, and it belonged to the present absolutely. He had come into the country, a stranger with a bunch of cattle, he had proven himself an excellent neighbour, and above all he had not shown any desire to put his brand on cattle he had not paid for. She discovered that beyond the fact that Reddy originally came from Ohio, nothing was known of his antecedents. This discovery she made one day at dinner, and she proceeded to enlighten their guests; since to her, Reddy belonged as much to Benson as did the soldiers' monument on the square. She was well into the family history when the colonel, who had been placidly listening, suddenly put aside his knife and fork.
“What was that you said about a town called Benson?” he asked.
Mrs. Crittendon had merely said that Reddy had been born in Benson—she had given the year, the day of the month, and hour of his birth.
“Your home!” cried Rogers, and he gave his wife a glance. “Well, that beats me. Benson—Benson, Ohio—they fit together; you'd hardly believe it, ma'am, that for forty years I been wondering off and on where Benson was. I reckon I could have found out easy enough, but I never did; and I had pretty good reasons for wanting to know, too. Benson, Ohio—that's what he told me,” he mused in silence for a moment, running his fingers through his grizzled beard.
“What do you want to know about Benson?” asked Reddy. “I guess I could have told you.”
“Never heard you mention it, Riley,” said the colonel. “And, well, I reckon you never heard me mention it either, but my folks were Benson folks, too.” He turned to Mrs. Crittendon. “How long did you live in Benson, ma'am?”
“Always, I was born and reared there.”
“Were you though—well, well! I wonder if you ever heard anything of a party that started West from there some time along about '49, as I reckon it?”
“The Landrays went,” said Mrs. Crittendon promptly.
“Landray—that's the name! Landray—I ain't forgotten that. Now, hold on again, there was Landray and his brother, and a man by the name of Walsh, a youngish fellow as I remember him, and an oldish grey-whiskered man named—Bingham.”
“He was my father's cousin,” said Mrs. Crittendon.
“Was he, ma'am? Well, I declare! And there was my father, of course, and myself. I always wished I could meet some one who could tell me something about him.”
“I have always heard it was a Rogers who brought the first news about the finding of gold in California,” said Mrs. Crittendon.
“That must have been my father. I reckon now, you never saw him,” said the colonel with regret.
“Not to remember him if I did.”
“Well, of course not, you were too young. I wish I could recall more about him, for I've always thought that fight left things a sort of blank with me. I only remember what happened back of it by fits and starts. What I'd like to know, though, is how those folks in Ohio learned about the outfit and what come of it—or did they ever learn?”
“Mr. Benson went West to find out. It's too bad I don't know more, but I've only heard the older people talk about it. Mr. Benson was the Landrays lawyer, and people say he was in love with Stephen Landray's wife.”
“Did she marry him?”
“No, she never married again, nor Mrs. Walsh either. She makes her home with Mrs. Landray mostly, though she's got a married daughter, Mrs. Norton.”
“I wish you'd tell me something about the Landrays,” said Rogers.
“Why, there is Mrs. Landray, and Stephen Landray, a young fellow just out of college,” said Reddy.
“Whose son is he, Riley?” asked the colonel.
“Why he's Mrs. Landray's nephew,” said Reddy.
“Her grand-nephew,” corrected his mother. “He is Captain Landray's son.”
“A soldier in the late war?”
“Yes.”
Rogers hit the table sharply with his open hand.
“I swear then he's the man I met at Appomattox! You've seen him, ma'am, of course? What's become of him?”
“He's dead; he died years ago out in Kansas.”
“And only Mrs. Landray and his son's left?”
“Yes, least I never heard of any others.”
“Sort of makes me feel like the last leaf on the bough,” the colonel stroked his grey beard reflectively. “This all fits into what I can call up. You know after the Indian fight, I was taken in and brought up by old man Raymond—Tom's father, Riley—you ain't forgot Tom?”
Reddy shook his head. Rogers chuckled.
“It takes all my influence to keep 'em from running Tom out of the country; Tom'll happen along here some day, ma'am, and you'll wonder why any one's prejudiced against Tom.” The colonel's lady made as if to interrupt the conversation, but the colonel restrained her by a gesture. “I don't indorse Tom, but his father was a mighty good friend to me when friends were scarce, and that gives Tom a sort of hold; I've kind of made myself responsible for him. There never was a better man than old Ephriam Raymond, Mormon or no Mormon! He brought me up, and gave me my start in life; I ain't forgot that, and I reckon I'll put up with considerable of Tom's cussedness yet for his sake.”
He was thoughtful for a moment. Ephriam Raymond had done all that he had said and more. That he had died while Rogers was still in the army, had always been a matter of keen regret to the latter; for Raymond's daughter had married years before, and had gone to the coast with her husband, an apostate Mormon, and there had only been Tom with him in his last sickness; Tom, who was always on the verge of trouble more or less serious. The colonel thought of all this, and regretted those vicissitudes which had left him with a vague and uncertain memory of his own father, and had separated him from his best friend at a time when he might have been of some comfort to him.
He turned with more questions to Mrs. Crittendon, but the Lan-drays and the Benson and California Mining and Trading Company, had long since taken their place among the traditions of the Ohio town. She had the sentiment of the tragedy rather than the details.
“Mr. Benson could tell you all you want to know; he must have known your father. He came West and brought back the news of the massacre; he could tell you all about the company, just who was in it, and everything.”
“Well, maybe some day I'll write him.”
“Why don't you do it to-night?” suggested Reddy.
“There's no such hurry,” said the colonel hastily. “Guess I'll wait until Margaret gets home. I'll have her write the letter for me.”
“You know you'll never write at all if you wait; do it now,” said Mrs. Rogers.
The colonel gave her a pleasant smile as he pushed back his chair and reached for his pipe.
“Just think of the jobs I've saved myself, mother, by putting them off. Half the things I make up my mind to do, I find by waiting ain't so urgent as I supposed; but I'm going to write that letter the first thing when Margaret gets back.”
The next day the colonel and Mrs. Rogers departed for home.
“Now bring your mother over soon,” urged Mrs. Rogers, as they prepared to drive away. “Don't wait for Margaret to finish her visit in Cheyenne.” Reddy blushed guiltily. This was exactly what he intended doing. “But just come whenever you can.”
The colonel added his voice to hers as they drove off, then he lapsed into silence at her side, and the silence endured for many miles. He was thinking of the conversation of the day before, and he was still groping vaguely among memories of the past. At last he turned to his wife, and began telling her of the trip across the plains, with the Landrays and his father. It was a confused narrative, for there seemed to be mingled with it incidents that belonged to another journey that had been made under different circumstances.
“Do you know, I'd like mightily to write to Mrs. Landray,” he said at last.
“Well, why don't you, colonel?”
“Well, maybe I will when Margaret gets back.”
It was dusk when they reached home, and as they drove up to the ranch house door, two men came out, hearing the sound of wheels, and to one of these the colonel surrendered his team. The other, a weazened swarthy man, touched him on the arm as he was about to enter the house.
“What is it?” he asked, turning back.
“Tom Raymond's here.”
The colonel groaned aloud. The speaker grinned. He was the ranch foreman, he had been with the colonel many years and he knew almost as much of Roger's affairs as Rogers did himself. He understood the nature of Raymond's hold on the colonel, and he regarded it as a conspicuous weakness on the part of an otherwise sane and rational man.
“What's the matter?” demanded Rogers.
“He's in trouble again, I reckon,” said the foreman.
“Well, was there ever a time when he wasn't?” asked Rogers with some show of temper.
“He wouldn't come up to the house, I happened on him out back of the corrals. He's hid in the old bunk-house he wants to see you the worst kind of a way.”
“Go tell my wife I've had to go down to the corrals. Tell her not to wait for me, but to eat,” said the colonel.
The old bunk-house was a small building of poles, now no longer used. It was remote from the house, and rarely visited; and toward it the colonel bent his steps in the gathering darkness. The bunk-house door was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open. The room was apparently empty, for he heard no sound. He struck a match, and in the momentary brightness he saw a man asleep in one of the bunks, a gaunt, loose-jointed man with long grey locks that fell to his shoulders. He had been sleeping with his head resting on his arm, and the light flashing full in his face roused him, he sprang up with a startled exclamation, and Rogers caught a sound which he understood perfectly.
“Put that up, Tom, it's only me,” he said composedly.
“Oh, it's you, Ben, old pardner? Didn't know who it was. When did you get back?”
“I just came. Buck told me you were here and wanted to see me.”
Tom had quitted the bunk, now he was sitting on the edge of it. Rogers could just distinguish his head with its thick unkempt thatch of grey hair, and his bulk of bone and muscle.
“Well, Ben,” he said in a drawling voice, “I reckon you're going to see the last of me; I reckon I'm going to quit the country this time. I've stayed mainly to be near you, old pardner, but I'm clean crowded out at last.”
The colonel was quite unmoved by the other's sentiment, he had heard the same thing before many times. Tom had come into a comfortable property on his father's death; this he had promptly squandered. He had gone from bad to worse—guide, scout, packer, and lastly buffalo hunter, who between debauches had done his part in the ruthless war of extermination which had been waged against the great herds of the plain; but the herds had disappeared, and this shiftless means of livelihood had gone with them. Sometimes he worked with Roger's forces, but most of the time he spent in and about Carson, subsisting by means it was not well to inquire too closely into. He was counted a dangerous man, not that he had ever risen to any very splendid villainies, but he was a man that the other men shunned unless they were of his own class.
“What is it, Tom?” said Rogers, “You're in trouble, I suppose, or you wouldn't be here hiding.”
“There was trouble in Carson,” said Tom in a meditative drawl. “Benny, these here cow towns is the God forsakenest places in all this God forsaken country. Who'd a thought that me at my time of life, when I've always done what I thought was right—”
The colonel moved impatiently.
“Get down to business, Tom,” he urged.
“Well, say Benny, can you stake me for a long jump? I reckon it'll be plumb to Texas this time.”
“What have you done, Tom?” asked Rogers.
“I've shot a man, Ben.”
“I reckoned so,” said the colonel in a hard voice.
“A man that said I sold beef that hadn't 'airy brand of mine on it. Now that was a hell of a thing to say of a man who's always tried to act right and square.”
“Who was it?”
“Which he knew it was a lie, and you know it was a lie, Benny.”
“Who was it?” repeated Rogers.
“Chesney.”
“Did you kill him?”
“I dunno. Hope so,” said Tom indifferently. “I didn't wait to see, I just pushed out for here.”
“And they'll be pushing after you.”
“I reckon that's so all right, as soon as they can get together a posse.”
“I can't have them find you here, Tom,” said the colonel. “You know there's a limit—”
“I didn't think you'd show me your back! I've been a good friend to you, Ben, and if I hadn't been, father was. Can you deny that—no, sir!”
“He was the best friend I ever had.”
“I'm glad you ain't forgot it, Ben Rogers! He gave you your start—you've always been man enough to own that.”
“Don't you think I've about squared that with you?” said the colonel again impatiently.
“I ain't here to ask no favours, Benny, you can rest easy on that; I'm here to make a fair trade.”
“Yes,” said Rogers wearily. He was familiar with the old buffalo hunter's idea of a fair trade.
“You're seeing the last of me, Benny, you'll be clean shut of me when I hit the trail this time.”
The colonel hoped so, though this hope did not find, expression in words.
“I'll want a good horse, for I played mine out getting here.”
“Yes,” said Rogers.
“And I want money—but hold on a minute, I got something I want to sell you, Ben. Yes, sir, I am going to make a fair trade; a thousand dollars.”
“That's more than I can lay my hands on to-night, Tom, so come down to reason.”
“Well, five hundred then,” said Raymond eagerly.
“What's your trade, Tom?”
“You know when father took you in you gave him a buckskin bag full of papers. Where do you reckon they are now?”
“I don't know, I never had any more than your word for it, but you always said when I asked about them, that they had either been lost or destroyed, at least they were not among your father's papers when you came to look them over, but perhaps you lied.”
“That's about the size of it, Benny,” said Raymond coolly. “I lied. I had my own reasons for wanting to keep them papers out of your hands.”
“But they were not yours! If I had been with your father at the time of his death he would have given them to me.”
“Maybe he would, he was mighty curious in them ways; but you wa'n'. there, so he did the next best thing, he gave them to me instead.”
“To give to me, I suppose.”
“That part of it's plumb slipped my mind. Anyhow I got the papers.”
“And you want to send them to me now?”
“That's the idea, Benny.”
“And if I gave you the money?”
“Five hundred dollars, Benny.”
“You'll clear out of here for Texas?”
“I bet I will,” said Raymond cheerfully.
“Where are the papers?” questioned Rogers.
“I got 'em by me;” but he made no move to produce them.
“I'll go to the house and get the money, and I'll have Buck get up a horse for you.”
“All right;” and Raymond stretched himself out in the bunk again. He felt certain that the posse would not arrive at the ranch until early in the morning, and by then he would have put many miles between it and himself.
He was alone but a few minutes, and then he was rejoined by Rogers, who carried a lantern.
“Did you fetch the money, Benny?” demanded the old buffalo hunter eagerly.
“Yes, I have it here. Now let me see those papers.”
Raymond produced a greasy pocket-book, and rescued from its depths a small flat parcel wrapped in several folds of oilskin. He surrendered it to Rogers, who undid the parcel and satisfied himself by a glance that the yellow papers he held in his hand were those for which he had bargained. Raymond watched him, a toothless smile relaxing his lean jaws.
“All right, Benny?”
“They seem to be—yes.”
“Then fork over, and I'll quit you here and now.”
The money Rogers gave him he hid about his person; then he gathered up his hat and weapons, and moved to the door. Rogers followed him, and in the shadow of the corral fence they saw Buck holding a horse. Raymond moved toward it with alacrity, and swung himself into the saddle.
“I don't know as I was so much run out of the country after all. I been wanting a change. Well, good-bye, Benny, take care of yourself, old pardner! So long, Buck!” and with that he put his horse to an easy canter.
Rogers watched him out of sight with a feeling of infinite relief. He had ceased to see him long before the clatter of his horse's hoofs died out in the distance; but at last there was neither sight nor sound of him. The colonel turned to Buck.
“I guess if any one asks about him, Buck, he ain't been here—just bear that in mind.”
“Do you think he'll get away all right?” asked Buck.
“Oh, I reckon he will. I find I'm sort of counting on his doing it. Perhaps I shouldn't, but I am—Hullo! What's that?” for his ear had caught the sound of a rapidly ridden horse, but coming in the opposite direction from that Raymond had just taken. Buck heard it, too.
“Tom hit the trail none too soon,” he said. “His luck always was the damndest,” by which he meant that it far exceeded his deserts.
“I can only make out one horse,” said Rogers at last. “It ain't the posse. We'll just walk up toward the house;” and they had scarcely reached it when the horseman galloped up and drew rein.
“Who's that?” called Rogers.
“It's me—Crittendon, colonel,” said the horseman.
“What's the matter, Riley?” his voice showed that he was immensely relieved. “Get down. Buck will take your horse;” but Riley had nothing to say until Buck had moved off out of hearing, then he turned to Rogers.
“Look here, colonel—Tom Raymond's in trouble again, and mighty serious trouble, too.”
“I know, Riley, he's been here; just gone, in fact.”
“I knew he'd come here the first thing. Just after you left this morning I got the word he'd shot Chesney, and that they were getting together at Carson to go after him; and I hustled out here to warn you that there was nothing you or any one could do for him, that they are bound to have him.”
“He'll have to take his chances. I've done all I could; given him a horse and money. He's started for Texas.”
“He'd better keep going—yes, he better had!” said Reddy.
“I reckon he knows that,” said Rogers significantly. “Well, I've done as much, and more than most honest men would do under similar circumstances, and it's up to Tom to do the rest. He's getting along in life, and I reckon his capers are about at an end.”
“Chesney's dead, you know,” said Reddy.
“No, you don't tell me!” Rogers fell back a step. “You don't mean it, Riley?”
“Died within an hour after he was shot,” said Reddy briefly.
“Well, I just had to help Tom,” said the colonel, after a momentary silence. “It was one of those things I couldn't get out of doing. I've always been doing things for Tom I wouldn't do for any other man alive—but come into the house, I got something I want to show you. Something Tom left with me.”
Rogers conducted Reddy into the dining-room where his own supper was still waiting for him. Mrs. Rogers wearied by the long drive had already eaten and had retired for the night.
“I reckon you're hungry after your ride, Riley,” said Rogers. “So am I. Getting Tom off sort of put me out of the notion of eating even if I'd had the time.”
The two men ate in silence, but when the rigours of their hearty appetites were satisfied, the colonel produced the papers Tom Raymond had left with him. He told their history, and then the two fell to examining them with much eagerness.
“Well,” said Rogers at last. “I can't see that there's anything here that concerns me. I reckon they ought to be passed along to Mrs. Landray, though I can't see that they are of any value. Still I ought to send 'em to her.”
“No doubt about that,” said Reddy.
“You know her, Riley?”
“Well, yes, I've met her, and she knows who I am well enough.”
“How'd you like to send 'em to her, Riley? You could tell her the way they first came into my hands just as I've told you; how Tom Raymond got hold of them, and how he'd always said they were lost. I'd like you to make it plain to her it wasn't me held 'em back, I wouldn't want her to think that.”
“No, of course not.”
“Mind writing her?” inquired Rogers. He was rather sensitive about his own penmanship—and Margaret was in Cheyenne.
“No, not exactly, but if it's all the same to you I'd rather send 'em to her lawyer. He could sort of explain things to her. I'd feel freer to write him. I was going to write him anyhow, he's an old friend of mine.”
“That's the best idea yet, Riley,” said the colonel, much pleased by the suggestion. “I reckon a little tact won't be out of place in bringing these papers to her notice, and her lawyer's the man for the job.” He folded up the papers as he spoke. “I'll leave the whole thing in your hands, Riley; take your time to it, and make it plain to your friend how I got the papers first, how they were lost, and how I got 'em again from Tom Raymond.”
REDDY wrote Ben Wade and sent him the papers, asking him to explain matters to Mrs. Landray; and Wade took them at once to her together with Crittendon's letter. Virginia was not at home; Mrs. Walsh was there, however, and he left the papers with her. Then he remembered that he was to dine that night with Stephen and Benson. His watch warned him that he had no time to spare, it was already after six, so he hurried across town to keep his engagement.
“I'd about given you up, Ben,” said Stephen, meeting him in the hall. “I thought you had forgotten.”
“I had to go to your aunt's on an errand; sorry I'm late;” and he followed Stephen into the dining-room, where they joined Benson and Gibbs.
As Reddy's letter seemed a matter that he could make public, and as there were certain questions he wished to ask Benson, he turned to the lawyer after they were seated, to say:
“Mr. Benson, do you remember a man by the name of Rogers who went West with Stephen's grandfather and uncle?”
“Yes, perfectly; and no doubt Gibbs does, too.”
“A fellow who thought he could suppress the news of the discovery of gold in California,” said Gibbs.
“He had a son; had he not?”
Gibbs nodded.
“A little chap of eight or ten—you recollect him well enough, Jake—he was the apple of Rogers's eye.”
“Yes, I remember him,” said the lawyer absently. He was hardly hearing what was said. Words, apparently chance words, were taking him swiftly back to the past. He felt in his face the rain and sleet of that March morning long past, when he had gone to Tucker's Red Brick Tavern to say good-bye to the Landrays. He saw the canvas-covered wagons looming large in the darkness, the one dim light in the bar, and poor old Tucker, half-crazed with drink and grief. He glanced at Gibbs and wondered if he recalled that day; but the general had not been engulfed by any such rush of sentiment. His conscience was singularly inactive: not a line of his bad old face showed emotion. He was eating and drinking with unabated relish; perhaps it had not occurred to him that out of his part in that day's doings a tragedy had come.
“Yes, I remember the child,” repeated the lawyer.
“Well,” said Wade, “Reddy's nearest neighbour is this man Rogers's son.”
“Impossible!” cried Benson.
“Why impossible, Mr. Benson?” said Wade.
“Because the boy was killed along with the others, Ben.”
“It seems not,” said Wade. “He's furnished pretty conclusive evidence that he is very much alive. He's just sent through Reddy a bundle of old papers that belonged to Stephen Landray.”
The knife dropped from Benson's hand with a noisy clatter. He uttered an angry exclamation, but recovered himself immediately. It seemed an accident, though later each of the three men present at his table remembered the circumstance.
“What were these papers, do you know?” he gave Wade a sharp glance.
“I don't,” said Wade, and he met his glance frankly. “But it seems they were papers that Stephen Landray gave the boy the day he was killed. He wanted them sent to his wife; but they fell into the hands of a third party, and Rogers only recently recovered them. In the meantime he appears to have forgotten all about them. It will be rather startling to Mrs. Landray to receive them after all these years.”
“I still think there must be some mistake,” said Benson. “As you are Mrs. Landray's lawyer you'd better advise her to be cautious in dealing with this man Rogers. Of course, Crittendon is perfectly honest and well meaning in the matter.”
Wade looked at the older man with a puzzled smile. This struck him as the absurdest of theorizing, the most primitive of suspicions. It was the first weak spot he had ever detected in the lawyer's judgment. It was more than primitive, it was positively childish.
“Perhaps, you were not aware that I visited the scene of the massacre; I was accompanied by a man who had taken part in the fight, and who assured me that every member of the party but himself had been killed by the Indians. As he afterward buried the bodies, it is scarcely likely that he could have been mistaken.”
“But it seems he was—that is, I am going on the assumption that the papers are what they purport to be. A point, of course, that only Mrs. Landray can settle.”
The lawyer gave him a frankly hostile glance. It angered him that Wade should abide by his own conclusions in spite of what he had said.
“My guide, he was the survivor of the party, of whom I have spoken, stated specifically that the boy was dead. It is incredible that he could have been mistaken, when he returned to the scene of the massacre weeks, it may have been months, afterward, and buried the bodies.”
“I admit that's a hard point to get around. On the other hand, how does Reddy's friend know all the facts he appears to know? Can you explain that?”
“Likely enough he got 'em out of Mrs. Crittendon; she knows a good deal about the Landrays,” suggested the general.
“Her father's cousin was a member of the party,” said Benson. “It is possible she knows all that any of us can know.”
“But the papers, Mr. Benson, the papers! Suppose they are genuine, what then?” asked Wade.
“We don't know that yet. Mrs. Landray will determine that point.”
“And you always understood that the boy was killed with the others?”
“Yes, Raymond distinctly stated—”
“Wait a minute—who's Raymond, Mr. Benson?” interrupted Wade hastily.
“He's the man of whom I've been telling you.”
“Well, Rogers claims to have recovered these papers from a man named Raymond.”
Benson looked a trifle blank at this. He tried to remember just how Raymond had impressed him, but the years had effaced whatever impression good or bad he may once have had of his guide. He was troubled in spite of himself. While he could not think that the papers meant anything, yet there was something ominous in their recovery after all these years.
“Well, you must admit it's a mighty singular incident any way you view it,” said Wade. After all he was not disposed to hang to a point when it displeased Benson, for the older lawyer had been useful to him in the past, and it would not be his fault if this use was not repeated in the future.
“I'd advise Mrs. Landray to look out for this man Rogers. His recovery of the papers comes too pat on Mrs. Crittendon's meeting with him.”
“Oh, I don't think that,” said Wade. “Reddy says he's a rich man, and that he's known him intimately for some time.”
“Rogers is the name of the girl Reddy's going to marry,” said Stephen.
He had been an interested listener to all that had been said, though he had taken no part in the conversation. He believed that the whole circumstance of the recovery of the papers was merely one of those mysteries that occasionally come into the lives of people. He was willing to accept the explanation Reddy had offered for what it was worth; he could not imagine any motive for fraud such as Benson apparently suspected.
“That's so!” said Wade. “Rogers is her name, and she is the daughter of one of his neighbours. I guess it's the same, Stephen.”
Benson had quite recovered his composure, and that he had lost it had been only evidenced by a certain sharpness that had crept into his voice when he addressed Wade. If the papers were what Reddy said they were, they were probably nothing more than letters; or perhaps the list of the share-holders in the ill-starred venture in which Stephen Landray had lost his life; undoubtedly this was what they would prove to be.
With the passing of Benson's opposition to Wade's facts, the conversation drifted into other channels, and presently, for the time being at least, they forgot all about Reddy's singular communication.
That is, all forgot but Benson; he could not forget.
And even while they were discussing them, Virginia and Mark Norton had been poring over the papers.
“It is a very remarkable circumstance,” murmured the banker. “I see—accounts of the Benson and California Mining and Trading Company. Did you know that my father had money in that venture? I declare, here's a list of the stock-holders—and here's his name—he's down for two shares. No, I can't see that these papers are of any importance to you, or ever could have been. They relate to matters that must have been long since settled by Mr. Benson.” He had been turning the papers slowly as he spoke. Suddenly he paused to glance sharply at a paper he held in his hand.
“What is it?” Virginia asked.
“Why, how much land did you own in Belmont County?”
“One thousand acres.”
“One thousand acres,” he repeated, “that's what I thought, then there is some mistake here. In the list of his holdings, your husband has entered two thousand acres as held by him and his brother in Belmont County. You can see—here,” and he showed her the place.
“But I only sold Mr. Benson one thousand acres, no, there couldn't have been more than that; there is some mistake.”
“Oh, you sold the land to Mr. Benson?”
“He bought it for Page Stark.”
“Well, here is your husband's memorandum in his own handwriting; he mentions two thousand acres which he owned in Belmont County. I don't know, but of course there may be some mistake. Yes, there must be, though it's hardly likely that he could have been in error in such a matter. Mr. Benson, you say, sold this land for you to Mr. Stark, sold all the land you owned there? I wonder if it is possible that you could have transferred a larger acreage than you were aware of.”
“Impossible!” cried Virginia. “Mr. Benson is too careful a man for anything like that to have happened.”
“Of course, it is hardly a reasonable supposition, but on the other hand, Mrs. Landray, your husband certainly knew whether it was one or two thousand acres he owned.”
“You don't doubt Mr. Benson?”
“I don't know whether I do or not,” said the banker. “I certainly think your husband would not have written the word two if he had meant one! I think you'd better show this to Ben Wade; let him ferret around among these papers. I'll send him up here to-morrow.” The next morning, Mark Norton stopped at Wade's office on his way downtown.
“You're early, Ben,” he said.
“I don't want any clients to turn away because my door's shut; and not only that, I was expecting a letter from Clara on the early mail.”
“Her mother complains that you seem to be getting all the letters; but see here, Ben, Mrs. Landray had me glance over those papers you left for her last night.” He looked rather grave. “I don't understand them; and the more I've thought about them, the less I understand them. So what I want to say is this, you go over them carefully.”
“Why, what's wrong?” asked Wade eagerly.
“Mrs. Landray will tell you. I don't understand the matter at all. But I want you to be quite sure you're right before you hazard an opinion, or there may be serious consequences; serious to her, and serious to us all. Just keep this clearly in mind, that's all.”
“Do you mean that she wants to see me this morning?”
“Yes, can you go there now?”
“Certainly, if she wants me;” and Wade reached for his hat.
What the banker had said, took him in hot haste to the cottage.
“I wonder if old Benson has been up to any tricks!” he speculated as he strode along. “He was her lawyer when she had money, and she looks after her business in a way to make her a temptation to her attorney.”
Mr. Wade was himself quite honest. He had certain large ambitions, and these coupled with small opportunity had saved him from any false steps; but he did not always give others the credit of seeing as far ahead as he saw.
He reached the cottage, and found Virginia waiting for him. She rose from her chair as he entered the room.
“I have just left Mr. Norton,” said Wade, as he greeted her. “He said you wished me to call.”
“Yes, Mr. Wade, I did,” said Virginia gravely. She had been seated at a table that stood by one of the windows through which the morning sun was streaming, and Wade saw that the table was littered with papers. He conjectured that they were the papers that Reddy had sent.
“Did Mr. Norton tell you anything?” asked Virginia.
“Not a word, Mrs. Landray, except that you wanted to see me. He intimated though that something had happened.”
“Something has happened,” said Virginia, with a swift intake of her breath. “Please sit down, Mr. Wade—here by the table—is the light too strong? I want you to look over these papers. They are those you left yesterday.”
“You mean that I am to read them, Mrs. Landray?” he asked, as he seated himself and deftly arranged the papers in a neat little pile.
“Yes, Mr. Wade,” and Virginia placed herself opposite him.
He realized that her composure had received some sort of a shock, but he understood that if it had been merely some belated word of farewell from the dead man she would not have sent for him. No, clearly it was a business matter, and he thought of Benson again with a hard cynical smile. Was he to be given a glimpse of some past dereliction on the part of the old lawyer! Mr. Wade's smile was both evil and unkind, but the next instant his lips straightened themselves, and his gravity was equal to Virginia's as he asked, “These papers are exactly what they assume to be?”
“How do you mean, I don't understand your question,” said Virginia.
“I mean they are genuine?”
“Yes, they were my husband's.”
“A very singular circumstance,” said Wade, as with great deliberation he began his examination. Virginia watched his face. But it was expressionless, beyond that it betokened complete absorption in his task. The first paper he took up seemed to be an account of moneys due the Landrays. He ran through it carefully.
“This, I suppose, goes back to the time when your husband and his brother owned the old mill,” he said at last. “It is a list of credits they had given. Am I right? I see there is written here at the bottom of the page, 'In Benson's hands for collection.'.rdquo; He glanced at her, and now his expression was one of curiosity, he wondered if she had discovered anything here.
She seemed to understand this unspoken question, for she said, “I want you to examine all the papers, Mr. Wade.”
He put the first aside, and picked up another. It proved to be a list of the share-holders in the Benson and California Mining and Trading Company, with the number of shares each investor had taken, set down opposite his name. He glanced through this hastily, for he knew that it could have no bearing on the present situation, since the tragic failure of that enterprise had in the very nature of things cancelled all obligations.
There were other papers dealing with this luckless venture; accounts covering the expenses of the party from the time it left Benson until it reached Fort Laramie. When he put the last of these aside, only two papers were left. One of these proved to be a brief memorandum of the personal indebtedness of the Landray brothers.
Again Wade looked at Mrs. Landray. But her face told him nothing, and he turned his attention to the last paper on the table.
It gave briefly a description of the various properties owned by the Landrays. This he put aside with the others.
“What's wrong, Mrs. Landray?” he said, after a momentary silence.
“Did you see in that first paper—” He found it while she spoke, “—where something has been crossed out?”
“Yes, here, an item of twenty-five hundred dollars. What is it, 'Deferred payments on the—' what? I can't make it out.”
“On the distillery,” said Virginia.
“Oh, yes, that's it! 'Due from Levi Tucker—'”
“And now in the very last paper you looked at, my husband mentions two thousand acres in Belmont County.”
Wade nodded.
Virginia leaned toward him in her eagerness.
“Do you suppose there could be any mistake about that, Mr. Wade?”
“How do you mean, Mrs. Landray?”
“I mean, could he have written two thousand when he meant only one thousand.”
Wade shook his head.
“Why, no, why should you suppose that? The memorandum shows careful preparation, to my thinking. But I don't at all understand your question—two thousand, when he meant one—what has become of the land anyhow? Who owns it now?”
“I don't know—I sold it to Mr. Stark, Asa Stark's son, but I only sold him one thousand acres. Mr. Benson arranged the sale.”
“You sold a thousand acres,” Wade repeated. “What became of the other thousand acres?”
“I don't know, that is what I want you to discover for me.”
“But I don't understand at all about this land.”
“You see, Mr. Wade, my husband and his brother accepted a thousand acres of land from Mr. Tucker, it was part of a large tract which he owned in Belmont County.”
“Oh, in trade for the distillery—I see.”
“No, it was in part payment for the distillery. I supposed at the time my husband went West, that there was still twenty-five hundred dollars due him from Mr. Tucker—you see that is the sum he crossed out—but afterward, Mr. Benson said not. He said Mr. Tucker had finished paying for the distillery; and my impression was that the money was taken West for investment.”
“So,” said Wade. “Mr. Tucker owned several thousand acres in Belmont County, and of this tract he traded one thousand acres for the distillery, leaving twenty-five hundred dollars unpaid?”
“Yes, as I remember it, that is how it was,” said Virginia.
“Do you know what the valuation of the property was?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“Then,” said Wade, with a ring of triumph in his tone, “if Mr. Tucker had subsequently turned over another thousand acres to clear himself, it would tally with the list, wouldn't it? And you sold this land?”
“I sold a thousand acres.”
“You sold a thousand acres to a man by the name of Stark. What was the consideration?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“Was it cash?”
“Yes.”
“But are you sure, Mrs. Landray, that you only sold a thousand acres?”
“That is all I intended to sell; indeed I did not know that there was more than that to sell.”
“But you saw the deed?”
“Yes.”
“You had it in your hand?”
“I don't know, I don't remember that part, I think Mr. Benson read it to me.”
“But who was present?”
“A notary, I think, and perhaps Jane, and Mr. Benson.”
“And you didn't see this man Stark at all?”
“No.”
“But his name appeared?”
“Yes.”
Wade whistled softly under his breath. Perhaps it was a generous impulse that prompted him to ask.
“Don't you think we'd better ask Mr. Benson to explain this transaction?”
“Why should we ask him?”
“He might be able to explain the circumstances. As the matter stands now it doesn't look altogether creditable; and when you had sold this thousand acres, that seemed to end matters so far as you owning land in Belmont County was concerned—Mr. Stark didn't appear with offers for more land?”
“Apparently I had sold all there was to sell,” said Virginia.
“Did you want to sell the land? Had you asked Mr. Benson to find a purchaser?”
“No, I don't know how he found Mr. Stark, or how Mr. Stark knew I had the land, I never heard Mr. Benson say.”
“But he advised you to sell the land?”
“Oh, yes, he said it was producing nothing, which was quite true; and that it was of little or no value, but that Mr. Stark seemed to think he could do something with it, at least he was willing to take it off my hands.”
“As a great favour, I suppose,” said Wade, smiling faintly. “What's become of Stark?”
“He's dead.”
“Then there is only Mr. Benson who might have the facts we want to know, Mrs. Landray. What is your theory?”
“I think at the very last, just before they started West, Mr. Tucker must have induced my husband and his brother to accept more land in payment for the distillery.”
“And the deeds were left in Mr. Benson's hands, that was probably the way of it, Mrs. Landray; so Mr. Benson knows all that we should know.”
“But must we go to Mr. Benson?”
“Don't you wish me to speak to him?”
“I don't,” said Virginia quietly.
“Then it would be easy enough to go across to Belmont County and look into the records. I suppose you never saw the original deeds; they were among the papers your husband left with Mr. Benson.”
“I suppose so.”
“What do you want me to do, Mrs. Landray?”
“Can you go to Belmont County?”
“Most assuredly, if you wish it. Perhaps that is the best plan—there's no dodging the records in the case, you know.”
While Wade was entirely friendly to Benson, he was more of a lawyer than a friend, and the case had certain romantic interest for him; spectacular possibilities on which his mind fed subtly, fascinated. Then there was the lapse of time, the curious way in which it had all worked out, the idea of being opposed to Benson in litigation that would shake the town to its centre, the splendid publicity.
All these phases of the possible case he saw, charmed and inspired him; and he swore softly under his breath as he strode back to the office.
“I'll make a case, if there's a hair to hang on!”
But his first act in the making of this case was to light a disreputable cob pipe which was reserved for times of great mental activity; then he locked his door, and committed the facts Virginia had given him to writing, but the form of this writing was a letter to Clara Norton. He finished his letter by asking her to preserve the formidable missive he had produced; for he said, “I shall never be able to state what I see quite so clearly to anyone else. I shall write you from Belmont County the first thing. I know you will hope with me that my theorizing is not all moonshine, and that I'll come on the substance of fraud, for this will mean so much to us both;” and then Mr. Wade blew a cloud of smoke with smiling tender lips, and reduced to a single paragraph the wealth of sentiment he suddenly felt stirring within his soul.
He left town that night, and without seeing Stephen; for he feared that he might let slip something of their discovery. Of one thing he felt quite certain; Stephen, if it came to taking sides, would cast his fortunes with Benson. He could not think that he would be so blind to his own ultimate interests as to do otherwise.
He was absent from Benson just two days. The morning of the third he returned, and though the hour was early, he went at once to Virginia.
“Well?” she asked, after they had shaken hands. He was smiling, and from that smile she argued ill for Benson.
“It looks ugly, Mrs. Landray. I knew you'd want to know what I'd found the minute I got back, so I came here from the train, just stopping to leave my satchel at the office. Yes”—he was slowly drawing off his gloves now—“yes, it looks bad for Benson. I wouldn't care to stand where he stands. I accomplished more than I set out to. Stark must have been the merest dummy in the transaction; the real purchaser never saw him. As in your own case, he had his dealings entirely with Mr. Benson.”
“I should never have thought he could have been so false!” cried Virginia.
“You can never tell until a man's tempted,” said Wade placidly.
“But the land,” said Virginia. “The number of acres?”
“The memorandum was correct in every particular; no matter what you thought at the time, you actually transferred two thousand acres to Stark. But,” he took a turn about the room, “the best is yet to come! I found Southerland, the man who owns the land. I went on to Wheeling to see him, and he was perfectly willing to talk. He tells me he paid—fifty thousand dollars for the land! The various transfers touching the final disposition of the property all fall within the space of less than two weeks, and according to Southerland's story, Benson must have had his offer before he presented the fake offer from Stark; indeed, he was on there, and in Southerland's company visited the land; this grew out of Southerland's having been here—I suppose you never knew that?”
“No.” A hard look had come into Virginia's face. She grasped only the big salient fact of Benson's utter treachery; for the manouvres which led up to it, and which so impressed Wade, she cared nothing; they did not interest her now that Benson's dishonesty seemed clear. She was thinking of what Stephen Landray's life had been in Kansas, for Gibbs had long since told her the whole story of his failure there; and she hated Benson for his lonely death. If that money had come to her, he might have been saved.
“I wish you would tell me what you want me to do, Mrs. Lan-dray,” said Wade.
“I shall sue Mr. Benson,” said Virginia.
Wade nodded eagerly.
“Of course, you can't let the matter slip; it wouldn't be just to yourself.”
“Or to Stephen,” added Virginia.
Wade gave her a blank stare at this.
“I am getting to be an old woman, Mr. Wade; for myself I no longer care; whatever I do will be for that poor boy's sake—for Stephen's sake.” She gazed sombrely at Wade, and he hid a smile; to characterize Stephen as that poor boy, struck him as being very funny, a touch of humour of which he had not suspected her capable.
“Yes, Mrs. Landray?” he prompted, for she was gazing abstractedly from the window.
“I must see Stephen. I have told him nothing yet,” she said.
“But this does not necessarily affect him,” he urged at a hazard.
She turned impatiently.
“You do not understand me, Mr. Wade, this is not a personal matter in the way you see it. He is a Landray, and it is the Landray fortune that has been scattered, and it becomes his duty as a Landray to see that justice is done. No doubt he has a certain affection for Mr. Benson, but how can he trust him in the future when he learns how false he has been in the past? He is wholly dependent on his whims.”
“Those are points you will have to make clear, Mrs. Landray; and frankly, I would make them very clear.”
“You are willing to undertake the suit?” said Virginia, suddenly changing the subject, for his doubt of Stephen offended her.
“I, Mrs. Landray?” he cried. “I'd consider it a most tremendous compliment to be retained in the case; it would be the making of me; but I don't know that you would be doing right in leaving it all to me. Mr. Benson will probably employ only the most eminent talent; he can't afford to do less.”
But Virginia put this aside.
“You will continue to be my lawyer, Mr. Wade.”
“I shall do my best for you, Mrs. Landray,” he said warmly.
“What did you mean by what you just said about Stephen, Mr. Wade?”
“Well, you know he'll be involved; he can't remain friendly to you and Mr. Benson, too.”
“He will go with his family.”
“But he is doubly related,” urged Wade. “And if he casts his lot with you he will be giving up a good deal for very little—I mean what Mr. Benson may do for him.”
“How do we know that Mr. Benson will do anything for him?” demanded Virginia bitterly. “He was once just as fond of his father apparently. And he is doing all he can to ruin the boy, he is without ambition or purpose, a dependent.”
“He's a pretty nice fellow, you must admit that,” said Wade generously.
“But he is dependent on Mr. Benson; he is in Mr. Benson's hands, who may do much or little for him, as the whim takes him.”
“Well, of course, that's so, but certainly Mr. Benson displays the greatest affection for him,” said Wade. He wanted Stephen left out of it, for he felt that if they counted on his active partisanship, nothing would come of it, a contingency he was determined should not arise if he could possibly prevent it.
“Individually, I no longer care,” said Virginia. “My own needs are few. I shall probably always have enough for my simple way of life, and unless Stephen is in full sympathy with me, I shall not care to do anything.”
Wade gasped.
“I think we ought to look at it from his standpoint.”
“What is his standpoint?”
“Well, it's generally understood that he will inherit largely from Mr. Benson, and Mr. Benson is probably worth a million at least, no one knows how much. If we ask him to side with us, we will be asking him to give up his really great expectations for little or nothing. Of course, even if he sided with Mr. Benson, Benson might trick him, might leave him with nothing after leading him to expect great things.” And he left this shrewd suspicion to do its work with her.